IT WAS MIKE NANCE’S TURN TO BE NERVOUS, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. He sat with his perfect posture and minimal movement. Underneath, however, he wasn’t so composed. Stu Garret was pacing back and forth in front of Nance’s desk with an optimistic smile on his face, even though they had just spent the last half an hour getting yelled at by the president. Stevens was irate that he had been left out of the loop and that Garret and Nance had been involved in a scheme that could get Stevens impeached or worse.
Nance was worried about other things. He
tried to ignore Garret as he blabbered on. “I think we’re going to
be okay. I really think everything is going to work out. Stansfield
bought the whole blackmail story. . . . Jim will calm down in a
couple of weeks and realize that we were only trying to protect
him, and I know Arthur was a friend of yours, but, Jesus, he gave
me the creeps. I have to admit I feel a lot better knowing that he
took what he knows to the grave.”
Without turning his head Nance looked up
at Garret out of the corner of his eye and said, “Shut up,
Stu.”
“Hey, I’m only trying to lay everything
out so we know where we’re at.”
“I know where I am, and I don’t need you
to point out the obvious. So kindly keep your mouth shut for
several minutes. I’m trying to think.”
Garret sat down on the couch and mumbled
to himself. Nance turned his chair around so he wouldn’t have to
look at him. Why had Stansfield left the meeting so abruptly, just
when things were heating up? They weren’t out of the woods yet. He
thought of mentioning that fact to Garret, but knew he preferred
Garret’s current obnoxious state to his frantic, panicked
one.
* * *
Michael sat in the back of the
armor-plated Cadillac with Stansfield. He was somewhat relieved
that Director Stansfield was not a big talker. O’Rourke guessed
correctly that Stansfield was preparing for his confrontation with
Nance and Garret. Stansfield had almost called the White House to
schedule the meeting, but at the last minute he decided it would be
better if they surprised Garret and
Nance.
When they were less than a mile from the
White House, Stansfield picked up the secure phone and dialed the
number for Jack Warch’s office. Warch answered and Stansfield said,
“Jack, this is Director Stansfield. I need an emergency meeting
with the president, Mike Nance, and Stu Garret. I’m about to enter
the underground parking garage of the Treasury Building. Please
alert your agents that I will be coming through the tunnel.”
Stansfield glanced over at Michael. “I have a guest— Congressman
O’Rourke. I’ll vouch for him. . . . Jack, this is very serious.
Please get them down to the Situation Room immediately.” Warch got
the point and Stansfield hung up.
The limousine pulled into the underground
garage of the Treasury Building, and Michael and Stansfield were
escorted by four Secret Service agents down a narrow cement tunnel.
When they reached the other end, they stopped at a thick steel door
that the Secret Service referred to as the Marilyn Monroe door.
They held their identification up to a camera, and Stansfield
asked, “Are you nervous?”
“No, I’m too mad to be
nervous.”
“Congressman, would you do me a favor?”
Michael nodded yes, and Stansfield said, “When I play the tape,
please keep an eye on the president. I’m going to be busy watching
Mr. Nance and Mr. Garret. I would like your opinion as to whether
or not the president is genuinely surprised by the
tape.”
Michael nodded and asked, “Is it safe to
play the tape at the White House . . . I mean, won’t the Secret
Service be monitoring the meeting?”
“No, the Situation Room is secure. It’s
swept daily for bugs and is completely soundproof. The Secret
Service is not allowed to monitor the room because of the
classified information that is
discussed.”
The six-inch-thick steel door swung open,
revealing Jack Warch. Stansfield introduced Michael to Warch while
they continued down the hall. They entered a large room, and Warch
escorted them past the National Security Desk to a door in the far
corner. Stansfield and Michael entered the room, and Warch closed
it behind them.
President Stevens was standing at the far
end of the table. His suit coat was off and draped over the back of
the high-backed leather chair in front of him. Nance and Garret
were seated. It was obvious that the president was unhappy with his
two confidants. Stansfield and Michael walked around the left side
of the long table and stopped behind the last two
chairs.
“Mr. President,” said Stansfield, “this is
Congressman O’Rourke.”
Out of habit Stevens extended his hand,
and then a
strange look appeared on his face as he remembered his phone
conversation with the young congressman some two weeks earlier.
Michael shook the president’s hand and the three of them
sat.
“I assume whatever this is about has
something to do with why you were called away so abruptly this
morning?” asked the president.
“Yes . . . something very serious has been
brought to my attention.”
“What is the congressman doing here?”
asked Garret in his usual impatient
tone.
“He is here at my
request.”
Michael moved his eyes from Garret to
Nance and stared at him with pure
hatred.
Stansfield’s answer wasn’t good enough for
Garret so he redirected his question to Michael. “Congressman
O’Rourke, why are you here?”
Michael looked back at him and replied,
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Mr. President.” Stansfield pulled the
tape from his pocket and held it for everyone to see. “Someone left
this tape on Congressman O’Rourke’s doorstep this morning.”
Stansfield looked at Garret and said, “Before I play it, Mr.
Garret, would you like to tell us the real reason Arthur Higgins
was dumped at your house last night?”
Garret shook his head and shrugged his
shoulders. “I have no idea.”
Mike Nance leaned back in his chair and
stared at Stansfield like a cat.
“What is on the tape?” asked
Stevens.
Stansfield walked to the other end of the
table and inserted the tape in the cassette player. “It is
a recording
of a confession by Arthur Higgins before he was killed.” Stansfield
hit play and walked back to his seat.
Just as he sat down, Michael’s
electronically altered voice came over the speakers. “What is your
name?”
“What?”
“What is your
name?”
“Arthur . . . Arthur Higgins.” Garret shot
forward in his chair, covering his face with both hands. Reaching
forward, Nance grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back,
whispering in his ear, “Stay calm.”
As Nance tried to keep Garret from losing
it, the tape continued, with the generic computer voice asking
Arthur about his past and what he had done for the
CIA.
Director Stansfield had given up on
watching Garret and was locked in a stare with Nance as the tape
played on.
“Mr. Higgins, were you the author of a
covert operation back in the early sixties that resulted in the
assassinations of several French
politicians?”
“Yes.”
“Who were you working for at the
time?”
“The CIA.”
“How many French politicians did you
kill?”
“Two.”
“Who were
they?”
“Claude Lapoint and Jean
Bastreuo.”
Barely able to contain himself, the
president shouted, “What?” He looked to Nance for a full thirty
seconds as the tape continued to describe the
interrogation between
Arthur and his captors. And then the more pertinent question was
asked of the deceased Higgins.
“Did you use the recent string of
assassinations as a cover to kill Senator Olson and Congressman
Turnquist?”
“Yes.”
Garret yelled, “It wasn’t my idea! I swear
it wasn’t my idea!”
Nance ripped at his arm and pulled his
face close. “Shut your mouth!”
The president stared at his close
advisers, frozen in disbelief, and then the other shoe
dropped.
“Who else was involved in your plot to
kill Senator Olson and Congressman
Turnquist?”
“Mike Nance and Stu
Garret.”
Garret tried to say something, but Nance
pulled him back into his chair before he
could.
Stevens closed his eyes and lowered his
head while Nance stared unflinchingly back at
Stansfield.
“Did the president know about your plans?”
asked the cold, sterile voice.
The president looked to Stansfield. “I had
nothing to do with this!” Stansfield ignored him and continued to
stare at Nance.
Arthur’s final words rang out: “I don’t
know.”
The tape ended, and the room was filled
with an awkward silence.
A slight smile creased Nance’s lips and he
said, “Nice try, Thomas.”
With a placid expression Stansfield asked,
“What do you mean ‘nice try’?”
“All of that is a lie, so I have to assume
you either tortured Arthur into making those bizarre accusations or
you electronically altered the tape.”
Stansfield stared at Nance unflinchingly.
“Congressman O’Rourke received this tape earlier today along with a
letter from the assassins that were responsible for killing Senator
Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, Congressman Koslowski, and Speaker
Basset. They are the ones that took Arthur, not
me.”
“What in the hell is going on here?” asked
the president.
“I’m not sure, sir,” replied Nance. “But I
think Director Stansfield is trying to blackmail us with this tape.
I can assure you, and so can Stu, that we never discussed
assassinating Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist with Arthur.
The entire idea is preposterous.”
“Stu?” asked the
president.
Garret saw another chance to weasel his
way out. “That’s right, Jim. I don’t know what in the hell any of
this is about. The only dealings I had with Arthur were about your
budget.”
Michael slid forward to the edge of his
chair and placed his hands flat on the table. His movement into the
arena caught everyone’s eye except that of Nance, who continued to
stare at Stansfield. Michael stuck a hand in front of Stansfield’s
face and snapped his fingers, drawing Nance’s attention to him.
“Senator Olson was a very good friend of mine, and I’m not in the
mood to play these little games.” Michael pointed a finger at
Nance’s face. “You, Garret, and Arthur Higgins conspired to kill
Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist. No one
made a fake tape, and
Director Stansfield didn’t force a false confession out of Higgins.
Let’s cut the crap and get down to
business.”
“Mr. O’Rourke,” replied Nance, “you are a
very young man, and you do not fully understand the lengths to
which some people are willing to go to get what they want in life.
Do you think Mr. Stansfield rose to be the director of the world’s
premier spy agency by being a Boy Scout? No, he will go to almost
any length to get what he wants. Congressman, you are out of your
league on this one. Maybe it would be best if you stepped outside
and let us talk to Director Stansfield
alone.”
Pain began shooting through Michael’s
temples as his anger grew. He fought to suppress it as he rose to
his feet. Slowly, he took off his jacket and laid it over the back
of his chair. Michael leaned across the table and stuck his hand in
front of Nance’s face, his forefinger and thumb separated by less
than an inch.
“Mr. Nance, I have about this much
patience with you right now. You can either cut the shit and admit
that you had Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist killed, or I
am going to walk out this door right now and hold a press
conference.”
“Congressman O’Rourke, that would be a
direct threat to the national security of the United States of
America, and I would be forced to stop you by whatever means
necessary. Now, if you would please step outside, we would like to
speak to Director Stansfield alone for a
minute.”
Michael took off his watch and placed it
on the table. After tucking his tie into his shirt he
pointed at
Nance and said, “You are going to keep your slick mouth shut for
the next two minutes while I talk to Mr. Garret, and I swear if you
utter a single word, I’m going to come over there and knock your
fucking head off!” Michael turned immediately to Garret. “All
right, you’ve got one chance. I know you were involved, you know
you were involved, and Director Stansfield knows you were
involved.” Michael walked toward the far end of the table and
continued talking. “You can either admit to what you did and live
the rest of your life in relative comfort, or you can stand trial
and spend the rest of your life rotting in jail.” Michael rounded
the end of the table and started down the side where Garret and
Nance were sitting. “Of course, that’s assuming the assassins don’t
get to you first.” Garret was sitting closest to him. Michael
grabbed Garret’s chair and turned it toward him so Garret couldn’t
look at Nance. “You see, the assassins also wrote in the letter
that if you and Nance tried to squirm your way out of this, they
would hunt you down and kill you.”
“Mr. President,” shouted Nance. “This
behavior is entirely unacceptable!”
Before Nance could get his next sentence
out, Michael shouted, “I told you to keep your mouth shut! That’s
my last warning!” Garret began shaking and Michael leaned in
closer, placing his hands on the armrests and bringing his face
within inches of Garret’s. “What’s it going to be? The choice is
simple. Either you admit to what you did and walk away from this
with your life, or you deny it and the whole country comes crashing
down on you. Those assassins will release that tape if
Nance doesn’t announce his resignation by noon tomorrow.”
Michael screamed, “Now tell the truth!”
“I . . . I . . .” Garret started to
stammer.
“Stu, don’t answer him.” Nance reached for
the phone to call for the Secret Service agents standing watch
outside the soundproof room. “I don’t know who in the hell you
think you are.”
Michael saw Nance reach for the phone, and
with both hands on the armrests of Garret’s chair he jerked it out
of his way. The chair, with Garret in it, slid across the floor and
bounced into the wall. Michael took one step forward, raising his
clenched left fist to his shoulder.
Nance had just got the phone to his ear
when he looked up to see the looming O’Rourke. Michael’s fist came
crashing down like a piston, smacking Nance square in the nose and
sending the national security adviser back in his chair and then
springing him forward, his head thumping off the solid oak
table.
The only thing that kept Nance from
falling to the floor was that his chin was stuck on the edge of the
table. His arms dangled at his sides, and a small pool of blood
formed under his nose. Neither Stansfield nor the president
moved.
Michael turned to Garret with his fist
still cocked. Lunging forward, he grabbed Garret by the tie, yanked
him to his feet, and slammed him against the wall. Michael released
the tie and grabbed him by the throat. Garret reached up with both
hands and pawed at Michael’s fist. O’Rourke’s hold was too strong.
Michael squeezed harder, cutting off Garret’s windpipe. In a voice
loud enough so only Garret could hear, Michael said, “If I had it my
way, I would kill you right now. You’ve got one more chance to come
clean and admit to what you did. If you don’t, I’m going to grab
you by the hair and slam your face off that table until your head
splits in half!”
Michael let go of Garret’s throat and took
ahold of the small patch of hair on the back of his head. Swinging
him around, he presented the shaking chief of staff to Stansfield
and the president. O’Rourke growled, “Tell them the
truth!”
Garret began whimpering, “It wasn’t my
fault. It was Mike and Arthur’s idea.”
The president looked at Garret in utter
shock. He couldn’t believe any of this was
happening.
“It wasn’t my fault, Jim. I swear it
wasn’t my fault,” pleaded Garret.
Garret’s denial cum admission brought a
second wave of uncontrollable anger rising up from within O’Rourke.
He tossed Garret to the side, and as he bounced off the wall, he
was met square in the jaw by O’Rourke’s fist. Garret’s upper body
twisted briefly in the direction of the blow, and then his knees
buckled, bringing his body crashing to the
floor.
Michael stood over Garret for several
seconds, adrenaline rushing through his veins, fighting the urge to
kick his teeth in. He took several deep breaths and got control of
himself. Turning, he looked at a wide-eyed and stunned President
Stevens. Michael ignored him and walked back to where he had been
sitting. As he put on his watch, he said, “Director Stansfield,
I’ll leave you and the president alone to work out the rest of the
details. Call me later and we’ll talk.” Grabbing his suit coat off
the back of the chair, he walked to the door. Neither Stansfield
nor the president said a word.