THE MAROON AUDI DROVE CASUALLY DOWN the streets of Georgetown. The fifty-four-year-old man behind the wheel was a former U.S. intelligence operative turned freelance operative, or “ utility man,” as he was referred to by his fellow spooks. He had received a call from a man for whom he had done a lot of lucrative work over the years. If his old acquaintance was telling the truth, and there was no security, the job would be simple. The unimpressive, gray-bearded man drove past the house twice and parked.
For several minutes he pointed a
directional microphone at each room of the house. When he was
relatively certain that only one person was home, he put away the
equipment and got out of the car. He walked to the trunk to make
sure it was unlocked, and while he did so, he did a quick check of
the street. After looking up at the lit windows of the house in
question, he patted his pockets to make sure he had everything and
then put on a pair of black leather gloves.
Michael felt ten times better after his
long, hot shower. He dried off as best as he could in the
mist-filled bathroom and then tried to wipe the steam off the
mirror. He cleaned off a small patch and noticed that although he
felt better, he still had dark marks under both eyes. After pulling
on jeans and a wellworn gray sweatshirt, he heard the doorbell
ring. As he bounced down the stairs, he wondered briefly who it
could be and then realized Liz had probably forgotten her
keys.
Michael hit the landing with a thud and
grabbed for the doorknob. Yanking the door open, he said, “You
forgot your keys again, huh?” When the door opened fully, O’Rourke
froze for an instant. He didn’t recognize the gray-bearded man
wearing an olive trench coat and a brown
fedora.
Before Michael could think, the fatherly
individual smiled and asked, “Congressman
O’Rourke?”
Michael looked down at the older man and
replied, “Ah . . . yes.”
With the smile still on his face, the
visitor retrieved his right hand from his pocket as if to shake
Michael’s hand. In a smooth, nonchalant motion he extended a Tazer
stun gun and squeezed the trigger. A metal-and-plastic dart
streaked out of the end of the electric-shock gun and embedded
itself in Michael’s stomach. O’Rourke went rigid as two hundred
thousand volts of electricity shot through his body. He took two
steps backward and then collapsed. As he fell to the ground, he
landed on a thin wooden table in the entryway, shattering the
fragile piece of wood beneath him and sending several framed photos
crashing to the floor. Michael lay clutching his stomach, unable to
move.
The not-so-harmless visitor moved with
precision. Before Michael hit the floor, the man had already
stepped into the foyer and closed the door. Next he pulled a
syringe gun from his left pocket and held it to O’Rourke’s neck. He
depressed the trigger and sent enough muscle relaxant into the
congressman’s system to keep him nice and docile for the next hour.
Plastic handcuffs were quickly fastened to both O’Rourke’s wrists
and ankles, and a strip of duct tape was placed over his mouth.
Next the intruder moved to the window and looked outside. He
extinguished the light over the front door and also the one in the
hallway. After scanning the street, he returned to O’Rourke and
with amazing ease hefted the much larger O’Rourke over his
shoulder.
One more quick check of the street and the
man was out the door and down the steps. He carried O’Rourke to the
rear of his car, where he lifted the
already unlocked trunk
and deposited O’Rourke like a sack of potatoes. Michael hit with a
thud, and the older man checked to make sure his hostage’s arms and
legs were out of the way, then closed the trunk. He climbed behind
the wheel of his car and pulled away from the curb. One block away,
he grabbed his secure digital phone and punched in a
number.
After one ring Mike Nance answered,
“Hello.”
“I’ve retrieved that package for you. I
should be at your place in less than thirty
minutes.”
“Any problems?”
“None.”
“I’ll be
waiting.”
The former intelligence operative hung up
the secure phone and sped off in the direction of Maryland. He
smiled briefly at the thought of collecting fifty thousand dollars
for such an easy job and then began to wonder what Mike Nance
wanted from the congressman in his trunk.
Scarlatti walked down the tree-lined
street with a bag of groceries in one hand and Duke’s leash in the
other. Autumn-colored leaves dotted the sidewalk and curb. A
chilling breeze kicked up as she turned onto O’Rourke’s street. She
looked forward to spending the night with Michael, and there would
be next week. They were scheduled to leave on Sunday afternoon to
go back to Minnesota for Senator Olson’s funeral. She didn’t relish
the somber occasion, but it would be nice to get out of D.C. for a
while. Northern Minnesota was beautiful this time of the
year.
Duke made the turn up the steps to
Michael’s house, and Liz followed with an outstretched arm. She
fished for her keys and, after finding the right one, opened the
door. Duke ran inside, and Liz let go of the leash. She could take
it off after she got rid of the groceries. She turned on the light
and went to set the groceries down but froze. The table she wanted
to set them on was lying on the floor in a half dozen pieces. Liz
called out Michael’s name. She listened intently for a reply, then
yelled his name louder. Duke came back down the hallway and rubbed
his neck against her leg. Scarlatti reached down and patted his
head. She set the groceries on the floor and headed for the stairs,
calling Michael’s name again. Her heart began to quicken, and she
called for Duke to follow.
Once upstairs, she inspected the
steam-streaked mirror in the bathroom and then checked the den
before heading back downstairs, all the time calling Michael’s name
more frantically. She flew down the stairs to the basement and
threw open the door to the garage. His truck was there. She turned
and sprinted back up the stairs to the kitchen and checked to see
if his keys were on the hook—they were. Scarlatti bit her lip while
she thought of all the things Michael had just told her. She
couldn’t help but think the worst. I was only gone for thirty
minutes, she thought to herself. She took a deep breath and tried
to think of where he could be, but her mind kept coming back to the
broken table in the front hallway.
Her hand sprang for the phone on the
kitchen wall, but she stopped short. “Should I call
the police?” she asked out loud. She willed herself to calm
down and not overreact. “I’ll call Tim. Maybe Tim and Seamus
stopped by, and they went to pick me up at the store.” Scarlatti
quickly punched in Tim’s phone number, and after several rings
Michael’s brother answered.
“Tim, this is Liz. Do you know where
Michael is?”
Tim paused for a second. “I think he’s at
his house.”
“No, he isn’t.” Liz’s voice grew more
frantic. “I’m here right now!” She spoke at a rapid pace. “I came
by an hour ago, and he was napping. I got him up, and he got in the
shower while I went to the store. I just got back, and he’s nowhere
in the house . . . and that little table by the front door is
smashed . . . like someone fell on it. . . . Something isn’t right,
Tim.”
“Calm down, Liz. Is his truck
gone?”
“No! His truck is here . . . his keys are
here . . . I was only gone for a half hour. He knew I was coming
right back. Something bad has happened. I’m calling the
police!”
“No!” yelled Tim. “Seamus and I will be
over in less than five minutes. Try to stay calm, and don’t call
the police until we get there.”
Liz hung up the phone and paced. She asked
herself, who would take him and why? Could it be Coleman? No. . . .
What about Stansfield? Michael had said it himself. If the story
were to get out, the CIA would be shut down immediately. Liz looked
at the phone again and hesitated for only a second. She called
information, got the general number for the CIA, and hit the
connect button. A man answered on the third ring and Liz said, “Director
Stansfield, please.”
The operator remained professional despite
the fact that someone was calling the Agency’s general number on a
Saturday evening and asking to talk to the director. “The director
isn’t in right now. May I take a
message?”
“Yes. I assume you have a way to get ahold
of him in an emergency?”
There was a pause, then a hesitant, “Yes,
if the message warrants it.”
“Believe me it does! Tell him Liz
Scarlatti from the Washington
Reader wants to talk about the events surrounding Arthur
Higgins, Mike Nance, Stu Garret, and Congressman Michael O’Rourke.
Give him that message immediately, and have him call me back at the
following number in the next five minutes, or I’m going to press
with what I have.” Liz gave the man Michael’s number and hung
up.
The day had been long, and it was time to
go home and get some sleep. Kennedy and Stansfield exited the
director’s office, and the door automatically locked behind them.
Stansfield transferred his briefcase from his right hand to his
left and went to shake Kennedy’s hand. Before he could complete the
gesture, his bodyguard approached from behind a desk in the
reception area with a deeply concerned look on his face. “Sir, I
just received a strange call from our operator.” The man looked
down at a piece of paper. “A Liz Scarlatti from the
Washington
Reader called. She would like to ask you about the relationship
between Arthur Higgins, Mike Nance, Stu Garret, and Michael O’Rourke. She left
a number and said if she doesn’t hear from you in five minutes,
she’s going to press with what she has.”
Stansfield’s tired shoulders slumped
another several inches as he reached for the paper. Without saying
a word, he turned to go back to his office and Kennedy followed.
Stansfield dropped his briefcase and his jacket on the nearest
chair and walked behind his desk.
“How in the hell could this get out so
fast?” asked Kennedy.
Stansfield shook his head. “It’s either
O’Rourke or the White House.” He set the piece of paper down and
pointed to a second phone on the credenza. “If you would please,
Irene. Call down to Charlie and have him run a trace on this call.”
Stansfield began dialing the number.
The startling ring of the phone caused Liz
to jump. She snatched the phone off the wall and said,
“Hello.”
“Miss Scarlatti?” asked
Stansfield.
“Yes, this is
she.”
“This is Director Stansfield. I just
received your message, and I’m a little
confused.”
Liz clutched the phone tightly and tried
to stay calm. “I know everything. I know all about how Higgins and
Nance and Garret were behind the—”
Stansfield cut her off. “We don’t need to
get into specifics, Miss Scarlatti. Where are you calling from?”
Stansfield had no desire to discuss this issue on an open
line.
“What does that matter?” Liz heard a click
at the front door and her heart leapt. She looked down
the hall
hoping to see Michael, but instead Tim and Seamus came through the
door.
“I need to know if you’re on a secure
line,” said Stansfield.
Liz looked at the phone and said, “I doubt
it, and I really don’t care.” Tim and Seamus entered the kitchen
and listened to Liz talk. “Congressman Michael O’Rourke is missing
from his house, and if he isn’t returned within the next hour, I am
going to wire every news service on the planet the real story about
what has been going on in Washington over the last
week.”
Seamus’s eyes opened wide. “Who are you
talking to?”
Liz turned her back on Seamus and Tim and
covered her other ear.
“Hold on a minute,” continued Stansfield.
“How do you know Congressman O’Rourke is
missing?”
“I’m standing in his kitchen with his
brother and grandfather,” shouted Liz. “He is gone, and if you
don’t return him within the hour, your little secret is going to be
on the front page of every paper tomorrow
morning.”
“I have no idea where Congressman O’Rourke
is,” protested Stansfield.
“Well, you’d better find him. You have one
hour.” Liz slammed the phone back into its cradle.
Stansfield stared at the receiver and
shook his head. Kennedy pressed a button and spoke briefly into the
phone. When she was done, she looked at her boss and said, “The
call was made from O’Rourke’s house.”
Stansfield pinched the bridge of his nose.
“It has to be Nance and Garret.” Stansfield slowly shook his head
from side to side as he continued to keep pressure on his nose.
“What in the hell are those two idiots up
to?”
“Any chance the call was a fake?” asked
Kennedy.
“I doubt it.” Stansfield looked at Kennedy
and grabbed his phone. “I’m going to call the president and find
out if he knows where his chief of staff and national security
adviser are.” Stansfield punched in the number for the Secret
Service command post at the White House. After several rings an
agent answered and Stansfield identified himself. “I need to speak
to the president immediately.” Stansfield tapped a pen on a pad of
paper while he waited to be connected.
After several clicks the president
answered. “Thomas, what’s wrong?”
“We seem to have a problem, sir.”
Stansfield relayed the pertinent facts of his conversation with
Scarlatti, but referred to her only as a
reporter.
The president let out a loud sigh and
said, “For Christ sake . . . why would anyone want to take
O’Rourke?” Stansfield did not respond. He instead chose to put the
pressure on the president and see just how genuine his reaction
was. “I can’t believe this. I thought this mess was over. Who would
take him?” repeated an exasperated
Stevens.
“We’re not
sure.”
“Thomas, you have my authority to do
whatever it takes to get Congressman O’Rourke back, and make sure
that tape isn’t released!”
Stansfield paused for a moment and then
asked, “Sir, do you know where your national security adviser
and chief of staff are?”
President Stevens didn’t answer
immediately. The connection between O’Rourke’s disappearance and
Stansfield’s question was obvious. “No, but I’m sure as hell going
to find out! I’ll call you back!” The president slammed the phone
down and screamed for the nearest Secret Service
agent.
Stansfield put the phone down and tried to
gauge the president’s reaction. Stevens seemed genuinely surprised,
and there was no need for him to take a chance . . . unless Nance
had threatened to drag him down. Stansfield pondered the
possibility and decided that until he knew more, he couldn’t trust
the president. He picked up the phone and dialed Charlie Dobbs’s
extension in the Operations Center. Dobbs answered on the first
ring, and Stansfield spoke rapidly. “What type of bird do we have
over the city right now?”
Dobbs hit several buttons on the keyboard
to his left, and instantly a map appeared on the screen that marked
the orbital path and location of every satellite in the CIA, the
National Reconnaissance Office, and the National Security Agency
arsenal. “We currently have”—Dobbs squinted to read the designation
that appeared next to the dot hovering above Washington, D.C.—“a
KH-11 on station.” The KH-11 Strategic Response Reconnaissance
Satellite could tell the difference between a football and a
basketball from a distance of 220 miles above the
earth.
“Zoom it in on Mike Nance’s ranch in
Maryland, and punch up all the addresses for NSA safe houses in the
metro area.”
“Thomas, the people over at the NSA are
going to shit when they find out we’re using a big bird to keep an
eye on the president’s national security
adviser.”
“If they ask, tell them the president
authorized it. How long before you have real-time
imaging?”
“It should take no more than three to five
minutes.”
“Good. I also want two tactical teams
ready to roll ASAP. Get the choppers warmed up. We might have to
move fast.”
“Do you want them in combat gear or
plainclothes?”
Stansfield pondered the question. Because
the CIA had no domestic jurisdiction, they weren’t able to deploy
their tactical teams in the same fashion that the FBI deployed
their SWAT teams. Most of their work had to be done in a way that
raised the least amount of attention possible. “Put one team in
plainclothes and the other one in full combat
gear.”
“I’ll take care of it. What’s going on,
Thomas?”
“More fallout from Arthur. Call me as soon
as you get the imaging of Nance’s
ranch.”
Stansfield put the phone down, no longer
tired. The anger that he felt toward Mike Nance had overwhelmed any
feelings of exhaustion he had. Nance had been given more than
enough chances. If he wanted to continue to play it rough and
risky, it was time to end the game—before he could do any more
damage.
When Liz got off the phone, Seamus forced
her to calm down and tell them what had happened.
After she
was done, they inspected the broken table. Given the evidence, they
had to agree with Liz that things did not look good. Seamus looked
at the broken table and then at Liz. “Michael told you
everything?”
“Yes.”
Seamus tried to read deeper into her curt
answer. He could sense nothing—no judgment, or animosity. Seamus
folded his arms and returned his thoughts to Michael. “I don’t
think it’s the CIA, or the FBI. They were with him this afternoon.
They could have done it then if they wanted
to.”
“What if they wanted to wait until it was
dark?” asked Liz.
Seamus shook his head. “Why take the risk?
They could have called him tomorrow and had him come out to Langley
on his own. They didn’t need to forcibly take him and raise
suspicion. If you had called the cops and told them your boyfriend,
who just happens to be a congressman, was missing and it looked
like he was taken . . .” Seamus rolled his eyes. “Every law
enforcement officer in D.C. would be looking for him. No way.”
Seamus shook his head. “Stansfield wouldn’t risk that exposure.
Plus you have to factor in the threat of the tape being released.
It has to be Nance and Garret.”
Tim thought about it for a moment. “You’re
right. Something this desperate points towards them. Now the
question is, where would they have taken
him?”
Seamus shrugged his shoulders. “Hell, I
have no idea. Nance has to have access to at least a dozen safe
houses in the metro area. They could have taken him anywhere.”
Seamus looked at his watch. “We don’t have a lot of time. We have to get
him back before Nance has the chance to interrogate him. I’m going
to let Coleman know what’s going on. Tim, you stay here with Liz.
I’ll call you as soon as I find something out.” He grabbed Liz by
the shoulders and said, “Don’t worry, everything will be all right.
If Stansfield calls, call me immediately on the car phone.” The
gray-haired O’Rourke turned and left.
Seamus jumped behind the wheel of Tim’s
Cherokee and pulled out into the street. When he was several blocks
away, he turned on the mobile scramble phone. He gripped the
steering wheel tightly as he turned onto Wisconsin Avenue. Seamus
knew he needed to act fast or they might never get Michael back.
Nance had already proved that he would kill, and if he was willing
to risk everything in the face of the tape’s being released, there
was no telling what lengths he might go to. Seamus tried to think
ahead. How in the hell could they get Michael
back?
Whatever had happened, he needed to let
Coleman know that Michael was missing. Seamus punched in the number
for Coleman’s pager. It rang four times and then the computerized
voice told him to leave a number at the beep. Seamus entered the
number for his scramble phone and followed it with three more
numbers. In their months of planning, Seamus had been insistent
that he and Coleman maintain secure lines of communication. They
had gone through almost every possible contingency, and the one
they had prepared for the most was the possibility that one or more
of the group would be put under surveillance. They
had designed a system where they would alert each other
through digital pagers. After all, Seamus couldn’t just call
Coleman with the FBI camped out on his front
step.
After hanging up the phone Seamus swore
under his breath. The possibility of losing Michael was more than
he could bear. He forced himself to push the thought out of his
mind. Now was not the time to get emotional. It was time to stay
focused and find Michael. He silently chided himself for putting
his grandson in harm’s way. They had boxed Nance into a corner, and
instead of calling it quits, he had come out
swinging.