Term Limits Read online

When they entered Garret’s office, the president turned to Hopkinson and asked, “How did I look?”

  “You looked fine, sir.”

  “Did it look genuine and heartfelt?”

  “I thought so, but we’ll know more in about an hour. I’ve got a polling group calling five hundred homes right now to try and get an early read on what the public thinks.”

  Stu Garret sat down behind his desk, shoved a cigarette in his mouth, and turned on the little brown smoke-eater next to his ashtray. After taking a deep drag, he pulled the cigarette away from his lips and started to speak, his lungs still filled with smoke. “You did a nice job, Jim. If we handle this thing right, I think we’re going to see a big jump in your approval ratings.” Smoke started to seep out of Garret’s nose, and he tilted his head back, exhaling a deep gray cloud toward the ceiling. “There’s nothing like the exposure you get from a crisis.”

  Back in Blacky’s, the roar of conversation had returned as the patrons discussed the events of the day and the president’s speech. O’Rourke was intentionally keeping his mouth shut as Scarlatti stared at him. He looked over the top of his menu at her big brown eyes.

  “Michael, you know I’m dying to hear what you have to say about this whole thing.”

  “About what?”

  Scarlatti pulled the menu out of his hands. “Don’t play coy with me, Michael, I’m serious. I really want to know what you think about this. I mean, it isn’t every day two senators and a congressman get assassinated.”

  Michael thought about sugarcoating his comment and then opted for the direct approach. “In a nutshell, Liz, I think Koslowski, Downs, and Fitzgerald were the scum of the earth. They represented the core of what is wrong with this town.”

  “Come now, Michael, how do you really feel about them?” asked Scarlatti sarcastically.

  “Listen, I’m not crazy about our political leadership getting gunned down under the cover of darkness, but considering where we’re headed, I’m not so sure these assassins aren’t doing all of us a huge favor.”

  Scarlatti looked down and said, “I’m afraid there are a lot of people out there who would agree with you. Doesn’t it worry you at all . . . as a congressman . . . that these terrorists may turn the gun on you eventually?”

  “No.” Michael shook his head. “There are bigger fish to fry than me. And besides, I’m not so sure they’re terrorists.”

  “You don’t think they’re terrorists?” asked Liz with a quizzical expression.

  “No. It’s an overused cliché, but one man’s terroristis another man’s freedom fighter. These guys haven’t killed any civilians.” O’Rourke paused for a second. In a voice just above a whisper he continued, “If no one else dies, and this group can bring about the changes they stated in their demands, this will be one of the best things that has happened in this country since the civil rights movement.”

  “Well, from what the president just said, there’s reason to believe that letter is a fake.”

  “Come on, Liz.” O’Rourke frowned. “You’re a reporter. Do you really believe a word that comes out of Stevens’s mouth? The White House is already trying to spin this thing and they don’t even know what’s going on. Those guys are sitting over there right now shitting in their pants.” O’Rourke picked up his fork and tapped it lightly on the place mat. “Today was supposed to be a big day for them. The president was going to pass his budget, but instead he wakes up and finds out that two senators and his point man in Congress have been assassinated. Then he receives a letter telling him it’s time to get his act together, or he’s next. Liz, this is their worst fear, and not just the president, all of them. They’ve played their little game of party politics for years. Every election they say they’re going to cut all the wasteful spending, give a tax break to the middle class, and balance the budget. They say anything to get elected, and then, once they’re back in office, it’s the same old crap: more spending, no tax breaks, and more deficits.”

  Scarlatti shook her head and smiled.

  O’Rourke looked at her and asked, “What?”

  “I guess I’m just a little shocked. I would have thought that you, of all people, Mr. Law and Order, would have been denouncing what happened today. I mean, I’m the liberal. I’m supposed to be supporting anarchy, not you.”

  “This isn’t anarchy, Liz. It may be a revolt, but it’s not anarchy.” Smiling, he said, “Besides, you’re a member of the press. You’re supposed to be neutral . . . remember?”

  Special Agent McMahon was sitting at the head of the table in a large conference room down the hall from his office. The room was quickly becoming the command center for the investigation. He was staring at the TV in disbelief. The president had just finished his address to the nation, and McMahon did not like what he had heard. He grabbed the phone next to him and dialed the direct line to Roach’s office.

  After several rings, the director answered, “Hello.”

  “What in the hell was that all about?”

  “I have no idea,” Roach responded flatly.

  “Has anyone from the Bureau told them we believe the letter is a piece of disinformation?”

  “No,” sighed Roach.

  “You didn’t actually promise him that we would catch these guys, did you?”

  “Skip, you know better than that.”

  “What in the hell is going on? I don’t understand why in the hell he would say something like that.”

  “I think I might. Why don’t you meet me in my office tomorrow morning at eight? The president wants to see us at noon. That should give us time to go over some things.”

  “I’ll be there at eight.”

  “How are things going on your end?”

  “So far the preliminary reports on the autopsies haven’t turned anything up, and the letters we intercepted were negative for prints. They may find out more after they pick them apart, but I doubt it.”

  “Have any of those people from the park come in to try to give us a composite of the guy they saw?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got three who think they saw the perp. Right now they’re in separate rooms giving their descriptions to different artists. When they’re done, we’ll bring them together and compare.”

  “Good. I assume we’re taking extra precautions to make sure their names aren’t leaked?”

  “As far as the press knows, there are no witnesses to any of the killings.”

  “Have we made arrangements to provide protection for them?”

  “It’s already been taken care of.”

  “All right, stay in touch. I’ll be here until about ten.”

  McMahon hung up the phone and buried his face in his hands. He didn’t move for almost five minutes. He was trying to think of a reason why the president would say the letter was a decoy. He stood and looked at the two agents sitting to his left. “Kathy and Dan, come with me.”

  McMahon walked out of the room and down the hall to his office. Special Agents Kathy Jennings and Dan Wardwell followed. When Jennings and Wardwell entered the room, he shut the door and motioned to the couch. The two agents sat down. McMahon paced for a moment and then stopped.

  “I think we all agree that the letter mailed to NBC was sent by the same group that killed Koslowski, Downs, and Fitzgerald. It’s a no-brainer. The letter was mailed before the murders took place and it names the men who were killed. Are we all in agreement?”

  Jennings and Wardwell nodded yes.

  McMahon held up a copy of the letter. “I would like to hear your opinions on whether you think this letter is what it appears to be or if you think it is, as the president said, ‘a piece of disinformation.’ ”

  The two agents looked at each other for support, neither quite sure of the answer their boss was searching for. Wardwell spoke first. “Who, at the Bureau, told the president they thought the letter was a piece of disinformation?”

  “No one did, as far as we know, but that is not what I’m concerned about. I don’t want any of that to
seep into your train of thought. What I want to know is, based on the evidence you’ve seen, do you think this letter is a piece of disinformation?” McMahon leaned against the edge of his desk and waited for an answer.

  “Based on what we know, no, I don’t think this letter is a piece of disinformation,” Wardwell said.

  “Why do you think it’s genuine?” McMahon asked.

  “You tell me why I should think otherwise.”

  “That’s not the way I want you to go about this.” McMahon started to shake his head and wave his hands. “Let’s try this. Dan, I want you to assume that whoever murdered these guys had an ulterior motive. Kathy, I want you to argue that they didn’t have an ulterior motive. Now, Dan, if the motive for killing those three guys wasn’t to scare the politicians into doing what that letter says, then what was it?”

  There was a long silence while Wardwell pondered the question. All of a sudden he slapped his thighs with both hands. “Oh, my God. I didn’t even think about it. The president’s budget was supposed to be passed today. You take those guys out, and the budget is dead.”

  “If the motive was to derail the budget, then why kill all three of them? Koslowski was in charge of the Appropriations Committee. All they had to do was kill him and the budget would have been dead. Why kill the two senators?” McMahon prodded.

  “Well . . . if they wanted to cover their tracks and not make it look like they were trying to stop the budget, they would have killed more than just Koslowski.”

  “Fair enough.” McMahon paused and tapped his finger on his chin. “Assuming you’re right, why would someone take such a big risk just to stop the budget?”

  “There could be a million different reasons . . . probably, all of them having to do with money. Maybe there was a new piece of legislation in there that was going to cost someone a whole lot of money, or maybe they had just cut funding for a program, and the people who have been receiving that money weren’t very happy about it. The budget is a huge piece of legislation. There could be over a thousand new entries in there that could drastically affect someone or some group’s finances,” Wardwell said.

  There was a short silence while they thought about Wardwell’s comments, and then Jennings spoke up. “Yeah, or it could just be a group of Americans pissed off at the way these jerk-offs run the country.”

  McMahon turned to Jennings. “All right, hotshot, it’s your turn.”

  Jennings sat forward on the couch. Her gun hung loosely in a shoulder holster under her left arm. “There are a lot of Americans out there who are sick and tired of the way these guys are running the country. Our own Counterterrorism Department has reported an alarming rise in threats against politicians over the last eighteen months. If I were an individual who was worried about losing money because of a new piece of legislation, Fitzgerald, Koslowski, and Downs would be the last three I would kill. They were the biggest spenders on the Hill. . . . Unless the president has some hard evidence that there’s an ulterior motive behind these killings, I think they’re just spewing political rhetoric.”

  “Don’t you think the timing is a little strange?” McMahon asked.

  “What timing? That they were killed right before the budget was supposed to be voted on?” Jennings shook her head sideways. “No, I don’t. This afternoon you told me what that Kennedy woman from the CIA had to say about these murders being committed by military-trained commandos. Well, I thought about that for a while and then called my old firearms instructor from the FBI Academy. His name is Gus Mitchell. Have either of you ever met him?”

  “Sure, I know him real well,” McMahon answered. Wardwell shook his head no.

  “Well, Gus is an old Delta Force commando, so I called him and ran Kennedy’s theory by him. We could only talk for a couple of minutes because he had to go teach a class, but in that short time he said something that didn’t really sink in until you brought this budget thing up. Gus said one of the most difficult things about planning an operation like this would be to pick a time where you were guaranteed that all of your targets would be where you wanted them. When you look at these assassinations from the killers’ standpoint, the morning before the budget is supposed to go to a vote is the perfect time. All of the congressmen have to be in town to vote, and all of the senators stay in town to try to influence the outcome. Any other day, and these guys are flying in and out of town with little or no notice.”

  McMahon nodded his head up and down while he thought about Jennings’s new angle. It might be worth his time to go give Gus Mitchell a little visit.

  O’Rourke and Scarlatti were walking down the sidewalk. Scarlatti had both arms wrapped around O’Rourke’s waist, and he had his arm around her shoulder. The cold night air felt good on their faces. Liz reached up and kissed him on the chin. O’Rourke smiled and noted it was the first time he had done so in days. Everything had been so tense, so serious, over the last several weeks. It felt good holding on to Liz, but something told him things in Washington were going to get worse before they got better.

  When they reached O’Rourke’s house, they walked up the steps to the front door. The first level of the brownstone was a two-car garage. Parked on the same side of the street and down about three houses was a black BMW with dark-tinted windows and diplomatic license plates. The man behind the steering wheel watched as the handsome couple entered the house. He looked up and down the street to see if anyone had followed.

  As Michael and Liz entered the house, O’Rourke’s yellow Lab, Duke, jumped up from his spot on the kitchen floor and ran down the hallway. Liz let go of Michael to greet the excited dog.

  “Hello, Duke. How are you? I’ve missed you.” Scarlatti patted him on the side and scratched his neck, while the eighty-pound Lab wagged his tail. O’Rourke said hello to his roommate of seven years and patted him on the head. Scarlatti stood up. “Where’s your ball, Duke? Where’s your ball? Go get your ball.” Duke frantically tapped his paws on the hardwood floor and then bolted down the hallway in search of his ball.

  O’Rourke took Scarlatti’s jacket, hung it up, and said, “Hey, don’t get him too excited. I’ve got more important things for us to do than play fetch.”

  “Come on, Michael, he’s been inside all day. He needs to blow off a little steam.”

  “Tim came by during lunch and took him for a jog, and believe me, I need to blow off a lot more steam than Duke does.” O’Rourke smiled and wrapped both arms around her waist.

  “Easy, big boy. You’ll get yours soon enough.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that promise.”

  “Don’t worry, you won’t have to.” Scarlatti stood on her toes and kissed him. A second later Duke returned and dropped his blue ball at their feet. They ignored him for a while and continued to kiss until Duke let out a loud bark. Scarlatti let go of O’Rourke and grabbed the ball. She waved it in front of Duke’s mouth several times, then threw it down the hallway.

  O’Rourke patted her on the butt and started up the stairs. “I’m going to go fill the bathtub. When you’re finished with Duke, why don’t you grab a bottle of wine and come on up.” Scarlatti smiled and nodded her head.

  When O’Rourke reached the second floor, he walked down the short hallway to his den. Standing in front of his selection of CDs, he ran his eyes over the thin plastic cases turned on their side. He stopped at one of Liz’s favorites. O’Rourke grabbed the Shawn Colvin CD, put it in, and hit play. The light by the window was on, and the shade was open. He walked over, turned off the light, and stood for a moment looking down at the dark street below. The young congressman reflected back to a hunting trip he had taken almost a year ago. A trip where he had divulged a dark and damaging secret involving Senator Fitzgerald. For the first time since the murders, Michael allowed himself to wonder if the person he had told that secret to was capable of taking the lives of Fitzgerald, Koslowski, and Downs. O’Rourke did not have to search deep—the answer was a resounding yes.

  The assassin looked up at the
shadow standing in the window on the second floor. The windows of the car were cracked slightly so he could hear what was going on outside the car. For several minutes, he continued to scan the street, checking to see if there were any new people or cars he hadn’t seen on previous nights. He did so with minimal movement. Only his eyes darted back and forth, using the mirrors to look behind. After several minutes, he started the car and drove off. He had seen what he needed.

  10

  ROACH AND MCMAHON WERE SITTING IN THE Oval Office waiting for the president, Garret, and whoever else would be attending the meeting. It was almost twelve-fifteen, and no one had entered the room since a Secret Service agent had let them in at noon. The two FBI men were sitting in front of the fireplace, one on each couch. Neither had said a word since arriving. The president and Garret were up to something, and Roach wasn’t quite sure what it was, but until he figured it out, he would move with caution.