Term Limits mr-1 Read online

  “I’m sick of you cutting me out of the loop, Stu. I’m the White House press secretary, not him.” Moncur pointed her finger at Hopkinson. “I should be involved in this.” Garret grabbed her arm and pushed her to the side, sticking his face directly in front of her.

  “Ann, I don’t need this shit right now. We’ve got a crisis on our hands. Go to your office, and I’ll let you know what time he will be addressing the nation as soon as we get out of this meeting. Now get the hell out of my way.” Garret turned and entered the office with

  Nance and Hopkinson behind him. The President heard the door open and spun around in his chair. Garret threw his arms up in the air. “How could this day get any worse? We’ve been busting our asses trying to get that budget passed, and just when we’re in the clear, we get the rug pulled out from under us.” Garret pointed toward the door. “And now I’ve got every clown and his brother trying to pick a fight with me. This morning it was that idiot from the FBI, and now it’s that joke we call a press secretary.” The President stood from behind his desk and walked over to join the others in front of the fireplace. He sat in a chair with its back to the fireplace, and Garret sat by himself on the couch to Stevens’s left, while Nance and Hopkinson sat on the other couch to the right. “Gentlemen, what have you decided?” asked the President. “Well, we’ve picked a time. We’re going to have you address the nation at eight this evening. That way we’ll get maximum exposure.”

  Garret paused for a moment and looked at Nance and Hopkinson.

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  “And it will give us some time to try and catch our breath and figure out what in the hell is going on. Right now, my gut reaction is that we come out hard and denounce these assassinations as a direct threat to the national security of the United States of America and label whoever sent the letter as terrorists. “We have to start spinning this thing and get control of it. The media is all over the board right now.” Garret looked down at his yellow notepad. “Ted has had people watching the broadcasts all morning, and the media is referring to the people that sent this letter as everything from assassins to terrorists to revolutionaries to murderers to perpetrators. We have to figure out if there’s a way we can use this to our advantage and then lead the media on the story. We have to grab a hold of this thing and squash any public support there may be for this list of demands. We can’t have these guys being seen as revolutionaries.” Garret paused for a moment and shook his head in frustration. “The nut-bags on talk radio are calling in and saying it’s about time someone got serious about running this country and got rid of scumbags like

  Fitzgerald. I think we’ve got to nail this thing down while we still can, and your speech to the nation will be our first chance.” Garret leaned forward. “Jim, if you can come out looking good and strong tonight, it would be a big bonus in light of the setbacks we’re going to suffer over the loss of Koslowski. Every single person in this country will be watching you tonight, looking for guidance.” Garret leaned back. “Now, Mike and Ted differ with me a little. Ted, as usual, wants to wait until we get some polls back to decide exactly how firm we should be on this, and Mike also wants to move cautiously.” The

  President turned away from Garret and looked at Nance. Cautious was a word that was very appealing to him right now.

  “What did you have in mind, Mike?”

  “Well, sir, I think it would be prudent to wait until we receive a little more information from our intelligence assets before we take a hard line. At this point, we have three dead politicians who seem to have been killed by a group that wants to pressure you and Congress into making some radical reforms.

  This whole thing could be that simple, or it could be a hundred times more complicated. We don’t know if this letter is for real. The people behind it may want it to look like a simple revolution, but in reality they may have different motives.” Nance leaned forward in his chair and closer to the President. “Don’t you think the timing on this is a little strange? Today was supposed to be the day your budget was to pass through the

  House. Everyone knew if you succeeded, your chances for reelection would be greatly improved. What if someone didn’t want you reelected, or someone wanted to be President and decided the first thing they had to do was scuttle your chances for reelection?” Nance was trying to accomplish two things by intentionally confusing the President. First, he honestly did not like rushing into a complicated situation and taking a hard line without knowing all the facts. Too many times in his career he had had to clean up a mess after people had taken an uninformed stance on an issue, only to find out later they had chosen the wrong side. The other reason Nance wanted to keep Stevens unsure was because as long as the President was confused, he would continue to seek counsel from his national security adviser. “Mr. President, it is an unnecessary risk to come out and commit to a stance immediately. Do you remember when the USS Vincennes shot down the Iranian

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  Airbus? President Reagan got on national television and told the world that the

  Vincennes was under attack by Iranian gunboats when it fired on the Airbus. He took a firm position that it was the Iranians’ fault. He painted himself into a corner and spent months trying to defend the wrong side of the argument. Our side screwed up and killed three hundred innocent people.

  We ended up looking like fools. Now, obviously, this situation is different, but all I’m asking is that we wait until the FBI provides us with some reliable information.” Nance continued to speak in his even, non-confrontational tone. “Then we can formulate a coherent plan of action …. Besides, thinking we can quash this thing right now is like thinking we can turn back a tidal wave. The public’s distrust of politicians is at an all-time high. The demands listed in that letter are exactly what voters have been screaming for. If we’re going to come out winners on this, we’re going to have to be a little more crafty.”

  Hopkinson was shaking his head in agreement, but instead of addressing the

  President, he looked at Garret. “I agree. I would also like to wait until we get some of the results from these public opinion polls.

  It makes no sense to rush into this until we know exactly where we stand.

  Besides, I think Mike is right. This thing is like a tidal wave coming towards shore, and the smart thing to do is to get the hell out of the way and sit the storm out.” Garret leaned back and tapped his fingers on the side table next to the couch as his crossed leg bounced up and down.

  The President, Nance, and Hopkinson were used to Garret’s mulling over an idea.

  After a full minute of silence, the President became impatient and asked, “Stu, what do you think?” Garret chattered his teeth several times and responded, “All right, you guys win. For tonight’s address we’ll play it safe. We’ll go with somber and mournful.” Garret jotted down a note to himself on his yellow notepad.

  “You can talk about the grief you feel over the loss of these good friends. We’ll make it seem real personal. You can list some of their achievements and talk them up as real heroes of democracy.”

  “Let’s not build them up too much,” Nance said cautiously. “One of our deceased friends has quite a few skeletons in his closet that could come back to haunt us. Let the press make the first move on that one ….

  Let’s just state the obvious and say these assassinations are a threat to our national security, and then you can make some comments about how these men gave their entire lives to the service of their country.

  Most importantly, we should keep it short.”

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  Garret shook his head in agreement. “You’re right. These guys are dead now. We don’t owe them any more favors. If the press wants to turn them into martyrs, we can wait and jump on that bandwagon during the funerals next week.” Everyone nodded his head in agreement while Garret continued writing himself a note. When he was finished, he looked up at Hopkinson.

  “Ted, why don’t you go tell Moncur what time we will be addressing the
nation and get the speechwriters focused on the issues we’ve discussed.

  When I’m finished, I’ll stop by your office to work on the details.”

  Hopkinson stood and started for the door. As soon as he was gone, Garret leaned forward and spoke in a low tone. “I am really pissed off with the way that meeting went this morning, and not just because that no-name agent got in my face. I’m pissed because here we are in the middle of a crisis and we can’t even trust the very people we are dependent on to give us information. Now, I don’t want to go back and rehash why Roach and Stansfield weren’t replaced when we took office.

  “We all know why they weren’t, and we were all in agreement at the time. ”

  “In light of our difficulties in getting the cabinet confirmed, the right thing to do was leave them in charge of the FBI and the CIA.”

  Garret’s balding, skinny head shook and his cheeks tensed. “Now, here we are in the middle of a major crisis, and I don’t trust either one of them as far as I can throw them.

  What are we going to do about it?”

  The President considered the question and answered, “Well, neither of them is willing to resign, and considering the crisis we’re confronted with, I think trying to force them out would be unwise.”

  Nance sat still while both men looked to him for his opinion. He was the professional spook of the group, having spent most of his early years working for Army intelligence and then moving on to the National Security Agency. He had a sharp mind and was good at putting things in motion. The idea for blackmailing Congressman Moore had been his.

  “If you’re serious about getting rid of them,” Nance finally responded, “you’ll have to do it through public pressure and pressure from the Hill. They have to be embarrassed into leaving their jobs.” He paused for a moment, his mind calculating the next move. “The pressure to solve these murders will rest solely on the shoulders of the FBI. If Roach doesn’t make progress on the case, it will be very easy to turn the dogs loose on him.”

  Nance held a finger up in the air. “And I have some ideas on how we may be able to speed up the process.”

  The SUN WAS DROPPING OVER the WESTERN HORIZON, AND DROPPING

  with it was the temperature. O’Rourke walked down the street with his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and a dark brown leather jacket.

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  His left hand was wrapped around the handle of a .45-caliber Combatmaster made by

  Detonics. The palm-sized pistol packed a huge punch. As a Congressman, O’Rourke had obtained a special permit to carry the weapon. He wasn’t carrying the gun just because of the recent assassinations. He had started carrying it several years ago to protect himself against the roving packs of gang-bangers that roamed the streets of D.C. O’Rourke had been a bone-crushing defenseman for the University of Minnesota hockey team. With his size and speed, few people toyed with him on or off the ice, but the muggers of D.C.

  cared little about size. The second most traumatic event in O’Rourke’s life had proved that. The thought of his friend’s mugging caused Michael to tighten his grip around the handle of the gun. One year earlier, Michael’s best friend had been shot and killed just two blocks from the Capitol. Mark Coleman and O’Rourke worked on Senator Olson’s staff and were roommates. One night Coleman was on his way home from work when he was stopped by a twenty-two-year-old crack addict. A witness saw the shaky young man walk up to Coleman and, without saying a word, shoot him in the chest, grab his wallet, and run. The police caught the man the next day. The murderer had already been convicted of armed robbery twice but was paroled early because of a lack of space in the

  D.C. jails.

  O’Rourke hadn’t been concerned that his roommate didn’t come home that night.

  Coleman was engaged and spent most of his evenings at his fiancжe’s apartment.

  O’Rourke went into the office late the next morning.

  He had just won his congressional seat the previous week and was coming in to go over some transition notes with Senator Olson. Michael entered the office with no idea that his friend had been killed. The office personnel were gathered in the reception area hugging each other and crying when Michael walked through the door. O’Rourke stood in shock while one of the secretaries told him the news. Michael looked around the room at all of the people trying to comfort one another and instinctively withdrew. He backed out of the office and left the building. When he got outside, he headed for the Mall and walked westward, passing the Smithsonian and the Washington Monument. Walking slowly, his mind flooded with memories of his friend and his parents.

  After passing the Reflecting Pool, he reached the Lincoln Memorial and stopped. He stood and stared back at the Capitol for a long time.

  O’Rourke stared at the large rotunda and tried to grasp how a person could be shot and killed so close to the heart of the government of the United States of America. He sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial staring at the Capitol, trying to make sense of a senseless death, trying to understand what was happening to America, trying to understand why someone like Mark Coleman, who had worked so hard, who lived honestly, whose whole life was ahead of him, could be snuffed out by a worthless crack addict. O’Rourke thought of all the meetings he’d sat in where fat-cat Senators and

  Congressman threw around billions of tax dollars as if it were a Monopoly game-the money always going to support some special-interest group whose endorsement would be needed in the next election. When the subject of crime came up, it was talked about with enthusiasm and vigor, especially when the press was around, but behind the closed doors

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  of committee meetings the politicians were always more willing to spend money on farm subsidies or defense spending than crime. The reality of life had smacked O’Rourke harshly in the face that day. He looked at Washington and knew there was no way he could make a difference. The corruption of the system had become too entrenched, and even if there were thirty other Congressman just like him, they couldn’t make a dent. The old boys controlled the committees and with that the legislative agenda and the purse strings.

  O’Rourke had decided at that moment, one year earlier, as he looked at the large dome of the Capitol, that he was done with Washington. If he couldn’t make a difference, he didn’t want to be a witness and accessory to the corruption of Washington politics. The hell if he was going to stay in this town and turn into one of them. Washington was built on a swamp, and as far as Michael was concerned, it was still a swamp. As O’Rourke turned onto Wisconsin Avenue, his mind returned to the present. He noted for the first time since taking office that real change might be possible. The shocking assassination of three of Washington’s most prominent political animals was sure to force reform to the forefront.

  O’Rourke walked across the street to Blacky’s Bar and entered.

  Glancing over the crowd, he looked for a full head of black hair, and after two sweeps he found her. She was sitting at the far end of the bar surrounded by a group of men still in suits. The sight of her brought a smile to his face. An attractive woman walked up and grabbed O’Rourke’s arm. “Michael, you’re late. You’d better get over there and save her.

  The vultures are closing in. O’Rourke continued to stare across the bar. “Yes, I see that.” He looked down and kissed the woman on the cheek. “Hello, Meredith, is she ready to kill me?”

  “Michael, you could show up at midnight and she wouldn’t be mad. May I take your coat?”

  O’Rourke remembered he was carrying his gun and politely said, “No, thank you.”

  “Were things pretty tense on the Hill today?”

  “Yeah, there was a lot of extra security.”

  “Well, you be careful.” The owner squeezed his arm. “Get over there and save her.

  I’ve got a booth ready for you, whenever you’re ready.”

  O’Rourke weaved his way through the crowd and stood behind the pack of cruisers salivating over hi
s girlfriend. He took a deep breath and watched for a moment. O’Rourke placed his hands on the shoulders of the two men closest to him. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

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  The two men turned around and made some room. Liz was wearing a white blouse, short black skirt, black nylons, and black suede heels. A smile spread across O’Rourke’s face, and he stepped forward to kiss her on the lips. Then brushing his nose along her cheek, he whispered, “You look great.” She smiled, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pulled him closer for another kiss. After several moments, O’Rourke grabbed her by the hand and said, “Meredith has our table ready. Let’s go be alone.”

  The couple walked over to the open booth and sat down across from each other.

  O’Rourke grabbed her hands and stared at her. He loved her eyes.

  He loved everything about her. her thick, black hair, her olive skin, her sharp mind, her great sense of humor, but he especially loved her eyes. Despite his bad attitude toward Washington she had managed to work her way into his heart. Liz was bright, she was aggressive, she was caring, she loved kids. She was everything he wanted. Liz

  Scarlatti had entered his life a year ago, and even though the last thing he wanted was a relationship, he couldn’t resist her. They had met at a small blues bar in Georgetown. It was a busy weekend night and they happened to be standing next to each other when the band struck up a sultry version of “Sweet Melissa” by the Allman Brothers.

  The female lead of the band sang it in a slow, seductive way that brought the entire crowd into a rhythmic sway. Standing by the edge of the dance floor, O’Rourke bumped a little too hard into whomever he was standing next to, and when he turned to apologize, there was Liz. The apology never got out of his mouth. He stared in awe at what he had no doubt was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. His face was frozen, eyes open wide, lips parted slightly. Liz looked up at him with her big brown eyes, and that was it. O’Rourke felt his heart sink into his stomach, and he couldn’t move. Luckily for him Liz didn’t freeze. She slowly took the beer out of Michael’s hand, set it on a ledge, and then grabbing him by the hand, she led him onto the dance floor. The rest was history. Over the next year their attraction grew into a serious love affair with marriage on the horizon. There was only one problem at present—Michael wanted out of D.C. and