Term Limits (45 page)

Coleman looked across the yard. “I've got something I want to check out. It shouldn't take more than twenty minutes. We'll meet you back at the boat, over.”

“That's a roger, over.”

“What's up?” asked O'Rourke.

“When I was driving around today, I noticed that there was a big place for sale several doors down. It looked kind of run-down, like no one was living there. As long as we're here, I want to look around. Let's stay low and keep quiet.” They ran toward the other side of the yard crouching next to the hedges. No fence separated the two yards, only a tree line, but Coleman and O'Rourke stopped anyway. They scanned the yard with their goggles and looked for motion sensors. They found none, and all of the lights in the large house were off. Crossing the yard, they reached an old wrought-iron fence and stopped.

“This is it,” said Coleman. “Let's walk the fence line and see if we can find a gate.” They walked away from the Bay and toward the house, their goggles
lighting the way for them. They'd only walked about thirty feet when they found a hole. Two of the wrought-iron bars were missing and a gate had been created. They stepped through the opening and onto a thinly worn path that moved through the trees and weeds. After about thirty feet, it opened into a huge, wild yard the size of a football field. The grass was almost up to their waist. Looking up toward the house, they studied the dilapidated mansion. All of the windows on the main floor were boarded up, and the surrounding vegetation looked as if it was attempting to swallow the house. “This place has been empty for quite a while,” said Coleman.

“They can't sell homes like this anymore. The taxes alone have to be a half a million dollars.”

“Follow me, I think there's a service drive over here.” They trudged through the tall grass, staying by the trees. Adjacent to the main house, and behind a row of tall hedges, they came across a small shed and a dirt road. They followed the path to the main road and stopped at the service gate. Next to the gate was a good-size servants' house. The windows were also boarded up. They heard a car approaching and ducked down behind some bushes. The car grew louder and louder, and then its headlights lit up the night air. The undergrowth and trees were thick, and with their dark clothing they were not in danger of being seen. A Mercedes passed and continued around the turn. Coleman rose from the bushes and inspected the gate. It was a smaller version of the large wrought-iron gate for the main drive to the mansion. It swung open from
the middle and was chained and padlocked. Coleman inspected the lock briefly and then checked the hinges. Turning to O'Rourke, he said, “I've seen all I need, let's go.”

“Would you mind telling me what you're thinking?”

“I'm not sure yet. I'm just trying to get a feel for things.… Let's go.” With Coleman in the lead they worked their way quietly down the service drive, through the tall grass, and back to Arthur's neighbor's yard. From there, they descended down the steps to the Bay, where they repacked their gear in the waterproof backpacks and swam back to the boat. Stroble and Hackett were waiting for them. As soon as Coleman and O'Rourke were on board, they raised the anchor and headed back out into the Bay. Once they reached the other side, they turned north for Baltimore.

All four of them were gathered on the fly deck. The windscreen shielded them from most of the breeze, but the night air was still frigid. Hackett was telling them that he didn't think it would be difficult to take Arthur out. “I can't believe that a guy who's that paranoid about security is dumb enough to step out in the open like that just to smoke a cigar.”

“They're all alike… all over the world,” scoffed Stroble. “They all have a weakness… some little habit that they won't let go of.”

“How hard do you think it would be to kidnap him?” asked O'Rourke.

“A lot harder than shooting him in the head from one hundred and fifty feet,” responded Hackett.
“You're not really considering that as an option, are you?”

“I would like to get inside his head and find out what in the hell he and Mike Nance were talking about.” O'Rourke looked at Coleman, who was concentrating on the water ahead of them. He knew Coleman was thinking the same thing.

Without taking his eyes off the water Coleman said, “It can be done, but we'll have to take the guards out.”

“Why?”

“Those guys are not your average security guards. If they're guarding Arthur, that means they're good.”

“How good?”

“Good enough that if we try to sneak up on them, one of us will end up dead.”

“What about shooting them with a tranquilizer gun?”

Coleman thought about it for a second and asked Hackett, “Any chance we could take them out with tranquilizers?”

Hackett shook his head. “Too much wind coming off the Bay, and the distances are too far. It looked like the guards were wearing body armor, so we'd have to hit them in the neck. From the distances we'd have to shoot, I wouldn't give us better than a fifty-fifty chance of hitting the mark.”

O'Rourke thought about killing the guards. He had killed several Iraqis during the war, but this would be more personal. “What type of men are they? Do they work for CIA?”

“No. They're professional mercenaries. Probably
men who have worked for him in the past.” Coleman scanned to the port and starboard sides, checking for any other vessels in the area. “Michael, the only way we can do it is to take the guards out. We can either take Arthur out, without knowing what's going on, or we can grab him and find out what he and Nance are up to.… I say we grab him, but the decision is yours.”

IRENE KENNEDY WAS SOUND ASLEEP. AFTER arriving home from the Pentagon late the previous evening, she didn't even have the energy to take off her clothes. She plopped down on the covers and was out in seconds.

Through her deep sleep she sensed that she wasn't alone in her bedroom. Someone was watching her. She opened her eyes and saw the intruder. Looking back at her were a pair of little brown eyes. They belonged to her four-year-old son, Tommy. He was staring at her with a frown on his face and a juice box stuck in his mouth. Irene blinked her eyes several times and tried to rub the sleep out of them.

Tommy pulled the juice box away from his lips and asked, “Why are you sleeping in your clothes?”

Irene ignored the question and held out her arms. “Give Mommy a hug.”

Tommy set his beverage down on the nightstand and jumped up onto the big bed. Irene gave him a warm hug and kissed his forehead. “How have you been?” she asked as she rubbed her hand through his blond hair.

“Good.” Tommy liked to give one-word answers.

“How have you and Mrs. Rosensteel been getting along?”

“Fine. She told me to let you sleep.”

“She's here?”

“Yep.”

Irene bolted upright. “What time is it?” She looked at the bedside clock and suppressed the urge to swear. She jumped off the bed and picked up Tommy. “Mommy's late, honey. Go ask Mrs. Rosensteel to make me a cup of coffee, please.” Irene patted him on his little butt and headed for the bathroom. She showered in under three minutes and got dressed. Today would be a pants day. No time to shave the legs. With her hair still wet she shoved her makeup kit in her purse and headed for the kitchen. Tommy's nanny handed her a cup of coffee in a large to-go mug, and Irene thanked her. She dropped down to one knee and kissed Tommy on the forehead. “I'll call you from the office.” Standing, she added, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Tommy waved as she ran out the door.

Minutes later Irene was battling traffic on her
way downtown. She reminded herself to call her mother and ask her to stop by and see Tommy. Since these assassinations had started, she'd been working some horrible hours and her time with her son had suffered.

She violated a half dozen traffic laws on her way to the Hoover Building and had still managed to put on her makeup. She appeared in Skip McMahon's office less than thirty minutes after Tommy had awakened her, feeling better than one would have expected.

“Good morning, Skip.”

“Good morning, Irene. How are you doing?”

“Pretty good. I finally got more than a couple hours of sleep last night.”

“Good, because we've got a full day ahead of us. I just got out of a meeting with Harvey Wilcox and Madeline Nanny. They have solid surveillance set up on ten of the fourteen suspects and are hoping to have the last four taken care of by this evening. How are you and your people coming along?”

“Good. As of ten P.M. last night we had visual and phone surveillance initiated on all forty-five suspects.” Kennedy took a sip of coffee.

McMahon tapped his foot under the desk and looked at Kennedy, waiting for the good doctor to crack a smile and tell him she was joking. Kennedy gave no response, and McMahon realized she wasn't kidding. McMahon wondered how in the hell the CIA could initiate surveillance on forty-five people in less than thirty-six hours. He was sure that, however they did it, civil rights were being trampled left and right.

The investigative side of McMahon wanted desperately to know how it was done, and the law-abiding federal-agent side wanted to be kept in the dark. After a brief internal struggle the investigative side won. “Irene, I have a hard time believing that you have the manpower to watch forty-five people around the clock.”

“We don't.”

“Then how in the hell are you keeping an eye on all of these people?”

“It's not about manpower, Skip. It's technology.”

“What do you mean ‘technology'?”

Kennedy grinned. “I'd like to tell you, but it's probably best if you don't know. Just trust me that we can, and that we'll pass whatever we learn on to you as quickly as possible.”

McMahon leaned back in his chair and frustratedly accepted Kennedy's answer, understanding that it was probably best that he didn't know. “I was thinking about your SEAL theory last night. The more I mull it over, the more intrigued I am. If these guys are as smart as we think they are, they would have tried to do something along the way to throw us off their trail.”

Kennedy set her coffee cup on the edge of the desk and stood. “I'm glad you brought that up. I need to call General Heaney and ask him about something. Would you dial his office and put it on speaker?” While McMahon dialed the number, Kennedy continued, “I was reviewing those personnel files last night and came across something a little unusual.”

One of the general's aides answered, and a moment later Heaney was on the line.

“Good morning, Skip. What can I do for you?”

“General, I've got you on speakerphone. Irene is here with me and she has a question for you.” McMahon looked at Kennedy.

“Good morning, General. Did you get a chance to look at the file I left on your desk last night?”

“Yes, I read it over first thing this morning.”

“Did you know Commander Coleman?”

“Yes, I did. He was top-notch.”

“I noticed last night that out of all the files I reviewed, Coleman was the only SEAL who had been granted an early discharge. Is that uncommon?”

The general hesitated for a minute. “It is not a common practice, but the brass has been known to make exceptions.”

“Do you know why he was granted an early discharge?”

Again, the general paused. This time for a long enough period that Kennedy knew she had touched on something more than routine.

General Heaney cleared his throat and asked, “Irene, are you familiar with Operation Snatch Back?”

“Yes, I helped put the premission intel together.”

For a long period no one talked. McMahon had no idea what was being discussed, but by the tone of Heaney's and Kennedy's voices he could tell now was not the time to ask.

“Did you receive a postmission briefing?” Heaney asked.

“Not a formal one. I only heard rumors.”

“Coleman was the commander of the SEAL team we sent in.”

“His discharge was granted about a month after the mission?”

“Yes.”

“Did he crack up?”

“No… not really.”

“Did he request the early discharge, or was it offered to him?”

“I'm not aware of the exact circumstances. Admiral DeVoe, the force commander for the SEALs, and the secretary of the navy signed off on it.”

“Was Admiral DeVoe Coleman's immediate superior in the chain of command?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you could track the admiral down and call us back? I'd like to ask him some questions about Coleman.”

“I'll get him on the line and call you right back,” responded Heaney in his quick, efficient, military tone.

McMahon looked up at Kennedy, who was still standing over the phone. “What was that all about?”

Kennedy sat down in a chair and closed her eyes. “Do you remember the Pan Am flight that was blown up over Lockerbie, Scotland?”

“Yeah.”

“About fifteen months ago, the Agency located the whereabouts of the two terrorists responsible for the bombing. They were at a small military base in northern Libya. We sent a SEAL team in to take them out.… I'm not sure what happened.… All I know is that we lost part of the team.”

“How many men?”

“Ten.”

The phone rang and McMahon grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”

“Skip, General Heaney. I've got Admiral DeVoe on the line.”

McMahon hit the speaker button and placed the receiver back in the cradle. “Good morning, Admiral, this is Special Agent McMahon with the FBI, and I have Irene Kennedy from the CIA in my office. We'd like to ask you a few questions.”

With a noticeably unenthusiastic tone, the admiral said, “Shoot.”

Kennedy stood placing both hands on Skip's desk and leaning over the phone. “Admiral, has General Heaney told you why we want to talk to you?”