Term Limits (17 page)

“No.”

“Not even Liz?”

“No.”

“Good. Keep it under your hat. If our boy is
behind this, we're fortunate. This is the first chance we've had for real change in thirty years.”

“I agree. It's just that something like this could spin out of control real fast, and I don't want to see him get taken down.”

“Don't worry. He isn't going to get caught. He's been doing this for years, in places a hell of a lot more dangerous than the United States.”

Director Thomas Stansfield sat in his office with only his desk lamp on. Outside the window of his corner office, powerful floodlights illuminated the formidable compound of the Central Intelligence Agency. Three years ago he would never have been found in the office on a Sunday night. He would have been sitting at home with his wife. Stansfield's demanding job required him to work some long and strange hours, but Sunday evenings had been the one night of the week, barring an international crisis, when he would drop everything to be at home. He and his wife would typically watch
60 Minutes
while making dinner, maybe relax in front of a fire, watch a movie, and then call the girls out on the West Coast. They had two daughters, both married, one living in Sacramento and the other in San Diego.

This calm, comforting, and loving part of Thomas Stansfield's existence had vanished with little notice. Sara Stansfield had left his life too quickly. During a routine physical, a tumor had been discovered. When the doctors went in to take it out, they found that the cancer had already spread to several glands. Two months later, Sara was
dead. It had been the most painful two months of Stansfield's life. That he worked in a profession where emotions were looked on as a liability—a profession where tough-minded and emotionally neutral people played a serious game—did not help things. When Sara died, Stansfield had been the Agency's director for just over a year. Just when he'd reached the top of his profession, he'd lost the most important person in his life.

Those who were close to him offered their private condolences, and they were appreciated. Some offered to help with the workload until he was up to it, but Stansfield had kindly refused. After Sara's funeral, he spent several days with his daughters and three grandchildren, reminiscing about his beautiful wife and their loving mother and grandmother. The sons-in-law respected the feelings of a very private man and kept their distance. When the weekend was over, he put his loved ones on a plane and went back to work. Even three years later, Sara was often on his mind. The pain was gone and had been replaced by fond memories, hard work, and trips to see his daughters and grandchildren.

Stansfield was a first in the history of CIA directors. He had no military experience, he was not a lawyer or a politician, and he was not Ivy League educated. Stansfield had entered the Agency during the midfifties, after graduating from the University of South Dakota. He had something the Agency was searching for desperately—he was fluent in three languages: English, German, and Russian. Being raised on a farm in rural South Dakota during the pretelevision days gave his German-immigrant
father and his Russian-immigrant mother plenty of time to teach their children the languages, customs, and folklore of their native lands. Stansfield had been one of the CIA's most productive agents during the fifties and sixties. In the seventies he became a case officer, in the early eighties he was the Agency's station chief in Moscow, and then in the late eighties he became the deputy director of operations. At the time, he thought he'd reached the end of the ladder.

That was until the previous president did something that surprised everyone. The CIA, at the time of the collapse of the Soviet Union, had grown to rely heavily on nonhuman data. They were spending most of their resources spying the high-tech way, with satellites and other electronic devices. The electronic information that the Agency collected was valuable, but nowhere near as valuable as a well-placed agent. During that president's second year, he was confronted with his first national-security crisis and was forced to face the harsh reality that his intelligence agencies could not give him the information he needed. All of those billion-dollar satellites and million-dollar spy planes could not tell him what he needed to know. What he needed was someone on the ground, someone on the inside. A spy.

Following that incident, the president put together a task force and asked them to come up with a strategy for correcting this shortcoming. Stansfield was placed on the task force, which he thought was nothing more than a waste of time and energy. After months of late meetings and lengthy
debates, the task force briefed the president on its findings. They told him that America needed to increase its human intelligence-gathering apparatus on a global scale. They told him it would take a long-term commitment, and that it could be a minimum of six to ten years before they started to see any tangible results from their efforts. To Stansfield's amazement the president not only agreed, but decided that since the current director of the CIA was retiring shortly, it would make sense to have someone who understood the human side of the business running the Agency.

Some people were upset that they had been passed over for the position, but most of them had no choice but to respect the decision. Stansfield was an icon, a real-life spook. He had earned his spurs running around behind the Iron Curtain risking his life. He had risen through the ranks and put in his time.

The phone on Stansfield's desk started to ring, and he looked over the top of his spectacles to see which line it was. The light blinking on the far right told him it was his private line. He grabbed the phone and said hello.

“Tom, Brian Roach here. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday night, but I need to run a couple of things by you.” It wasn't unusual for Roach to be calling his counterpart at the CIA, but tonight he felt a little uncomfortable.

“No problem at all, Brian. I'm just trying to get a head start on the week. What can I help you with?”

After a prolonged pause, Roach said, “Tom, I need to ask you a couple of questions, and if you don't want to answer them, please just tell me.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Tom, do you or does anyone at the Agency possess any information that would lead you to believe the murders were committed for reasons other than those stated in that letter?”

Stansfield's eyebrows frowned at the question. “Not that I know of.”

“No one at the Agency has told the White House that they have discovered some information that suggests the motives of the killings were something other than those stated in that letter?” Roach asked again, more firmly.

“No, I thought you guys were the ones that came up with that theory.”

Roach breathed a long, frustrated sigh. “No, we haven't told the White House anything.”

“Then why are the president and all of his people running around town saying that you have?”

“That's what I would like to find out.”

“It sounds like they're up to something.” Stansfield leaned back in his chair and turned to look at a map of the world on his wall.

“Yeah, I've been getting the same feeling.” Roach paused and took another deep breath. “Any advice?”

Stansfield thought about the question. He was normally careful about giving his opinion, but he and Roach were of the same cloth. He had a lot of empathy for his counterpart at the FBI. It might be Roach whom they were doing a job on this week, but it could easily be him next time.

“I think it may be a good idea to drop a little hint to the media that you have no idea what the White House is talking about.”

Roach pondered the advice for a moment. He liked the direct approach. “Thanks, Tom, I appreciate the advice. If you hear of anything, please let me know.”

“Will do.” Stansfield set the phone back in its cradle and closed his eyes. Mike Nance and his associates made him nervous. Nance was the real brains over at the White House, the man with the connections.

Garret was sitting in his office with his feet up on the desk and an array of newspapers before him. It was just after six on Monday morning, and his plan was coming along nicely. With a cigarette dangling from his lips he snickered at how easy it was to manipulate the media. The front page of the
Washington Post
read, “Murky Conspiracy Rumored to Be Behind Murders.” The front page of the
New York Times
read, “FBI Thinks Murders Were Committed to Stop President's Budget.” The
Washington Reader
read, “FBI Thinks Letter Is Bogus.” Garret laughed out loud. It had been so easy. It made no difference if it was made up or not, the damage had been done. The American people would read the headlines and believe what they saw. Public support would rally back to the president, and they would ride it into a second term. Garret shook his head and grinned as he thought of the power he wielded.

Garret's plan was simple. All he had to do was continue to portray the president as a victim and hope those idiots over at the FBI could catch these people. He smiled at how easy it was to play the power game against principled men like Roach.
While they took the time to decide if a course of action was right or wrong, Garret worried only about being caught. He had no time for petty little laws and technicalities, and he definitely had no time for someone else's morals. He was there to get things done, and to play the game by his own rules.

Director Roach's limousine pulled up in front of the Hyatt hotel at 6:55 A.M. He was there to give a brief speech to the National Convention of Police Chiefs. Because of the assassinations, he had considered having one of his deputies handle the speech, but after talking to Stansfield, he decided to give it himself. He'd just finished scanning a
Washington Reader
article stating that the FBI thought there was a conspiracy behind the murders. As his bodyguards opened the door of the limo, a small mob of about eight reporters and cameramen closed in. Roach stepped out of the limo and said hello to the group. A tall, blond-haired woman got to him first. “Director Roach, could you please tell us what information the FBI has discovered that would lead you to believe the letter sent to the media after the killings is a cover for the real reason Senator Downs, Senator Fitzgerald, and Congressman Koslowski were killed?”

To the surprise of Roach's bodyguards, their boss stopped to answer the question. The reporters jostled each other to get their mikes in Roach's face.

“As of right now, we believe that letter to be sincere and are very concerned about the possibility of further assassinations.”

A tall male reporter blurted out the next question. “Director Roach, do you think the murders
were committed in an attempt to derail President Stevens's budget?”

“No, I do not. We think the assassinations took place on the eve of the budget vote because it guaranteed the assassins that Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Senator Fitzgerald would be in town.”

“I don't understand. The White House has been reporting that the FBI believes the murders were committed to derail the president's budget,” said a somewhat confused reporter.

“Those reports are incorrect.” Before another question could be asked, Roach turned and entered the hotel. Within minutes, his comments were being played as the lead story on every morning network news show.

Without knocking, Garret opened the door to Nance's office and barged in. Nance glanced up from his TV, which was showing the taped interview of Roach.

“What in the hell is he doing?” asked Garret as he pointed at the TV.

Nance turned his head away from the TV. “Relax, Stu, this was expected. You didn't really think he would sit there and let us use him, did you?”

“Hell no, but I at least thought he'd come to us, not go to the press,” Garret said, glaring at the TV.

“Calm down, we already got what we wanted. The polls have swung ten points in our favor. The people think there's some big conspiracy to ruin the president. The press loves the story and will run with it, regardless of what Roach says. We'll have Moncur
release a statement saying it was improperly implied that the FBI had discovered the information when it was in fact another government agency. They'll all assume it's the CIA, and it'll make the story that much better. Besides, we can use this ‘Roach thing' to our advantage. He fired the first shot. With a few leaks to the right people, the press will be printing stories saying there's bad blood between Roach and the White House, and if he doesn't make some progress in solving these murders, things will get very uncomfortable for him. Combine that with the fact that our friends in the media will be more than willing to do a butcher job on a saint like Roach, and we'll have his letter of resignation in our hands by next month.” In a rare moment of emotion, Nance smiled at Garret, and the gesture was returned.

THE BELL ATLANTIC VAN WAS PARKED ON NEW Hampshire Avenue, a half block from Dupont Circle. The two men in the back checked their makeup and equipment one last time. On top of their Afro wigs they were wearing yellow plastic hard hats. They
were also wearing blue coveralls with a Bell Atlantic patch over the left pocket. They nodded to the driver, grabbed their bags, and climbed out of the van. Casually, they walked down the stairs leading to the Dupont Circle platform of the D.C. metro. Upon reaching the platform, they climbed on board the metro and took the red line to Union Station. They arrived about five minutes later and got off. Threading their way through the other subway riders, they walked to the end of the platform and stepped out onto the small ledge running along the side of the tunnel. After about fifty feet they reached a doorway and stopped. The shorter man handed a bag to his accomplice and went to work on the lock. Twenty seconds later they were in.

They stepped through the vault door that led to one of the underground tunnel systems that ran beneath Washington, D.C. The system they had just entered housed mostly phone lines and various utility pipes. The sewers carrying the city's waste and water runoff were located in another system that was buried even deeper. As they walked through the squared cement tunnel, the taller of the two men had to tilt his head to one side to avoid hitting the lights that were spaced about every fifty feet overhead. They took a series of turns, and after about three minutes they were standing in front of another door. Again, the shorter of the two went to work on the lock. When he was finished picking it, he opened the door and placed a piece of duct tape over the lock. The two men stepped into the subbasement of a twelve-story office building and let the door close behind them.