Stansfield began placing several files in his briefcase. “Irene, what is your read on
Congressman O’Rourke?”
“How do you mean?”
“Do you think he knows more than he’s telling us?” Irene pursed her lips while she pondered the question. “I suppose it’s a possibility.”
Stansfield turned and placed a single file in his safe. “I think we should run a check on him, but do it quietly. He’s not the type of person we want to upset, but all the same, I
think we need to see if he as any ties to these assassins.” Kennedy nodded. “I’ll handle it personally.” 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 well-worn 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?”
300
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.
301
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.
