Consent to Kill

by Vince Flynn

  The captain nodded and folded his hands behind his back. “Did you guys forget your manners?”

  “Huh?” the agent asked, not getting the question.

  “Simple protocol…call ahead…let us know you’re coming.” The captain rocked back and forth on his heels while he assessed how far he should push this.

  The agent gave him the courtesy of lowering his glasses an inch so the top two-thirds of his eyes were visible. “The director is a busy man, but I hear you loud and clear. The problem is we didn’t even know we were coming out here until five minutes ago. We were leaving the new counterterrorism facility and he told us to come straight here. I’m just following orders.”

  The answer seemed plausible. “All right. Roll the windows down, get your creds out, and we’ll make this as quick and painless as possible.” The captain pointed at the lead Suburban and three men appeared from the blockhouse, one with a dog. The dog and his handler began circling the vehicle while the two men began inspecting credentials. The captain hesitated for a second and then went back to the limo. He waited patiently by the back passenger window for a three count, staring at his own reflection. He waited two more seconds and then rapped on the window with his knuckles.

  The window came down revealing two white men talking on phones. One was in his fifties and the other appeared to be about ten years younger. The captain recognized the older man as Mark Ross, the new director of National Intelligence.

  The younger man placed his phone flat against the lapel of his suit coat and said, “Could we speed this up, we’re on a tight schedule.”

  “Absolutely,” replied the captain. “Who is the director here to see?”

  “I’m afraid that’s privileged information.”

  The captain could already see this suit was going to be real fun to work with. “I need to see IDs, and we need to check the trunk. Then I’ll have you on your way.”

  The man gave him a look that said, are you kidding me? “I said we’re in a hurry.”

  The captain stayed calm and polite. “If you’d called ahead some of this could have been avoided, but unfortunately you didn’t. Identification please.” The captain stuck out his hand and waited. He collected the younger man’s ID and wondered whether or not to push it with Director Ross. He decided not to when he realized Ross was talking to the president. He took the single ID back to the blockhouse to make a copy and run a quick check, while the men continued searching the vehicles. He didn’t like any of this, but technically, he supposed the new director of National Intelligence was his boss. Less than a minute later he came back out, looked briefly at the limo, and then spoke to the agent in the lead vehicle.

  “You guys under high alert or something?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You’ve got a lot of muscle with you to be driving around DC. Four guys in each Suburban and two more in the limo. That’s about what the president travels with when he comes out here.”

  The agent pulled his glasses down again and said, “I don’t ask questions…you know what I mean?”

  Smiling, the captain replied, “To a point. I’m going to have the Suburbans wait over here in this parking lot on the right, and the limo may proceed to the main building.”

  “That’ll work for me.”

  KENNEDY REMAINED ABSOLUTELY unreadable as Rapp went through his pitch. He had seen her stoic behavior unnerve subordinates, especially the younger ones—the ones who needed constant feedback and supervision. Rapp needed no cheerleading. He and Kennedy had been doing this for a long time. Normally, she would have been a bit more responsive to what he was proposing, but Rapp had brought someone to the meeting, so she remained her polite but professional self.

  “The Pentagon, State…they’re all throwing money around like a sailor in a whorehouse. We need to do the same thing.”

  Kennedy glanced at the other man in the meeting, who happened to be a retired naval officer, and then looked back at Rapp. “Throw money around like a horny sailor?”

  “Absolutely.” Rapp smiled. “The more money the better. That’ll make it harder for the General Accounting Office and all those oversight pukes to track what we’re really up to.”

  “Could you possibly come up with a better metaphor than the sailor/hooker one?”

  “I agree,” said the retired officer.

  “How about a Marine in a whorehouse?” Rapp looked at the blond-haired man sitting next to him. “Does that work for you?”

  “Absolutely. Marines are pigs.” Scott Coleman laughed. The former Navy SEAL was in an unusually good mood, and it had everything to do with what Rapp was telling them.

  Kennedy ignored the banter and got back to more pressing issues. “So, in essence, what you’re advising is that we take Scott’s company and use it as a logistical front for the new and expanded Orion Team?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s been tried before and it blew up in the CIA’s face.”

  “When?”

  “The Vietnam War. You’ve surely heard of an outfit called Air America.”

  “I was in diapers at the time. Different time, different war, different world.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Kennedy persisted.

  “Air America got busted, because they got too big, and a couple of corncob generals at the Pentagon didn’t like the CIA having their own air force. That combined with the press, the general mood on Capitol Hill, and the public’s attitude toward the war…it all contributed to their cover being blown.”

  Kennedy raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly has anything changed?”

  “Everybody, including and especially the Pentagon, are using civilian contractors, and they’re not just hiring engineers to build bridges, schools, and hospitals. They’re hiring firms left and right to provide diplomatic security, food prep services, cleaning services, trucking…you name it, and if it doesn’t involve actual combat, the Pentagon is using private contractors.”

  “Scott?” Kennedy asked.

  “I’ve seen my business grow from about two million a year to over twenty.”

  “Tell her about Black Watch.” Rapp was referring to the private security firm that had been started by one of Coleman’s fellow SEALs.

  “They’re going to do over two hundred and fifty million in business with the government alone this year. They have six thousand acres down in North Carolina that they’ve turned into a Disneyland for shooters. They have a race track to teach defensive driving, they have a state-of-the-art sniping range and shooting house, their own airstrips, planes, helicopters, armored personnel carriers…you name it. They have equipment that is forward-deployed around the globe. They’ve even built a damn lake to train SEALs on the underwater delivery vehicles.”

  “Their philosophy,” interjected Rapp, “is that they can do it better and in a more cost effective way than the federal government.”

  “That wouldn’t be difficult.”

  “Well, they’re the first people to really try it, and they are succeeding.”

  Kennedy knew about Black Watch. The CIA already used them to protect certain assets abroad. There was a very liberal, antiwar minority in Washington who thought of the group as nothing more than a bunch of overpaid mercenaries who were eventually going to give America a black eye. Kennedy thought those people tended to have a naïve view of the world. To them, anyone who carried a gun was bad. Even cops.

  “So, where I’m going with this,” said Rapp, “is that we begin to use a series of companies to…” Rapp didn’t get to finish his sentence because the door to Kennedy’s office opened. He turned to see two men entering.

  “Don’t bother getting up,” announced the new director of National Intelligence, Mark Ross. Ross was tall, thin, and well dressed, and exuded an air of importance. He marched across the long office trailed by a second, shorter man.

  Rapp looked over his shoulder with undisguised irritation. He’d been in countless closed-door meetings in this office, and when the door was closed it was
for a good reason—especially this morning. This was a first. People did not simply barge in on the director of the CIA unannounced.

  “Irene, sorry to intrude, but I was in the neighborhood and decided to drop by.” Ross reached the area where they were sitting and let his gaze fall on Rapp. “Mitch,” he said, placing his left hand on Rapp’s shoulder and extending his right hand. “Good to see you as always.”

  Rapp nodded. He’d only met the new intel czar twice, both times when Ross was in the Senate. Kennedy had warned him to be cordial to their new boss. Rapp recalled her being unusually cautious about the former senator. Kennedy had explained that it wasn’t Ross as much as it was his new job. No one in Washington was quite sure how the new position of director of National Intelligence was going to play itself out, and that uncertainty had caused the political gamesmanship to begin. At the mere mention of politics Rapp tuned her out. He was more concerned about who Ross was and where he’d come from. If Ross was going to politicize intelligence they would butt heads big-time.

  The skinny on Ross was that he had a firm grasp on national security issues and knew how to motivate people. It also helped that after graduating from Princeton he’d actually worked at the CIA in the Directorate of Intelligence. His claim to fame at the Agency was that right before leaving to get his law degree at Yale he prepared a report on a fringe Iranian religious figure known as the Ayatollah Khomeini. Ross predicted that Khomeini’s religious fervor and growing following was likely to lead to a full-blown revolution in Iran. He was one of the only people in the government who read the tea leaves correctly. On the surface Ross had an outgoing manner about him that was interpreted by some as self-assured and by others as arrogant. Rapp assumed that like most men who had been members of America’s most exclusive club, the U.S. Senate, Ross was a bit of both, depending on the situation. Now Rapp sat uncomfortably in the chair, with the man’s hand still on his shoulder, wondering if the former senator had any idea how much he hated being touched. He glanced down at the offending hand and briefly envisioned snapping one of the fingers.

  “I see that pretty wife of yours on TV every day,” Ross continued. “You’re a lucky guy.” He took his hand off Rapp’s shoulder and looked at the third party in the room. It was obvious by the square jaw and athletic build of the man that he was not your average Langley bureaucrat. He appeared to be a Nordic version of Rapp, and Ross suddenly found himself wondering what he, Rapp, and Kennedy had been discussing.

  “Mark Ross,” he introduced himself to the blond-haired man. “Director of National Intelligence.”

  Coleman nodded. If he was impressed he didn’t show it. “Scott Coleman.”

  “You work here at Langley?”

  “No, my IQ is too high.” Coleman gave him his best shit-ass grin.

  Ross laughed. “I don’t think there are too many people in this town with an IQ as high as Doctor Kennedy’s, but I’ll go along with your explanation for now. You look ex-military to me. What branch?”

  “Navy.”

  “SEALs?”

  “That’s classified.”

  Ross hesitated for a second, and Rapp thought he noticed a flash of anger just beneath the surface. Ross quelled it and looked to Kennedy. “Definitely a SEAL. Nowhere else in the military do they breed such contempt for authority.”

  Rapp was the only one in the room who laughed. Kennedy never found such banter very funny, and Rapp knew Coleman well enough to know he was having an internal monologue as to the merits of blindly respecting authority versus real leaders who earned respect.

  Before Coleman could respond Ross placed his hand on the back of the man he’d come in with and said, “This is Jonathan Gordon, my new deputy. He’s going to be my point man on all coordination between Langley and National Intelligence.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jonathan,” replied Kennedy. She took off her glasses and set them on the leather folder in front of her. Her body language revealed nothing.

  Gordon was a half head shorter than his boss and looked to be in his early forties. Rapp tried to size him up, but got nothing.

  “Again, sorry for interrupting,” said Ross as he clapped his hands together. “I’m trying to get up to speed as quickly as possible. I’ll let you three get back to whatever it was you were discussing. I’m going to go check in on a couple of my old intel buddies, and then I’ll pop back up here in about thirty minutes.” Ross checked his watch. “Will that work for you, Irene?”

  “If you give me a few minutes to finish up here, I’ll show you around myself.”

  “No, don’t bother,” Ross insisted. “I still remember my way, and besides you’re too valuable to be giving tours.” He started to back away, and in a quieter tone said, “I’ll stop back up in a bit. There’s a few things I’d like to discuss with you.” Ross and Gordon then left the corner office as quickly as they’d arrived.

  When the door was closed Rapp turned to Coleman and asked, “Why do you have such a problem with authority?”

  Kennedy shook her head. “Mr. Pot, leave Mr. Kettle alone and let’s get back to where we were.”

  ROSS, GORDON, AND the two bodyguards approached the bank of elevators. Ross stopped and folded his arms across his chest. He looked back toward Kennedy’s office and appeared fixed on a particular thought. As the elevator doors slid open Ross whispered to Gordon, “I want you to find out everything you can about Mr. Coleman.” Ross stepped into the elevator.

  “I’m already on it.” Gordon retrieved a Palm Pilot from his suit and went to work.

  Ross stared at the backs of his thick-necked bodyguards and then tilted his head toward Gordon and, still whispering, said, “Rapp makes me nervous enough as it is. I don’t think there’s a person in this town who can control him.”

  “Not even the president?”

  “Especially not the president. Rapp’s saved the man’s life twice.” Ross held up two fingers to punctuate his point. “You remember Valerie Jones, the president’s chief of staff, stepping down this past summer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was Rapp. He and Jones were like a frickin’ ferret and a snake.…I mean, they hated each other. Rapp gave the president a choice. Me or Jones, and the president chose Rapp.”

  Gordon appeared impressed. “I’ve heard the man is very talented at what he does.”

  “He is. Don’t get me wrong, he’s the best, but guys like that need to be kept on a short leash. No, strike that. They need to kept in a cage in the basement and the only time you let them out is when there’s a murderer in your house.”

  Gordon flexed his knees. “He doesn’t strike me as the type who’s going to let you put him in a cage.”

  “There lies the problem, my friend. We have to rein in all these damn agencies, most of whom can’t stand each other, and get them to cooperate. I need them to follow my orders. I need everyone playing off the same sheet of music and looking at me, the conductor. I can’t have Rapp running around banging on his war drums doing whatever the hell he wants.”

  The elevator doors opened. “There are people in this town, Jonathan, who would love to see me fail. People who would give a lot to see me embarrassed, and I don’t like to be embarrassed. Rapp makes me nervous, and if you can’t figure out how to put him in a cage, you’d better at least find a way to put a leash on him.”

  They exited the elevator and started down the hall. “And find out the bona fides on that smart-ass Coleman. There’s no way he and Rapp are up to anything good.”

  12

  PARIS, FRANCE

  E rich Abel leaned against a light post and stared at the pretty woman sitting across the street. He’d arrived early and walked the neighborhood, doubling back from time to time and making sure he was familiar with at least two potential escape routes. He made a few small purchases: a gift card and an antique pen. Both stops allowed him to pause and make sure he wasn’t being followed. The gift card would end up in the garbage, but the pen he would keep. It was an ivory Mont Blanc fountain
pen with inlaid silver bands and shirt clip. It would be the fifty-sixth pen in his collection.

  He doubted he had anything to fear this afternoon, but discipline was what kept a spy alive. That and the ability to deal with boredom. The truth about spycraft was that ninety-plus percent of it was utterly mundane. It involved a lot of standing around and waiting. Just like he was doing now, but with his new millions spread across a series of banks he felt more secure than he should have, and he allowed his mind to wander.

  Abel was wondering why one of the world’s most beautiful and dynamic cities gave him a sense of melancholy. He thought perhaps it was because Paris was the heart of France, and he had some time ago come to the conclusion that France was a country whose greatest moments had come and gone.

  Their embarrassingly futile effort to defend themselves against the Germans at the start of WWII had left a permanent scar on the country’s identity. The tiny country of Finland, after all, had stopped Stalin’s Red Army for three months at the onset of the war, while France had barely lasted two weeks against the Nazi blitzkrieg. In the end it took foreign armies to win their own country back for them, and while it was preferable to living under Nazi occupation, their national pride had been dealt a serious blow. This was, after all, the country of Napoleon, who had once dominated all of Europe. In less than a century they had gone from one of the world’s preeminent powers to a country incapable of putting up a fight.

  The French were a proud people, and Abel reasoned that to protect their collective psyche from the truth, they had decided that leisure and intellectual refinement were more important than economic and military might. Abel could not deny the worth of intellectual and artistic pursuits, but they were nothing without secure borders and a strong economic engine to fund such lofty endeavors.

  The government had instituted a thirty-five-hour work week, and two-hour lunches were a coveted tradition. On top of that almost all workers were guaranteed nine weeks of vacation every year. The country was inching closer to socialism with each election cycle, and the disincentive to work was beginning to take its toll. If you can’t, or won’t, create on your own, the next best thing is to steal what someone else has created. Abel had seen firsthand how the Soviet bloc countries had used industrial espionage to try and keep up with the West. Similarly, the French intelligence services had become notorious for picking the pockets of visiting executives. So much so that many foreign companies had a standing order forbidding their executives from taking laptops or any other crucial data with them while doing business in France.