by Vince Flynn
Five minutes later, Rielly finished the first chapter and closed the book. The author had just described in graphic detail how she had watched her father beat her mother to within an inch of her life when she was just six years old. Not another one, Rielly told herself. As she got out of the chair, she decided she would have to miss the meeting on Monday night. Anna headed back into the living room with her beer and put the book back on the shelf. She scanned the CD collection and decided on a live Dave Matthews album. With beer in hand, she began searching the bookshelves for something else. Mitch read a book a week and had built up a big collection of both fiction and nonfiction. After only a few minutes, she hit pay dirt. Nelson DeMille’s newest novel sat on the shelf with all of his previous works. She headed for the fridge to grab another beer and then back out onto the porch. One of DeMille’s smart-ass, wisecracking heroes was exactly what she was in the mood for.
It was the perfect thing to take her mind off Mitch, where he was, and what he was doing. He had promised her that this would be it. This was his last mission, and then they would go about the business of leading normal lives. Rielly looked out at the calming waters of the Chesapeake with her green eyes and said a quick prayer for Mitch; that he was all right and that he would return to her by morning’s first light. Rielly opened the book and started in—determined to lose herself in its pages.
THE SIGNS HAD caused him to rethink his plans. One never succeeded in this business without taking risks, but the trick was knowing how far to push it. If he blew past Hanover, there was no turning back. There would be a one-hour window during which he would be stuck on the autobahn, racing to make it to Essen, where he could ditch the car. If the call went out over police radio, he’d be a sitting duck. Another sign appeared on his right indicating that the exit for the Hanover international airport lay one kilometer ahead.
Rapp was used to operating alone. He had no need to discuss his options with anyone. His mind ran quickly down the list in almost the same way a naval aviator runs down his list of options when an engine flames out sixty miles from the deck of a carrier. There was no reason to panic—it was just a problem to be solved as quickly and efficiently as possible. Rapp checked his mirrors and flipped the turn signal up. As the Mercedes banked through the exit, he pulled the brim of his hat down another inch. Airports were always loaded with surveillance cameras, and after they found the car, the tapes would be reviewed by Germany’s best counterterrorism experts.
His breathing had calmed over the last thirty minutes. Rapp was pretty confident that his ribs were bruised but not broken. If it were the latter, his breathing would be short and extremely painful. He followed the signs to the parking garage and stopped at the green gate to grab his ticket. To his right, under a large halogen light pole, Rapp noted the tinted bubble of a surveillance pod. Inside the dark plexiglas, he knew a camera was recording his arrival. Rapp rolled the window down and with his gloved hand grabbed the time-stamped ticket. When the gate’s arm popped up, he shifted the car into first and started up the spiraled concrete ramp. He passed the first and second levels and pulled into the third. Driving slowly up and down the aisles, he checked for more surveillance cameras and was pleased to discover none. Rapp backed the car into a spot between two other Mercedes and rolled the driver’s-side window down several inches. Then, leaving the keys on the floor of the front seat, he got out and left the car unlocked. With any luck, it would be stolen before the police could find it, but he doubted it. Following the signs to the terminal, Rapp intentionally walked with a limp and hunched shoulders. With the brim of his hat down, he kept a lookout for more cameras.
As he entered the terminal, he saw several instantly. They were right where they always were, high above and looking down on the masses of people. Unfortunately, the masses weren’t there at a quarter past midnight. When they found the car, they would discover him on the tapes shortly thereafter. That was why he was walking with a limp and hunched shoulders. For good measure, he wrapped his right arm across his body and let his left arm hang limp. This served two purposes: first, to disguise his height and walk; second, to make them think he was wounded. Maybe they would waste some of their resources looking for him in clinics.
He looked for the baggage claim signs and took the escalator down one more level. Only one of the carousels was crowded with passengers from a recent arrival; the others were empty. Rapp went to the busy carousel, meandered about for a minute as if he was looking for his wife, and then walked out the door to the cab stand. Seven cabs were lined up, and when Rapp raised his hand, the first one in line pulled up twenty feet to his spot on the curb. Rapp sank into the back seat and pulled out his wallet. A quick glance at the dashboard told him the tank was full. In German he asked the man how much it would cost to take him to Essen, about an hour and a half one way. The cab driver smiled at the opportunity. Rapp paid the man and thanked him with a good tip. Before replacing his wallet, he took out some additional cash. As he eased back into the seat, his left hand slid under his jacket and found the grip of his 9-mm Glock.
The car pulled away from the curb, and the cab driver radioed his dispatcher that he had a fare to Essen and would check in after he dropped off his passenger. When they had cleared the airport and were back on the autobahn, Rapp slid forward, switching his gun from his left hand to his right. He placed the tip of the pistol against the back of the driver’s head and in German told him to keep both hands on the steering wheel.
The driver, a tall, thin man who was close to forty, stiffened at the sudden development but kept his hands on the steering wheel. The man was a heavy smoker. Rapp could smell it on his clothes and his hair.
“If you do exactly as I say, nothing will happen to you. If you fuck up, just once, I’ll put a bullet in your head and dump you in a ditch.” Rapp didn’t raise his voice; he wasn’t sure what words to stress in German, so he pressed the tip of the gun into the man’s head and said, “Am I making myself clear?”
The driver nodded his head slowly. “Good,” Rapp replied. With his left hand, he took the cash he’d held and stuck it in front of the man’s face. “Take it. We are not going to Essen. You’re taking me to Frankfurt.”
After taking the money, the cab driver nodded slowly, and Rapp pulled the gun back an inch, allowing the man to straighten his head. Rapp checked the driver’s credentials on the glove box. His name was Geoffrey Herman.
“Geoffrey, you’re going too slow. Speed it up, and keep your eyes on the road.” Rapp watched the speedometer and asked, “Ever had this happen before?”
The driver nodded his head and croaked his reply through a pair of parched lips.
This was a good development. The man had walked through the desert and survived. “Well, I can promise you this. If you do everything I say, nothing will happen to you. I will get out of your cab, and you will have made a lot of money for driving someone to Frankfurt. If you try anything funny, you’re dead. That’s our deal. No negotiating.”
Geoffrey nodded enthusiastically, but he was still obviously terrified. Rapp knew he had to calm him down so they wouldn’t get into an accident. “Why don’t you have a cigarette and relax? We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”
The driver nervously fished for his smokes and lit one up. Now came the interesting part for Rapp. He had a little more than two hours to cultivate a bond with this man. Mitch didn’t like to kill people, and he would do everything possible to avoid having to off this poor sap. There was nothing Geoffrey could give the police that they couldn’t get off the surveillance tapes at the airport. The only reason to kill him would be to buy more time, and Rapp hoped to do that in another way.
“Where are you from, Geoffrey?”
“Hamburg.”
“What brought you to Hanover?”
Still a little nervous, he replied flatly, “I didn’t like Hamburg.”
The conversation got better over the next hour and a half. As Rapp probed, the driver loosened up. He was getting a good pictur
e of who Geoffrey Herman was. They passed several police cruisers parked on the side of the autobahn. Each time, Rapp watched Geoffrey to make sure he did nothing to alert them. The driver kept his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes straight ahead. Rapp learned that Geoffrey was divorced and lived alone. He owned the cab, and he liked working nights. It allowed him to enjoy his days and do as he pleased. He was also a recovered alcoholic, and he reasoned that it helped keep him out of the bars in the evenings. The most important thing Rapp learned was that Geoffrey Herman was a convicted felon. He had spent two years in prison for robbery and had no love for the law. Rapp couldn’t have been happier with the news.
It was almost two in the morning when Geoffrey announced that he should call his dispatcher. He had told her he would check in after he dropped his fare off in Essen. Rapp thought about it momentarily and asked, “Do you have to go back to the airport, or are you done for the night?”
“I’m done when I want to be done. I own the cab.”
Geoffrey should not have offered that piece of information so freely, Rapp thought. “Would it be unusual for you to call it a night at this time?”
“Not at all. You were my last fare of the night.”
Rapp took a second to think it over and said, “Go ahead and call in. Tell them everything went well, and you’re going to call it a night.”
Rapp watched Geoffrey dial the number on his cell phone and leaned forward to listen to the conversation. The female dispatcher sounded genuinely tired and disinterested. The call lasted no more than ten seconds. After they said goodbye, Rapp took the phone and turned it off. Watching Geoffrey’s face closely, he asked, “Was that your normal dispatcher?”
Without hesitation, he nodded yes. “Her name is Sheila. I’ve worked with her for five years.”
Sinking back into the seat, Rapp breathed a sigh of relief. The BKA had yet to pick up his trail. If they had, they would have tried to keep Geoffrey on the phone. Rapp looked at the map on his lap and thought now might be one of those times he could push it. “Geoffrey, have you spent much time in southern Germany?”
Irene Kennedy awoke to strange sounds that could only be coming from one thing: cartoons. This had become a Saturday morning ritual. Young Thomas, or Tommy, as he was called by most of his peers, was six. The days of him calling for her when he woke up were gone. In a strange way, she missed it. He was always at his best in the morning, affectionate and cuddly. She preferred the extra hour of sleep on Saturdays, but every once in a while, she wouldn’t mind having to get out of bed and rub his back and kiss him until he was ready to get out from under the covers. He was too old for that stuff now, he had told her. He had an independent streak that no doubt had come from Kennedy herself.
She sat up in bed and swung her feet onto the floor. The bedside clock told her it was 7:58. Kennedy was simple in most regards. Her pajamas for as long as she could remember were either flannel pants or boxers and whatever large T-shirt happened to be available. She was thin, maybe too thin. It wasn’t intentional; she just wasn’t a big eater.
In the bathroom, she turned on the water and pulled her straight brown hair into a ponytail. After scrubbing her face with a washcloth and soap for a good three minutes, she brushed her teeth and went down the hall to find Tommy right where she thought he’d be—sitting four feet in front of the TV in his pajamas, completely entranced by the Power Rangers blowing buildings apart. Kennedy walked around the couch and kissed the top of his head.
“Good morning, honey.”
Tommy mumbled something that his mother couldn’t quite understand and kept his eyes focused on the screen. Kennedy rubbed his head, picked up his empty cereal bowl, and headed into the kitchen. On her way past the table, she grabbed the milk and put it back in the fridge. After placing her son’s bowl and spoon in the sink, she started the coffee maker and grabbed a banana.
As she leaned against the counter, her thoughts turned to Rapp. The anonymous tip to the German authorities about the freighter had gone as planned. For good measure, they had also alerted the media. That way, the BKA wouldn’t be able to downplay the story. As far as what had happened with Hagenmiller, Kennedy was in the dark. The Counterterrorism Center had the ability to monitor events from afar, and with the help of the Global Operations Center, there wasn’t a news story that could break without them being informed in fifteen minutes or less. The problem with this particular story was that Kennedy had to play dumb. She couldn’t let even her closest people in the CT know that she had any idea that Hagenmiller was going to be taken out.
Kennedy finished the banana and told Tommy to turn off the TV and get dressed. He reluctantly obeyed, and fifteen minutes later they were out the door—Kennedy with two cups of coffee and Tommy with his football and rubber Godzilla. Waiting for them in the driveway was a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria with their driver, Harry Peterson, from the Agency’s Office of Security. Irene and Tommy got in the back seat and said good morning. Kennedy handed Harry the fresh cup of coffee, and they were on their way.
Kennedy had resisted getting a driver. She lived less than ten minutes from Langley and at first saw it as an intrusion into her private life. Unfortunately, though, the previous summer the Washington Post had done a profile on her titled “The Most Powerful Woman in the CIA.” Kennedy had not cooperated with the interview, and the president himself had asked them not to pursue the story. But the Post went ahead and did it anyway. She wanted nothing to do with the limelight, and more directly she wanted the people she was hunting to know as little about her as possible.
The fallout from the story was predictable. The threats started to roll in. Thomas Stansfield moved decisively. He ordered a security system for Kennedy’s home and gave her a driver. The CIA monitored the security system, and at least once a night, a CIA security team would drive by the house and check things out. Kennedy was also given a pager with a panic button. She was ordered to have it on, or next to her, twenty-four hours a day.
Tommy was at that age where there was no such thing as an inappropriate question. He had glimpsed Harry Peterson’s gun one day while the two of them were playing catch in the driveway, waiting for Irene to come out. Tommy had asked to see the gun, and Harry resisted his natural instinct to say no. Harry was fifty-one and had learned that the last thing you wanted to do with a young boy was to make something taboo. It only served to pique their curiosity. Harry showed him the gun, gave him a very stern lecture about safety, and let him touch it. Later on, during the drive into Langley, Tommy had blurted out the question, “How many bad guys have you killed?”
Irene had wondered the same thing many times but had, of course, never asked the question. Men like Harry Peterson didn’t fall into this line of work when they grew bored with selling copiers. They were typically former military types, cops, or covert operators who were a little too old to be crawling around rooftops in some Third World hellhole.
The car pulled up in front of the Old Headquarters Building. The OHB was completed in 1963, and the New Headquarters Building was finished in 1991. The two buildings combined had more than 2. 5 million square feet of office space. Irene and Tommy entered the building and stopped at the security checkpoint. Irene signed Tommy in, and the guard gave him a visitor’s badge that restricted him to the common areas down one level. After she scanned her own badge, mother and son went through the turnstile and downstairs.
Like all of the other modern government agencies, the CIA had become sensitive, inclusive, and caring. Full day-care services were offered six days a week. Kennedy only used them on Saturday mornings, and Tommy actually liked it. He had gotten to know some of the other kids, and they typically enjoyed their Saturdays together building and then destroying things. Kennedy signed him in with Joanne, the weekend den mother, and then resisted the urge to kiss Tommy on the head. His friends were watching. She had been severely reprimanded on several occasions for committing this egregious act of affection in front of the guys. Instead, she waved and said sh
e’d be back down for lunch.
Kennedy went back to the elevators and took one up to the sixth floor. In 1986, Ronald Reagan signed a presidential finding that authorized the CIA to identify terrorists who had committed crimes against American citizens and help bring them to the United States to stand trial. Later that year, the Counterterrorism Center was born. Its purpose: to coordinate the fight against terrorism, not just within the CIA but also with other federal agencies. Cooperation with other agencies, especially the FBI, was not something that had been encouraged throughout the CIA’s history. This was a first, and there were many individuals among the old guard who saw this new relationship with the FBI as a sign that the end of the world was near.
Next to the door was a simple sign with black letters that read “Counterterrorism Center.” Before punching her code into the cipher lock, Kennedy paused, collected her thoughts, and pushed. The room’s main features were its projection screens and a large two-tiered rectangular conference table. The middle of the conference table was raised several feet. Underneath it sat a vast array of computer monitors, secure faxes, and phones. This mess in the middle of the room was the nerve center. This was where the case officers sat and coordinated information and activities with allies and other U.S. government organizations. The room was a cross between a network news control room and an air traffic control tower.