by Vince Flynn
Finally, Midleton said, “Sir, I assume you’ve been briefed about what happened in Germany over the weekend.” Midleton looked at Hayes for confirmation but got none. “Sir, I’m referring to the assassination of Count Hagenmiller and the fire that destroyed one of the finest homes in Europe and,” Midleton added with an agonized tone, “a priceless art collection.”
Hayes finally nodded. “I’m familiar with the situation.” No words of sympathy were offered.
“Sir,” Secretary Midleton continued. “Ambassador Koch knew Count Hagenmiller quite well, as did Chancellor Vogt.”
Hayes nodded just once and again offered no words of condolence.
Koch was confused by President Hayes’s lack of sensitivity, but since he had only dealt with the man on a limited basis, he ignored the strangeness and stated his case. “Chancellor Vogt is deeply concerned that the assassination of Count Hagenmiller may have been carried out by a foreign intelligence service.”
“Really, and why does he think that?” The president kept his eyes focused on the ambassador’s.
“We are privy to certain information that leads us to that conclusion.”
“And what would that information be?”
Ambassador Koch sat rigid. “We have been told that the count was under surveillance during the days leading up to his death.”
“By whom?”
Koch glanced at Irene Kennedy and then the president. “The CIA.”
“And?”
“Can you confirm or deny that the CIA had Count Hagenmiller under surveillance?”
“I can confirm that the CIA had him under surveillance prior to his death.”
The ambassador was happy that he had received on honest answer. He was, however, less than enthusiastic about where he had to take the conversation. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “We have been very good allies for a long time, Mr. President. Chancellor Vogt is deeply concerned that the relationship may be in jeopardy over this incident.”
“Why is that?” Hayes knew what the ambassador was implying, but he wanted to hear him say it.
Koch looked down uncomfortably at his hands and then glanced at Kennedy before turning back to the president. “The chancellor is worried that…the CIA…may have acted without your authority and done something that would offend even the most ardent American supporters in my country.”
In a way, Hayes felt sorry for the ambassador. It was highly probable that he had intentionally been kept in the dark about Count Hagenmiller’s recent business dealings. He was advised by Kennedy that there was a good chance the German chancellor was also unaware of Hagenmiller’s nefarious dealings. This was the only thing that was keeping Hayes from going ballistic.
“Mr. Ambassador, I, too, value our friendship. Germany is one of our greatest allies.” The president leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. “How well do you know Count Hagenmiller? I mean, did you know?”
“Fairly well. His family is very well respected and very involved in the arts and a variety of philanthropic endeavors.”
“Did you know that he has been selling highly sensitive equipment to Saddam Hussein? Equipment that is used to manufacture components for nuclear weapons?”
The bomb had been dropped. Secretary Midleton shifted uncomfortably, and his face turned a touch ashen. Ambassador Koch took a little more convincing. “I find that very hard to believe, Mr. President.”
“Is that so?” Hayes stuck out his hand, and Kennedy handed him a file. The president opened it and held up a photograph. “The man on the left I’m sure you recognize. Do you know who the other man is?”
Koch shook his head. He had a sinking feeling that he didn’t want to know either.
“He is none other than Abdullah Khatami. Does the name ring a bell?”
“No.”
“He’s a general in the Iraqi army.” Hayes’s voice was beginning to take on an edge. “He is in charge of rebuilding Saddam’s nuclear weapons program. What you see happening here”—the president stuck out the photo so there could be no misinterpretation—“is Count Hagenmiller receiving a briefcase from Khatami containing five million dollars.”
Ambassador Koch was disbelieving. “I knew Count Hagenmiller. I don’t think he was capable of such a thing. He didn’t need money. He was very wealthy. Are you sure the cash wasn’t for artwork? The count was an avid collector.”
Secretary of State Midleton managed to compose himself just long enough to add a pathetic nod for support.
Hayes let his anger build. It was all part of the plan. In a much louder voice, he said, “Count Hagenmiller was nowhere near as wealthy as you thought. Did you know that last night, the same night the count was killed, a break in occurred at the Hagenmiller Engineering warehouse in Hanover?”
Kennedy corrected him. “It was Hamburg, sir.”
“Hamburg. Thank you. This break in was part of an elaborate plan by the count and Khatami to ensure that Khatami got what he needed for Saddam.” Hayes shook his fist and added in an icy tone, “Before you come in here and start accusing me and my people of assassination, I think you should start looking for answers within your own government. And while you’re at it, you might want to ask the Iraqis what they were up to last night.” The president stood. “Now, I have a very busy schedule today, Mr. Ambassador, so if you’ll excuse me, I have to get some work done.”
The ambassador rose slowly and kept his eyes averted from the president’s. “My apologies if I’ve upset you, sir. In my position I am not always given the full picture.”
“I know you aren’t, Gustav. Don’t blame yourself. But do me a favor and tell the diplomats back in Berlin to do some checking with the BKA before they send you in here to toss wild accusations about.”
“I will, Mr. President.”
The two men shook hands, and then the German ambassador started for the door. Secretary Midleton rose to follow, but President Hayes cut him off. “Mr. Ambassador, I need a few minutes of Secretary Midleton’s time. Would you please wait for him outside?” The ambassador left, and Hayes turned back to Midleton. “Sit.”
Midleton reluctantly returned to his seat. The president took off his suit coat and threw it over the chair he had been sitting in. With his hands planted firmly on his hips, he studied his secretary of state. Hayes had known Midleton from his time in the Senate. He liked him well enough, but the man had not been his first choice for the top job at the State Department. In truth, Hayes found him to be a bit of an elitist snob. To make matters worse, there had been a recent spate of foreign policy statements released from the secretary’s office that were not in line with the White House’s official position.
“Chuck, whose side are you on?” Hayes intentionally called him Chuck instead of Charles.
Midleton rolled his eyes. “I won’t dignify that question with an answer.”
“Please,” baited the president, “lower yourself to my level.”
Midleton took the offense. “Count Hagenmiller was a good man. I don’t buy this story the CIA has concocted. My people in Berlin are telling me this looks very bad for us.”
“Concocted!” shouted Hayes. “You haven’t seen one-tenth of what she has on him.” The president pointed at Kennedy.
“Why was the CIA watching him?” snapped Midleton.
Hayes folded his arms across his chest. He had a temper but rarely let it be seen. If he had an issue with someone, he usually took them behind closed doors and had it out. This was now beyond that. Midleton’s arrogance was insufferable. Hayes speculated that the man had never gotten it into his head that they were no longer equals. Hayes had been junior to him in the Senate, and now with Midleton holding the glamour post in the administration, it appeared the man thought he was untouchable. Hayes stared him down and thought, You’ve challenged me in front of three other cabinet members. You’ve left me no choice.
“Chuck, let me get a few things straight. First of all, it’s none of your damn business why the CIA had Hagenmiller under
surveillance, and, more importantly, I’d like to know how in the hell you ever found out about it.”
Midleton hesitated. Hayes was as angry as he’d ever seen him. Sidestepping the question didn’t appear to be an option. He looked across at General Flood and Secretary Culbertson. Neither looked as if he would intervene on his behalf. “Jonathan Brown told me, but,” Midleton cautioned, “it was perfectly legitimate. I spoke with him on Saturday morning when I found out that the count had been assassinated.”
Jonathan Brown was the deputy director of Central Intelligence, Thomas Stansfield’s number two man. Hayes looked at Kennedy briefly and then went back to Midleton. “Let’s get something straight, Chuck. In the future, if you would like to get any information from Langley, you are to go through this man right here.” Hayes pointed to Michael Haik. “As national security advisor, that is Michael’s job. And more importantly, the next time you feel like sharing sensitive intelligence information with a foreign diplomat…check with me first.”
The large chateau-style home was located in the prestigious Wesley Heights neighborhood just off Foxhall Road. Ivy covered the entire front of the house with the exception of the windows and main entrance. Four chimneys jutted above the hipped slate roof, two at each end. The estate sat on three perfectly landscaped acres and was surrounded by an eight-foot black wrought-iron fence.
In the study, located in the southern wing of the house, Senator Hank Clark was relaxing in a well-worn leather chair, his shoes off, his necktie loosened, and a drink in his hand. In his other hand was the remote control for the TV. It was eight in the evening, and Hardball with Chris Matthews was about to start. Clark enjoyed watching the blond Irishman run at the mouth. He had a knack for pinning down people and making them take a position. Sitting on the floor next to Clark were Caesar and Brutus, the senator’s golden retrievers. The names had raised more than a few of his colleagues’ eyebrows over the years. Clark, of course, loved the names. The assassin and the assassinated. The dogs were a daily reminder of the importance of keeping tabs on friends and foes alike.
Clark’s study was filled with expensive western art and antiques. Balanced on two pegs above the fireplace mantel was an 1886 Winchester .45—70 lever-action rifle with not a scratch or a smudge. It had been given to President Grover Cleveland as a wedding present. On top of the mantel were two Frederic Remington sculptures, the Bronco Buster on one side and the Buffalo on the other. And above it all was one of Albert Bierstadt’s breathtaking originals depicting a group of Indians on horseback riding across the plain. Across the room, the top shelf of the glass bookcase contained a first edition of each of Ernest Hemingway’s novels, all of them signed by the old salt himself. Clark admired Hemingway greatly. He lived life hard. He saw and did things that all but a few only dreamed about. Rather than live as a fallen angel, as a shadow of his former self, he decided to check out. Not a bad way to go when you considered his life in its entirety.
The room was Clark’s favorite in the house. It was where he went at the end of each day to unwind. Wife number three was not allowed to enter before knocking, and even then, she was not encouraged to stay long. Clark loved to collect beautiful objects. He had grown up in trailer parks and slept in the same bed with his brother until the morning he left for college. He would never again be deprived of the finer things in life.
Over the intro music for Hardball, the senator heard the doorbell. Caesar and Brutus didn’t even bat an eye. They had grown soft over the years and were no longer interested in finding out who was entering the castle. Clark, however, was. He turned down the volume and slid his feet back into his shoes. He was very interested in talking to his visitor. With more effort than he would have liked, he slid his aged athlete’s body to the edge of the chair and pushed his two-hundred-sixty-pound frame up. One of the other things Clark liked was good food. He’d have to head down to his compound in the Bahamas and spend a week eating nothing but fresh fruit and fish. He’d take hikes, swim in the clear blue water, and do some deep-sea fishing, just like Papa. With any luck, he’d shed some weight.
The door to the study opened, and the butler showed Peter Cameron into the room. The senator met him halfway across the parquet wood floor. Sticking out his hand, he said, “Good evening, Professor. May I get you a drink?”
“Please.”
Clark turned for the bar. He wished Cameron would shave his ridiculous-looking beard. It made him look unkempt.
Cameron walked over to the fireplace, and his eyes fell on the Winchester rifle as they did every time he entered the room. The gun was beautiful. A real piece of craftsmanship and, at the time, cuttingedge technology.
The senator returned with a drink in each hand. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” Cameron grabbed the drink.
“I was expecting to hear from you this morning. What happened?”
“We had some problems.” Cameron took a drink of his chilled vodka.
“How serious?”
Cameron rolled his eyes in an exaggerated gesture. “It could have been very serious, but I took care of things.”
“Details, please.” The senator placed one hand on the mantel.
“The Jansens screwed everything up. They missed Rapp. It appears he’s alive, and I presume he’s on his way back to the States.”
Clark looked confused and displeased. “I don’t understand. The message I received on Saturday said that everything had gone according to plan.”
“That’s what I thought. That’s what they told me when I met them at the airstrip in Germany, but they were wrong. I don’t know how Rapp survived, but he did.”
Clark was enraged that Rapp was still alive, but he wasn’t about to show it in front of Cameron. After taking a drink, he said, “The Jansens are a liability.”
“Not anymore. That’s where I’ve been the last few days. I grabbed Villaume and a few of his people and flew out to Colorado where the Jansens live…or I should say lived.”
The senator nodded. “Details, please.”
“It went very smoothly. I put a bullet in both their heads as they were leaving their house on Sunday morning. No witnesses. I went through the whole house and checked for anything that might link them to me and came up empty. It could be weeks before the cops suspect anything.”
“You took the shot?” the senator asked, a little surprised.
“Yes. It was a mess to clean up.” Cameron was very proud of himself.
“Did you collect their fee?”
Cameron had, in fact, retrieved the fifty thousand dollars in cash. He was hoping the senator wouldn’t bring it up, but there was no such luck. Hank Clark was not a man to lie to. “I got the money back.”
“Good. Use it to cover your other expenses, and pocket the rest.”
“Yes, sir.” Cameron couldn’t have been more pleased.
“What did you do with their bodies?”
“I took them straight from Colorado down to the island on the plane, then loaded them onto the boat, brought them out about ten miles, and fed them to the sharks.” Clark owned a compound on Williams Island in the Bahamas with its own lagoon and private marina.
“Did anyone see you on the island?”
“Yeah, but I had the bodies folded up in two large duffel bags. I made sure your caretaker wasn’t around when I loaded them onto the boat. I went out early this morning like I was going fishing. Came back five hours later with a few catch-and-release stories. No one was wise to what I’d done.”
“What about the pilots?”
“I loaded the cargo myself. They never saw it.”
Clark thought it over for a second. It appeared the Professor had cleaned up after himself. The question of Irene Kennedy and her still intact reputation remained, though, and possibly the more serious issue of Mitch Rapp on the loose.
“Any chance you could be tied to the Jansens by Kennedy or Rapp?”
Cameron shook his head. “No.”
“Peter, did you know that most c
riminals think they’ll never get caught, right up to the moment that they get caught?”
Cameron tried not to be offended by the word criminal. He knew the senator didn’t mean it in the common sense. “What would you like me to do, sir?”
“I’d like you to tie up this loose end. From everything I’ve heard, Mitch Rapp is not a man to be taken lightly. I would prefer it if he was out of the picture permanently.”
“I’ll take care of it,” replied Cameron with confidence.
“Villaume and his people?”
“Yeah?”
The senator looked Cameron in the eyes. “They know too much.”
Cameron nodded. “Okay, but that’s going to take some money.”
“Let me know how much, and I’ll get it to you.”
“What about Kennedy?”
The senator looked over at the TV for a moment. Chris Matthews was flirting with some attractive reporter. Looking back to Cameron, he said, “I’m going to have to think about that for a little bit. I’ll let you know as soon as you take care of these other things.”
Peter Cameron nodded and took a drink of his vodka. He strained to hide his smile of excitement. He would get his wish. He would lay a trap for Mitch Rapp, and then he would kill him.
ANNA RIELLY WASN’T doing so well. As NBC’s White House correspondent, she couldn’t let her personal life get in the way of her duties. She had just finished giving her last live update during the nightly news for the people on the West Coast. Israel’s prime minister was meeting with the president in the morning to discuss yet another impasse in the implementation of the peace accords. Standing under the bright lights just outside the West Wing, she took off her earpiece and handed it and her microphone to the cameraman who was packing the rest of the gear away. They would be back in the morning to say virtually the same thing, first to the people in the East and Midwest, and then again to the mountains and the West Coast.
Her mind was barely up to the task, and her heart was elsewhere. Thank God Brokaw hadn’t thrown any impromptu questions at her. Anna thanked the cameraman and told him she’d see him in the morning. She couldn’t stop worrying about Mitch. They hadn’t heard a word from him since Saturday, and that had been nothing more than a cryptic message. On top of that, she also felt horrible for putting the O’Rourkes in such a bad spot. Liz was pregnant and deserved some peace. In a way, though, worrying about Liz’s pregnancy had helped her get control of herself after her Saturday evening meltdown. She had apologized to Michael the next morning, and he had apologized for his lack of sensitivity. Liz had given her husband the cold shoulder for much of the day, until Anna told her to knock it off. “None of this was Michael’s fault,” Anna had explained, “and he shouldn’t be the one taking the heat.” Anna had tried to leave and go to her apartment, not wanting the O’Rourkes to have to get any more involved in this than they already were. This was her problem, her’s and Mitch’s. Poor Mitch. She didn’t know whether she should be worried about him or mad. It was about ninety percent the prior and about ten percent the latter. She wanted him home safe, but there had been moments when through her tears she swore she was going to kill him for putting her through this.