by Vince Flynn
“What are they after?”
Stansfield looked at Kennedy and decided it was time. “We need to discuss something.”
Kennedy tensed a bit. “All right.”
“I’ve spoken to the president, and he has agreed that you will be his nominee to succeed me as DCI.”
Kennedy had not seen this coming. She had wondered who would succeed Stansfield but had honestly never thought of herself as a candidate. “I’m very flattered, but I don’t think I’m qualified.”
In a rare show of emotion, Stansfield grinned. “You are more than qualified.”
“But what about all of the other people…”
“You are the best candidate for the job.”
“I disagree.” Kennedy slowly shook her head. “I can barely keep up with things as it is. It’s to the point where I’m lucky if I spend an hour with Tommy a day, and then I have to try to tear him away from the TV.”
“Right now you have the hardest job at the Agency. Things will get easier when you become director.”
“How?” asked an incredulous Kennedy.
“You surround yourself with good people, and you delegate.”
Kennedy was still filled with disbelief. How could a job with more responsibility translate into fewer hours? It didn’t compute.
“Irene, how many Sundays have you seen me work since you’ve known me?”
Kennedy thought about it for a second. “Not very many.”
“Correct.”
The more she thought about it, the more she knew he was right. The CTC was a pressure cooker. “I’m not qualified.”
“You are more than qualified.”
“I’m too young.”
“You’re a little young for the job, but that is balanced out by your success with the CTC.”
“I don’t know, Thomas. I don’t know if I want your job, and that’s assuming they’ll confirm me.”
“Oh, they’ll confirm you. The Republicans love your hard stance on terrorism, and they won’t want to look like sexists. The Democrats…well, they’ll follow the president. He might have to grant a few favors, but that’s nothing unusual.”
Kennedy took a deep breath. This was a little too much of a surprise. “I’ll have to think about all of this.”
Stansfield smiled. “Of course you will, but keep in mind that the Agency needs you. It needs someone like you to protect it from the likes of Chairman Rudin and Secretary Midleton.”
Kennedy frowned as a piece of the puzzle fell into place. “Is that what this meeting tomorrow is really about?”
“I don’t know for certain, but I think so.” Stansfield looked at Kennedy with steely gray eyes. “They fear you, Irene, just like they fear me. They fear us because they can’t control us.”
IT TOOK RAPP and his new four-legged friend eight minutes to reach the far side of the preserve. After that, it took several more to find the house he was looking for. Rapp had been to the house before, but he had been invited and had arrived by car—not on foot through the woods. He almost mistook the neighbor’s house for Stansfield’s. They were similar—both colonials. The neighbor had a small storage shed in the back corner of his lot that was adjacent to Stansfield’s. Rapp and Shirley walked through the tall grass and took up a position behind it.
The complete lack of security that was placed around high-ranking U.S. officials here in America never failed to amaze Rapp. With the exception of the president, the vice president, and the first family, protection was a joke. When officials were out of the country, it was much better, but here at home, they usually had no more than a glorified home security system and a chauffeur who doubled as a bodyguard. He expected Stansfield’s to be a little better than most, but still nothing he couldn’t overcome.
Rapp pulled a small pair of field binoculars out of his jacket and started checking the windows. All of the lights were off on the second floor. On the first floor was a woman in the kitchen who appeared to be washing some dishes. Rapp wondered about the woman briefly and then decided she must be domestic help. There was a car in the driveway. Rapp focused the lenses on it and saw a driver sitting behind the wheel of a government sedan. Something looked vaguely familiar about the man, but the top half of his face was obscured by the visor. Taking Shirley, he went back into the tall grass and worked his way down toward the river. Midway down the property line, he found something interesting. Set up to look like landscaping lights next to a flower bed were two laser tripwires. Rapp grabbed his night-vision pocket scope and held it to his eye. The red beams invisible to the naked eye popped to life on the small scope. Rapp followed them around the perimeter. They wouldn’t be a problem.
He and Shirley continued around the back of the property line until they had a view of the other wing of the house. Rapp had a pretty good idea that this was where Stansfield would be. He wanted to talk to the man. He wanted to find out the truth. And for Thomas Stansfield’s sake, Rapp hoped he had some answers. After that, he would go to Kennedy’s to see if her story could withstand some intense scrutiny. He’d labored over the decision for several days, but he had decided it was the quickest and most effective way to get to the bottom of what had happened in Germany.
When Rapp reached the far end of the lot, he brought the binoculars up and found Stansfield sitting in his study. He looked frail, a good ten pounds lighter. He was talking to someone, but Rapp couldn’t see who, so he moved to a different spot. When he focused in on the woman sitting across from Stansfield, his throat became dry. Rapp brought the binoculars down and stood motionless. His paranoia had just gone into overdrive.
As he worked his way back to the neighbor’s storage shed, he began to cling to the hope that neither of them had anything to do with it, but a sickening feeling in his gut told him otherwise. As Rapp prepared to make his move, a pair of headlights flashed across the front lawn. A car was coming down the driveway. Rapp put his plan on hold for a second and kneeled down next to Shirley. She hadn’t made a peep so far, and he hoped her good behavior would continue. The car was actually a four-door SUV. Rapp watched with increasing interest as the driver got out. As the man walked across the driveway toward the front door, he knew instantly who it was. The sight of him sent Rapp’s pulse racing and his mind scrambling to come up with a reason for this person from his past to be here on this night. The man was like him. He was a killer, but one whom, until now, he thought he could trust.
Fear suddenly gripped Rapp. It was not a fear of the man but fear of something that he may have done. He looked at his watch. It was almost seven-thirty. Before he went forward with his plan, he needed to make a call. All of his discipline told him he shouldn’t do it, but he had to. He had to know. Rapp retreated into the woods with Shirley and turned on his digital phone.
Just outside the main entrance to the West Wing, an almost nightly occurrence was taking place. Reporters from all the major networks and cable news stations were positioned in front of their cameras, loaded up with makeup and hair spray. They were waiting to tell the people in the mountains and on the West Coast what they had already said to the people in the eastern and central time zones an hour earlier.
Anna Rielly was in her usual spot or, as her smart-ass cameraman Pete liked to remind her, “NBC’s spot.” Pete kept things interesting; he was a little immature, but in a good way. Rarely serious, Pete loved to give people a hard time. Normally, Rielly was more than willing to play along, but today she hadn’t been. The last several nights of sleep hadn’t gone so well. She was worried sick about Mitch. He wasn’t okay, she was convinced of that. If he were okay, he’d pick up the phone and call her. She had spent every spare minute of the day looking at the newswire, paying particular attention to the Middle East. That was where Mitch was trained to operate. Since the Israeli prime minister was in town for meetings with President Hayes, she had a tailor-made excuse for her interest in the region.
During lunch she broke down, and she’d been cursing herself ever since. She couldn’t believe she had cried in front
of two other reporters and a producer from CBS. Over a mediocre Caesar salad, Pete started razzing her about Mitch. He began with his usual, “Where’s Don Juan? I haven’t seen him in a while.” This led to more questions by the others, which gave Pete more material and an audience to entertain. Rielly tried to smile and roll with the punches, but it proved too difficult. The vision of Mitch lying dead in some faraway city was too much, and the tears came. They were there before she knew it. Embarrassed, she got up and abruptly left the restaurant. Pete showed up a short while later in Rielly’s closet-sized office in the basement of the West Wing and apologized. Rielly tried her best to act as if it was no big deal, but it didn’t work. Pete could see something serious was bothering her, but after already stepping all over it, he dared not delve into the matter.
Pete’s camera was set up on a tripod, and he was standing behind it with his hands in his pockets. Underneath his headset was an Atlanta Braves baseball hat. Pete was chewing gum and in general looked very bored. He was still uncomfortable over having made Rielly cry at lunch. The control room in New York called out the time to Brokaw’s intro, and Pete held up his left hand with two fingers extended. “Two minutes to Marble Mouth.”
Rielly smiled under the bright lights and nodded. She took this as a good sign. “Marble Mouth” was Pete’s nickname for the network’s top anchor. Rielly knew Pete felt bad and was about to tell him once again not to worry about it when she felt her cell phone vibrate. She checked the caller ID, but the number came up as unavailable. Her thumb sat poised over the talk button. Normally, this close to the broadcast she’d let it roll into her voice mail, but she decided to answer it with the hope that it was her significant other.
She pressed the button and held the phone to her ear. “Anna Rielly here.”
Rapp’s heart melted at the sound of her voice. “Honey, it’s me. Are you all right?”
Rielly was speechless for a second, and then she managed to say, “Mitchell.”
“Honey, it’s me, but I can’t talk long. Are you okay?”
Rielly turned her back to the camera. “No, I’m not okay. I’ve been worried sick for the last four days.”
“I’m sorry about that, but it couldn’t be helped. You’re fine, though…right? I mean, other than being worried.”
“I think I’m the one who should be concerned about you.”
“I’m fine.” Rapp sounded rushed. “Are you staying with our friends?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
“I can’t answer that. Have you noticed anyone following you?”
“No. When can I see you?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe a few days, maybe a week.”
Rielly didn’t like his answer. “Mitchell, I don’t care what kind of errands you’re running for you know who, I want you home immediately.”
“I can’t. Not for a few days.”
“You said you were going to quit, and right now seems like a very good time to me.”
“I am going to quit, but I have to tie up a few loose ends first.”
“Mitch, honey, please. I can’t take this anymore. Just please come home.”
“Honey, I’m safe…I’m here in town, and when I finish what I’m doing, I’m going to quit and we are going to spend the rest of our lives together. But you have to trust me on this. I have to take care of a few things before I can do that.” Rapp paused. “I love you, Anna. Will you please just trust me?”
“Yes, but…”
Rapp cut her off, “No buts, honey. You have to believe me.”
“All right, but please be careful and hurry up.”
“I will, but I have one more question for you. Has our friend talked to Scott C., or have you seen him?”
Anna had to think for a moment. “I don’t think he’s talked to Scott, and no, I haven’t seen him. What is his involvement in all of this?”
“Nothing. I have to go now. Keep staying where you have been until I tell you different, okay?”
Rielly hesitated briefly. “All right.”
“I love you, Anna.”
“I love you, too.” Rielly listened for a second, and then the line went dead.
RAPP TURNED OFF his phone, relieved that Anna was safe. Now it was time to get some answers. With Shirley in tow, he headed back to the small shed. Rapp had to do some guessing. He knew that Stansfield liked to keep a low profile. Hence no fence or gated driveway. No guards patrolling the grounds with dogs to provide good perimeter deterrence and early detection. Rapp could recite a long list of Stansfield’s counterparts in Europe and the Middle East, intelligence chiefs from state-run and terrorist groups, who had five times the protection Stansfield did. In America it was a different story.
The director’s only security would be his house itself. At first glance, it looked like any other dwelling on the quiet street, but Rapp suspected it was anything but. Just kicking the door in wasn’t going to work. He would have to get them to open the door, and that was where Shirley would come in. Somewhere inside the house was a man from the Agency’s Office of Security. The man was bored stiff, probably reading a novel, or, if Stansfield allowed it, he might even be watching TV. He was at, or near, a console that monitored the home’s security through a web of cameras, laser tripwires, and probably a few more high-tech gadgets.
Rapp had an idea that might work. If it didn’t, he was reasonably confident that he could abort without Stansfield or Kennedy ever knowing that he had been there. He checked the windows again and tried to get a feel for how many individuals might be in the house and where. There were at least five: Stansfield, Kennedy, Coleman, the housekeeper, and one bodyguard. There was a chance there might be two bodyguards, but Rapp doubted it. Congress liked to count every penny in the CIA’s budget. They would pay close attention to how much money the director was spending for his own protection.
Rapp grabbed the bag of dog treats from his pocket and held it in front of Shirley, who got excited at the sight and smell of the large rolled-up tubes of faux bacon. Still holding on to her leash, Rapp took out one of the pieces, made sure that Shirley saw it, and then tossed it into Stansfield’s backyard. The piece landed midway between where they were hiding and the door by the kitchen. Shirley tried to go after it, but Rapp held on to the leash. She whimpered a little bit until Rapp pulled out another piece. He tossed this one a little farther, and again Shirley tried to bolt. Rapp continued until he had launched five of the treats onto the property, the last one coming to rest a few feet from the back door.
The dog kept looking toward the treats and then back at Rapp. Each time, she would strain a little harder on the leash. Rapp grabbed her collar and took off the leash. Releasing her, he stepped back and watched her fly across the yard. As expected, she skidded to a stop at the first treat and snapped it up in her mouth. At the same time, several powerful floodlights came on and lit up the backyard.
Rapp retrieved his Beretta from his shoulder holster and screwed a silencer onto the end. He didn’t bother to check if there was a round in the chamber. He knew there was, and there were fifteen more in the magazine. With the silencer, the gun was too long to put back in the holster, so he shoved it into the back of his pants and let his jacket fall down over it.
Shirley moved from one treat to the next, working her way closer and closer to the door. Rapp patiently waited behind the shed for his opportunity. A moment later, he saw a man appear at the back door. He looked out the door at Shirley. Rapp prepared to move. If the man was smart, if he was really good, he’d stay behind the locked door. Rapp was banking on the fact that, like bodyguards all over the world, the man would be bored and let his guard down. A dulling of one’s senses and enthusiasm was inevitable in the job. That was why organizations like the Secret Service hammered procedure into their agents, but it didn’t always work.
When the door started to open, Rapp forced himself to wait for another second. He watched the man poke his head outside and look around the backyard. It appeared he was less concerned wi
th Shirley than with who her owner might be. Rapp was tempted to move but told himself to wait just a second longer. Finally, when the man stepped onto the patio, Rapp moved casually from behind the shed. He didn’t walk directly at the house. He walked parallel to it and yelled, “Here, Nimitz! Here, Nimitz!” Rapp intentionally used the name of the dog he’d had as a boy, hoping that Shirley would stay where she was. He continued walking casually along the back edge of Stansfield’s yard with Shirley’s leash in his right hand.
“Is this your dog, Mister?”
Rapp stopped and turned toward the house. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is that you up there, Nimitz?” He started walking toward the house. “Leave that man alone, and get over here,” he added in a lighthearted voice. “I’m sorry about this. She’s usually pretty good.” He continued to close in on the man, hoping that Shirley would stay right where she was. The dog finally looked up, and the bodyguard appeared as if he was about to retreat, so Rapp blurted out, “Hi, my name is Dave. My wife and I just moved in over on Linganore Court.” Smiling, he stuck out his hand and said, “She must have smelled food. I apologize.” The bodyguard was standing with his right side turned away from Rapp, and his hand was hanging loosely at his side instead of up at his hip where it should be. Hell, Rapp thought to himself, he shouldn’t even be out here. The guy looked very young. Rapp guessed he was still in his twenties.
Then the guard actually extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Trevor.”
Rapp smiled and took it, thinking to himself, You stupid son of a bitch. “Nice to meet you.” Rapp pumped the bodyguard’s hand and pointed to Shirley with his free hand. As soon as Trevor looked at the dog, Rapp unleashed a vicious left hook that caught the bodyguard square on the jaw. The man’s knees crumpled, and he began to sink. Rapp caught him before he could hit the ground and carried him straight back into the house, where he deposited him on the floor of the mud room. Moving quickly, he closed the door, leaving Shirley outside, and pulled out a pair of plastic flex cuffs. He bound the man’s wrists behind his back and checked his body for any backup weapons. There were none. Rapp took the man’s gun from his holster and stuck it in his coat pocket, just as he began to show signs of coming to. Rapp quickly undid the bodyguard’s pants and started to stand him up. The dress slacks fell to Trevor’s knees. With his Beretta drawn, Rapp grabbed the bodyguard by the hair and began pushing him down the hall toward Stansfield’s study.