Mitch Rapp 02 - The Third Option

by Vince Flynn

  Rapp’s right hand had a firm grip of the hair on the back of the bodyguard’s head, and his silenced pistol was pressed into the center of his back. The man shuffled as Rapp pushed him forward, his pants now down around his knees. They were at the study door in seconds. Rapp didn’t know if it was locked, so he knocked just in case and heard Stansfield say “Enter” a moment later. He kept the gun pressed against the bodyguard’s back and let go of his hair. Reaching around his prisoner, Rapp turned the knob and thrust the door open. Taking half a step back, he placed his boot on the man’s butt and pushed. The man tumbled into the room, falling to the floor with his pants around his ankles.

  Rapp followed right behind him, searching for Coleman with his gun leveled. Stansfield and Kennedy weren’t a threat. He found Coleman sitting on the couch next to Kennedy. Rapp shut the door with his free hand. Coleman started to move, but Rapp was quicker. He fired one shot as he crossed the room. Coleman stopped, frozen in complete shock, his eyes fixed on the bullet hole in the cushion of the couch he was sitting on.

  In a flat voice, Rapp said, “The next one goes in your knee cap. Sit on your hands, Scott, and don’t move.”

  Coleman looked back down at the bullet hole. It was less than two inches from his groin. As calmly as possible, he slid his hands under his butt and nodded to Rapp, letting him know that he had the upper hand.

  Rielly’s spirits were soaring. Just hearing Mitch’s voice, knowing that he was alive, seemed to make all of the pain and worry vanish. He would be safe now that he was back in America. And she didn’t doubt for a second that this would be it. Mitch wanted to put it all behind him every bit as much as she did. She still wished she could see him, but when she stepped back and really looked at it, she could understand what must be happening. He was probably going through some type of a postmission briefing. She was, after all, a reporter, and she doubted that Mitch’s handlers at Langley looked very favorably on their relationship.

  Rielly was covering the tripod and some other equipment with a tarp while Pete, squatting on one knee, packed up the camera. Looking up, he said, “What’s got you in such a good mood all of a sudden?”

  Rielly smiled. “I got some good news before we went on the air.”

  “You didn’t act like it when you were on the phone. You seemed pretty upset.”

  “I was kind of caught off-guard.”

  “Was it Mitch?”

  “Yes.”

  “So everything is okay between you two?”

  Rielly hesitated. “Things were never bad between us. We just had a little problem over the weekend.”

  “Great,” replied Pete with sarcasm. “You guys had a little problem, I make a little comment at lunch, and then you make me feel bad about myself for the rest of the day.”

  Rielly smiled. “I’m sorry, Pete, it was just bad timing. I was a little sensitive today.”

  “That’s fine,” he continued in his sarcastic tone. “I’m a big target. I can take it. Whatever you need to do to make yourself feel better…go right ahead.”

  Rielly laughed. “I see the little baby has his sense of humor back.” She punched him in the arm. “You are so full of it.”

  Pete stood up with a weepy expression on his face. “You know, I have feelings, too.”

  “Yeah, I know you do, big shooter. I’ll make it up to you and buy you a beer.”

  “Really?” The pained look vanished.

  “Yeah, but not tonight, maybe tomorrow.” Rielly wanted to get home and give Liz the update.

  “If you really cared, you’d take me out right now. I’m feeling very vulnerable tonight.”

  Rielly just shook her head. “Oh, please. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned and walked away toward the northwest gate. On her way, she called Liz. After four rings, her friend answered.

  “Liz, I’m leaving work. I’m going to grab a cab.”

  “No you’re not! Michael’s right here. I’m kicking him out the door as we speak. He’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “No. I’m fine. Don’t worry, I can catch a cab.”

  “Anna, don’t argue with me. Michael is on his way.”

  “Liz, everything is fine. I talked to Mitch. I’ll tell you about it when I get there.” Her friend tried to protest again, but Rielly cut her off. “Don’t bother sending Michael. I’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”

  Rielly hung up the phone without giving Liz a chance to argue further. She passed through the gate, waving good night to the uniformed Secret Service officers behind the bulletproof windows. Walking west down Pennsylvania, she lifted her face to the sky and grinned with relief. The night’s fall air felt crisp and clean. One block over, in front of the Renwick Gallery on the corner of 17th, she caught a cab and told the driver the address in Georgetown. The cab pulled out into traffic, and Rielly sank down in the back seat. Her energy was gone—her mind was set on a big glass of merlot and a good night’s sleep.

  A DARK BLUE Crown Victoria was parked on 17th Street facing south. It had U.S. government plates and two antennas affixed to the back window. Dave Polk sat behind the wheel and watched the cab pull away with his surveillance target in the back seat. Polk started the car and pulled out into traffic. In the trunk of the car was a suitcase. It looked ordinary, but inside was a sophisticated piece of equipment designed to intercept analog and digital phone calls. It was made in Taiwan and was most effective at picking up analog calls, but if the user were in possession of the specific digital number they were monitoring, it was no problem. Two cables ran out the back of the suitcase. One was attached to the antenna on the back window, and the other one was strung under the back seat, under the carpeting, and came up between the front seats. It was attached to a small earpiece that Polk was wearing.

  He had been on post since three P.M. Most of his shift had been uneventful, with the exception of the last fifteen minutes. This was the first day they’d had her under surveillance. Polk hadn’t been told why, and he didn’t ask. He was a good soldier that way. He followed orders. That didn’t mean he was a robot, though. He kept up on current events, and he had a healthy libido. The two together made it impossible for Anna Rielly to stay off his radar screen. She was the hottest reporter in Washington, and she’d been involved in the hostage standoff at the White House the year before. Polk remembered reading an article about how her colleagues admired her for not trying to capitalize on her personal involvement in the tragedy. Polk had a sneaky suspicion that there was more to the story.

  When you were on surveillance, there was a lot of extra time. He had already read the Washington Post and the Washington Times cover to cover. Polk liked to compare the papers and how they spun stories, one liberal and one conservative. They were a daily lesson in how biased the press was.

  Polk continued following the cab west down G Street. He was careful to stay far enough back. One of the few things they had told him to look out for was any communication between Rielly and a man named Mitch Rapp. From what Polk had heard earlier, he could safely assume this Mitch Rapp was Rielly’s boyfriend. Polk had originally thought that this assignment was about Rielly. Probably something to do with a story she was digging into. But now, after hearing her conversation with Rapp, he was beginning to wonder if it wasn’t about him.

  RAPP TOLD KENNEDY and Stansfield to leave their hands on their laps where he could see them. Both did as they were told. They were well aware of Rapp’s capabilities. Rapp moved behind Stansfield and positioned himself so his back was against the wall and not one of the windows. He rested the butt of the pistol on the back of the leather chair and kept the long black silencer aimed at Coleman. His dark eyes were trained on Kennedy. They were searching for the slightest sign of guilt. There was nothing, exactly what he had been afraid of. The woman was utterly unflappable.

  Kennedy was momentarily caught off-guard. It was now evident that she had missed something. She had been so worried about Rapp the last several days that it had never occurred to her that he might th
ink he had been set up by her and Stansfield. She told herself to stay calm and said, “Mitch, I know what you’re thinking, but I could never do that to you.”

  “Oh, really. And how is it that you know what I’m thinking?”

  “Why else would you come in here like this?”

  Rapp ignored the question and asked, “Why did you send those two to kill me?”

  “Is that what they tried?” Kennedy glanced at Stansfield. At least they had been right about that. “Mitch, I gave them no such order. I’m afraid we were compromised. By whom we do not know.”

  Rapp wanted to believe her, but he needed some proof. “The way I see it, Irene, there were only three people who were in a position to set me up. Director Stansfield, you, and the president. Now, which one of you was it?”

  “Mitch, I would never do that to you…nor would Thomas or the president.”

  “Why were you acting so strange when I talked to you about it being my last job? Was it because you didn’t want me walking around with all of your dirty little secrets? Did you want to end it nice and clean?” Rapp raised an eyebrow.

  Kennedy shook her head sadly. She looked offended by the accusation. “You know me better than that. I would never harm you. I was acting strange when we last talked because of Thomas.” Kennedy gestured to the director. “He’s dying of cancer. You didn’t know that, did you?”

  “No.” Rapp looked down at Stansfield. Come to think of it, he did look frail.

  “All of the vultures are circling, and they’re getting ready for their next meal. There’s pressure coming from all sides.” Kennedy paused and then added, “Look me in the eye, Mitch, and tell me you really think I could have done such a thing.”

  If Rapp had learned one thing in the last ten years, it was that people were capable of almost anything. Despite all of that, though, Kennedy had always been the one person he could depend on. The person who was supposed to watch his back. “If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”

  “That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out.”

  “Just put me in a room alone with the team you sent to Germany, and I’ll take care of it.”

  Kennedy blinked. “That’s going to be a problem.”

  “Oh, let me guess,” said Rapp with feigned surprise. “They’ve disappeared.”

  “No, worse.”

  “They’re dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Believe me, no one wanted to talk to them more than me.”

  Rapp grunted. “Actually, I’m at the top of that list.” He aimed the gun at Kennedy. “She didn’t try to pump two rounds into your chest.”

  “What exactly happened in Germany?”

  “I have a few more questions before we get to that. How is it that you happen to know they’re dead?”

  Kennedy looked at Coleman. The former SEAL Team commander said, “I witnessed it.”

  “You saw it, or you pulled the trigger?”

  Coleman shook his head. “I didn’t kill them.”

  “Scott, no offense, but what in the hell are you doing in the middle of this?”

  Stansfield coughed and raised his right hand. “That would be my doing, Mitchell. We received one communiqué from the Jansens—you knew them as the Hoffmans—after the mission. They stated that the count had been eliminated, but you’d been lost in the process. As we followed developments, it became apparent that the Jansens may have been wrong. There were reports that someone fitting your description was seen leaving the count’s estate five to ten minutes after the Jansens left. Then there was the fire. The Jansens had said nothing about that. We became suspicious, and I asked Scott to go to Colorado and bring the Jansens back for a thorough debriefing.”

  Kennedy inched forward. “Mitch, what happened in Germany?”

  “In a minute.” Looking to Coleman, he asked, “Tell me about Colorado.”

  “I went out there with a few men to retrieve them.”

  “When was this?”

  “Saturday night. The Jansens had a place west of Denver in a little town called Evergreen. We put them under surveillance and were getting ready to move in on Sunday morning when another group showed up and took them out.”

  Rapp studied him for a moment, trying to detect a lie. “Who was this other group?”

  “I don’t know.” Coleman shook his head. “There were four of them. Three men and a woman. They were very professional. Quick and thorough.”

  “You honestly have no idea who they were?”

  “No.”

  “That’s bullshit, Scott.” Rapp raised his voice. He looked to Kennedy. “And you?”

  “We were discussing this very matter when you burst in here,” Kennedy said a little testily.

  “Well, excuse me if I forgot to knock, but I hope you understand if I’m just a little pissed off. You send me on a mission that only a handful of people are supposed to know about, and right after I take care of the count, I turn around and that bitch you sent to assist me pumps two rounds into my chest.” Rapp pointed at himself. “From where I’m sitting, it’s pretty clear that someone set me up. You”—Rapp pointed the gun at Kennedy—“had the method and the means, and now I’m trying to figure out what your motivation was.”

  Kennedy stood abruptly. “If you think…”

  “Sit back down!” shouted Rapp.

  “No, I’m not going to sit back down! And stop pointing that gun at me!”

  “Sit back down, Irene, or I swear I’ll…”

  “What? Shoot me?” Kennedy said defiantly as she took a step closer to him. “I know you well enough, Mitch, to know that you would never do such a thing. Not to me, and you know damn well I would never give an order to have you killed.” She took a deep breath and stared at him.

  Rapp studied her. Her face was flushed, and her fists were clenched tight. He had never seen Kennedy raise her voice, let alone yell. In the end, he believed her because, more than anything, it was what he wanted to believe. Slowly, he retracted the pistol and pointed it at the ground. Nodding to Kennedy, he said, “Okay. So let’s try to figure out who did.”

  The colonial grandfather clock in the corner announced the arrival of the day’s twenty-second hour. Senator Clark was sitting behind an expansive hand-carved oak executive desk in his study. A glass of cabernet sauvignon was in his left hand. It was the last of a sixty dollar bottle from McLaren Vale, Australia. Clark never bought French wine. It was overpriced and, more importantly, was made by a bunch of snobs. The man who had literally come from the wrong side of the tracks was a little sensitive when it came to elitists. For the most part, Clark kept these opinions to himself. No sense in announcing your hot buttons to a potential adversary. Secretary of State Midleton was a perfect example. The man was a full-blown cultural elitist. As a senator, he had voted for every liberal pet project that came down the aisle, just so long as it didn’t affect the gentry in his blue-blood neighborhood. Midleton didn’t know it, but Hank Clark wasn’t his friend. Clark not only didn’t like his former colleague in the Senate, he could barely tolerate the man, but he was willing to put up a front until the time was right.

  Clark studied a memo that one of his senior staffers had prepared at the senator’s request. It summarized the lack of affordable housing for military personnel. It was a sad state of affairs. The men and women in the military were getting the short end of the stick, living in conditions comparable to those of people on welfare. As could be predicted, morale was suffering, and readiness was way down. The cuts in military spending had gone too deep. This was going to be his issue. The issue he would run on. A newly commissioned officer in the armed forces made less than a new city bus driver in Washington. He made less than your average federal government administrative assistant, and he made far less than a teacher. That was another thing the senator was planning to exploit. He was sick of hearing the NEA gripe about teachers’ salaries. When you factored in their personal days, sick days, workshops, holidays, and summers
off, they barely worked two-thirds of the year. The men and women of the armed services were getting screwed.

  The NEA was in bed with the Democrats; there was nothing he or any other Republican could do about that. He wasn’t going to get their votes regardless of what he did, so he might as well make hay of it. The plan was to go into California, Texas, and Florida—all states with huge blocks of electoral votes and loaded with military bases. He would run on a ten-percent pay increase for all military personnel. The states would salivate over the potential boost to their economies. In addition to that, he’d demand that the brave men and women of the armed services be given the same health benefits as all other federal employees. The HMOs, pharmaceuticals, medical device manufacturers, and insurance companies would throw cash at his campaign. They would line up to get a piece of the action. That combined with the other backers he already had would give him a substantial war chest.

  The sound of the doorbell made him turn his attention to some more immediate issues. A lot of different factors were involved in getting elected president. But no two were more important than money and name recognition. No one was going to vote for you if they didn’t know who you were. Hell, right now he’d be hard pressed to get his own party’s nomination. Outside his home state, Clark was relatively unknown. Most people knew him only as “that big senator.” At six foot five, he was a full head taller than most of his colleagues. Clark was hoping to change all of that. There was nothing in Washington like a few months of televised Senate hearings to raise one’s profile.

  There was a knock on the study door, and the senator said, “Come in.”

  Peter Cameron entered the office scratching his black beard. Clark made no effort to get up. Instead, he gestured to the chair sitting in front of the desk. Normally, Clark would have offered him a drink, but from the tone Cameron had used on the phone earlier, Clark was waiting until he heard why his minion was rattled. Clark took a sip of his wine and leaned back in his chair.