by Vince Flynn
Jeff Duser heard the noise outside and instinctively reached for his gun. A second later, he thought he heard the front door opening. He turned to look and grabbed for his Glock. As he was pulling the weapon from its holster, a dark-featured man came around the corner with a gun in his hand. Duser freed his weapon from the holster and frantically tried to bring it to bear on the stranger. As he did so, he muttered, “Who the fuck are you?”
Rapp fired once and kept moving. The bullet hit exactly where he intended it to—dead center, right between the man’s eyebrows. As he crossed the kitchen, he kept his gun aimed at the second man, who was standing by the back door. The guy made no effort to reach for his weapon as Rapp closed on him. He slowly brought his hands up. Rapp brought a finger to his lips and gestured with his gun for him to lie down on the floor. Rapp turned to Coleman and said, “Take care of him. I’m going upstairs.”
PETER CAMERON WAS sitting in the living room of his Georgetown apartment, eyes wide, clutching his digital phone to his ear. Something was wrong. He had been talking to Duser. Everything seemed fine, and then there were Duser’s first words of alarm, followed just a few seconds later by Duser saying, “Who the fuck are you?” Then came the loud crash that Cameron guessed was the phone on the other end dropping to the floor. Cameron squeezed his phone tightly as he strained to listen to what was going on.
There was some background noise, and then came an unmistakable voice. Upon hearing Rapp speak, Cameron became so unsettled he almost threw the phone across the room.
In a hushed and panicked voice, Cameron asked, “Jeff, are you there? For Christ’s sake, answer me.” Cameron listened for a while. He heard some other voices now, voices he didn’t recognize, and then some breathing. “Jeff, is that you? Answer me, dammit.” A moment after that, the line went dead.
Cameron stood and began frantically pacing his apartment. He scrambled to piece together what had just happened. How had it happened? How in the hell had Rapp figured out what was going on? Was it just luck? Did he just happen to go by his house to fetch something, or was he on to him? He couldn’t begin to think of what he would tell Clark. Was there any way Rapp could learn his real identity from Duser? Cameron felt confident there wasn’t, but then again, he had felt he had the upper hand against Rapp every step of the way, and the man kept proving him wrong. Cameron remembered the feeling of true fear he had had in the woods in Germany when he had attempted to follow Rapp. Cameron suddenly felt very unsafe in his apartment.
It might be time to lie low for a while, he thought. Cameron had a prearranged plan for this. He went into his bedroom and grabbed a suitcase from his closet. He tossed it onto the bed and started to fill it with essentials. His heart almost leaped from his chest when he heard his phone ring. Cameron raced from the bedroom and grabbed his mobile phone from the coffee table. He checked the readout before answering. It was Duser.
Cameron pushed the send button and said, “What in the hell happened?”
There was no reply for several seconds, and then, “I’m going to give you one more chance to live. Tell me who you work for right now, or I will hunt your fat, bearded ass down, and I will make sure you suffer a very slow and painful death. And don’t think for a minute that you can run from me. Wherever you go, I will find you.”
Cameron’s free hand touched his beard while he looked in the mirror above his fireplace. Rapp knew what he looked like. Not knowing what to say, Cameron did the only thing he could think of. He ended the call and stood staring at himself in the mirror. With a chill creeping over every inch of his skin, he went into the bathroom and began to shave.
The sun was up but not out. Thick gray clouds once again blanketed the skies above Washington like a dirty circus tent. Rapp was tired but nowhere near exhaustion. Knowing that Anna was safe had given him back the sense that he could maneuver without fear, that his rear and flanks were secure. He had just left her with some people he could trust—the United States Secret Service. They owed Rapp in the biggest possible way and were more than willing to help. She was safely tucked away at Blair House with the president, the first lady, and several dozen Secret Service agents. She would go to work today like any other day, and then Rapp would have to decide what to do. His worst fears had been borne out the night before when they had taken her, and no matter how many favors he had to call in, he wasn’t going to let it happen again.
Rapp had considered arranging protection through Kennedy and the Agency, but until they knew who in the hell they were dealing with, he decided the best thing was to keep her near the president while he sorted things out. For having been awakened in the middle of the night, Rielly took the news fairly well that the men who had picked her up just blocks from the White House were, in fact, not FBI agents. When she asked who they were, Rapp didn’t quite know how to answer the question. When she found out that some of them had been killed, downstairs while she slept, in the kitchen of a home that she was beginning to think of as her own, she was less than enthused. When she asked who killed them and Mitch refused to answer, she got very upset. Rapp eventually told her. That was usually the case with Anna. She possessed a challenging combination of temper and determination.
Rielly had seen him kill before. He had done so to save her life and the lives of others. It helped that, in the most basic terms, her boyfriend was a good guy, and the people he killed were not, and it also helped that she had grown up in a house filled with cops. But, like ice on a broken wrist, though knowing these things made the pain better, it didn’t solve the problem. What Rapp did for a living bothered her. It bothered her in a very real way, and Rapp knew if he didn’t put his killing behind him, he would lose her. She was too special to let that happen. This would be the end of his days with the CIA. It was time to get out.
As he pulled off the Georgetown Pike, he checked the clock on the dash of his car. It was approaching seven in the morning. A short while later, he pulled up to the gate at the end of Director Stansfield’s driveway. The ninja-clad machine-gun-toting security officers let him through without checking his ID. Rapp had called ahead and told Kennedy he was coming. Rapp parked and walked up to the house. Normally, Rapp didn’t obsess about his appearance, but there were a few people he felt deserved the respect of a clean-shaven face and some decent clothes, preferably a suit. Director Stansfield was one of those people, and Rapp felt slightly embarrassed that he had a day’s worth of thick black stubble on his face and was wearing jeans and a baseball cap.
He knocked on the front door, and a second later it was opened by a man with a large bruise on his jaw. The CIA security officer looked less than enthused to see his midnight assailant. Rapp eyed the man and asked, “How’s your jaw?”
“Sore.”
“Good.” Rapp walked past him. “Maybe it’ll teach you to be a little-more careful next time.” He continued down the hall and into the study. He didn’t care if the man liked him. This business wasn’t about popularity. Rapp only hoped he would learn from his mistake.
Kennedy was standing next to her boss reading him something from a piece of paper. When she saw Rapp, she held up the sheets of fax paper and said, “We have some info on one of the men from last night.”
“From Hornig?” Rapp was referring to Dr. Jane Hornig. The woman specialized in getting information out of people who didn’t want to talk. Rapp had sent the two men they had taken alive to Hornig for interrogation.
“No. We ID’d one of the men you shot. His name is Jeff Duser. A former Marine, thirty-five years old, was court-martialed and thrown out of the Corps for what appears to be a quite extensive list of infractions.”
“Who does he work for?”
“We don’t have that, but I’ve got some people looking into it.”
Rapp looked at Stansfield. “I’m sorry for my appearance, sir. I didn’t have time to get cleaned up.”
“No apology needed.” Stansfield was speaking with a slight slur. “Where is Commander Coleman?”
Kennedy answered
for Rapp. “He’s at Langley with Marcus and several of his men, reviewing files.”
“State Department?”
“No,” answered Rapp. “They came up empty on State, so I told them to check Langley’s files.”
“How is Ms. Rielly?”
Rapp was a little surprised by Stansfield’s question. Neither man had ever acknowledged the relationship before. “She’s doing all right.”
“Do you need me to ask the president to have a talk with her?”
“No…I don’t think so.” Rapp stood near the fireplace, looking back and forth between Stansfield and Kennedy, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He wanted to get this over with. It was the reason he was here during this short respite in the action. With some awkwardness, he said, “As long as I have the two of you alone, I’d like to discuss something.” True to form, Stansfield and Kennedy returned his look with stoic, expressionless faces. “When this is over…as soon as we find out who this Professor is…I’m done.”
Neither of them spoke. They recognized his comment in no observable way. No head shaking, nodding, shrugging, raising of an eyebrow, nothing. They just stared back at him with their all-knowing eyes. “I’m serious,” said Rapp. “And there’s nothing you can do to talk me out of it. I’ll take care of the Professor, and then I’m done.”
Finally, Stansfield said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Mitchell. Your talents-will be irreplaceable.”
“There were talented people before me, and there will be people after me.”
“The ones who came before you were not your equals, and I fear the ones who come after you will fall far short of filling your shoes.”
“Langley will be fine.”
“No. The truth is, Langley will not be fine. If the president can pull it off, Irene will succeed me, and if we are that fortunate, she will need you.”
“Well, I’m not available.” Rapp folded his arms stubbornly across his chest. “I’ve given enough.”
“Yes, you have, but I’d like you to consider giving more.”
“No.” Rapp couldn’t look at them anymore. He just wanted them to accept his wishes and move on without him.
“Mitchell, I can understand why you want out. Irene has told me that you plan to ask Ms. Rielly to marry you. I could not have stayed in the field and been a good husband and father. The two do not mix. But we could bring you inside. There is plenty of work for someone with your skills.”
Oh God, Rapp thought to himself. They’re doing it to me. “Sir, you possess many skills that I do not.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Well, it’s true. I could never last at headquarters. I don’t have the patience to put up with all the crap.”
“It’s not as bad as you think, and besides, you’ll adapt. You always have.”
“I don’t want to learn. I’m a field man, sir.”
Stansfield held his hands up in a temporary show of surrender. “We don’t need to discuss this right now. All I ask is that before you make a final decision, you give me a chance to talk to you about a few things.”
Rapp wanted to be firm. He wanted to say no. He desperately wanted to tell them there was no way in hell he would go to work at Langley, but looking at the old man, a man he had idolized for a decade, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tell the old spymaster no.
“Will you please promise me that you will give me one last audience? There are things we need to discuss before you make your final decision.”
Slowly, Rapp let out a deep, pained breath and gave in. Stansfield returned Rapp’s acceptance with a rare smile just as Rapp’s phone started to ring. He checked the caller ID and then answered the phone. “What’s up?”
“I think we have him.” It was Scott Coleman.
Rapp looked up, his eyes wide. “Talk to me.”
“His name is Peter Cameron. I’m not positive, but I think it’s him. When we saw him in Colorado, he had a beard, and he didn’t have one in any of the photos we’ve seen.”
“Who is he?”
“He worked for the Agency from ’seventy-four to ’ninety-eight in the Office of Security. He did it all. He administered polygraphs, personal protection, debugging offices, you name it. His last couple of years he ran the show.”
“He watched the watchers.”
“Yep.”
Rapp cringed at the thought of how much information someone in that position had access to. “Where can we find him?”
“He has an apartment in Georgetown.”
“Where?” Coleman gave Rapp the address, and Rapp asked, “How quickly can you guys be there?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“All right. Fax me a photo, and then meet me at the Safeway on Wisconsin. And bring the van and Marcus, and tell Marcus to keep this quiet. I don’t want anyone at Langley to know what we’re up to.”
“I’ll see you in twenty.”
Putting his phone away, Rapp looked at Kennedy and Stansfield. “Scott thinks they might have found the Professor, and you’re not going to like what he did for the last twenty-plus years.”
“What?” asked Kennedy.
“He worked in Langley’s Office of Security.”
“What’s his name?” asked Stansfield.
“Peter Cameron.”
Stansfield shook his head. This was not good news. The director knew exactly who Peter Cameron was. The man had been in charge of the CIA’s Office of Security from 1996 to 1998. During his tenure as the head of Langley’s Gestapo, his access to sensitive information would have been almost limitless.
SENATOR CLARK GOT out of bed at seven A.M. It made no difference if he was in Washington or Arizona. Clark was a bit of a night owl, usually staying up until one in the morning. On this particular Thursday morning, the senator was sitting in the sun room just off the kitchen of his Washington, D.C., estate. Clark was in his white robe and a pair of slippers. He was alone. Wife number three was already off to the club for a morning aerobics class of some sort. It wasn’t stepping or spinning, he knew that. She’d moved on to the newest fad and swore it was the best yet. Clark didn’t care what it was called just so long as it worked.
He munched on a piece of toast and perused the front page of the Wall Street Journal. The help didn’t arrive until eight. Clark always made his own breakfast, which was no great feat considering the fact that it consisted of black coffee and two slices of toast covered with butter and jelly. He rather enjoyed this time of the day. He was alone in his castle with no one there to intrude. It was usually the one and only time of the day that he devoted to his investments. Clark would peruse the Journal and then give marching orders to his various brokers, advisors, and money managers. Then he was done with it for the day. He refused to become a slave to the emerging trend of constant on-line market updates.
A buzzer sounded from the kitchen, and Clark leaned back in his chair to look at the TV mounted above the microwave. The estate’s security cameras could be viewed by any TV in the house. The TV showed the senator a picture of a cleanly shaven Peter Cameron sitting behind the wheel of his car, waiting at the gate. Clark walked into the kitchen and pressed the intercom button.
“Good morning, Peter.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“I’ll buzz you in. There’s coffee in the kitchen if you’d like, and then show yourself into my study. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” Clark cinched the belt on his robe and headed upstairs. He had a good feeling about this unannounced visit by Cameron. If the news was as good as he hoped, he just might call off the hit. Cameron was a valuable tool. Too valuable to waste unless it was absolutely necessary.
PETER CAMERON PARKED his car and headed straight into the study. He didn’t need any coffee. He was already edgy enough without it. The thought of the ensuing conversation with Senator Clark had his stomach acid acting up. Cameron felt the senator was a fair man, though. He took care of people who were loyal to him, and Cameron had been extremely loyal.
; Cameron approached the fireplace and studied the beautiful 1886 Winchester .45-70 lever-action rifle. It was perfect. A weapon years ahead of its time. A magnificent piece of craftsmanship. He had secretly hoped that the senator would be so pleased with his recent work that he would give Cameron the rifle as a gift. That no longer seemed to be a possibility.
It was almost twenty minutes before Senator Clark came down. He was dressed in an expensive suit and carried a cup of coffee. Clark crossed the room to his desk and set the mug down. Remaining on his feet, he said, “Peter, you shaved your beard. It looks much better.”
“Thank you, sir.” Cameron did not know what to say.
“You look ten pounds lighter already.”
“Thank you.” Cameron reluctantly crossed the large study and stood across from Clark.
Clark was about to sit, and then he noticed the less than confident expression on Cameron’s face. “Please, sit. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.” Cameron reluctantly sat in one of the two end chairs.
The senator slowly eased into his plush leather desk chair and looked over the top of his mug. He could see it in Cameron’s slouched shoulders: things had not gone as planned. “I trust Rapp and his girlfriend have been dealt with?”
“Ah…” Cameron searched for the most delicate way to put it. “Things didn’t go so well.”
“Really?”
“Yes. In fact, I fear Rapp may have grabbed the upper hand.”
Clark did not like what he was hearing. Setting his mug down, he said, “Tell me what happened.”