Mitch Rapp 02 - The Third Option

by Vince Flynn

  Midleton swallowed hard and said, “Yes.”

  “Then would you like to tell me what in the hell you were doing the very next morning when you met Hank Clark and Al Rudin at the Congressional Country Club for breakfast?”

  “They wanted to talk to me about some recent security breaches at the State Department.”

  “Bullshit!”

  Midleton looked away from the president and shook his head. “This is really no way to be running an administration.”

  “Oh, I suppose you think it would be better if I scheduled secret breakfast meetings and plotted to stab you in the back.”

  “You know, I really don’t think….”

  Before Midleton could finish, Hayes cut him off sharply. “Shut your damn mouth, Chuck. You never got it through that pompous head of yours that I won the presidency, not you. When you quit after New Hampshire and agreed to throw your support behind me in exchange for a spot in the administration, that’s when you lost, Chuck. The people didn’t want you, and then, in exchange for your support, I made what is starting to look like the worst decision of my political career. But I can live with that because I can be rid of you by this afternoon and do so with a clear conscience.” Midleton’s eyes grew large in disbelief. “Oh, I’m not kidding. Have you seen my approval numbers lately? They’re over seventy percent. I can demand your resignation, and a week from now you’ll be history.”

  Midleton sniffed disdainfully. This couldn’t be happening to him. He wouldn’t dare.

  “You don’t think I’m serious? You don’t think there aren’t a hundred guys on the Hill who wouldn’t jump at the chance to take over at State? I could even get the Republicans on board…you’re not exactly their favorite character.”

  Midleton straightened himself and said, “Are you done threatening me?”

  “No, I haven’t even started. You have about one minute”—Hayes held up his index finger—“to explain to me what you were doing the other morning at Congressional, and you’d better do so with some sincere remorse.”

  Midleton’s mind scrambled to find some cover. “As secretary of state, I need to be concerned about the national security issues that affect this country.”

  President Hayes stood abruptly. “As secretary of state,” he shouted, “you need to be concerned with what I tell you to be concerned with. I specifically told you earlier this week that if you had any questions regarding the CIA, you were to go through my national security advisor. Whom I choose to succeed Thomas”—Hayes pointed to the silent Stansfield—“is none of your damn business, and believe me, you will get no sympathy from the party when they find out you were conspiring with a Republican to thwart my nominee.”

  “I would hardly use the word conspire to describe a harmless breakfast meeting, and I don’t think the party will be all that thrilled when they find out you’ve been spying on a senator, a congressman, and your secretary of state.”

  Midleton had taken it one step too far. Hayes yelled, “I didn’t have to spy, you idiot. People came to us with the information.” The president didn’t want it to come to this. He honestly thought Midleton would see the error of his ways and admit fault, but the man was apparently incapable of such an act. The president marched across the room to his desk and grabbed a leather folder. He came back and tossed it onto Midleton’s lap. “Open it and read. It’s your resignation. I typed it myself, Chuck. I didn’t want to use it, but since you have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that I can’t trust you, I see no other choice.”

  Midleton tried to speak, but Hayes didn’t allow it. “I’m done listening. You had your chance to fess up, and you blew it. Just consider yourself lucky that I’m not firing you. If you sign that resignation, we can do this the easy way. I will let you announce that you are resigning for health issues. You go ahead and pick the ailment. If you don’t sign it, I’ll walk out of here and go down to the press room and fire your ass on national television.”

  Midleton was in shock. His face was ashen as he stared at a very angry and serious president. In his wildest imagination, he never thought it would come to this. He was Charles Midleton. He was one of the most loved politicians in Washington. Midleton imagined Hayes marching down the hall to the press room to tell the world that he was firing his secretary of state. The embarrassment would be too much to handle. Midleton would have no platform from which to launch a counterattack. Hayes was too popular to confront. He had once again misjudged Robert Hayes. There was no way out. With great reluctance, Charles Midleton began to sign his name. He knew at that moment he would never recover from the embarrassment. His whole life, everything he had worked for in politics, was over.

  CONGRESSMAN RUDIN WAS not amused by the skullduggery that had been used to get him to this meeting. He had received a call from the speaker of the House the previous evening requesting that he meet him in his office the next morning. Rudin had arrived on time and was forced to wait fifteen minutes. When Speaker Kaiser emerged from his spacious office in the Capitol he told the chairman of the House Intelligence Committee that they were going for a ride. Rudin, never one to shy away from confrontation, demanded to know where they were going. Kaiser told him in very clear terms that if he had any hopes of keeping his chairmanship of the Intelligence Committee, he’d better change his attitude and keep his mouth shut.

  Kaiser was a former offensive lineman from the University of Alabama and still looked as if he could rumble through the Cloak Room knocking fellow representatives from their feet. His stern rebuke left Rudin scrambling to try to figure out what he’d done wrong. When the speaker’s limousine pulled through the Secret Service checkpoint at the south end of West Executive Avenue, Rudin was still unsure of what he’d done to offend the gods of politics. The two congressmen were escorted to the White House Situation Room—a further sign that things were serious. In Rudin’s thirty-four years in Washington, he’d never seen the inside of the Situation Room. Matt Rohrig, the chairman of the Democratic National Committee, was waiting for them in the room. This was another bad sign. Rohrig was the party’s money man.

  When Rudin attempted to ask Rohrig what was wrong, Kaiser took the opportunity to tell Rudin one last time to sit quietly until the president arrived. Rudin racked his brain trying to figure out what he’d done wrong. At one point, he thought of the breakfast he’d had with Secretary Midleton and his friend Senator Clark earlier in the week, but he ruled it out as the source of the problem. It was no secret what Rudin thought of the CIA, and the president had yet to nominate anyone as Stansfield’s successor. All he was trying to do was head the president off from making a horrible mistake.

  Finally, the president entered the room with Thomas Stansfield. Albert Rudin literally recoiled with revulsion at the sight of the CIA’s director. There was no one the congressman hated more, no one in the history of the Republic who had so brutally abused and ignored the authority of Congress. The only thing that pleased Rudin about the appearance of Stansfield was that the man looked as if he might drop dead at any moment.

  President Hayes helped Stansfield into his chair and then sat in his spot at the head of the table. He placed a leather folder in front of him and leaned back. With his hands folded, he looked around the table. Kaiser and Rudin were sitting to the president’s right, and Stansfield and Rohrig were on his left. The president was more than willing to play the heavy again, but Kaiser had asked for the honor. The speaker of the House believed that the president should stay above the fray.

  Hayes opened the leatherbound folder and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I have some unfortunate news.” Hayes held the sheet between his thumb and index finger and let it hang. “The secretary of state has just resigned.” The president looked to Rudin for a reaction.

  With a sour, confused look on his face, Rudin asked, “Why?”

  “There’s a long version, which I don’t have the patience to give to you, so I’ll give you the short version. Secretary Midleton is a pompous, arrogant man who doesn’t know h
ow to follow a simple order from his boss.” Hayes pointed to himself. “That would be me, Al, in case you’re wondering. I am the president of the United States. I run the executive branch of the government.”

  Rudin was thrown by the remedial lesson in civics. Looking to Kaiser, he shook his head and said, “What do I have to do with this?”

  Kaiser didn’t hesitate for a second. “Did you have breakfast the other day with Charles Midleton and Hank Clark?”

  Rudin shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah. It is not unusual for me to have breakfast with colleagues.”

  “Who requested that meeting?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Albert. You’re on very thin ice right now.” Kaiser stared at the rail-thin Rudin.

  “I think it was Hank Clark’s idea.”

  The president scoffed at the accusation, and Kaiser rumbled, “You don’t honestly expect us to believe that, do you?”

  “What is this all about? I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find out it came from a lying, senile, corrupt old man.” Rudin pointed his beaklike nose at Stansfield.

  The president beat the speaker to the punch this time. Hayes slammed his clenched fists down on the table, creating a dull thud that caused Rudin to blink. “Albert, if you so much as utter one more offensive word toward Director Stansfield, I will crush you.”

  Kaiser jumped in. “What in the hell were you doing meeting with Midleton and Clark?”

  “Nothing. We were talking about intelligence issues.”

  Kaiser looked to Rohrig. “What’s the name of that young hotshot who wants to challenge Albert for his seat?”

  “Sam Ballucci. He’s going to make a very good congressman someday.”

  “Mr. President, would you be willing to raise some money to help Sam Ballucci win the party’s nomination?”

  “How does twenty million sound, and I’ll throw in half a dozen appearances with the young man. Maybe I could even speak to the delegates at the state convention?”

  “I think that would be a good idea,” answered Rohrig.

  Rudin’s crinkled face had taken on an angry red sheen. “I can’t believe you are doing this to me. After all I have done for this party.”

  “All you’ve done for this party?” challenged Kaiser. “In my opinion, you’ve been nothing other than a major pain in the ass. Would you mind telling me what in the hell you were doing when you called Dr. Kennedy before your committee this week?”

  “I would say I was doing my job.”

  “You now consider throwing wild, unfounded accusations at the director of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center your job? Accusations that do nothing more than harm our president, a fellow Democrat?”

  “I take oversight of the intelligence community very seriously,” snapped Rudin.

  “Albert, so help me God, if you don’t lose that irritating tone of yours and start showing some remorse for your stupidity, I will leave this meeting, and before noon I will have you stripped of your chairmanship.”

  Rudin pushed his chair away from the speaker and blinked. This was so unfair. All of this anger should be directed at Stansfield, not him. He was the one trying to protect Congress.

  “For the last time, Albert, what did you talk about with Hank Clark?”

  Rudin licked his dry lips and looked down at the shiny table. “We discussed the need to find a suitable candidate to run the CIA after Director Stansfield leaves.”

  “Did Dr. Kennedy’s name come up?”

  Rudin reluctantly answered. “Yes.”

  “How so?”

  “We didn’t feel that she was the right person for the job.”

  Kaiser shook his head in disgust. “There are two things about this, Albert, that really chafe my ass. The first is that it is not your job to find a suitable appointee to head the CIA. That’s the president’s job. The second thing that really, and I mean really chafes my ass is that you and that windbag Charles Midleton decided to recruit a Republican to help conspire against the president’s nominee. Do you know what that makes you, Albert?” Kaiser didn’t give him a chance to answer. “It makes you a goddamned Judas, that’s what it makes you.”

  It was after nine when Rapp showed up. The streetlights were on, and there were plenty of open meters. He eased his black Volvo S80 into a spot on F Street. Before getting out of the car, he checked all of his mirrors. Then, when he stepped onto the asphalt, he casually scanned the street, first to the west and then the east. If the last week had taught him anything, it was that he needed to be paranoid, especially here in Washington. He had sensed that something wasn’t right in Germany, and he’d been careless enough to ignore those instincts. It was a valuable lesson, one he hoped he’d never have to learn again.

  Rapp started walking toward 17th Street and the looming Old Executive Office Building. He had to admit he lived a strange life. Here it was, a Friday night, he’d been sitting on the couch with Anna and their new dog Shirley, and he had gotten a call telling him that the president would like to see him. Rapp actually had the nerve to ask Kennedy if it could wait until the morning. Kennedy told him to get over to the White House and hung up. They were all tired and frustrated. Peter Cameron was turning into a dead end, and Rapp knew that it would only get worse with each passing day. He didn’t know if he had it anymore—the energy to keep this frantic and dangerous lifestyle going. And there was the bigger question of Anna. She wouldn’t tolerate it. She’d said so, and the recent week’s events would only solidify her opinion.

  It didn’t bother Rapp in the least that he was wearing a pair of jeans and a black leather jacket. If the president couldn’t wait until morning, this was what he’d get. As Rapp dragged his tired bones across 17th Street, he couldn’t help but wonder what the president wanted from him at this hour. Rapp feared he knew the answer. It wasn’t as if he were being called on to receive a commendation or medal. They didn’t hand those out for what he did. Rapp was one of the dark weapons in the national security arsenal. People didn’t even talk about what he did, let alone acknowledge it either privately or publicly. There was only one thing the president could want from Rapp, and he wasn’t so sure he would accept it. He was an assassin, and he was sick of killing. It was time for them to find someone else. With more than 250 million people in the country, there was surely some other poor bastard whose life they could ruin.

  Rapp walked up to the Secret Service checkpoint on the west side of the EOB. There were several men standing watch. “I’m here to see Jack Warch.”

  One of the men from the Secret Service’s Uniformed Division eyed him suspiciously, while the other one called the special agent in charge of the presidential detail. “There’s a man here to see you.” The officer lowered the phone. “What’s your name?”

  “Mitch Kruse,” Rapp threw out one of his aliases.

  The officer spoke into the phone. “Mitch Kruse…yep…okay.” The officer hung up the phone and opened the gate. He pointed up a drive that led to a courtyard in the center of the building. “Head through there. Special Agent Warch will meet you in the courtyard.”

  Rapp said nothing and walked up the narrow drive. When he reached the courtyard, he saw Warch approaching from the other side. Warch had a big grin on his face as he saw Rapp. Warch owed his life to the man.

  “Good to see you, Mitch.” The agent stuck out his hand. “You look like shit.”

  “Thank you. I feel like shit.” Rapp grabbed his hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

  “How’s Anna doing?”

  “Good. Thank you for your help, by the way.”

  “Don’t worry. I figure we owe you a lot more than that.” Warch started walking and Rapp followed. “How have you been?”

  “You want the long version or the short one?”

  “I don’t think I’m cleared for the long one. Hell, I’m probably not even cleared for the short one.”

  Rapp laughed as they entered the EOB. “C
ome on, Jack, you guys are the eunuchs of the twenty-first century.”

  Warch placed a hand over his groin. “Tell me about it. Sometimes I feel like one.”

  The two continued to talk as they left the EOB and crossed over to the White House. They entered through the ground floor and continued straight down the hall and to the right. This was Rapp’s first trip back to the White House since the terrorist attack had partially destroyed the building the previous spring. He was amazed at how quickly they had got the West Wing back up and running. It looked exactly as it had before the bombs had ripped her apart.

  Warch knew what Rapp was thinking and said, “It’s pretty amazing isn’t it?”

  Rapp looked down the hallway toward the White House mess. “Yeah, it really is.”

  “The building wasn’t as bad as you might have thought. The fire department was here so fast they got the flames put out before they did too much damage.”

  “Yeah, but still. This is amazing.”

  The two men stopped in front of the door that led to the Situation Room. Warch asked, “Mitch, are you carrying?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I know you are, but I’m trying to be polite.”

  Rapp was tempted to make a smart-ass comment, but he knew this was a subject that the Secret Service found little humor in. “Would you like to hold on to my gun for me?”

  “Very much so.”

  Rapp took his Beretta out of his shoulder holster and checked to make sure the manual safety catch was in the up position. Warch took the weapon and then punched a code into the cipher lock. The door clicked, and the Secret Service agent opened it. Immediately to the left was the door to the conference room. Warch knocked twice and then opened the door. Staying in the hallway, he ushered Rapp into the room and closed the door.

  Rapp stood awkwardly for a moment, slightly surprised to see Kennedy and Director Stansfield. For some reason, Kennedy had given him the impression that he would be meeting alone with the president. President Hayes spun around in his large leather chair.