Mitch Rapp 02 - The Third Option
Page 38
Clark took a sip of wine and looked into the fire, searching for a way to deal with Rapp. He’d been staring into the bright flames for minutes when Brutus let out a yawn. The golden retriever lifted his head and stared at his master with his big brown eyes. Clark smiled and held his glass up in a toast to Brutus Marcus Junius. Keep your enemies close, the senator told himself. Clark finished his glass of wine and decided he would have to make arrangements to meet this Mitch Rapp.
The dogs grumbled at first, and then, when the doorbell rang, they let loose with the barks. Clark had them calmed down by the time his very important visitor was shown into the study. Jonathan Brown, the deputy director of the CIA, walked stiffly across the room. Clark deduced by the sour expression on the former judge’s face that something was bothering him.
Brown, still in a suit and tie, sat on the couch across from Clark. Wringing his hands as if he were Macbeth himself, Brown studied Clark’s face for a sign of guilt. He saw nothing, but that meant little. During his years as a federal prosecutor and judge, Brown had seen the guiltiest of people sit like angels through their trials, all the time maintaining their innocence. Brown doubted that Clark would have much difficulty in masking his emotions.
Clark looked at his man and wondered what was wrong. It was Clark who had called this meeting. He did so in order to explain to Brown why he had agreed with the president to back Kennedy’s nomination. If Brown had already learned of the deal, it might explain his sour mood. “What’s bothering you, Jonathan?”
Brown was tempted to lay down a withering line of questions in search of the truth, but he knew Clark wouldn’t tolerate more than two or three. After that, the senator was likely to remind him that if he’d like to leave with his balls still attached to his body, he’d better mind his manners. That had happened once before, and Brown was still smarting from it. “Have you talked to Secretary Midleton this evening?” Brown looked for the slightest sign of guilt. There was nothing.
“No, I haven’t, but I heard about his meeting with the president this morning.” Clark set his empty wine glass down. “Midleton is to announce his resignation in the morning.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
Clark took his feet off the foot stool and sat forward, a look of genuine concern on his face. “What do you mean, it’s not going to happen?”
“You honestly don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
Brown couldn’t decide if Clark’s reaction thus far was real or fake. He decided he would probably never know for sure, so he said, “Secretary Midleton is dead.”
“What?” asked a shocked Clark.
Brown kept his eyes on the man who owned him. “He’s dead.”
“How?”
“It appears to be a suicide, but one never really knows in this town, does one?” Brown sat back and crossed his legs. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”
The tone in Brown’s voice was not lost on the senator. Clark studied Brown for a long moment and then said, “Charles Midleton was an inherently weak man. Everything he got in life was given to him. It doesn’t surprise me that he would take his life rather than fight. As to your implication that I might have had something to do with his death, my answer is no, I held no ill will against the man. His career was officially ended this morning when the president asked for his resignation. There was no need for me to do something so risky.”
“So you think it was a simple suicide?”
“That would be my guess, but as you’ve already said, one never knows in this town.”
Brown relaxed a little. “Why did you want to see me?”
“We’ve suffered a bit of a setback, but I don’t want you to get upset.”
The brief respite of relaxation vanished. “What happened now?”
“I have been put into a position where I have been forced by Director Stansfield and the president to back Dr. Kennedy’s nomination to become the next director of the CIA.” Before Brown could get too upset, Clark cautioned, “But don’t worry. She will never make it through the confirmation process.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Clark grinned. “I think between the two of us, we can prevent that from happening.”
“What about me?”
“After Kennedy has been humiliated and torn apart by the committee and the press and quite possibly indicted, I will very quietly whisper in the right ears that you are the only man to clean up the mess. Your credentials as a judge are impeccable…you have already been at Langley for a year…you will be the natural choice to clean up the mess created by Stansfield and Kennedy.”
“And if not?”
“If not, I will take care of you, as I have always said I would.”
Brown wasn’t so sure. He’d seen the dark side of Clark, and he never wanted to see it again. “Well, I can’t say I’m thrilled about this.”
“Neither am I, Jonathan, but you have to trust me on this. Once Stansfield is dead, we will be able to move a little more freely, but until then we need to watch our step.” Clark rose from the chair. “I think we should have a celebratory drink.” The senator ambled over to the bar and grabbed two glasses, filling them halfway with ice and vodka. With his back turned to Brown, Clark relinquished the control on his emotions and allowed a large smile to spread across his face. This was life; this was the ultimate game. The spoils to the victors, and to the weak, like Charles Midleton, it was death. Clark could feel himself growing stronger. Things had turned out far from perfect, but he had proven once again that he could maneuver undetected among the very people he was seeking to destroy. With a little more patience, all would be his.
Clark returned with the drinks and handed one to Brown. Holding his glass out, he said, “To your future, Jonathan.”
The two men clinked their glasses, and Brown repeated the phrase to Clark. Whether he liked it or not, his success was linked to the senator’s.
Clark sat back down in his comfortable leather chair and put his feet up. He took a sip of the cold vodka and said, “Now, tell me more about this Mitch Rapp fellow.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
IT IS EXTREMELY gratifying to make a living doing something that you love. It is even more so when you are surrounded by people you like, trust, and respect. To my editor, Emily Bestler, a woman of great charm, grace, and intelligence, thank you for taking this book to another level. I hope this is the third of many to come. To Kip Hakala at Pocket Books, your humor, efficiency, and biting honesty are always welcome. To my agent, Sloan Harris, a good friend and a man of real integrity, thank you for keeping me focused. To Teri Steinberg at ICM, thank you for making things run smoothly. To Laurie Cotumaccio, my publicist at Pocket Books, thank you for your persistence and patience. To Steve Kaiser and the rest of the sales force at Pocket Books, I wouldn’t be where I am without you. You are the best in the business. To Jack Romanos, thank you for your generosity and support. To Sean and Amy Stone for putting me up and putting up with me. To Larry Johnson for all your insight and stories, and, of course, to those individuals who have contributed to this book and wish to remain anonymous. And to my wife, Lysa, thank you for making me so happy.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
VINCE FLYNN is a graduate of the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul, Minnesota. His previous books, Term Limits and Transfer of Power, are available from Pocket Books. He lives in the Twin Cities, where he is working on a series of political thrillers.
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