by Vince Flynn
“Yes. He was shot.”
If Stansfield was alarmed, he didn’t show it. “How bad?”
“I’m not sure. He said he’d been hit in the shoulder. That was all.”
“And this was on your home phone?”
His tone was devoid of judgment, but Kennedy knew it was there. She nodded reluctantly.
Stansfield was far from thrilled to hear this news. He sat motionless for a few moments and then said, “Your phones are clean as far as you know?”
“They were swept two weeks ago.”
“Do you record your calls?” Stansfield asked this only as a precaution.
“No,” she answered honestly, “I’ve never seen the need.”
“How long did the call last?”
“Less than two minutes.”
The answer seemed to take some of the tension out of Stansfield. “I need you to repeat everything that was said.”
Kennedy relayed nearly verbatim what Rapp had said. The only thing she omitted was her warning Rapp about Victor’s keeping an eye on the apartment.
“Have you talked to Ridley?” Stansfield asked, referring to Rob Ridley, the leader of the advance team.
“Yesterday. He assured me that Tarek was traveling without bodyguards.”
“So the advance team missed them and Rapp missed them as well,” Stansfield said. “I find it hard to believe both of them would miss something so obvious.”
“I do as well.”
“So . . . we have four dead men in the room that the Libyans are claiming were Tarek’s bodyguards, but our best advance team and one of our best operatives somehow never saw them.” He took off his glasses and set them in his lap. “That doesn’t add up.”
“No it doesn’t. And this part about the fifth man . . . the one who shot Rapp.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t get it at first, but now it seems obvious. He’s telling us that he had nothing to do with the deaths of the two hotel guests and the worker in the alley. He specifically said he stuck to protocol. That he went out the window and the fifth man was responsible for the other three.”
Stansfield had understood what Rapp was trying to say the first time Kennedy repeated the conversation. His mind had already jumped to another detail. “I received a report from our station chief last night. He said the four dead bodyguards all had silenced MP5s.”
Kennedy pursed her lips. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“You’ve had protection details. Have you ever seen your details carry silenced weapons?”
Kennedy thought about the men who occasionally kept an eye on her when she was in a particularly nasty part of the world. “No . . . come to think of it.”
“There’s also a rumor that the Paris police are having a hard time finding anyone who saw these bodyguards with Tarek.”
“You mean in the days preceding the attack?”
“Yes.”
“This doesn’t add up.”
“No it doesn’t,” Stansfield said. “You said Mitch said it was a trap?”
“Yes.”
Stansfield stood and walked over to his desk. He stopped and looked out the window at the rolling Virginia countryside. He began connecting the dots and after a half a minute he said, “I think he’s probably right. Bodyguards don’t carry silenced weapons.” Stansfield turned around. “Bodyguards make sure they are visible so they can act as a deterrent and bodyguards don’t fire their weapons aimlessly . . . at least not good ones.”
“I’m not sure I follow the last part?” Lewis asked.
“Apparently over three hundred rounds were fired in that hotel room. Doesn’t that seem a bit excessive to either of you?” Stansfield shook his head. “Put yourself in their shoes. You are tasked with protecting one of your country’s most important ministers. Do you think you are going to simply rush into the room, guns blazing on full automatic? Tarek and the prostitute were shot more than a dozen times each. I took another look at Mitch’s file yesterday. He’s one or two shots to the head and that’s it.”
Lewis nodded. “That’s how Hurley trained him. The caliber of the weapon and the distance to the target dictate the number of shots. Rapp likes to get close for the kill shot . . . that’s what Hurley calls it.”
Stansfield had heard it all before. Rapp was not the first person Hurley had trained. “Get close, keep it simple, one or two shots to the head, and then get clear.”
“That’s what he tells his trainees,” Lewis said.
“So does either of you believe that Rapp went into that hotel room and shot Tarek a dozen plus times and then pumped as many rounds into the prostitute?”
“Not unless he lost his mind,” Lewis replied.
Kennedy frowned and said, “It’s not his MO. He uses a nine-millimeter Beretta . . . 92F. Eighteen rounds in the grip plus one in the chamber. Two backup magazines and a small backup nine-millimeter. There’s no way he’d waste that many rounds on two people.”
“No,” Stansfield said, “plus we have to assume he killed four of the bodyguards.”
Kennedy looked at her boss and said, “The two hotel guests and the employee were all sprayed with bullets. Multiple shots to the chest and face, in one case.” Kennedy shook her head. “I should have seen it sooner.”
“And I should have, too.” Stansfield put his hands on his hips and tried to focus on what was bothering him. He was missing something in the midst of this sea of facts—something that was right in front of him.
Kennedy knew him well enough to see what was going on, so she kept her mouth shut. Lewis wasn’t much of a talker, so he simply observed.
Stansfield turned the problem around and looked at it from the other side. Rapp had said it was a trap. How would you lure someone like Rapp into a trap? You offered him up a nice fat target like Tarek. But how would they know Tarek was on the list, and why would they be so willing to sacrifice him? Both questions bothered Stansfield, but in vastly different ways. “Rapp thinks we have a leak.”
“Yes.”
“How many people have seen the list?”
“The complete list,” Kennedy said. “As far as I know, you, Stan, myself, Rapp, and Ridley.”
“But there could be more?”
“There can always be more. You taught me that.”
Stansfield nodded. “True, but what about your list?”
“I destroyed my copy. I keep the list up here.” Kennedy tapped her forehead.
Stansfield had done the same. “And Mitch?”
“I spent a weekend reviewing it with him and then the entire file was destroyed.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“But he could have written things down later,” Lewis added.
“I don’t think that’s his style,” Kennedy said. “He has a pretty good memory.”
“And Ridley?”
“I have no way of knowing for certain, but he’s pretty thorough.”
“Where is he right now?”
“Amsterdam.”
“I want a full debriefing, and I want you two to handle it. Head over there. It will be easier.”
Kennedy nodded and asked, “What about Stan?”
“I’ll deal with Stan.”
With obvious trepidation, Kennedy asked, “How soon?”
“I think I might be Paris bound in the morning.”
“Really?” Kennedy asked, her surprise obvious.
“Cooke asked me to go over with him. Help smooth some things over.” Stansfield intentionally kept his suspicions about Cooke to himself.
“I’d like to head over as soon as possible,” Kennedy said to her boss. “Hopefully this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I’m the only one he really trusts. I should be the one to bring him in.”
“You don’t think he trusts Stan?”
Kennedy looked to Lewis for help.
As was his habit, Lewis had his hands steepled under his chin. Glancing at Kennedy he sai
d, “Tell Thomas what Mitch told you about Stan.”
“He thinks if Stan brings him in he’ll shove him in solitary for a month and slap him around.”
Stansfield pondered that for a moment. Rapp was likely not far from the truth. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to send Kennedy over. He could have Hurley begin looking into how Tarek might have upset the Libyans.
“I’m concerned that we have a deeper problem here,” Lewis said to Stansfield.
“Such as?”
“I’m putting a report together right now. I want to make sure I’ve drawn the right conclusions before I give my final recommendation, but in the meantime, I would argue very strongly that you keep Stan and Victor away from Rapp. Let Irene bring him in and she and I can handle the debriefing.”
Stansfield considered that for a moment and then nodded.
“I’ll need you to order Stan to stay away from Mitch. And there can be no doubt in Stan’s mind that you want your orders followed to the letter.”
“Does this have anything to do with Rapp’s suspicion that we have a leak?” Stansfield asked.
“Possibly, but my bigger concern is that we need to avoid a confrontation right now, and I think we can all agree that Stan and Victor enjoy confrontation.”
Stansfield came back to the couch and sat. “You’re worried about Mitch?”
Since receiving the call from Kennedy, Lewis had been trying to figure out the best way to phrase his thoughts without alarming Stansfield to the extent that he might do something rash. He placed his hands in his lap and said, “Rapp is a unique individual . . . extremely effective. When you look at what he’s done this past year, I think we would be foolish to question his loyalty. But . . . I think certain resentments have built up.”
“With Stan?”
“Yes . . . and others. He has become our wonder boy. We have turned him loose to great effect, and up until now, he’s given us amazing results. Stan doesn’t appreciate what he’s done and Victor seems to hate him for the sake of hating him. As you well know, Stan has control issues, and he doesn’t like the fact that Irene and Mitch have been allowed to operate outside his direct authority. He was very quick to blame Mitch for what went wrong in Paris, and he did so without any evidence. Now it looks as if none of this can be laid at Mitch’s feet. In fact, it’s quite amazing that he managed to eliminate the target and get away.”
Stansfield nodded. “Hearing this new information, I see your point.”
“Rapp said something to Irene on the phone this morning that I think is very telling. I’m paraphrasing, but he said something to the effect of, ‘I’m glad you desk jockeys have it all figured out. I can just hear your uncle second-guessing every move I made even though he has no idea what went down.’ That is a statement filled with resentment.”
“Toward Stan?”
“Yes and possibly others. I’m sure you remember how it was at certain points in your career. We have all been there . . . thousands of miles away, feeling isolated and abandoned by bosses who issue orders without the foggiest idea what the situation on the ground is actually like.”
Stansfield could recall many such instances. “So I send Irene over to bring him in, I keep him away from Stan, and then we sit down and sort the rest of this out.”
“Basically, but I do have to bring up a concern. I have a good handle on Rapp’s psyche. He’s far less complicated than you would think. He’s very linear. He has it in his mind right now that someone in our group has betrayed him and almost got him killed. It is my estimate that he will not stop until he finds who that person is, and when he does, he will kill him.”
Stansfield considered this for a moment and then asked, “Even if I order him to stand down?”
“He has a great deal of respect for you. If you can convince him that you are going to deal with this person, he might stand down, but he is going to want proof that the problem has been dealt with.”
Stansfield nodded, turned to Kennedy, and said, “Bring him in. I’ll call off Stan, and then we are all going to sit down, and I am going to put an end to all of this infighting. From now on when I give an order I expect it to be carried out and anyone who can’t abide by that will no longer be a part of this team.”
Lewis and Kennedy shared a quick look and then nodded.
“I mean it,” Stansfield, said obviously tired of the squabbling, “and trust me, I’m well aware that I have a blind spot where Stan is concerned.” The two men had a long history that stretched from Berlin to Budapest to Moscow and the Middle East and beyond. Stansfield shook his head in disgust over his mistakes. “This crap is going to end and it’s going to end right now.”
“Yes, sir.” Kennedy stood and thanked him for his time. “Is it okay if we do Ridley’s debriefing in Paris?”
“Fine. Just make sure the location is locked down and secure.”
“I will. Thank you. We’ll give you an update as soon as we’re on the ground.”
Stansfield watched them go. He wasn’t sure they understood how precarious things had become. If they had a leak it needed to be stopped before they were all hauled before a congressional committee and eventually to jail. They had the right of it about Rapp. That was for certain. Stansfield had always understood the risk of ordering a talented, highly motivated man to kill for his country. The cold, detached killers were easier to predict. Rapp, though, was far from dispassionate about his job. He couldn’t kill these men fast enough. It was his hatred for terrorists that drove him to kill with such efficiency. How would he react if he was pulled in and shut down? Not well, was Stansfield’s guess. How would he react if he found out someone at Langley was selling their secrets to their enemies? By definition, that individual would be a traitor, and Stansfield had little doubt what Rapp would want to do to such a person.
CHAPTER 24
PARIS, FRANCE
THE plates had been fairly easy to find. There was a big underground car park a few blocks from the Eiffel Tower. Rapp went to the third subfloor and found a sedan in a nice dark corner. He quickly unscrewed the front and rear plates and then headed for the fourth subfloor. The private vehicle plates started with a string of four numbers followed by two letters and then two numbers. It took him a few minutes to find a vehicle that had plates that matched the first two numbers. Most people didn’t know their tag number, but as a precaution, it was better to get the first number or two right. People tended to ignore what looked familiar. He popped the plates off and then quickly installed the plates he’d taken from the first car. It was standard tradecraft.
The owner of the first car would soon notice that his plates had been lifted because there would be a blank space where he was accustomed to seeing a plate. He would then report them stolen. Paris was a big city with serious crime. Stolen license plates were not high on the list of things to track down, but nonetheless, Rapp wanted some separation in case luck turned against him. It might be months before the man or woman who owned the second car was pulled over for having stolen plates. He or she would then realize that the plates were stolen and report them as such. By then, Rapp and Greta would be long gone. Greta’s silver A4 Audi was not the problem. It was the Swiss plates that drew too much attention. If they had to flee, they didn’t need an innocent bystander giving her license tag to a police officer, and they certainly didn’t want Hurley to see them.
Rapp arrived back at the hotel with his shoulder feeling marginally better and his mind satisfied that they were ready for tonight. Greta was waiting for him in the room and looking a bit nervous despite her effort to seem otherwise. She wanted to know what had taken so long, and he told her about the license plates and a few other seemingly meaningless tasks that he’d performed. Before she got on a roll he turned the tables and started asking her questions about her afternoon. While he listened, he emptied the contents of one of his shopping bags onto the bed. There was a sewing kit, a pair of jeans, a new jacket, and some other items. Rapp laid the jeans on the bed and retrieved his sile
nced Glock from the back of his waistband. Greta stopped talking at the sight of the gun. Rapp placed it over the left thigh of the jeans, grabbed a marker, and began to make an outline.
“Did you try on the wig?”
Greta ignored him. “What are you doing?”
“My shoulder holster is rigged for a lefty and my left hand isn’t much use right now. I need to make a holster for my gun. Keeping it stuffed in the back of my pants isn’t the best move.”
“Why . . . because you might shoot yourself?”
“No, it’s not very comfortable and not very easy to draw when you need it.”
She nodded while she watched him take a pair of scissors to the new jeans.
When Rapp had his hunk of fabric he placed the new black denim jacket on the bed and opened it to reveal the inside front left side. He set the gun down and then laid the jean patch over it until he had the angle right. He pinned the fabric to the flannel liner and then got out a needle and thread.
“I didn’t know you knew how to sew.”
Rapp gave her a lopsided grin. “It’s one of my many talents. Are you hungry?”
She shook her head. “Just tired.”
Rapp plunged the needle through the denim and the flannel and then brought it back up before he pierced the denim on the outside of the jacket. “Why don’t you try the wig on for me? We don’t want any surprises tonight.”
Greta wanted to ask him why he needed to bring a gun if there was no risk, but she knew it was a stupid question. His whole life was a risk, and she’d been trying to ignore that fact for as long as she’d known him. She grabbed her shopping bag and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She took her ponytail and twisted it into a bun and then carefully placed the wig over her blond hair. After tugging the left side down and then the right, she patted the top and shook it out. It was fine, but she didn’t like the fact that she was looking at a stranger.
Rapp heard the door open and looked up from his needle and thread. The black hair ran several inches past her shoulders. Her perfect face was framed by black bangs that stopped an inch above her eyebrows. Rapp didn’t realize it, but his mouth was hanging open.