by Vince Flynn
Clark returned his focus to a file on his desk and decided the problems of wife number three would have to wait for now. At present, he had a more pressing issue that needed his attention. Mark Ellis and the other moneymen from California could not be put off indefinitely. They expected a return on their investment, and they had their sights set on the CIA and its treasure chest of valuable industrial secrets. The problem for Clark was not a new one. He needed to effect the outcome of an event without anyone knowing that he’d had a hand in it. He’d built his entire political career on this simple concept. He had gained the president’s confidence by professing his support for Kennedy, and now it was time to get someone to do the dirty work. Someone was going to have to take Kennedy down, and Congressman Albert Rudin was just the man. Clark had planted the seed in Rudin’s head during their last meeting. His own party was wronging him. His years of loyalty had been casually tossed aside by the party’s leaders, and for what? For the nominee to a post that any one of a thousand people could fill.
Clark sensed that Rudin was ready to take the gamble of his political life. He was ready to go against the party in order to save the party. At least that was the self-righteous reasoning that Rudin would use. All the congressman from Connecticut needed was one good push. No, Clark thought. He didn’t need a push; he needed a trail of crumbs. Clark looked down at the file on his desk and grinned. The information in the file would become that trail.
Clark closed the file and pressed the intercom button on his phone. “Mary, would you please send in my next appointment.” The senator stood and buttoned his suit coat. When the door opened, Clark walked around his desk to meet his visitor. Extending his hand he said, “Good to see you, Jonathan.”
The deputy director of the CIA shook the hand of his patron. “Good to see you also, Hank. You look nice and tanned.”
“I was down at the island last weekend.” Clark was distracted for a split second as he thought of his meeting with Ellis. “I’ll have to have you down sometime. You’d love it. Do you like to fish or sail?”
“Both.”
“Good, then. If all goes well in the next few weeks we’ll have to fly down and celebrate our victory.” Clark gestured to a wing chair. “Have a seat. May I get you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.” Brown sat in the chair and watched as Clark walked around the coffee table and sat down on the large brown leather sofa.
Clark unbuttoned his jacket and laid his arms out casually across the back of the couch. “This is the part where it gets tricky, Jonathan.”
With a laugh that was more nervous than humorous Brown said, “I thought we were already in the tricky part.”
Clark chose to ignore what he took as a sign of weakness and pushed on. “Rudin is ready to jump, or almost ready. All he needs is a little push from us, and he’ll bring Kennedy’s confirmation to a screeching halt.”
Brown knew Clark didn’t call him to his office to simply fill him in. “Where do I come in?”
“I’m meeting with someone tomorrow. Former FBI. His name is Norb Steveken.” Clark winked. “Very trustworthy.”
The former federal judge wasn’t impressed that the man had worked for the FBI. There were times on the bench when he thought the FBI was every bit as ruthless and corrupt as the people they were after. “What does he do now?”
“He’s an investigator.”
“For whom?”
“For whomever happens to be paying him.”
Brown accepted the senator’s answer. He’d learned long ago that Clark had acquaintances from virtually every walk of life. “Who’s paying right now?”
Clark batted away Brown’s concerns with a wave of his hand. “You don’t need to concern yourself with that. The important thing is that when you talk to him you need to seem very reluctant to give him what he needs, at least at first.”
“And what does he need?”
“He needs information that Congressman Rudin can use to launch hearings.”
Brown knew it would come to this eventually but it didn’t lessen his discomfort. Used to keeping his cool on the bench, he pressed forward. “What information?”
Clark casually crossed his legs and said, “Give him the goods on the Orion Team.”
Not quite sure he’d heard right, Brown asked, “You want me to tell a former FBI agent about the Orion Team?”
“Don’t worry,” Clark cautioned. “I’ve convinced Congressman Rudin to meet with Mr. Steveken. I’ve told Albert that I don’t want to get involved in this, and I don’t intend to get you dragged into it, either.”
“Then why are you asking me to meet with this Steveken fellow?”
“Steveken will do what I tell him, and I’m going to tell him if you give him anything it will be off the record, and it’s to stay that way.”
“What about sending the info to Rudin anonymously?” Brown was desperate to come up with an alternative.
Clark shook his head. “It won’t work. Albert is already in deep shit with his party. If we’re going to get him to put his nuts on the line, he needs to hear this from a real person who can tell him they heard it straight from the mouth of someone at Langley.”
Brown expressed his apprehension through pursed lips. “I don’t know. It’s one thing to pass information on to you, Hank, but talking to a former Fed about the Orion Team doesn’t sound like such a good idea.” The potbellied Brown squirmed in his seat. “People who get caught locking horns with this group tend to disappear.”
“Peter Cameron was too cocky. You don’t have that problem.”
“I don’t know,” said Brown with obvious reservation.
Clark kept his voice reasonable. “Jonathan, you know the plan. I promise you this is the last big step. Once Albert starts his investigation there will be no turning back. The press will be all over this thing, and you and I both know Kennedy doesn’t stand a chance at surviving that type of scrutiny.” Clark pointed to his friend. “And then I will make sure you become the next director of the CIA, and a very wealthy one, I might add.”
Brown was looking to cash in after years of public service. Besides, America was a nation of laws, and Kennedy needed to be held accountable. “All right. How do you want me to do it?”
With a smile Clark asked, “Do you still walk that dog of yours every night?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You can expect Steveken to approach you in the park by your house. Probably tomorrow night.”
“And what do you want me to tell him?”
Clark thought about it for a moment. “I want you to act real nervous at first. Tell him you don’t want to talk to him. Try to walk away. Don’t worry, he’ll follow. He’s a very persistent fellow.”
Brown repeated his question, “And what do you want me to tell him?”
“Nothing,” smiled Clark. “At least not tomorrow night. Tell him you need to think about it. Tell him to come back the next night, and you’ll have a decision for him.”
13
MARYLAND, WEDNESDAY EVENING
Rapp was ready to go. The cab was waiting in the driveway. He’d already gone out and said hello to the man, telling him he was waiting for his girlfriend to arrive and then they could leave. Anna was late, which was to be expected. As Rapp went over his mental checklist one more time, he decided he might have to implement the thirty-minute rule with her. Yes, he decided it was time. If they needed to be somewhere at 8:00 he’d have to start telling her 7:30. She was thirty minutes late for everything unless it was a live broadcast.
She’d actually held up Air Force One last month for close to fifteen minutes. Jack Warch, the special agent in charge of the presidential detail, had been kind enough to call Anna on her cell phone and ask her if she was going to make the flight. Anna was stuck in traffic and pleaded forgiveness. The Secret Service agent, used to these flights being delayed, had no problem buying her some time. Besides, they were going to California and would be able to make up any lost time in the air. It h
elped that Anna Rielly was a favorite of the president. It also helped that Jack Warch and President Hayes owed their lives to Anna Rielly’s boyfriend.
Rapp checked his watch more out of a nervous habit than a need to know what the exact time was. They were flying out of Baltimore International in less than two and a half hours. They still had plenty of time, but Rapp didn’t like to be rushed when he was sneaking weapons onto a flight. From his vast arsenal, he had decided to bring his Heckler & Koch HK4 pistol. His version was designed to carry the 9-mm short round. Rapp had disassembled the weapon and concealed individual parts within various items in his suitcase.
The people at Langley’s Science and Technology division purchased everyday common items like blow-dryers, shaving cream cans, alarm clocks, radios and luggage. They then modified the items by creating false or hidden compartments while always maintaining each item’s ability to perform its task. If a customs officer or border guard plugged in a blow-dryer and it didn’t work it was a huge red flag. The people from S&T were experts in this field. They even went so far as to test everything they designed on state-of-the-art airport X-ray machines. They could tell you the make and model of almost every X-ray machine and metal detector used in every major airport around the world, and more important, they could tell you the best way to pack your suitcase to minimize the risk of an operator discovering an illegal item in your luggage.
Anna would flip if she knew, but such was his life. Traveling the streets of almost any Italian city without a weapon was a risk he did not want to take. The plan was to tell her when they were settled into their hotel in Milan. Telling her before they left might put some undue stress on her when they had to clear customs in Italy. Like most reporters, Anna was a good actor when she was after something, but helping your boyfriend sneak a weapon, a weapon you didn’t want him to bring in the first place, into a foreign country . . . that was pushing it. No, Rapp told himself again, not telling her was the right thing to do. Besides, she would be more concerned about the other thing he was sneaking onto the flight.
It had cost him double what he thought it would, but the second he saw it, he knew it was for her. It was classic and simple. A flawless, ideal cut, one carat diamond perched atop a platinum band in a Tiffany setting. She was going to melt when she saw it, and he was going to enjoy every minute of it. The ring was safely tucked away inside a compartment of his leather jacket. On impulse he reached down and ran his finger along the inside of the liner, feeling for the telltale bump. It was still there.
Rapp checked his watch again. Oh, how he wished she would get home. The urgency he felt to get to Italy surprised him a little. He’d been thinking about it all morning. It was the beginning of a new life. This would be the watershed moment for which he’d been secretly yearning.
He heard tires squeal. Rapp looked down the long drive way. The unsettling noise brought a smile to his face. It would be Anna making the turn onto their street. He’d been through all of this before, standing, waiting for her on the front porch, and hoping that she was okay. Hoping that some demon from his past hadn’t tracked him down and taken her. Praying that some sicko, who had seen her on TV, hadn’t decided that Anna was to be his possession.
Anna laughed it off when he told her she should call if she was going to be late. She was always slightly apologetic, but showed no signs of changing. Her defense was that she was a very busy person whose job made it almost impossible to be punctual. At the time Rapp had been tempted to tell her that was the dumbest excuse he’d ever heard, but over the past year he’d learned to choose his words carefully, or better yet, just keep his mouth shut. Being right wasn’t always worth it.
Someday soon he would make her see the need to be on time or at the very least, to call. There were real security reasons involved, and there was his mental health to consider. Some people had overactive imaginations and when mixed with a little paranoia, could lead to real problems. But with Rapp it wasn’t imagination; it was reality. He had been on the front lines. He had seen what the enemy was capable of. He had seen them kill innocent women and children without hesitation. As far as Rapp was concerned, this was the major difference between them. In all of his years, in all of the operations he’d conducted, his record was clean. He had yet to kill a noncombatant. He did his killing up close, usually with a knife or a gun and on rare occasions he’d used explosives. He was immensely proud of this, and had come to realize that it was probably the only thing that allowed him to sleep at night.
The tires squealed again, and then Rapp’s black Volvo S80 careened onto the driveway. All Rapp could do was smile and shake his head as his future wife sped down the driveway and then skidded to a halt next to the cab. Thank God she’s a good driver, he thought. He couldn’t be mad at her for being late. He was too excited to start his new life.
Rielly jumped out of the car with a sheepish look on her face. “Sorry I’m late, honey. I got hung up . . .”
Rapp wasn’t interested in excuses. He’d heard them all. He just shook his head and smiled. “Your bags are in the cab. Do you need anything from the house?”
With her purse over her shoulder she moved quickly toward the front door. “I’d like to brush my teeth, and take some of this makeup off.” Because Rielly often had to give reports from the White House throughout the day, she was stuck wearing a thick layer of makeup for long periods of time. Whenever she came home it was her first order of business to scrub it from her face.
Rapp looked at his watch. “We’re late.”
“I know.” Rielly paused just long enough to give him a quick kiss and then blew past him and into the house. “It’ll only take a minute.”
As Rapp watched her set her purse down and start up the stairs he mumbled, “More like ten.”
Rielly yelled over her shoulder, “I heard that,” and continued up the stairs.
A little frustrated, Rapp said, “Well, it’s true. Maybe you could reapply it on the way to the airport.” Rapp had been here before. It’ll take a minute was code for ten to twenty minutes.
She yelled down from the upstairs bathroom, “Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of time. Flights never leave on schedule anymore.”
“Is that what you told the president when you held up Air Force One last month?” Rielly didn’t know that Rapp knew about her little incident.
She appeared at the top of the stairs with a toothbrush in one hand and a tube of toothpaste in the other. “Where’d you hear about that?”
“It was in the Washington Times this morning.” Rapp said this with a straight face despite the fact that he was making it up. He knew Anna never read the Times due to the fact that she thought it was a biased newspaper. Every time this was brought up, he liked to remind her that the Post wasn’t exactly known for its well-balanced staff.
Rielly’s little knob chin dropped and she said, “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
Rapp smiled. “Okay. I’m kidding.”
“Then how in the hell did you know about that?”
“Never mind.” Rapp gestured with his hand to get her moving. “Let’s go, we’re late.”
“I want to know how you know.” She was serious.
“Never mind. I have my sources.” Rapp turned. “I’m going to put the car into the garage. Hurry up!”
Rielly watched him disappear for a second and then returned to the bathroom. While she loaded up her toothbrush she looked into the mirror and said, “You’ve got a seven-hour flight to get it out of him.” With complete confidence that she would succeed, she stuck the toothbrush into her mouth and went to work.
THE BIG AMERICAN Airlines 747 was parked on the tarmac at BIA. They waited at the gate until all of the passengers had presented their boarding cards, and then they got in line. It was one of Rapp’s rules, and of course Anna had wanted to know why. Getting used to the idea that he was going to spend the rest of his life with her, he decided to explain. They were flying in first class. If they had boarded the plane right away, when t
he first-class ticket holders were given the opportunity to settle in, they would have been the center of attention for the other 250 fliers as they waltzed up to the gate. Mitch’s way, they waited until the end and slipped onto the flight without anyone paying any attention to them. It was all about keeping a low profile.
Rielly had accepted the reasoning without comment. They sat at the bar and had a beer while the rest of the passengers lined up like cattle and started the boarding process. She thought about Mitch’s attention to detail. It permeated everything they did as a couple. There was, of course, the restaurant thing. It was a little irritating at times. He could never sit in the middle of a room. He always had to have his back to a wall, and always upon arriving, excused himself to go to the men’s room. At first Rielly didn’t notice and then the O’Rourkes, some friends of hers, had pointed it out. Anna had asked Mitch about it, and after some weak attempts at deflecting her queries, he copped to it. It was standard operating procedure, or as Mitch liked to say, SOP. Check the bathrooms, the emergency exits and the basic lay of the land. That way if anything went down you knew what your options were.
There was also the gun thing. At first it didn’t bother her too much. Her father and two of her brothers were cops. She grew up with guns around the house, and in fact owned a snub-nosed .38-caliber revolver herself. She kept it locked up, but had the permit to carry it if she wanted to. She usually only did so if she’d received some weird letters or calls from a viewer. But Mitch wouldn’t leave the house without a gun. Literally, if he didn’t have a gun on him it was within arm’s reach. He even mowed the lawn with a gun stuck into the waistband of his shorts. When they went out on the boat he kept a gun in the glove box. There were at least three guns stashed in various places around the house.