Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2

by Vince Flynn

  “Thank you. You know the same goes for me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Were you in Washington two weeks ago?” Rapp saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes.

  Donatella’s mind was reeling as she tried to figure out how Mitch could have known she was in Washington. Her disguise had been perfect, and the hit had gone down without a problem. He had to know something. Whatever the case was she could not talk about it in her office. It wasn’t secure. She held her index finger to her lips to signal that it wasn’t safe to talk about such matters, and then said, “I was in New York, but not Washington. I’m sorry I didn’t call, but I was only in town for a few days.”

  “That’s too bad.” Rapp nodded and stepped back. He pointed to a tablet of paper on the desk and motioned for Donatella to answer him with a pen.

  She shook her head vigorously and said, “Oh my God, I forgot all about the shoot.” She pointed to the photos on her desk. “I have to tend to this right away. It’s a complete disaster. Why don’t we meet for a drink after work.”

  “I’d love to. Name a time and a place.”

  “Let’s say six o’clock, the Jamaica Café.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Rapp pointed at the paper one more time, but she shook her head even more vigorously than before. Reluctantly, he kissed her on the cheek and then mouthed the words, I need to know.

  17

  CAPITOL HILL, THURSDAY MORNING

  Norbert Steveken arrived at the U.S. Capitol early. He checked his gun with the Capitol Hill police officer at the security gate and went off in search of his patron. Steveken was the type of guy you had to meet five or six times before you remembered him, which suited him just fine. In his line of work it was an asset not to be noticed. Just short of five feet nine inches tall, he had brown hair and hazel eyes. He had just turned forty, and despite the paunch around his waist, he was still amazingly quick. It was the handball that he played four times a week that kept him nimble. Norbert Steveken was a tenacious little man. He’d graduated from Penn with honors and went to work for Pricewaterhouse for two years. The job as a CPA was a stepping-stone for the vocation he really wanted. Since he was a little boy Steveken had dreamed of becoming a G-man.

  His hard work paid off when in 1986 he became Special Agent Norbert Steveken. It had been the greatest day of his life. With his parents and siblings in the front row, the director of the Bureau himself had sworn him in. At first he found the job exhilarating and challenging. Just the thrill of being a part of the most prestigious law enforcement fraternity in the world was enough to keep it exciting for a few years. But after that certain things started to irk him. First and foremost was the fact that after three years with the Bureau he had yet to pursue a real criminal. The bureaucracy was overwhelming; the sheer level of paperwork was staggering. It got so bad at one point that he started to wonder why he even bothered carrying a gun to work. In his fourth year things livened up a bit when he was moved to the Miami field office to help with bank robberies. That unfortunately only lasted two brief years and then it was back to Washington to push more paper. It was in his tenth year at the Bureau that he’d met Senator Hank Clark.

  It was standard procedure for the FBI to help the Senate and House conduct background checks on nominees and people being considered for sensitive positions. Steveken was tasked to work with Clark’s committee for a one-year period. It was during that time that he got to know Senator Clark very well. It was a watershed year for Steveken. Clark opened his eyes to how things really worked in Washington. It was the beginning of the end of his career as a Special Agent for the FBI.

  With the financial backing of Clark, Steveken left the Bureau and started his own security consulting business. Just four years into it he was making three times more money than the director of the FBI himself; he was his own boss, his services were in demand and the mounds of paperwork were behind him.

  Senator Clark knew a lot of influential people—people who were willing to pay good money to have future employees vetted. Fathers who wanted their daughters’ boyfriends shadowed for a few days. Owners of companies who were willing to pay him $5,000 a day to come in and lecture their employees on industrial espionage and how to take steps to prevent it. It was a move that had worked out very well indeed.

  Steveken worked his way through a labyrinth of back hallways and staircases in search of Senator Clark’s hide. There were only seventy of them in the Capitol, each of them reserved for the seniormost senators. A few were no better than a broom closet, most of them were good-size offices and several were as plush as a reading room from a nineteenth-century men’s club. Whenever a senior senator failed to come back to Washington either through defeat, retirement or death, there was a mad scramble to get his hide. These rooms were the private sanctuaries of the elite. They were used to get away from the staffers and the lobbyists, and from time to time, to cut backroom deals.

  Steveken found Clark’s hide on the fourth floor and knocked on the old wood door. The senator yelled for him to enter and he did.

  Hank Clark bounced out of his chair and came around the desk. “How the hell are you, Norb?”

  “Good, Hank. Thanks for asking.” Steveken grabbed the towering senator’s hand and squeezed hard. They’d been on a first name basis for some time. “I apologize I couldn’t get here quicker, but I was out in California working on some stuff.”

  “That’s all right.” Clark slapped his back. “I know I’m not your only client.” The senator genuinely liked Steveken. He had a biting sense of humor, a cynical mind, and he was loyal. In short, he trusted him. “I appreciate you getting back here so quickly.”

  “No problem. What’s on your mind?”

  “Sit.” Clark gestured to a grouping of a couch and several chairs. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “Coffee if you have it.” Steveken looked out the window. This was where he usually discussed business with the senator. It was best to avoid being seen together. The former FBI agent never tired of the view. The large double-hung window was wide open to let in enough cool air to negate the old radiator that never seemed to rest. From high atop the fourth floor, the view looked to the west, taking in the full length of the National Mall.

  Clark poured two cups of coffee from a thermos and asked, “How’s business been?” The two men sat down, Clark on a dark brown leather couch and Steveken on a matching chair.

  Steveken took a sip of coffee and said, “Great. Thanks to you.” He held his mug up in brief salute to Clark.

  “Well, you do good work, Norb. My friends have very high standards. If you didn’t perform they’d be on the phone bitching to me in a second.”

  “It’s all about managing expectations.”

  “My friends have high expectations.”

  “Yes, but I never promise them anything I know I can’t deliver, and most important, I always put it in writing.” Steveken took a sip from his mug. “People tend to have very convenient memories when it comes to verbal contracts.”

  Clark laughed. “Yes, they do.”

  “So what’s on your mind?”

  Clark crossed his legs and tried to get comfortable. “I need you to do some work for me.”

  Steveken nodded eagerly. Clark always paid well. “You name it.”

  “It could get a little hairy.”

  “How hairy?” asked Steveken in a mischievous tone.

  “It involves the CIA.”

  Steveken set his mug on the table. “I’m listening.” He sat back and crossed his legs. A deliberately cool expression draped his face.

  Clark knew a lot about Steveken. He was a man who loved a challenge. It was the chief reason why he didn’t like the FBI. He felt bored and underutilized. Clark also knew that Steveken had a bit of a chip on his shoulder when it came to his former employer and the CIA. He would love the chance to embarrass them.

  “What do you think of the president’s nominee to be the next director?”

  “I don’t kno
w her personally, but the word on the street is that she’s pretty sharp.”

  “She is,” Clark replied and then added, “Very sharp, but unfortunately there are certain people in this town who don’t want to see her take over at the CIA.”

  “Isn’t that pretty much always the case when one of these jobs opens up?”

  “Yes . . . yes it is, but this time there might be some legitimate concern.”

  “Such as?”

  Clark shifted his large body again and said, “This is going to be very delicate, Norb.”

  “Hank,” said Steveken with a slightly offended look on his face. “As far as I’m concerned, everything that is ever said in these meetings is between you and me and the wall.”

  “I know that, Norb, but this could get rather tricky.”

  Clark’s attempts at caution were only serving to pique Steveken’s curiosity further. “You know I’m not afraid to take risks.”

  “I know.” Clark paused to let the tension build. He looked thoughtfully out the window as if he were struggling over the idea of getting Steveken involved. Finally he looked at his visitor and said, “It could turn into a media circus.”

  Steveken blinked. He distrusted the media. He was acutely aware that it was an insatiable beast that was often indiscriminate in its destruction. Working in a field where it was best to keep a low profile, the press was something he’d gone to great lengths to avoid. Trying to think a few steps ahead he asked, “Depending on what I find, is there a chance that I’d be called before your committee to testify?”

  “No.” Clark shook his head. “But there is a chance you’d be called before the House Intelligence Committee.”

  Now Steveken was confused. “Why?”

  “It’s a complicated story, and one that I’m trying desperately to stay out of.” Clark sighed and then continued. “I’ve given the president my word that I’m going to support the confirmation of Dr. Kennedy as the next director of the CIA, and I’m not going to go back on that word. Having said that, however, I have some reservations about Dr. Kennedy.” With a stern expression he added, “That is not to leave this room.”

  Steveken acted offended. “It goes without saying.”

  “Well, most of those reservations have been planted by the chairman of the House Intelligence Committee, Congressman Rudin.” Clark noted the frown the name brought to Steveken’s face and quickly added, “I know . . . I know the man is a major pain in the ass, but he means well.” Clark leaned forward. “Rudin swears that Kennedy is as corrupt as they come. He’s extremely passionate about it.”

  “Then why doesn’t he investigate her? He has the power to do it.”

  “He does indeed. Several weeks ago he called Kennedy before his committee and attempted to ask her some tough questions.” Clark took a sip of coffee.

  “And?”

  “And . . . he got dragged up to the White House by the Speaker of the House and read the riot act by the president himself.”

  “Oh. The president doesn’t want any trouble with his nomination.”

  “Exactly. And as I’ve said, I gave Hayes my word. I’m not going to go back on it and besmirch Kennedy’s reputation during the confirmation hearing all because Al Rudin has a bur up his ass. But at the same time, I would like to avoid backing this nomination if Kennedy has something in her past that could embarrass me.”

  “So you’d like me to quietly dig around, and see what I can turn up.”

  “Exactly.” Clark sat back and slapped his thighs.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll get started this morning.”

  “Great.” Clark smiled uncomfortably and then added, “There is one more favor I need to ask of you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You won’t technically be working for me.”

  “Who will I be working for?”

  “Congressman Rudin.”

  Steveken frowned. “Excuse me for being so blunt, Hank, but the man has a reputation as being a real ass.”

  “I know he is, but he means well. I promise I’ll tell him to be on his best behavior or you’ll walk.”

  The frown had not left Steveken’s face. “Does he know what my rate is? I mean the guy has a reputation of being the cheapest politician on the Hill.”

  “Don’t worry about your fee. I’m going to take care of that.”

  “No.” Steveken was embarrassed. “I can’t charge you. You’ve done enough for me.”

  “No, I insist, Norb, and I’m not going to argue about it with you. You’re worth every penny and then some.”

  “Hank . . . I don’t feel right taking—”

  Clark held up his hand and cut him off. “Don’t say another word. I don’t want to hear it. I’m paying you and that’s the end of it. All right?” Clark believed that the best way to keep someone loyal was to pay them well.

  Steveken nodded. “All right. But I’m not going to take any crap from Rudin.”

  “That’s fine,” smiled Clark. “Now there are a couple more things. I have a contact for you at Langley. He’s very high up, and I think he’ll be willing to help.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Jonathan Brown. Do you know who he is?”

  Steveken mumbled something and said, “The former federal judge?”

  “Yes.”

  “He had a reputation as a real prick when he sat on the bench.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. He’s a by-the-book kind of guy.”

  “Then he’s not going to tell me anything.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” cautioned Clark. “He’s seen some things at Langley that have troubled him greatly.”

  “Has he told you?”

  “No. He knows if he tells me there’s no turning back.”

  Steveken seemed to struggle with the whole thing. “I don’t see why he’d open up to me.”

  “Because he has a conscience. All he needs right now is for someone to give him the chance to do the right thing.” Clark backed off a bit and added, “Now that’s assuming Kennedy has done something egregious. Maybe it’s someone else, maybe it was Stansfield, but the point is I want to make sure before I vote for Kennedy that I’m not going to get egg on my face.”

  Steveken accepted the answer. “I think I understand.”

  “Good.” The senator stood and so did Steveken. “Do you know where Wolf Trap Park is?”

  “No.”

  “It’s out by the Leesburg Pike.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Good. Brown walks his dog in the park every night when he gets home from work, usually around six. I suggest you bump into him tonight.”

  Steveken wondered how Clark knew this, but decided not to ask. “How should I approach him?”

  After thinking about it for a moment, Clark said, “Tell him you’re working for Congressman Rudin. Tell him the congressman is very worried that the wrong person is about to be made director of the CIA. Tell him that anything he provides will be kept off the record. His name will not get dragged into this.” Clark placed a hand on Steveken’s shoulder. “The congressman is just looking for something to get an investigation going and throw a wrench into the confirmation hearings.”

  “Don’t worry, Hank. I’ll handle it.”

  “I know you will, Norb. And if nothing turns up, that’s great. I like Dr. Kennedy, and I think she’ll make one hell of a director. I just want to make sure she’s not going to embarrass me before I cast that vote next week.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. I told Congressman Rudin you’d stop by his office this morning. Can you swing over there?”

  “Yeah. I’ll do it right now.”

  Clark slapped him on the back. “Thanks, Norb.” He was about to say good-bye and then he added, “And one more thing. My name stays out of this at all costs. All I did was refer you to Rudin. I never paid you a penny for this job. Right?” Clark winked and the two men shook hands.

  18

  MILAN, ITALY, THURSDAY AFTERNOON<
br />
  Marc Rosenthal had killed the enemies of Israel in a variety of ways, by knife, by bullet, even by poison once, but his instrument of choice over the years had been explosives. There were several reasons for this. To start with he found it practical. Explosives enabled him to maximize damage while maintaining his cover. A machine gun could be just as lethal in the right hands, but to stand in the open and hose down a group of people was to open oneself up to return fire. And that was just the start. Such an act made escape very difficult. No, Rosenthal liked bombs. He could study the habits of his targets and get the device into place before they arrived.

  He’d pulled off some bold operations during his years with Mossad. Rosenthal knew that during a time when Mossad had had a streak of bad luck, he was one of the few bright stars. That was in great part due to the keen instincts of Ben Freidman. Freidman had sent Rosenthal into the occupied territories to gather information. The baby-faced Jew had proven to be so effective at penetrating the Palestinian terrorist organization Hamas that Freidman couldn’t resist using Rosenthal to strike back. The first bomb Rosenthal planted took out several mid-level lieutenants of the organization, but it was his second bombing that proved to Freidman that Rosenthal was an astonishingly brave warrior. The second bombing took place at a streetside café in Hebron. Rosenthal had planted the device in the bottom of a trash can early the same morning and then that afternoon he met several of his Hamas compatriots at the café for lunch. During the meal Rosenthal got up and went to the bathroom. In his pocket he carried a pen that doubled as a trigger for the bomb. Before leaving the bathroom he depressed the pen cap and threw it into the garbage. The bomb was now on a twenty-second delay. Rosenthal then walked back and sat down at the table. He had picked his spot carefully. Between him and the bomb was a palm tree in a concrete planter. Rosenthal calmly counted the time and at eighteen seconds he bent over as if to pick up something he’d dropped.

  The blast instantly killed three of the four men he was dining with and two other patrons. Rosenthal escaped with a severe concussion, some lacerations from the flying debris and some hearing loss. The fact that he himself had almost died in the bombing served to cement his standing as a soldier of Hamas.