Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2

by Vince Flynn

  “Oh, I’m tempted to come up,” Rapp said for the benefit of any listeners, “but I’ve got some things I need to take care of before work tomorrow.” He gave a slight head jerk in the direction of the car they had discovered just moments ago.

  “I understand. Maybe tomorrow night I can talk you into staying.” Knowing she had a captive audience, she pulled Rapp close and playfully planted another passionate kiss on his lips. He went along with it for a moment, and then, when he began to push her away she bit down on his lip just hard enough to cause some pain.

  Rapp didn’t find it funny at all. He was too busy trying to figure out who was watching them. If they were watching him, if they were watching her, if it was a coincidence, if they’d been sent by the same person who hired Peter Cameron or if Kennedy had sent some people from the Rome station to keep an eye on him. If the last were the case, there would be hell to pay when Rapp got back to Washington. He didn’t like people looking over his shoulder while he worked. In typical Rapp fashion he decided he would find out what was going on sooner rather than later. Opening his jacket he grabbed his mobile phone and showed it to Donatella. He mouthed the words, I’ll call you in ten seconds. Don’t go into your apartment.

  This time it was Rapp who delivered the kiss. It was quick and his tongue stayed in his mouth. “I had a great time. Have a good night’s sleep, and I’ll call you in the morning.” Rapp turned and walked back in the direction from which they had just come. He only glanced at the car to make sure it was still there. When he got to the corner he took a left and headed away from the car. Instantly he picked up the pace, and took out the small black earpiece for his mobile phone. When he reached the next block he turned right and crossed the street. As soon as he was out of sight of the man watching Donatella’s flat he broke into a sprint. While running he dialed Donatella’s mobile phone number and counted the rings. When Donatella finally answered he was almost to the end of the next block.

  “Don’t go into your apartment.”

  “Why?”

  He could tell by her tone that she was intentionally baiting him. “Don’t argue with me. Just let me check something out first.” Rapp slowed down to make a hard right turn.

  “I can take care of myself. Don’t worry.”

  Rapp’s breathing started getting heavier. “Just give me a minute.”

  “If anyone is dumb enough to be waiting for me in my apartment I feel sorry for them.”

  “Okay,” Rapp crossed the next block. He was halfway there. Two more blocks and he would be behind the man sitting in the car. “I’ll make a deal with you. You tell me who hired you, and then you can go into your apartment.”

  Donatella laughed at him. “You’re in no position to be making deals.”

  Her flat was on the fourth floor. Rapp knew she rarely used the elevator and she surely wouldn’t tonight. Not with the possibility that someone was waiting for her. “I’m almost there. Just give me half a minute.”

  “Too late. I’m at my door.”

  “Donny, tell me who hired you. Don’t do this to me.” The line went dead. “Shit.” Rapp commanded his legs to go faster, but there was nothing more. His lungs burning, he rounded the next corner and threw away any pretense of finesse in what he was about to do.

  CAPITOL HILL, THURSDAY MORNING

  NORBERT STEVEKEN HAD decided to leave his car on the street near the Hart Senate Office Building rather than risk finding a new space over by the Rayburn House Office Building. The Senate offices were in three buildings on the north side of the Capitol and the House offices were in four buildings on the south side of the Capitol. As the cold November wind whipped at his tan trench coat he realized that what had looked to be a relatively short jaunt across the Capitol grounds was more like a half-mile trek.

  By the time he reached the Rayburn Building his cheeks and ears were bright red. The former FBI special agent checked his weapon with the Capitol Hill police officer in the lobby and proceeded through the metal detector and up the stairs to Congressman Rudin’s office.

  Steveken was not looking forward to the meeting. If it were anyone other than Hank Clark he would have said no, but he couldn’t do that to the senator. The man had done too much for him. If Steveken went through his client list, he’d bet almost two-thirds of it was a direct result of Clark.

  Steveken told himself he could handle it. He’d keep the meeting short and then he’d get to work doing some research on Brown. The office door was open and Steveken stepped into the tiny waiting area. A plump woman with a massive gray bun of hair looked up over her spectacles and said, “Yes?”

  Steveken smiled and said, “Hello.”

  The old battleax gave him the once-over and said, “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see the congressman.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Nope.” Steveken could see where this was going.

  “The congressman doesn’t take visitors without appointments.” The woman looked back down at her work in hopes that the man before her would leave.

  “I think he’ll see me.”

  “Is that right,” she said with an edge to her voice.

  “Yes. We have a mutual friend who asked me to stop by and talk to the congressman.”

  “And who would that mutual friend be?” The tone was still there.

  Steveken bent over and placed both hands on the desk. He’d seen enough career bureaucrats over the years to know how to handle this woman. “That’s none of your business. Now I’m a very busy man. So why don’t you get off your ass and go tell the congressman that Norbert Steveken is here to see him.” He stayed bent over, his face hovering just a foot from the testy receptionist’s.

  The woman pushed her chair back and stood. In a huff, she walked around her desk, opened the door to Rudin’s office and then slammed it behind her. With arms folded Steveken waited alone in the lobby. He listened to the muffled shouts coming from the office and looked around the reception area. The place was a dump compared to Senator Clark’s office. Its décor, the level of cleanliness or lack thereof, spoke volumes about the chasm between the two men.

  A moment later Congressman Rudin appeared from his office with the old battleax on his heels. Her face was still flushed with anger. Rudin grabbed his overcoat from a coat tree and shouted over his shoulder. “I’m going to be gone for a while.”

  “When will you be back?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know.” Rudin looked at Steveken and with a jerk of his birdlike head, he signaled for his visitor to follow.

  Steveken winked at the congressman’s assistant and then followed her boss out the door. Out in the hallway he had to pick up the pace to catch up with the craggy old congressman.

  “I don’t want to talk in my office.” Rudin whispered the words over his shoulder.

  Like most law enforcement officers, active or retired, Steveken studied people. For better or worse he’d developed the habit of sizing them up in short order. Occasionally, though, he’d meet someone who really piqued his curiosity. As he and Rudin descended the stairs, he thought the congressman might be one of those people.

  Steveken reclaimed his weapon from the Capitol Hill police and went outside to catch up. Rudin was already halfway up the block standing impatiently, gesturing for Steveken to hurry. Steveken started toward him and to his irritation, Rudin began to walk again. He quickened the pace and two blocks later he pulled up alongside the congressman from Connecticut. Steveken caught up and asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Coffee. There’s a little place up the street a ways.” A half minute later Rudin said, “I don’t like talking in my office.”

  “Yeah, you said that.” Steveken had decided he was going to have to jerk Rudin’s chain a bit.

  “It’s those bastards out at Langley. I don’t trust them a bit.”

  Steveken couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He knew the CIA was capable of doing some pretty bizarre stuff, but there was no way they were s
tupid enough to bug a congressman’s office. Steveken looked over both shoulders. “It must really freak you out to talk like this out in the open.”

  Rudin looked around. “Why?”

  “Directional microphones. They can pick up everything we say, even whispers.”

  Rudin mumbled a few things and then pointed ahead saying, “The coffee place is up here. Just past Second Street.” They traveled the rest of the way in silence.

  Rudin entered the shop first and approached the counter. A young white woman with dreadlocks and a pierced nose paid little attention to the congressman as he ordered an extra large cup of French Roast. In deference to his bladder Steveken ordered a small cup. Rudin’s coffee arrived first. He grabbed his cup and went and sat at a table near the back. Steveken noted that he’d made no effort to pay for his coffee. Steveken gave the woman three dollars and told her to keep the change. He joined the congressman at the table and took off his trench coat.

  He gave Rudin a chance to thank him and when he didn’t, Steveken said, “You’re welcome.”

  “Huh?”

  “For the cup of coffee.”

  “Oh, yeah . . . thanks.” Rudin clutched the tall cup with his bony hands and took a sip. “Hank says you’re very good at what you do.”

  Steveken said nothing. He just stared at Rudin.

  “We don’t have much time,” said the congressman. “Kennedy starts her confirmation hearing tomorrow.”

  “What is it that you’re looking for?”

  “Are you familiar with congressional oversight in terms of the intelligence community?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Well, Thomas Stansfield, thank God that bastard is finally dead, he didn’t much believe in congressional oversight. He tried to keep us in the dark as much as possible, especially when it came to covert operations.”

  “And what does this have to do with Kennedy?”

  “She’s one and the same. She’s the female version of Stansfield.”

  “I’ve heard she’s pretty sharp.” Steveken blew on his coffee.

  “Oh God,” grimaced Rudin. “Don’t tell me you believe that.”

  “So what are you telling me? That she’s stupid?”

  “No, she’s not stupid. She’s far from stupid.”

  “So she’s pretty sharp.”

  “I suppose, but that has nothing to do with this. The bottom line is that the CIA needs to be reined in, and the best chance we have of doing it is right now. Before she becomes entrenched.”

  “What proof do you have that she’s broken the law?”

  Rudin looked like he was about to jump out of his own skin. “I don’t have any, you idiot. That’s why I’m talking to you. You’re supposed to get me the proof.”

  One of the things Steveken liked most about working for himself was that he could be selective about who he took shit from. If a client was paying him a lot of money, he’d been known to let some stuff slide, but the smaller the fee the less crap he was willing to take. Rudin wasn’t paying him a cent, and Steveken doubted the man would ever send a client his way. At least not any he’d want.

  “How in the hell did you ever get elected?”

  “What?” snarled Rudin, utterly confused by the question.

  “You and Broom Hilda, your receptionist, you’re two of the most socially retarded persons I’ve ever met.”

  “What?” Rudin couldn’t believe his ears.

  “I’m doing this as a favor to Senator Clark.” Steveken pointed his thick index finger at Rudin. “You’re not paying my tab. Hell, you won’t even buy me a cup of coffee. I’m the one doing you a favor by meeting with you. You should be buying me the cup of coffee, not the other way around.” Before Rudin could react Steveken changed gears. “But I’m not going to cry over a couple bucks, so let’s get down to business. If you want me to help, you have to answer my questions. And while you’re at it, it might be a good idea to avoid calling me an idiot.” Steveken gave Rudin a patronizing smile and said, “So . . . tell me how you think Kennedy has broken the law.”

  22

  MILAN, THURSDAY EVENING

  The flat was very nice. It was tastefully decorated with the perfect mix of antiques and modern amenities. The walls were covered with original paintings by artists that Rosenthal did not know. Nor did he care to know. It was all irrelevant shit to him. He’d been sitting in the dark now for over two hours waiting for the woman to return, and he was growing impatient. Sunberg was positioned across the room from him on the living room couch. Yanta was out on the street in the rental car following the target.

  The file Rosenthal had received from Freidman said nothing about a security system, but Rosenthal had learned the hard way that the files were rarely as up-to-date as they should be. So instead of picking the lock and running the risk of getting caught in the hallway, and possibly setting off an alarm, Rosenthal went in search of the caretaker’s flat in the basement. He asked the seventy-six-year-old man if there were any available units in the building. The old man told him that there weren’t any at present, but he expected one to open up after the first of the year.

  Rosenthal told the caretaker that he was in town from Rome, and would be moving to Milan in February. He then pulled out a wad of money and said he was willing to put down a cash deposit today if the unit was acceptable. The caretaker leapt at the opportunity to rent the flat after one showing, and the two men ascended to the top floor of the building.

  While they were upstairs poking around, Jordan Sunberg picked his way into the caretaker’s flat and found the file on Donatella Rahn. Fortunately there was no security system, and even more fortunately there were three copies of the key to her flat. Sunberg checked the other hooks. Some of the flats had four copies and others had only two. There appeared to be no system, but just to make sure, Sunberg found a drawer filled with spare keys and grabbed one. He then took one of the keys to Donatella’s apartment and replaced it with the one from the drawer. After checking to make sure he didn’t disturb anything that might be noticed, he left the caretaker’s flat and waited down the street for Rosenthal.

  For his part, Rosenthal gave the old man the cash deposit and told him he would stop by the next morning to fill out the paperwork. He of course would not be returning, and he hoped if the police came around asking questions the old man would say nothing of his visit for fear of having to turn the cash over as evidence. Either way, he wasn’t worried. Rosenthal and his team would be out of the country by midmorning, and he doubted any description given by the old caretaker would be detailed enough to give him real problems. In Rosenthal’s opinion it was a gamble well worth taking.

  Israel, because it was a country surrounded by enemies, had little compunction when it came to using assassination as a means to secure the foundling country’s interests. During the country’s brief existence they’d had some fantastic successes and some horrible failures. The successes were not always publicized. Rosenthal knew that better than anyone. Some of his best work had never been noticed by anyone other than the most senior Mossad officials. Rosenthal was determined to keep it that way.

  He told himself to be patient, despite the fact that just minutes before Yanta had radioed that the target and her date had left the bar and were walking in their direction. Everything looked like it was going well and then Yanta lost them when they entered the park. He’d driven around to the other side and was waiting for them to emerge.

  The blackout gave Rosenthal time to think through several contingencies. If she invited her date up for a drink, or by the looks of what he’d found in her nightstand, more than a drink, it would be the man’s unlucky, not lucky night. Rosenthal had no compunction in killing an innocent bystander. There were those in his profession who would argue with him, but very few of them had shared his success. If she did not come home tonight, if this man lived nearby and they were walking to his place, he would have to consider hitting her on the street in the morning. There would be some increased risk in kil
ling her in the open, but it wasn’t that difficult. He’d done it before. Walk up behind her, move to pass her on the left side, place the silencer against her back and fire three times. Keep walking and never look back. The gun would be exposed for no more than two seconds. The impact of the bullets would knock the wind from her, she’d be incapable of screaming and her heart would stop beating before she hit the ground.

  Rosenthal looked at his watch. Freidman had been very specific that this had to be taken care of quickly. He was tempted to leave the apartment and go find them. Take care of it right now and get out of the country. It was dark; there’d be few witnesses if any. It just might be worth it. As he was mulling it over, his earpiece crackled with the voice of Yanta.

  “They’ve just come out of the park and are headed your way.”

  “Roger,” whispered Rosenthal. “Can you get ahead of them and watch the street in front of the flat?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll have to lose sight of them for a block.”

  Rosenthal weighed the risk, and decided it was almost certain that they were headed back to her flat. “Go ahead and break contact. Get into a position where you can see them coming and watch the front of the flat.”

  “Roger, I’m on my way.”

  Rosenthal looked across the room at Sunberg and nodded. The two men stood and stretched. “Are you ready?”

  “Yep,” answered Sunberg.

  Rosenthal had gone over the plan with him three times. It wasn’t complicated. They were at opposite ends of the living room, their fire directed at diagonal angles where their target would enter the room. The lights were off, just as they’d found them. “Remember, wait for her to enter the room, and then we take her.”

  RAPP WAS RIGHT; Donatella avoided the elevator and took the stairs. And true to her profession, she never went anywhere without a weapon. Donatella chose her handguns like most women chose handbags, different ones for different occasions. Her pistol of choice was the Beretta 92F 9-mm, but fully loaded the weapon was too large and heavy to carry around in a purse. For everyday use she carried the Walther PPK with a silencer. The weapon was light, only 20 ounces, and short. Its one drawback was a lack of stopping power. It fired the small .22-caliber round, which wasn’t going to knock anybody down with a body shot, but as long as you hit them in the head it didn’t make any difference. And Donatella rarely missed what she was aiming for.