Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2

by Vince Flynn

  28

  WOLF TRAP PARK, VIRGINIA, THURSDAY EVENING

  The last vestiges of daylight were slipping over the horizon, but the wind was still gusting. A small beagle darted off the path and scampered through the dry leaves that covered almost every inch of the park. The dog found a sapling with a yellow ribbon tied around it and lifted his leg. His owner puffed on a pipe and watched. It looked like they had the park to themselves. Jonathan Brown’s outward appearance didn’t show it, but he was nervous. So much so that he’d dug through the boxes in his basement and broken out his old pipe. He just hoped the boys from Langley’s Office of Security hadn’t decided that today was the day to follow him. Or even worse, the counterespionage people over at the FBI. They followed everybody from time to time, no matter how senior.

  The beagle finished relieving himself and trotted back to the path. The owner and dog started winding their way through the park again. Brown had obsessed all day about the risks involved with the meeting. He wondered if it was a good idea to meet in a park so close to his home. That’s where they’d busted the traitor Robert Hanssen, in a park right by his house. Brown couldn’t remember exactly, but he thought he’d even been walking the family dog. He looked down at Sparky for a moment as if the pooch might be a bad omen. Brown shook his head and told himself he was being paranoid. Hanssen had been spying for the Russians. Brown wasn’t spying for anyone. He was simply trying to do the right thing. He wouldn’t be breaking any laws by meeting with this Steveken fellow. At least none that he knew of. The retired judge cringed at the use of such poor reasoning. It was one of the first things he’d learned in law school. Ignorance of the law is no excuse.

  When accepting his job at the CIA, he’d had to sign a National Security nondisclosure document. The heinous contract was so long, and cast such a wide net, that Brown was sure the CIA would be able to find him in violation of something. Whether or not he could beat those charges was up for debate. With his reputation as a jurist, he would stand a good chance of being regarded as an honest man who was trying to right a wrong.

  Work had been depressing and stressful of late. Kennedy was taking a position that had been promised to him. Brown knew that she and the other deputies had hidden things from him. They didn’t trust a federal judge with no practical experience in the spy trade, and that was fine. He’d see how quickly they changed their tune when he became director. He would clean house, and bring in people who were loyal to him, people who would do things by the book. And then when the time was right he would move into Clark’s administration for one of the top spots.

  The wind died down for a second, and it was then that he noticed the footfalls of someone on the path behind him. Nervously, he looked over his shoulder and saw a man approaching. Sparky darted off the path again. Brown stopped and turned so he could get a good look at the man. There was a casual recognition in the eyes of the person as he approached, a slight nod as a precursor to a verbal greeting. Brown had no idea what this Steveken looked like. A horrific thought flashed across his mind. What if this was a trap? Brown’s pulse quickened. Peter Cameron had just disappeared several weeks ago. Maybe it was Brown’s turn. The deputy director watched as the man smiled at him and began to extract something from the pocket of his trench coat. Brown flinched and brought his hands up.

  Steveken was not nervous about the meeting. He’d thought it through and came to the conclusion that he was doing nothing even remotely illegal. He was a former special agent for the FBI helping a U.S. congressman look into any illegalities that may or may not be occurring at the CIA.

  As Steveken withdrew his right hand from his jacket he saw Brown flinch. He stopped several steps away and asked, “Judge Brown, how are you?”

  Brown lowered his hands and said, “Ah . . . fine.”

  “I’m Norb Steveken.”

  Brown took his hand and said, “Hello.”

  “Someone who respects you very much gave me your name.”

  “Oh really,” said Brown tentatively. “Who was that?”

  Steveken shrugged off the question. “He doesn’t want to get involved in any of this, but he said you’re a man of great integrity and honor.”

  “You seem to have me at a bit of a disadvantage, Mr. Steveken. What is it you do for a living?”

  “I run a security consulting business here in Washington. Before that I was with the FBI for eleven years.”

  “Oh,” Brown announced with genuine trepidation.

  “If you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Brown didn’t respond, he simply turned and started down the path. Steveken fell in beside him. “Judge Brown, I’m going to be blunt with you. I followed some of your cases while you were on the bench. I know that you ran your courtroom by the book. You had a reputation for being very hard on the Bureau.”

  “Your former employer sometimes thinks they don’t have to follow the rules like everyone else.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me, Judge.” After a few steps, Steveken asked, “What about your new employer, Judge? Do they like to play by the rules?”

  “That’s an interesting question.” Brown watched Sparky dart off the path again. “Who asked you to come see me?”

  Steveken didn’t answer right away. He thought about ignoring the question but decided if Brown was going to trust him he’d have to take some gambles. “Congressman Rudin.”

  “Ah . . . Albert. He’s no fan of my current employer.”

  “Would that be the federal government or the CIA?”

  “No, he’s a big believer in the federal government, it’s the CIA he takes issue with.”

  “Congressman Rudin seems to think Dr. Kennedy is a bad choice to be the next director.”

  “Dr. Kennedy is a very competent person.”

  “So I’ve heard. Does she like to play by the rules, or does she like to bend them from time to time?”

  Brown looked warily at the man Senator Clark had told him to expect. “What are you getting at, Mr. Steveken?”

  “You were awfully hard on the FBI. I’m just wondering if you have a new set of standards or if you’re using the same ones you had when you were on the bench?”

  “Are you questioning my integrity, Mr. Steveken?”

  “Not at all, your honor. I know the difficult position you’re in, but I’m here to tell you that it’s only going to get worse. If Kennedy is confirmed next week, you’re stuck.”

  “This is a dangerous game you’re asking me to play.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. The congressman doesn’t want you to get dragged into this. In fact, he thinks you should be the one going through confirmation right now. Not Kennedy.”

  “That changes nothing. Let’s just say hypothetically that I’d seen some things. If I went before the congressman’s committee I’d never get another job in this town.”

  “The congressman knows that. He has no desire to ruin your reputation and turn you into a whistle-blower. All he’s looking for right now is enough information to slow down Kennedy’s confirmation.” Steveken stopped and grabbed Brown by the arm. “Something legitimate that he can take to the press. Something from an unnamed source at Langley.”

  “He wants to slow down Kennedy’s confirmation or derail it?”

  Steveken grinned. “I’m sure he’d prefer to derail it. I’ve already told you, he’d rather see you at the helm.”

  Brown started walking again. “I’ll need some time to think about this.”

  “I’m sorry, Judge, but we don’t have a lot of time. The Senate Intelligence Committee is scheduled to vote on Monday afternoon.”

  Brown stopped abruptly and extended his hand. “It was very interesting meeting you, Mr. Steveken.” Brown pumped his hand twice and then leaned in close. He whispered, “Come back tomorrow evening, and we’ll talk some more.” With that, Brown released Steveken’s hand and walked away. In the darkness of the coming night a smile creased his lips. The real world of plotting and tr
ading secrets was far more exhilarating than he’d ever imagined.

  ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE, MARYLAND, FRIDAY MORNING

  THE UNITED STATES Air Force executive jet was on approach for landing. It had left the U.S. Air Force Base in Aviano, Italy, just prior to sunup. There were only two passengers on board, one was sleeping, and the other had been and wished he still was. He’d slept for the first part of the flight, but despite badly needing more, he could not attain the elusive state of rest. His mind simply would not allow it. There was too much to think about.

  Mitch Rapp stared out the window at the dark countryside beneath. Porch lights, streetlights and headlights dotted the predawn rural Maryland countryside. He had to admit that the power of the United States was, at times, awesome. Five minutes after Anna had stormed out of their hotel room, a van was waiting for Donatella and him by the side door. There was no time to go after Anna, no time to write a note, no time to try and reason with her. He had to get Donatella out of Italy fast.

  Waiting for them outside the hotel was a man who introduced himself only as Chuck. The Agency had sent him. Twenty minutes after leaving the hotel, Rapp and Chuck were carrying Donatella through the back door of a clinic on the outskirts of Milan. They were met by a doctor who was on the CIA’s payroll. The elderly man recleaned, packed and dressed Donatella’s wound. He typed her blood and replaced two liters through an IV. He gave her more antibiotics and another shot of morphine for the pain. After just two hours at the clinic, the doctor gave Rapp an extra liter of blood plasma to bring with him and specific directions on how to monitor her blood pressure. He told Rapp that her wound was not life threatening and that as long as she continued taking her antibiotics and didn’t exert herself for the next four or five days, she’d be fine.

  They left the clinic shortly before one in the morning and began their journey across the northern part of Italy, passing through Verona and Venice and then heading north toward Udine. Donatella slept during the entire three-hour drive. Rapp could not afford to. He’d never met this Chuck fellow before, and he wasn’t about to trust his life with a complete stranger. When they reached the base they were waved through security and escorted to the waiting plane. Within minutes they were airborne and headed for America, no customs, no police, no video cameras.

  Rapp had virtually passed out after takeoff. He and Donatella were alone in the spacious cabin portion of the plane. The flight crew had been told not to disturb their two passengers. A little over four hours into the flight, Rapp had woken up suddenly. He was agitated and disturbed. He’d been having a nightmare. Anna was in his dream. She was in his house with another man. Someone he’d never seen before. They were happy, laughing, holding hands and kissing. Rapp was outside looking in. Anna noticed him in the window and shook her head at him as if to say, You had your chance and you blew it. It hurt. He loved her dearly, but the way she’d handled things back at the hotel had given him pause.

  Staring out the small window of the plane he was rocked by a barrage of emotions over the entire disaster. He was mad at Donatella and her crazy Italian passion. She didn’t need to tell Anna that they’d been lovers. It was hardly the time for the confession. Rapp would like to have thought that it was the morphine talking, but he knew Donatella well enough to know that she was more than capable of such verbal confrontations when she was sober. He could be mad at her for her lack of tact and timing, but that was it. In light of the information he’d been given by her, he had to let the other stuff go, and besides, she’d been very loyal over the years.

  As the landing gear locked into the down position, Rapp realized that part of him resented Anna for not understanding the severity of the situation. Hell, she didn’t even wait around to let him explain. People had died, Donatella had been shot and he had just been given a piece of information that would impact the national security of the United States in ways he could only begin to imagine. The news that the head of Mossad was involved in the assassination of a former CIA employee was very serious. A lot of questions needed to be answered. Was Peter Cameron a spy for Mossad, a double agent? Was Ben Freidman acting on his own when he’d ordered the hit, or was he taking orders from someone else? One thing was for certain; things would get worse before they got better. Rapp had gone to Italy to get an answer. All he wanted was a name from Donatella, and he had been foolish enough to think that one name would end it.

  Instead, he found himself embroiled in what could become an international crisis. It was clear that Donatella needed to be protected, and she had to tell her story to Kennedy. He’d had no choice other than to get her out of Italy and back to the U.S. as quickly as possible. It was obvious by what had happened at her apartment that Freidman wanted her dead, and Rapp knew that he would not stop until he got what he wanted.

  This was the way the last ten-plus hours had gone. He’d bounced back and forth between the crisis with Freidman and his disintegrating relationship with Anna. His past was pulling him in one direction and his future was vanishing over the next ridge.

  As far as Rielly was concerned he saw little hope. He could not tell her what was going on. He couldn’t even get into the details of his past with Donatella. Yes, they had been lovers, but that was over. He did not care who Rielly had slept with before they met. He trusted her, and it hurt that it wasn’t mutual. It hurt that she didn’t understand the complexities of his life. He wasn’t walking away from an accounting job after a decade. In his line of work you didn’t just simply hand in your two week notice and spend your remaining days hanging out in the break room and taking long lunches. In his world there were no coffee breaks, no long lunches, hell, he didn’t even have a desk to clean out. It was a dirty, thankless profession and Rapp knew it sounded trite, but somebody sure as hell had to do it. He was trying his best to get out, and it was all for the sake of his future with Anna.

  He was angry at her for not appreciating his sacrifices. He’d killed for his country, he’d bled for his country and they hit one little bump in the road and she was gone. He’d even killed for her once, but he wasn’t about to hold that over her head. He would never stoop so low. She either loved him, or she didn’t. And right now it looked like she didn’t. Rapp didn’t know a lot about love, but he knew a lot about commitment and loyalty, and in his mind one of the worst things you could do is run away from your partner. People who really love each other stay and work it out. They don’t run. Not Rielly, though, she didn’t even give him the chance to explain.

  He kept telling himself to withhold judgment on Rielly until he had some time to calm down, but he couldn’t help it. The more he thought about her storming out of their hotel room the more it angered him. He had to ask himself if that was the type of woman he wanted to be married to and it scared him that he didn’t know the answer. He loved her so much it hurt. It pained him that they were so close to having their life together and then, wham, their whole dream was derailed by one bizarre night in Milan.

  Rapp was not good at grays. He liked black and white. Gray made for indecision, and indecision in his line of work was what got you killed. The plane was now floating just above the runway. He was almost home on American soil. The wheels gently touched down and Rapp decided on a plan of action. Rielly would have to wait. He wanted out, but he couldn’t just abandon Kennedy. She was his friend, and unlike Rielly, he wasn’t about to abandon her. He had to see this other business through, and then he would go to Rielly and explain everything. If she truly loved him, she would accept his apology and give one of her own. If she didn’t, no matter how painful that proposition seemed, it was for the better. He would have to move on with his life.

  29

  ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE, FRIDAY MORNING

  Irene Kennedy checked her watch. She stood at the door of a large gray metal airplane hangar. Her armor-plated limousine was parked outside about forty feet away. Her security detail was relaxing, leaning against the black gas-guzzler. She sipped hot black coffee from a large travel mug and looked out acro
ss the tarmac. The sun wasn’t up yet, and despite winter’s approach it was surprisingly warm and humid. The air was stagnant with pockets of low lying fog hugging the tree line at the end of the runway. Andrews Air Force Base was a busy place, but not where Kennedy was situated. The hangar that the CIA leased from the air force was on a remote part of the base.

  There was a 7:00 A.M. meeting at the Pentagon, and Kennedy needed some one-on-one time to prepare Rapp before the Special Forces guys got their hands on him. Not only did they need to discuss the Iraqi matter, she also wanted more information on Donatella and Ben Freidman. Rapp had given her very few details. She thought that he might fill her in once the plane was over the Atlantic, but she’d been wrong. Whatever else Rapp had to say about her counterpart in Israel, he would not trust to even the air force’s secure communications equipment, and she didn’t blame him. Information of this nature not only needed to be kept from the prying ears of foreigners but also from certain groups in America. When Kennedy had tried to press for details, Rapp had only one word for her: Pollard. The innuendo was clear. Jonathan Pollard was an American caught spying for Israel in the eighties. Pollard’s treason had compromised every communiqué sent and received by the U.S. Navy for almost a decade. Israel was masterful at recruiting agents in the U.S. and Kennedy firmly believed there were more Jonathan Pollards out there.

  It was human nature to think that only other people had problems. Many parents were slow to believe that their little darling could be causing trouble in school. Other people’s children did that. The intelligence community worked the same way. When the navy was caught with a spy in their midst, the air force, the army, the CIA, the FBI, and everybody else pretty much shook their heads and said, “they blew it.” Well, Kennedy was a realist. Everybody spied and that pretty much meant everybody was spied on. She remembered the dark days at Langley when Aldrich Ames had been caught by the FBI. Morale was not good during that period, but Kennedy always hearkened to something her boss had said. Thomas Stansfield had been the deputy director of operations at the time. His job, as it had been for over fifty years, was to recruit spies in foreign countries. During the Ames fiasco he had told a conference room full of whining CIA executives that it was the cost of doing business. You can’t go into a boxing ring and expect to never get hit, and you can’t be in the spying business without getting spied on.