by Vince Flynn
“Yes.” Stealey smiled. “Pat says you’re the sharpest person in town.”
Jones nodded in agreement and gave the president a little backhanded pat to the stomach. “Did you hear that?”
“You don’t hear me arguing, do you?” Hayes threw up his hands.
“You’d better not.” She turned her attention back to Stealey. “You and I need to talk. Pat told me about your dinner the other night, and I couldn’t agree more.”
Hayes ebbed and flowed on the issue of wanting to know what his political handlers were up to. Often, their preparation and strategizing were nothing more than background noise, but there were times when their thirst for victory turned to outright foolish scheming.
As he looked back and forth at Jones and this striking Stealey woman, Hayes decided he wanted to know what the chairman of the Democratic National Committee and these two women were up to. “What are you plotting behind my back now?”
Stealey was a perfectionist who fretted about details only up to a point. It was all part of her constant quest for victory. The details mattered in preparation, but once the trial or debate started she focused on the big picture and took charge.
Stealey didn’t wait for Jones to field the question. “There’s a consensus over at Justice, sir, that the Patriot Act is too big a reach. We’ve got some landmark cases working their way through the system toward the Supreme Court. The way the calendar looks right now those decisions will be handed down late summer through early fall.”
“In the final months of your reelection campaign,” Jones added.
“The consensus, sir,” Stealey said, “is that the court is going to embarrass us. And not just once. We’re looking at a series of stunning defeats.”
The president thought that after what had almost happened this morning, the Patriot Act should, if anything, be strengthened. “Your timing on this isn’t so hot.” Hayes fired his rebuke with a stern frown on his face. “I don’t know if either of you noticed, but a group of terrorists just came awfully close to sneaking a nuclear weapon into our country.”
Stealey stood tall, fixed Hayes with a look, and said, “Mr. President, I respectfully disagree. The timing couldn’t be better to address this issue.”
Attorney General Stokes took a half step back and watched his old lover go to work. Stokes noted that she was hiding her tendency to condescend. Her words were firm but respectful. Pleading, but not desperate. She piled up fact after fact and in the end brought in the political angle in a very deft manner. Stokes had seen her do it before, and he knew the president well enough to understand that he stood no chance. Stokes and Jones exchanged a quick look, and the president’s chief of staff raised an impressed eyebrow. Stokes allowed himself to think about the Democratic National Convention this summer. He pictured himself making one of the key primetime speeches, and then he pictured the president announcing to the fevered crowd his new running mate. It was all there for him to grab.
ALABAMA-GEORGIA STATE LINE
Manny Gomez felt like he was coming down with something. One minute he was sweating, then the next minute he was freezing. He tried to remember if he’d drunk anything while in Mexico, but he could have sworn he hadn’t. He was always careful to bring his own water. He hadn’t even stayed the night. He’d simply crossed over the border at Laredo, picked up his load, and then crossed right back.
He now found himself going 80 mph down Interstate 20 with Alabama in his rearview mirror, Georgia dead ahead, and a general discomfort all over. He’d been behind the wheel for nearly fifteen hours, and if he was going to make it back to his son’s baseball game, he would have to dump his load, get out to the distribution center in Forest Park, pick up the new load for the trip back to Texas, and then get out of the city before the afternoon rush hour started.
He had it all figured out. He’d made the trip along I-20 enough times to know where the troopers set their speed traps, where the good food was, where to stop for sleep, and even more importantly where not to stop. There was a nice little truck stop outside Vicksburg, Mississippi, where he could eat, shower, and grab four to five hours of sleep before he made the big push across Louisiana and Texas the next day. He’d deliver his load in San Antonio and be home to Laredo in time to pack the cooler and maybe even play a little catch with his son before the game.
Tomorrow night was the first round of the big Memorial Day weekend baseball tournament. His son, Manny Jr., was to take the mound at 9:00 p.m. for a classic Southwest Texas baseball game under the lights. His wife and daughter were almost as excited as the boys were. A baseball nut since he was a kid, Gomez had never bought into the line that football was the heart of Texas. Anyone who thought that should get out and drive around Laredo on a summer night. You could scarcely make it a mile without coming across an illuminated ball field, occupied by players ranging in age from four to sixty. From little league to senior league, baseball ruled in Texas.
Gomez took a drink of water and mopped his brow with a bandana he’d dug out of the center console. He was sweating again. He shook it off and told himself that it was passing—that he’d be fine once he got the rig pointed west again and back toward home. The road sign on the interstate told him his exit was just ahead. Gomez grabbed the map he’d printed off the internet and checked the directions one more time.
He took the exit ramp and turned onto the country road. A mile and a half down he turned again and saw the construction site just up ahead. There was a big yellow tractor and a grader parked in an area of cleared trees, next to a construction trailer. Before turning in, Gomez surveyed the area to make sure he could get back out. The ground looked fairly dry and they’d been smart enough to lay down some gravel. He swung the big rig into the semi-narrow lane and pulled to a stop in front of the construction trailer.
Two men appeared from the trailer almost immediately. Gomez climbed down from the cab with paperwork in hand and was relieved that his slight nausea had passed.
“How ya’all doing?” asked Gomez.
“Fine,” one of the men answered with an accent that Gomez couldn’t place.
As Gomez looked around he grew slightly concerned. The construction site didn’t look as if it was ready for a whole flatbed filled with expensive granite. Whatever they were building didn’t even have a foundation yet.
“We have been waiting for you,” said the other man as he looked at the load with a pleased expression.
Gomez took this as a good sign and handed over his clipboard. “I need one of you to sign at the bottom where the red X is.”
The taller of the two men took the board and quickly scratched out his name. Gomez took the clipboard back, tore off one of the copies, handed it back to the man who’d signed, and asked, “Where would you like me to drop it?”
“Right there is fine.”
Gomez looked at the trailer and frowned. It was kind of a funny place to leave it, but he wasn’t going to argue. The sooner he dropped the feet and unhooked it, the sooner he could be back on the road. He did just that, and a couple of minutes later he was up in his cab and pulling back onto the road. Without the heavy trailer the truck felt like a sports car. Not more than a mile further on, Gomez started shaking. He flipped down his visor and looked at himself in the mirror. There were red blotchy marks all over his face.
Shivering, Gomez got back on the highway and headed for the distribution center. The thought occurred to him that it might be a good idea to find a truck stop on the outskirts of Atlanta and grab a couple hours of sleep. The only problem was, the temp was supposed to hit the mid-nineties, which meant sleeping in the truck wasn’t an option. He’d have to get a room, and that wasn’t in the budget.
No, Gomez told himself, he’d tough it out. He probably just had a little bug that he’d picked up in Mexico. He could hear his wife talking to him. Telling him to lay off the coffee and drink a lot of water. Up ahead he saw a sign for a truck stop and decided to top off the tanks and get some water and food.
&nbs
p; The chills had passed by the time he’d pulled up to the diesel pumps and had been replaced with another wave of fever. Gomez got out of the rig mopping his glistening brow and neck with his bandana, and cursing the wave of nausea that was sweeping over him like a bad dream. As he staggered to the pumps, the thought occurred to him that he was really lucky that he’d decided to pull over when he did, because this one didn’t feel like it was going to pass.
He put one hand out to steady himself, and then the sickness rose up from within him like a big unstoppable wave. A spasm gripped his entire body and then he projectile vomited a good six feet. Gomez tried to lean forward to prevent any of it from getting on his shoes. There was a slight pause but he could tell he wasn’t done. Another wave was coming, and in preparation for it he told himself this was good. His body was just trying to get rid of whatever he’d caught in Mexico. That thought carried him through the next three gut-wrenching heaves, and then he dropped to his knees in unimaginable pain. Gomez knew something was horribly wrong when he saw the blood on the ground, but there was nothing he could do. He felt himself losing consciousness. His last thought before going limp was that he might miss his son’s baseball game after all.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Skip McMahon found himself sitting in a room with three people he did not like. One of them was a terrorist, despite what the man’s attorney was saying. McMahon would bet his entire pension on it, and the smug little prick was sitting in front of him claiming that he was completely innocent, that he was only doing his job, and that he had no idea what was inside the container he was picking up in Charleston. McMahon could tell that he was lying.
It was easy enough to understand why he didn’t like the other two people either. They were both lawyers. One of them, the really flashy one, represented the terrorist. His name was Tony Jackson, aka the Mouth of the South, and he was a civil rights attorney, a plaintiff’s attorney, and a defense attorney all rolled into one. He was formidable, polished, obnoxious, and very good at his job. Barely fifty, the native Georgian had amassed a small fortune by winning several highly lucrative class-action lawsuits, the largest against a national food chain for race discrimination. Jackson had become one of those ever-available talking heads on the 24/7 cable news outlets. Refusing to leave his beloved Atlanta to go represent the various high-profile misfits in L.A. and New York, he nonetheless felt free to comment often and unhelpfully in regard to said misfits and their persecution and poor legal representation.
The man had style, McMahon had to admit. He would be very difficult to beat in front of a jury. Six and a half feet tall, he kept his afro short and allowed a touch of gray to show at the temples. The effect was to give him the appearance of a wise old sage. His suit, tie, and shirt were in impeccable taste, his cuff links and watch expensive. He understood the importance of appearance and exuded an air of complete confidence and competence, even if at times he could seem a bit outrageous and over the top. McMahon had seen it all before. In front of the right jury this man would be extremely formidable.
The fourth and final person in the room was Peggy Stealey, and McMahon was beginning to think that she had aspirations to try this case herself. There were many more experienced prosecutors than Peggy over at Justice. He could think of at least two who would go ballistic if they were passed over for his trial, but such was the unpredictable and often cruel world of Washington. Politics was the lifeblood of the city, and Stealey was the attorney general’s golden girl. She lacked the real trial experience that Jackson had, but she was no fool and she was attractive, tenacious, and smart. It would be quite the courtroom battle.
The case, contrary to what Stealey had originally thought, was not a simple slam dunk. McMahon had warned her that the CIA would be loath to share its methods of collection and information in open court. He hadn’t even bothered to guess how Rapp would react when he found out that this clown had a lawyer, but he knew for certain it wouldn’t be pretty. Stealey had thought they would find all the incriminating evidence they’d need at the trucking company in Atlanta, and at this al-Adel’s apartment, but so far they had come up with nothing.
The smug little Saudi immigrant had covered his tracks very well. The only slam dunk so far was holding the other man in the truck on several gun charges. Neither man was cooperating, and as long as the Mouth of the South was their lawyer, he doubted they would start any time soon.
“When are my clients going to be charged?” Jackson asked for the third time.
“If he tells us why he erased the hard drives on his computers, we might just let him go.” Stealey looked from Jackson to his client.
Al-Adel looked at her in disgust. “You will stop at nothing to persecute me and my people. What have you done to my computers?”
McMahon shook his head scoffingly at the accusation.
“What are you laughing at, you racist?” Al-Adel stared at McMahon. “You people are nothing but fascists and thugs. You planted that gun on Ali, and you have ruined my computers. I have known him for years. He has never owned a gun and would never buy one. Your people planted that weapon on him, and you know it.”
McMahon looked at the terrorist and said, “Ahmed, you and I both know who the liar is, so let’s dispense with the theatrics and move on. Now where were you going to take that container?” The federal agent picked up his pen as if he assumed the prisoner would actually answer the question.
Jackson’s arm shot out. “Don’t answer that question. For the last time, when is my client going to be charged?” The lawyer looked at Stealey. “You’d better say tomorrow.”
“There are certain special circumstances surrounding this case.” Stealey smiled, knowing there was no way Jackson knew the truth about his clients. Because if he did, he’d already be on a plane headed back to Atlanta. “I’m expecting the arraignment to take place on Tuesday at the earliest.”
“You can’t do that! That’s seven days away!” Jackson bellowed in his deep voice.
“Actually I can. There are national security issues at stake here.”
“And there’s also the law. I swear, if my clients aren’t formally charged before a federal judge by tomorrow at the latest, you are going to have a huge media disaster on your hands.”
Stealey knew she had the ultimate ace in the hole. A twenty-kiloton nuclear warhead. There weren’t many jurors who would be sympathetic once they found out al-Adel was arrested while in the process of trying to pick up a nuclear bomb.
“Tell me, Ahmed,” Stealey said, “where were you planning on taking that trailer?”
“This is over.” Jackson waved his hands in the air. “Don’t say another word,” he warned his client.
“You haven’t told him what was in the trailer, have you?” McMahon looked right at al-Adel.
“My client doesn’t know what was in that trailer, and this interview is over.”
McMahon wanted to give the self-righteous little al-Adel something to think about. He picked up his file and stood. “The CIA wants to question you, Ahmed. Don’t be surprised if you get woken in the middle of the night and transferred to a different location.”
Jackson was out of his chair like a shot. “You just threatened my client with torture! That’s it. I don’t want anyone else talking to my client. You people are done, and when I tell the media, let alone a judge, what this idiot just said, heads are going to roll.”
McMahon ignored Jackson and kept his gaze fixed on al-Adel. Satisfyingly, he saw genuine fear in the terrorist’s eyes at last. In that moment he could tell the Saudi was not a man who could handle pain.
He turned his attention to Jackson and offered him a grim smile. “And when you find out the truth about your client, you are going to wish that the two of us had never crossed paths.”
The G-V landed at Andrews Air Force Base just before midnight on Wednesday evening. The sleek jet taxied to a remote part of the base and into a simple gray metal hangar. As soon as the tail was clear, the doors closed. A few seconds later
the stairs to the executive jet folded down revealing an extremely tired and unshaven Mitch Rapp. The CIA operative was still dressed in his combat fatigues and holster. With a bag under each arm, he exited the plane and walked across the smooth concrete floor. Four men passed him without comment and boarded the plane to retrieve the two prisoners he’d brought back. Rapp kept his bloodshot eyes fixed on Bobby Akram, the CIA’s top interrogator. Once again, he was dressed in a dark suit and red tie.
Rapp had spoken to him at least four times on the long flight home from Afghanistan. The focus of the calls was to develop a strategy for squeezing every last bit of information from the two captured terrorists. Akram was an incredibly thorough person who was adamant that the best way to elicit valuable information from prisoners was to start the interrogation with a well researched and thought out plan. Akram wanted to know, in advance, every conceivable detail about the subjects he was to question. Establishing the appearance of omnipotence was crucial to setting the stage for success.
“Mitch, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”
Rapp walked right past Akram, to his waiting vehicle. “I feel like shit.”
Akram walked over to Rapp’s car. “I thought you were going to sleep on the plane.”
“I couldn’t.” Rapp popped the trunk and threw in his two bags. “Every time I got close, that damn Abdullah would start moaning for more morphine, or CTC would call and want something. How’s it going with the two guys they picked up in Charleston?”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen them.”
“Why?” asked Rapp.
“The Feds have them in custody, and so far they haven’t offered us access.”
Rapp slammed the trunk shut. “What?”
Akram could tell he was really pissed off. “Don’t worry about it right now. Irene says she’ll bring you up to speed in the morning. You’re supposed to be at the White House at nine a.m. for a briefing.” Akram folded his hands in front of him. “Until then, she wants you to go home and get some sleep.”