Separation of Power mr-3

by Vince Flynn

  When the cab pulled into the driveway, Rielly spotted her car parked next to the garage and noticed that the front light was on as well as one upstairs. She paid the cabbie and stood in the rain as he got her bag from the trunk. After a moment of indecision she wheeled her bag over to her car and hefted it into the trunk. Then standing under the narrow eave in front of the garage she peered through the small square window. Mitch's car wasn't there. Her heart fell and after a moment of melancholy thoughts she decided to go inside and see if there was a note.

  Anna unlocked the front door and punched in the code for the alarm. The first thing she saw was Mitch's large Travel Pro black wheeled suitcase. The same one he'd taken to Milan. It was on the floor and open. He was home, or at least he'd been home. She closed the front door and went into the kitchen. The breakfast bar was bare and again she felt her heart shrink a little. This was the spot where he would have left a note. There was none. Next she checked the answering machine. All she got for her trouble was a red zero telling her she'd again come up empty. She felt a brief sense of panic.

  Snatching the handset from the cradle she called her apartment and checked her messages. The first one was from the phone company, asking her if she'd like to take advantage of a new long distance calling plan. That was it. With a lump in her throat she called her work number and quickly skipped through five messages, none of which were from Mitch. She slammed the handset down and started for the stairs. The first tear trickled down her cheek as she reached the bedroom, their bedroom.

  The bed was unmade. She tried to remember if it was that way when they'd left for Italy. It wasn't. She clearly remembered it had been made. In frustration she grabbed one of the pillows and threw it against the wall. Not even a note. It was bad enough that he didn't leave her one in their hotel room, but this was inexcusable. She'd misjudged him. With salty tears streaming down her face she went into the bathroom to gather her things. If he could be this cold and impersonal after all they'd been through, then so could she.

  Washington, D. C. Sunday morning

  Senator Clark was in the kitchen of his mansion on Foxhall Road in the Wesley Heights neighborhood of Washington. The large chateau style home was the senator's castle. The front of the house was covered with ivy that looked like it had been there for a century or more and the double front door looked big enough to drive a small car through. Four stone chimneys jutted above the hipped slate roof, two at each end. The 9,000-square-foot home sat on three perfectly landscaped acres, and was surrounded by an eight foot, black wrought iron fence.

  On Sundays the help was off so he was on his own for breakfast. After popping an English muffin into the toaster he poured' himself a tall glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and took several gulps before heading out to get the papers. In slippers and a silk robe he dared the November morning chill and walked the almost 200 feet from his front door to the large black wrought iron gate that kept unwanted visitors out. Caesar and Brutus, the senator's golden retrievers, joined him on the walk.

  It promised to be a good morning. His two regular Sunday papers, the New York Times and the Washington Post, were waiting for him in plastic bags. Clark returned to the house in time to hear the bell on the toaster announce that his muffin was done. He dropped the papers on the table and grabbed the muffin. He put raspberry jam on one half and peanut butter on the other. It was the same thing every Sunday, orange juice and a muffin first and then coffee with the paper. Rituals were a good thing.

  Wife number three was never involved in this little ritual because she never got out of bed before ten on Sundays. And he doubted that he'd see her before noon today. She didn't just have one too many glasses of wine last night; she'd had one too many bottles. He was going to have to talk to her about laying off the booze. The campaign for the presidency would be in full swing about a year from now, and it wouldn't do to have her stumbling around making an ass out of herself. As he took a bite of the peanut butter-covered muffin, he asked himself what he was thinking when he married her. Unfortunately he knew the answer. She was very attractive, and in politics it never hurt to have a good-looking lady on your arm. If the boozing didn't get better, though, he'd have to figure something out. Again he contemplated the idea of her having a little accident. It might drum up the sympathy vote. No, Clark decided, as tempting as it was they always blamed the husband when there was foul play.

  He finished his breakfast and headed into his study with his coffee and two newspapers. The study was located in the southern wing of the house and was decorated in the style of his home state. It was filled with expensive Western art and antiques. Balanced on two pegs above the fireplace mantel was an 1886 Winchester .45-70 lever action rifle. Every time Clark looked at the weapon he was reminded of Peter Cameron, the man he had hired to kill Mitch Rapp. Whenever Cameron had visited the study he had drooled over the unique weapon. It had been presented to President Grover Cleveland as a wedding present, and was the first of a limited number produced. The historical significance of the piece and the perfect condition it was in made it very valuable. On top of the mantel were two Frederic Remington sculptures. The Bronco Buster on one side and The Buffalo on the other. And above it all was one of Albert Bierstadt's breathtaking originals depicting a group of Indians on horseback riding across the plain. Across the room in a glass bookcase was a complete set of signed first editions by Ernest Hemingway.

  Clark was unusually excited this morning and it wasn't because the Redskins were playing the Cowboys. It was because Albert Rudin was appearing live on Meet the Press. Clark checked to make sure a fresh tape was in the VCR and then sat down in his worn leather chair. He turned on the TV and placed the thick copy of the Times on the footstool. There were five more minutes before show time so he scanned the famously liberal editorial page, for a few laughs.

  When the music for the show came on Clark put the paper down and hit the record button. He sat and grinned as Tim Russert's voice announced the topics to be covered on the hour-long show. First up were Chairman Rudin of the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence and Congressman Zebarth, the committee's ranking minority. Both men were in their sixties and had spent thirty-plus years each in Washington as representatives.

  Russert started the segment by introducing his guests and saying, "Congressmen, this is truly a historical week in Washington. For the first time in its fifty-plus-year history a woman has been nominated to head the Central Intelligence Agency. What are your thoughts?"

  Congressman Zebarth jumped on the question first. "Dr. Kennedy is more than up to the job. She's been very effective as the director of the Counterterrorism Center, and she knows her way around Langley. I think the President has made a great choice, and I look forward to working with Dr. Kennedy in the years to come."

  Russert turned to address Rudin. His eyes were open wide, he had a bit of a grin on his face, and his head was cocked slightly to one side. He knew practically every politician's politics, and hence, nine times out of ten he knew the answer before he asked the question. "That's one heck of an endorsement coming from a Republican." Russert knew his guest detested the President's nomination.

  Rudin's face looked as if he'd just bitten into a bad piece of fruit." I have no problem with a woman running the CIA, in fact I think it's about time we give one a shot. God knows the men we've had running the place haven't given us much for the trillions of dollars we've pumped into it."

  "So, you don't agree with the President's nomination," suggested Russert with a faint smile.

  "No, I don't. I've been warning the White House for months that Kennedy is not the type of person we Democrats want to be associated with." Rudin spoke with conviction.

  The gossip was all over town that the President had taken Rudin to the woodshed about the Kennedy nomination. Russert was a little surprised that the congressman from Connecticut would so publicly disagree with Hayes after what he'd heard. "And why do you think Dr. Kennedy is such a poor choice as the next director of Central
Intelligence? You seem to be the only person on the Hill who disagrees with her nomination."

  "The only one who publicly disagrees," Rudin was quick to add. "For reasons I can't figure out, this President and his administration have forced this nominee down our throats without doing their research."

  In a strange twist of politics Russert looked to Zebarth, the Republican, to defend a Democratic President. "Congressman Zebarth?" "As I've already said, I think Dr. Kennedy is more than qualified for the job, and to be honest with you. Tim I'm getting a little tired of my friend's innuendos and implications. Just once I'd like to see him back up his charges with some real evidence, or leave Dr. Kennedy alone. The woman has worked hard for this country, and she deserves a little gratitude." This sounded so reasonable that it made Rudin look like a bully.

  Hank Clark was on the edge of his seat. Zebarth had just lobbed a big fat hanging curve ball. Clark clapped his hands together and said, "Come on, Albert. If there's ever a time to hit one out of the park, it's now."

  Rudin reached under the table and produced a file. With a grim look on his face he shook his head and said, "I feel a little bit like Winston Churchill today, Tim."

  Clark frowned at his TV and said, "Don't get carried away here, Albert."

  "I've been warning my colleagues for years about what was going on at the CIA. I've been harping that we need more oversight. I've been complaining that we weren't getting the truth from Director Stansfield when he testified before my committee, and the same goes for Dr. Kennedy. No one has listened to me; even my own party has shunned me. Well I'm here today to say that thanks to my vigilance we are about to avoid a huge mistake."

  "What are you saying, Congressman Rudin?"

  "I have here in this file," Rudin waved it in the air for emphasis, "proof that Dr. Kennedy has lied before my committee. I have proof that she has launched covert operations without notifying Congress or seeking our approval. I have proof that she has committed perjury before Congress and that she has obstructed justice."

  Over the years Congressman Zebarth had heard an unending litany of baseless accusations from his colleague. To his ears, Rudin's diatribe sounded like a last ditch effort from a desperate man. "Albert, I've heard you say this many times before, and frankly I think it is despicable that you continue to assassinate the character of this fine woman."

  "I'll tell you what's despicable," Rudin fired back. "A Congress that refuses to do the work the American people sent them to Washington to do. A Congress and a White House," he added with emphasis, "that refuse to make even the slightest effort to protect the Constitution."

  Zebarth, an old-school Virginian and a throwback to the days when the rules of debate truly ruled the day, was genuinely insulted by Rudin's blanket accusations. "Albert, if you have any proof of wrongdoing by Dr. Kennedy, I suggest that you produce it right here and now. Otherwise, attempt to have some dignity and cease these unending character assassinations."

  "I find your use of the word assassination rather amusing," snarled Rudin.

  At home, in the solitude of his study, Clark realized how poorly Rudin came off on TV. It would make the senator look all the more stately when he began asking Kennedy about the accusations in front of a huge national audience tomorrow. "Tell me, Congressman Zebarth, have you ever heard of an organization called the Orion Team?"

  Zebarth balked at the question and refused to answer.

  "It is a clandestine organization that was founded by Thomas Stansfield and run by none other than Dr. Irene Kennedy. An organization that for the last ten years has waged a secret war in the Middle East without a single member of Congress being notified."

  Sounding disinterested so as not to give Rudin's words any weight, Zebarth asked, "And how did you discover this secret organization?" Beneath his calm exterior Zebarth was ablaze. He knew of the Orion Team. He was one of a select group of congressmen and senators who had told Thomas Stansfield to take the battle to the terrorists.

  "Since my own committee has refused to allow me to investigate the CIA, and President Hayes has also tried to silence me at every turn, I had to proceed on my own. Through my own diligence, and at great personal sacrifice, I found a very senior person at the Central Intelligence Agency who was willing to talk to me. Someone who is as disturbed as I am over the abuses that were committed by Thomas Stansfield and continue to be perpetuated by Irene Kennedy."

  A name meant nothing by itself. If that was all Rudin had, it wasn't enough. Glancing down at the file on the table, Zebarth felt the urge to call his colleague's bluff. "If you have proof, I'd like to see it." He pointed at the file.

  Rudin was more than willing to oblige. He whipped open the file saying, "I have the names and dates of people that this organization assassinated. I have proof that U. S. Special Forces personnel were involved in some of these operations, and I have this." Rudin produced a black and-white photograph. "His name is Mitch Rapp. He is an American citizen who was trained by the CIA and has been the Orion Team's top operative for almost a decade. He has killed over twenty private citizens in various countries around the Middle East. He is an assassin, he is a criminal and he should be prosecuted, as should Irene Kennedy and every single person who has anything to do with this abomination." Rudin paused just long enough to retrieve something else from the file. "I have bank records that show how money was diverted out of congressionally funded programs and into this organization known as the Orion Team." Rudin pointed an accusatory finger at Zebarth and said, "There are too many politicians in this town who haven't been doing their job," he turned his hard stare on Russert," and I'm here to tell you that that is going to end!"

  Russert was so shell-shocked all he could manage to say was, "These are very serious accusations, Congressman Rudin."

  "Yes, they are."

  "Are you going to hold hearings into the matter or will you hand it over to the Justice Department?"

  Rudin glanced sideways at Zebarth briefly and then back to the moderator. "Since my own committee has been unwilling to look into the matter, and since Irene Kennedy is set to testify before the Senate Intelligence Committee tomorrow, I'm going to turn this evidence over to Senator Clark and see if, for once, someone can get some straight answers from her."

  In his study, Clark had risen to his feet in pure elation. Albert Rudin had just given him everything he'd been working for. At 1:00 P. M. tomorrow, Clark would gavel in one of the most dramatic and anticipated confirmation hearings America had ever seen. Clark had been in on the decision to found the Orion Team, but as part of that arrangement Thomas Stansfield had agreed to fall on the sword if anything should go wrong. Kennedy would do the same. Clark would stay above the fray and look statesmanlike when his colleagues went after Kennedy tomorrow.

  The television audience would be huge and that was just the start. The story would be on the cover of every magazine and the front page of every newspaper. His face and name would be burned into the minds of practically every single voter in the country. This is what would launch him on his Presidential bid.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT.

  Saudi Arabia, Sunday evening

  Rapp stood on the edge of a natural rock escarpment staring out at the wrinkled rolling terrain, toward Baghdad. He was dressed in tan desert fatigues. This place was called Oasis One by the Pentagon. Very few people knew it existed. It was located directly on top of the Saudi-Iraqi border, a mere two hundred miles from Baghdad. The rock formation that made up the natural perimeter of the forward base jutted from the red sea of sand like a volcanic island in the middle of an expansive ocean. Rapp was the only civilian who'd ever been to the base. The military personnel who occupied the rock island didn't even refer to it as a base. The men in black berets called it a forward staging area, or raiding area. This was Special Forces country, and true to their colorful personalities, they did not refer to the base by its official and top-secret name: Oasis One. The snake eaters called it the Snake Pit. There was even a hand-painted sign hanging over
one of the caves that said. Welcome to the Snake Pit. Drinking is Encouraged.

  Special Forces types were different. They actually seemed normal to Rapp, but in relation to the rest of the military they were a breed apart. They prided themselves on making their own rules, and when they'd arrived at the old marauders' outpost they made it a point to set up a bar. All U. S. military personnel in Saudi Arabia were strictly forbidden from consuming alcohol. This did not deter the Green Berets, Delta Force Commandos, Navy SEALs and helicopter pilots who occupied the outpost.

  They had arrived at the Prince Sultan Air Base the previous evening after traveling nonstop from North Carolina with several in flight refuelings. Three huge military cargo C-141 Starlifters had made the trip. In addition to the team that was tasked to go into Baghdad, Colonel Gray had brought along an additional 100 Delta Force Commandos. Part of that force would be assigned the vital role of backup in case the primary team got bogged down and needed to be pulled out, and for the remainder of the force, Colonel Gray had something special planned.

  Due to the secrecy surrounding the mission they flew in under the cover of darkness and landed at the eighty-square-mile Prince Sultan Air Base, located sixty miles south of Riyadh. The American portion of the base sits inside the Saudi Air Base and is a highly secure facility, in great part due to the tragic 1996 bombing in Dhahran, which killed 19 U. S. servicemen. Special Forces personnel are constantly coming and going from the base, but rarely does such a large force arrive unless an exercise is scheduled. For this reason the force left the base within hours of arriving. It was still dark when the helicopter pilots of the army's 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment and the air force's 1st Special Operations Wing began ferrying the commandos off the Prince Sultan Air Base and up to the northern frontier. The bulk of the force was delivered to Oasis One and other units were distributed along the frontier at predetermined locations that U. S. Green Berets had already prepped.