by Vince Flynn
She’d gone through twenty-four years of life never noticing such things, and then she went down to the Farm, where the CIA trained their new Clandestine Service recruits. The Farm changed her forever. It was like someone lifted the curtain and showed her another dimension to life. There was nothing magical about it. They simply taught you that your survival one day would likely depend on how aware you were of your surroundings. Brooks thought back to the months she’d spent at the Farm and tried to remember what they’d said about insubordination and being threatened with obstruction of Justice.
Brooks looked up to see Special Agent Skip McMahon enter the small reception area. He was a big man with an even larger presence. He looked Brooks over from head to toe, frowned, shook his head, and then looked at the director’s gatekeeper.
The diminutive woman sitting behind the desk said, “Good morning, Skip. Go right in. She’s expecting you.”
McMahon mumbled something unintelligible and entered Kennedy’s office closing the heavy door behind him with a thud.
Brooks looked down at the floor and wondered how she had let Rapp put her in this situation. Here was a man she’d been ready to strangle with her bare hands less than forty-eight hours before, and now he had talked her into putting her entire career on the line. He was Mitch Rapp, though. An honest-to-god, living, breathing legend. He had Kennedy’s ear, he had saved the president’s life, and it was said that Hayes would do anything for him. She’d worked with him in the field, one of the few covert operatives at Langley who could make such a claim. Even if it was more like watching him than working with him, the experience was invaluable. Rapp promised her that while things might be uncomfortable for a day or two, in the end she would want to be on his side. They’d found the man responsible for the attack on the motorcade, and they were going to go public with it. The CIA was actually going to get some credit for a change.
With her entire career ahead of her, Brooks thought this sounded like a pretty good deal. She would forever be linked to an important manhunt even if all she did was act like arm candy for Rapp. At least she thought it all sounded like a pretty good deal. Now she was starting to wonder. Special Agent McMahon had been predictably upset when Brooks had delivered the prisoner to him at Andrews Air Force Base. He’d been expecting Rapp, and he’d been expecting more than a shot-up, drugged man on a stretcher. McMahon must have asked her ten times where Mitch was, and every time she told him she didn’t know. And the truth was she didn’t. Brooks had left Andrews and returned to her apartment in Alexandria for the first time in almost a month. She turned off her phones, just as Rapp had told her to do and laid down for a nap. He’d told her all the action and lack of sleep would catch up to her and she would sleep like a baby. He was right again. She took a six-hour nap. When she woke up it was dark and her message light on the home line was blinking. She turned on her Agency-issued mobile phone, the one that she had been told in training to never turn off. There were thirteen messages. Each one was progressively worse. It started with her supervisor, then his boss, and then her boss and Jose Juarez, the deputy director of the Clandestine Service. He stated very clearly that he expected to see Brooks in Director Kennedy’s office at 7:00 a.m. on Monday or her relationship with the CIA would be terminated.
Brooks found the use of the word terminate very unsettling. Especially when uttered by the head of the Clandestine Service. Interestingly enough, though, Rapp had predicted all of this. Even the 7:00 a.m. meeting. Brooks was turning all of this over in her mind when Jose Juarez came marching into the reception area.
Juarez was six feet tall with thick black hair and an even thicker black mustache. Born in Honduras, his parents immigrated to America when he was nine. Juarez graduated from high school in Miami and joined the Marine Corps. After four years of exceptional performance he was accepted into Officer Candidate School. Shortly after he had accepted his commission, the CIA discovered him and borrowed him for a little conflict they had in Central America in the mid-eighties. Juarez had performed so well the CIA offered him a permanent position.
Brooks had never served in the military but she jumped to her feet upon seeing the spy boss. Juarez’s jacket was already off, his top button of his white button-down shirt was already undone, and his sleeves were rolled halfway up his arms. He marched straight for Brooks and stopped two feet away, his thick black eyebrows scrunched into a frown.
“What in the hell is your problem?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t…”
“I don’t want to hear you’re sorry. I asked you what your problem is.”
“Sir, if I may. Rapp told me…”
“Is Mitch Rapp your boss?” Juarez barked.
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Sit your butt back down.” Juarez pointed at the chair. “If the director wants to see you, I’ll let you know. My advice is that she fire your ass and ask the FBI to investigate you.” Juarez turned around and went back to the reception desk. He stuck out his hand and said, “Sheila, pad of paper and pen please.” When the receptionist had given him what he wanted Juarez marched back to Brooks and said, “You may want to update your résumé.” He dropped the pad and pen in her lap and then entered Kennedy’s office.
Brooks looked down at the yellow legal pad and then up at the two stone-faced sentries. The receptionist finally acknowledged her presence by saying, “That Mitch Rapp is a real charmer, isn’t he?”
Brooks looked at the woman. She was approximately fifty. A little overdone. Hair a bit too red, and makeup a bit too heavy.
“Excuse me?”
“Didn’t you spend a month in Europe with him?”
“It was hardly a vacation.”
The woman smiled and said, “I’ll bet.”
Brooks looked down at the blank piece of paper, her mind struggling to reconcile the severity of the situation with this older woman’s lustful fantasy. Brooks was way out of her league, without any sign of this thing turning out well for her. Sure, Rapp would be fine. He was Mitch Rapp. He had a career of successes he could point to, but she was just some little peon who would be labeled an insubordinate malcontent for the rest of her career. How could Rapp have possibly expected her to withstand this kind of pressure?
26
WASHINGTON, DC
Stu Garret exited the Willard lobby onto Pennsylvania Avenue and turned immediately to his left. It was five to seven in the morning. He was tired and crabby. A night owl even as he approached sixty, Garret didn’t like to get out of bed before 9:00 or 10:00 if at all possible. But this morning he couldn’t sleep. There was simply too much on his mind. He needed to make a call. A gust of wind hit him square in the face and he swore out loud as he clutched for the fur-lined hood of his puffy down jacket.
“Six more days and I’m done with this shit hole,” he grumbled to himself.
Garret pulled the hood over his head and zipped the jacket all the way up under his double chin. Born in Detroit, he left when he was eighteen and never returned. He hated the weather, and the people. Detroit was for losers, and Garret wasn’t afraid to tell that to people. Especially his clients. The place was a shining example of how unions and special interest groups could come together to suck a city dry by driving off its tax base.
Southern California was the place to be. San Diego in particular, where Democrats were liberal on social issues only. Fiscally, they were as conservative as any northeastern Republican. The people who flocked to San Diego sunk their money into real estate. Very expensive real estate. They had worked too hard for their money to watch property values plummet due to the governance of a few bleeding-heart liberals. Abortion, gun control, and the environment were all hot-button issues across America, but in San Diego real estate was the big overarching issue. People’s entire life savings were tied up in their homes, and after living in sunny San Diego, retiring to Arizona or Florida made no sense. Garret couldn’t wait to get back to San Diego and his toys.
Garret took quick strides and kep
t his head down. His retainer for the campaign had been a million dollars. That was just for him. He was a one-man gun for hire. Stu Garret, the political savant. By the time the campaign was over he’d burned through the retainer plus another million. On top of that his contract called for a million-dollar bonus if they won. Garret was flush with cash. He’d now managed two separate presidential campaigns and won both. Candidates across the country were reaching out for his advice. He’d even received a few calls from abroad. He was at the top of the heap. People were lining up to hand him large retainers. For the first time in his career he considered bringing someone else on board.
Garret tried to tell himself it wasn’t about money. His home was paid for, his wife was as frugal as he was, and their only child, a daughter, had married an SOB of a trial lawyer who made gobs of money. The two of them, and their two children, lived up in L.A. with all the beautiful people. There was one area where Garret really spent money, though. He loved to collect vintage muscle cars and rare motorcycles. Beyond that he was pretty much addicted to golf, and then there was the big forty-two-foot cruiser he kept down at the marina. The boat and golf membership were for entertaining clients. Golf was a must. It was an intricate part of his business. He’d sealed more deals on the golf course than in an office by a landslide. The cars and the motorcycles, those were purely for his own gratification. He supposed they brought him back to his youth and his own father who had worked on the assembly line for General Motors. Back when they made great cars. Garret only collected American vehicles made before 1970. Everything made after that was shit. Although, Detroit had begun to turn out some decent vehicles lately. Ford had a new Mustang Shelby that was supposed to be out of this world, and Chevy was coming out with a new Camaro. If he caught another big fish this week he could buy one in every color.
That was part of the reason Garret had given into hanging around town. It was only Monday, but already the party’s big-money people were arriving for Saturday’s inauguration. He had meetings set up all week. Those running for the U.S. Senate or a state governorship were the only two he’d touch. He was done with congressional races no matter how much money they were willing to pay. He already had his eye on the next presidential campaign. No campaign manager had ever won three presidential elections.
Garret cleared the Treasury Department and was hit with another blast of wind. He turned left, put his head down, and reminded himself to avoid taking on any new clients from northern states. He continued east, passing the White House and picking up Pennsylvania Avenue at 17th Street. From there he angled northwest for two blocks to the building that housed what was left of the campaign offices. At the height of the campaign they’d leased two full floors. After their victory, ninety percent of the space was converted into transition offices for the new administration. The personnel and furniture all pretty much stayed the same. The only real difference was who paid the bills. During the race, the campaign wrote the checks. Now it was the federal government. To the victor go the spoils, or something like that.
The lobby was enclosed in glass. The floor was covered in white marble with a green border around the edges. In the middle was a black elevated desk that looked like it belonged on a sci-fi movie set. There was a black woman sitting behind the desk and beyond her were three elevator banks. Garret pushed his way through the main door and started for the elevator bank on the far right. Still chilled, he didn’t bother to take his hood off. He walked straight past the toy cop and the stupid little sign-in sheet.
“Excuse me, sir,” the security guard called from behind her desk. “I’m going to need you to sign in.”
Garret didn’t break stride. He pulled his office badge out of his left pocket and went straight for the elevator. He took it up to the fifth floor and stepped into an empty reception area. Red, white, and blue campaign signs hung from the wall like vintage artwork. The big banner right behind the reception desk was filled with signatures and a few drawings. It had been Ross’s idea to motivate the troops. They were going to present it to Alexander after he was sworn in on Saturday. Garret supposed it would be hanging in the man’s presidential library someday. Garret looked to his left and then his right. The floor was covered with dark gray carpeting and the walls were covered with light gray wallpaper. The place was bland, but more importantly, empty.
Garret pictured all the young volunteers still sleeping in the their hotel rooms. They were no longer volunteers of course. They were now on the government payroll. With the pressures of the campaign behind them, they were partying even harder than they had during the election, which one would think impossible. It was standard operating procedure on campaigns to provide volunteers with four things: coffee, food, liquor, and a place to sleep. The booze, the fact that the bulk of the volunteers were in their twenties, and the fact that they all pretty much stayed at the same hotel, created an interesting environment. If the general public had any idea how much fornicating happened on these campaigns, they’d be shocked.
To his right were some of the transition offices and to his left, four actual offices and another dozen workstations for the campaign staff. Garret’s office was in the far corner. He hesitated for a moment and then decided it would be better if he made this call from someone else’s desk. He started toward the transition offices. He passed a few rooms, all empty. Looking out across the sea of cubicles he listened for a sign that some loser who didn’t get laid was in early to impress his boss. There was nothing but the hum of the overhead lights.
Garret walked into the next office, left the light off, and shut the door. He retrieved a piece of paper from his pocket. It was from the Willard, with just a phone number with an international dialing prefix on it. No name. Garret picked up the handset and entered the number. This was the real reason he was still in town. It helped to meet some of these fat cats in person, but he could have traveled to see them or they could have visited him in San Diego. The negotiating always went well after a round of golf and a few cocktails on the boat. He would have definitely gone back to warm sunny California if it hadn’t been for this last piece of business.
After a few rings a woman answered, and Garret said, “I need to speak with Joseph.”
“May I ask who is calling?”
“No. Just get him on the phone.”
Garret looked around the office. There were no personal photos. Nothing that could tell him whose office it was. On the wall next to the door was one of those stupid motivational posters. It showed a men’s crew team rowing on a river. In large letters across the top were the words, “Team Work.” Garret shook his head. Any jackass who needed to find motivation, inspiration, or anything else in some mass-produced trite piece of junk wasn’t going to get far in this business.
Joseph Speyer finally came on the line and in a cautious voice said, “Hello?”
“We’ve got a problem,” Garret blurted out.
“Oh…hello, Stu. My assistant told me there was a rude American on the line. Which is fairly redundant, don’t you think? But nonetheless, I should have guessed it was you.”
“Very funny.”
“Why did you not come to my party? Your boss came.”
“He isn’t my boss.”
“Oh Stu…such a big chip on your shoulder. It must be difficult going through life so angry all the time.”
“Yeah,” Garret laughed gruffly. “But probably not as bad as taking it up the ass, like you do.”
“Stu,” Speyer said with mock surprise. “You are a Democrat. You are supposed to support my people.”
“You might want to drop using my name every other line, and I do support your people. Go ahead, get married. What the fuck do I care? It’s just not my bag…what you guys do between the sheets.”
“Maybe you should try it some time.”
“No thanks.” Garret looked out the window and watched a cab pass by on the street below. “Back to the point. We’ve got a major fucking problem!”
There was a sigh and then Speyer s
aid, “How could we possibly have a problem? Everything turned out exactly as you wanted.”
“Your buddy promised that he was going to button things up on his end.”
“And as far as I know he did.”
“You don’t know shit. The FBI is going to hold a press conference in a few hours.”
“Why?”
“They’ve arrested someone.”
There was a long pause before Speyer responded. “Do you know who?”
“I don’t have a name, but I’ve heard it’s the guy.”
“Impossible. I just spoke with your boss on Saturday. He said the FBI’s investigation was dead in the water. He was being briefed daily.”
“It wasn’t the FBI who found him.”
“Who was it?”
“The CIA.”
“That is wonderful news,” Speyer said with feigned enthusiasm.
“Just fucking great.”
“I will make sure to pass it along to our friend.”
“Yeah…you do that, and on an entirely different matter, tell him I want scorched earth. Do you follow me?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
“You know this man the CIA grabbed…it’s too bad that it’s probably as far as they’ll get. I’ve seen how these people operate. They rarely know who hired them.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I will call you back after I speak with our friend.”
“Don’t bother,” Garret said. “Just tell him if he doesn’t handle this problem immediately I have no intention of following through on our end of the bargain.”