by Vince Flynn
“Only nice things, I’m sure.”
“Of course. Where are you?”
“Across the street from the Hoover Building. I’m thinking about turning myself in.”
“Why in the world would you do that? You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You didn’t sound so sure of that when we spoke yesterday.”
“I’ve had some time to reconsider. I think it was a mistake to go public with this so quickly.”
“You think so?” Rapp asked, his voice full of sarcasm.
“I’m trying to be magnanimous.”
“Easy with the big words, boss. Remember I’m not Ivy League.”
“I’m serious.”
“No you aren’t. You’re just trying to keep me on the line so you can trace this call, which we both know is a waste of time and resources. As soon as we’re done, this phone is history.”
Kennedy turned her back to the others and sat on the edge of her desk. “Would you like to tell me what you’re up to?”
“I’d love to, boss, but I think it’s best if I kept you out of the loop for another twenty-four hours. How is Brooks holding up?”
“Fairly well considering you’ve put her entire career in jeopardy.”
“Jose being pretty tough on her?”
“He’s just getting started.”
“Tell him to take it easy on her and tell him I’m one hundred percent sure this is the guy.”
“I’ll tell you what, why don’t you come in and we’ll talk about it?”
“I can’t. Not yet. There are a few more things I need to run down. Just tell him to hold firm, no matter what he hears. This guy is guilty as shit, and I’ve got the goods.”
Kennedy looked at the credenza behind her desk. Inside it was a safe and inside the safe were the photos Baker had given her on Saturday. In a much softer voice she said, “I have something I need to show you.”
“What?”
“I can’t talk about it right now. When are you coming in?”
“Tomorrow…I hope.”
“All right, I’ll give you until tomorrow and then we need to sit down. Am I clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Good.”
“Tell Jose I’ll call him in fifteen minutes, and tell Skip that no matter what he hears, this is the guy.”
“I will.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
The line went dead and Kennedy slowly put the handset back in the cradle. She turned around and relayed Rapp’s message to both Juarez and McMahon. And then she looked at the two men and said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to have some time alone with Ms. Brooks.”
30
WASHINGTON, DC
Rapp got off the metro at the Farragut West stop and took the escalator up to the sidewalk. It was before eight and traffic was still light. The wind had picked up a bit, but it wasn’t bad. Nothing wrong with a little frigid gust of wind slapping you in the face to let you know you were alive. There was the inevitable Starbucks directly across the street. There was also one half a block down on his right and another one around the corner to his left and to the south a few storefronts. Rapp figured there were over a hundred of them in the downtown area.
Rapp had been trained to avoid routines. Routines led to predictable behavior and identifiable tendencies. Things that could be used to an adversary’s advantage. Effective people developed routines and efficiencies in their day-to-day lives. Those routines almost always manifested as extremely predictable behavior. Rapp knew because he’d used it to his advantage many times. People woke at the same time every day, or at least Monday through Friday; they ate at the same three or four restaurants, worked out at the same club, typically at a set time, and got their coffee at the same one or two Starbucks every day. Usually the one closest to their home and the one closest to their office. There were of course exceptions. There was Caribou and Seattle’s Best and a few others, plus the independents, but in sheer number of stores, none of them could compare to Starbucks. America was a caffeine nation and Washington being its capital was no exception.
Rapp wasn’t sure if the person he was looking for was a coffee drinker or not. There was probably a twenty percent chance that she was one of those yoga bending, new age health nuts. She took care of herself. That much was obvious. Rapp had visited her shortly after the attack on the motorcade to get her version of the events. He was helping put together a kind of postmortem report for the CIA. Something that would not be shared with the other agencies. The FBI was running the official investigation, and the Secret Service had already done their own internal investigation. Rapp had not seen that report, and he’d wondered how rough it had been.
Rapp looked west down I Street and then east before crossing. He entered the Starbucks and walked up to the clean, organized counter where he was met by a nice young black woman who greeted him warmly and asked him what she could get for him and said it like she meant it. Good service minus the attitude. Rapp grinned and ordered a medium dark roast. She asked him if he wanted room for cream and he said no. While she poured the coffee he checked out the other two employees behind the counter. Not one of them had a visible tattoo, pierced body part, or bad hairdo.
When the woman returned with his piping hot coffee, Rapp gave her three dollars and told her to keep the change. She told him to have a nice day, and then added that he should stop back in. Rapp smiled and thanked her. He didn’t feel like telling her he doubted he would be. With a napkin in hand he took his coffee over to the ledge by the window, set it down, took the cap off, and placed it on the tan recycled napkin. It would be too hot to drink for at least a few minutes. Rapp had already noted the faces and general demeanor of the other five patrons in the place. They all looked harmless enough. Probably accountants and admin types.
Rapp set his phone on the counter face down and inserted the SIM card and the battery. After he’d turned it on he opened his address book and hit W. The first name that came up was Jack Warch, former Special Agent in Charge of President Hayes’s Secret Service detail and recently promoted deputy director of the United States Secret Service. Rapp hit the send button and brought the phone up to his ear.
After a few rings a voice answered saying, “Warch here.”
Rapp brought his free hand up to partially cover his mouth. He whispered into the phone, “I have a bomb.”
There was a long pause and then Warch said, “Excuse me?”
Rapp muttered a quick sura in Arabic and then repeated his assertion. “I have a bomb.”
“You have a bomb?” the concerned voice on the phone asked.
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to shove it up your ass.” Rapp started to laugh.
There was a pause and then Warch said, “Is that you, Mitch? You jerk.”
“Come on,” Rapp said while still laughing, “I’m just trying to liven up your day now that you’re full-time management.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“Yes, you will.”
“I know, and I’m not sorry.”
“Where the hell are you?”
Rapp looked out the window. The Secret Service headquarters was only a few blocks away. “I’m in town.”
“I hear people are looking for you.”
“Yeah…so what’s new?”
“Some people are saying you fucked up, Mitch.”
“Nothing I’m not used to.”
“Is this really the guy?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re a hundred percent sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Is that your gut or your brain talking?”
“Both.”
“My guy who’s working with Justice on this says they don’t share your conviction.”
Rapp smiled. That was exactly what he wanted to hear. “I doubt they would approve of my methods, but l
et me tell you something, Jack. This guy is absolutely, one hundred percent the guy who detonated the bomb.”
“Evidence?”
“More than enough to send him to the gas chamber.”
“We don’t use those anymore.”
“Well for this guy we should. Maybe you could get them to resurrect Old Sparky?”
“The electric chair…considering the fact that he killed the next president’s wife, I’d say it might actually happen. Are you going to give the Justice Department the evidence, or is this the type of stuff you don’t want dragged into open court?”
“They’ll get it all in a day or two, but don’t tell anyone I told you that. I want them to sweat it a little longer.”
“Is it true?”
“What?”
“You shot the guy four times.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I read the man his rights, handcuffed him, and handed him over to the FBI. The last I saw of the guy he was in perfect physical health.”
“So if he was shot, it was the FBI.”
“Absolutely.”
Warch laughed. “I’ll have to tell the president that. He’ll get a real kick out of it.”
“Listen,” Rapp said getting serious, “I need to talk to one of your people.”
“Who?”
“Agent Rivera.”
Warch was quiet for a moment. “Why?”
“Don’t worry, Jack. I’m not going to get her in trouble. I just have a few questions about how things went down back in October.”
“I’m not sure how talkative she’s going to be.”
“Why?”
“The preliminary internal report was released to the top brass yesterday.”
“And?”
“She got pretty beat-up.”
“Don’t tell me you fuckers blamed the whole thing on her.”
“I had nothing to do with it, but you know how it works. We’re like the Navy…something goes wrong on your command and it doesn’t matter if it was your fault or not. You go down with the ship either way.”
Rapp was tempted to argue with him about their tactics, but he hadn’t seen the report and it wasn’t why he called. “Do you have a number where I can reach her?”
“Yeah…hold on a minute.”
“So is she going to lose her job?”
“I don’t think they’ll fire her. They’ll stick her in a boring job pending the completion of the official investigation and then they’ll stick her in an even more boring job.” Warch found the number and gave it to Rapp.
“When is she usually in?”
“Nine. She works out at some karate studio over on thirteenth and L.I guess she’s a real badass.”
“Yeah, right?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Mitch, I’m not kidding. There isn’t a guy at the Service who will spar with her. That’s why she goes over to this other place. Word is she’s been taking her frustration out on them.”
“Thirteenth and L.”
“Yep.”
“Thanks.” Rapp put the white lid on his coffee cup. “Do me a favor.”
“We never talked.”
“You got it.” Rapp smiled. Warch was a solid guy.
“Mitch, one other thing…Thanks.”
“For?”
“Catching this guy. The Service really appreciates it, and I mean that. You ever need anything…all you have to do is ask.”
“Jack, it was my pleasure.” Rapp pressed the end button and considered calling Rivera on her mobile. He decided against it and pulled the battery and SIM card out of the phone. He took his first sip of the hot coffee and then headed out the door. He figured it would take him about five minutes to walk to the studio. It was better to surprise her and get an honest, unprepared reaction.
31
Rapp knew enough to finish his coffee before entering the dojo. It would be a sign of disrespect to bring any food or beverage inside. The karate training hall fronted 13th Street. In the typical American fashion, pedestrians could stand on the sidewalk and watch the class. The place had two large picture windows with a door to the left. The reasons for the windows were twofold. First, it helped demystify the martial art to the average person, which would encourage more walk-ins, and secondly it provided an additional distraction that the students needed to get used to. Rapp stood at the window for several minutes watching the sensei run the class through their routines. They were currently sparring. Eight students paired up, practicing their sanbon kumite, or three-step moves. Their sensei walked between them either complimenting or correcting. Everything was done low key. No yelling or badgering.
Rapp picked Rivera out right away. It was hard to miss her black ponytail flying around as she twirled and kicked. Just as Warch had told him, she was a black belt. The man she was sparring with looked to be a few inches taller and a good forty pounds heavier. He was the only other black belt in the class, and she was kicking the shit out of him. Rapp took his last few sips of coffee and smiled as she delivered a blistering combination that left her opponent dazed and on his back. The sensei stepped in, giving Rivera a disapproving look. Rapp was surprised to see Rivera begin talking back to her sensei, a move that was frowned upon. The instructor’s face flushed, and then in a further sign of disrespect Rivera turned her back on the man.
Rapp had been in a fair number of street fights as a kid, but it wasn’t until he went to work for the CIA that he really learned how to fight. They’d started him out with karate and then judo. He had little difficulty learning both, and while the fundamentals were sound and the discipline was needed, he instinctively knew that in the real world, fighting was far more frantic. Judo and karate had too many rules. Too many constraints. It was on a trip to Fort Bragg for some additional training that he sat in on a jujitsu class. From the first minutes he knew this was a form that was more suited for real world combat. While karate used mostly feet and hand strikes, and judo used mostly holds and throws, jujitsu combined both and then added knees, elbows, head butts, choke holds, submission holds, and even a few more. Rapp began training in earnest, eventually spending several months in Brazil learning Gracie Jujitsu from the grand master himself, Helio Gracie. Over the years he added some Thai boxing to his regimen, but for the most part he focused on Gracie Jujitsu, eventually earning a third-degree black belt.
Rapp looked through the glass at the red-faced sensei and wondered if he would make an example of her. All instructors were not created equal. Some looked good in their white robes and black belts, and could hold their own when practicing one- and three-step moves. Jiyu kumite, or freestyle sparring, was a whole other matter. Worse, put them in a no-holds-barred situation where any form of fighting could be used and they were in serious trouble with their narrow, disciplined approach. Outside their particular area of martial arts, their ability to predict their opponents’ moves was all but gone.
This sensei appeared to be in his fifties and looked as if he’d been in a few scrapes. His nose was flattened out a bit, which meant it had been broken on more than one occasion, and he had scar tissue built up around his eyes. Rivera turned around to face him and put her hands stiffly at her sides. Rapp couldn’t tell what the sensei was saying to her, but after ten seconds Rivera bowed and walked away. Rapp laughed to himself and decided to go in. He dropped his coffee cup in the garbage by the door and entered the small foyer. It had benches on both sides and hooks on the wall. Shoes were lined up under the bench. Rapp looked through the glass into the training room and caught Rivera’s eye. He gestured for her to join him. She shook her head and motioned for him to come into the training room. Rapp hesitated for a second and then figured what the hell. He took off his shoes and placed them under the bench and then hung his trench coat on a hook. With his gun at the small of his back he kept his suit coat on.
Rapp stepped into the training room. The floor was covered with a wall-to-wall blue mat. Looking across the room at the sensei,
Rapp bowed, showing his respect, and then looked at Rivera and said, “May I please have a word with you?”
She put one foot in front of the other and rested a hand on each hip. “Why don’t you go back to the locker room and put on a gi. We can talk while we spar.”
Rapp smiled and said, “I don’t think so.”
“Really.” Rivera walked across the mat and stopped just a few feet short of him. “Come on, tough guy. Are you afraid?”
“No.” Rapp shook his head. “I have more important…”
Suddenly, Rapp was jerked off his feet. He realized what was happening a split second too late. He recognized the hold. It wasn’t karate, it was judo. A double-handed shoulder throw. Midway through the air Rapp heard a tearing noise and knew instantly it was his suit coat. He was so caught off guard by Rivera’s lack of discipline that he never saw it coming. His only choice was to go with it and lessen the fall as much as possible. When he hit the ground, the gun that he was carrying at the small of his back dug into his spine. Rapp’s entire body arched with pain. Rivera held onto his arm and put her bent right knee against his side. The white-hot pain at the base of his back was excruciating. Above it all, though, he heard the voice of the sensei ordering Rivera to stand down.
The man’s face appeared above Rapp. “Are you all right?”
Rapp took a shallow breath and then another. The sensei offered a hand and Rapp took it. When he got to his feet he only had one thing on his mind. He looked at the sensei and said, “Gi, please.”
The sensei looked at Rivera with extreme disappointment and then ordered one of the students to go fetch one of the white uniforms and a belt. Rapp walked over to the corner and took off his suit coat. Reaching around he grabbed his gun and its holster and unclipped them from his waistband. Rapp held up the gun and showed Rivera what he had landed on. She looked slightly embarrassed, but her intensity didn’t wane a bit.
By the time the student came back with a uniform, Rapp had his tie and dress shirt off. Not caring a bit what the class thought, he peeled off his white T-shirt to reveal his scarred upper torso. Three pucker marks from bullet holes and a big half-moon scar on his back from a surgery he’d had to remove a lodged bullet and repair some vital organs. Rapp stripped down to his boxers and put the gi on. He paused momentarily as he looked at the brown belt. It occurred to him that he had never worn one. His original karate and judo training was done in secret and he’d worn only white belts. His training had been more about teaching him how to kill and disable than passing exams. It wasn’t until he showed up at the Gracie school that he was run through the wringer. After a solid month of training and fighting, where he had beat all comers except the Gracie boys themselves, he was presented with a black belt. At the time he’d had no idea how unusual this was, but the Gracies made their own rules and they prized the ability to beat an opponent over all else.