Act of Treason

by Vince Flynn

  Rapp tied the belt the way he’d been taught almost eighteen years ago and looked up at Rivera, who was now in the middle of the room bouncing around rolling her head one way and then the other like a prizefighter.

  She held up a clear mouth guard and said, “Freestyle.”

  Rapp looked to the sensei and said, “Jiyu kumite.”

  The sensei nodded and looked to his pupils, who without having to be told lined up along the far wall and dropped to their knees. Rapp walked to the middle of the room, his guard up this time. He had no idea what her problem was, or whether it was with him directly, men in general, or the entire world. At the moment, he couldn’t have cared less. Karate was as much a discipline as a sport and what Rivera deserved right now was to be taught a lesson. The only question for Rapp was how long to make the lesson. He didn’t give a shit how many black belts she may have racked up, she didn’t have a chance. If you could last a minute on the mat with one of the Gracie boys, who were basically bred to fight, there wasn’t a woman on the planet who could take you.

  Rapp gave the ceremonial bow and Rivera did the same, although she had a smile on her face. She had no idea what she was in for. Rapp took two steps back and was just settling into a relaxed back stance when she came charging forward. Rivera unleashed a series of combination kicks and strikes, spinning and lashing out, up and down. The only problem was she never came within a foot of hitting her target.

  Rapp’s hands stayed clasped at the small of his back. He countered her every move by stepping back to either his left or right and twisting his body clear of her hands and feet. Rivera chased him in a counterclockwise circle around the mat, unleashing five separate combinations of three moves or more, screeching a loud kiai, or shout, with each move.

  She stopped after the last move, which happened to be her best. It was a spinning back kick that she’d used to knock out countless opponents. She’d assumed Rapp was good, but she beat men all the time. There wasn’t an agent at the Secret Service anymore who would step onto the mat with her. The first four moves usually had her opponent so confused and bewildered that they left themselves wide open for the spinning back kick. A little love tap to the chin and it was over before it really got started. Rapp was left standing, however, and his hands were still clasped behind his back. Rivera couldn’t believe it. He was taunting her. She paused to catch her breath and assess the situation for a second before redoubling her attack.

  Rapp reversed his retreat, having identified the fact that like most fighters she preferred to mount her attack from right to left so she could get her strong side, which appeared to be her right side, into the fight with more velocity. She was coming at him even faster now, with more abandon, leaving herself open to counterattack. She came within inches of landing a rising elbow strike and left herself so wide open that Rapp couldn’t resist taking a shot. He was already dropping his weight to miss her elbow, so he simply continued the downward move and began to spin 180 degrees until his back was to her. His left leg shot out so fast Rivera never saw it. His heel struck the center of her solar plexus with about half the force he could have delivered.

  Rapp pulled out of the move and stepped back rather than press the attack. Rivera brought her forearms down and her elbows in to protect her midsection. She paused for a beat, angry that he had got the better of her.

  Blocking out the pain, Rivera said, “Is that all you can put behind a kick?”

  Rapp shook his head. “Not even close.”

  He didn’t know if he should admire her or send her to the hospital. He decided to change styles and give her something else to worry about. Rapp rose up out of his relaxed back stance and moved forward a half step to his left. His arms and fists came up like a boxer, but higher. His entire body bobbed one way and then the other. Suddenly, he hopped forward, landing on his right foot. His hands were up near his face, reaching out for Rivera. He performed the move so quickly that she was left with only one choice and that was to stay in a defensive position. As Rapp’s hands came down on her shoulders his left knee came up. He leaned back slightly and thrust his rear hip forward, bringing his knee up and into her stomach.

  Rivera partially blocked the blow with her right forearm, but it didn’t matter much. It landed with such force that her whole body came off the mat and she let loose a low guttural groan. Rivera tried to clutch his leg before he wound up for another shot, but he simply backed away.

  Rapp could have finished her off. One more knee strike followed up with a downward elbow strike to her back and it would have been over, but he wanted to see what she was really made of. It was one thing to attack someone who you thought was an inferior opponent; it was another thing to attack someone when you knew you were outmatched.

  Rivera staggered to the side and backed far enough away so she could stand up and take in a deep breath. As she did so, she felt a stabbing pain in her side and realized she might have a broken rib. She vanquished the thought and stared across the mat at Rapp. There was a split second of doubt, but she suppressed it. He was standing tall, which opened him up to a leg sweep. If she could get him on the ground maybe she could put him into a submission hold. Rivera pulled in her core and pushed away the pain. In that slight pause in the fight she saw her strategy. She would deliver a flying kick, which she would pull at the last second and then land and sweep his legs out from underneath him.

  Rapp saw the look in her eye. He’d intentionally baited her by staying tall like a Thai boxer rather than dropping back into a karate stance. He saw her eyes quickly check his feet and then he watched as she gathered herself up for the attack. She backed up a few steps getting the bounce back in her step and then sprang forward. Rapp waited until the last possible second. He didn’t want her to abort the move. As soon as she brought her right leg up for the expected flying kick Rapp stepped forward and to the right, closing the distance and occupying the space Rivera planned on using to unleash her leg sweep. Rapp deflected the leg kick with his left hand and continued past her.

  Rivera landed off balance, and before she could recover, Rapp had hold of her. One arm slipped around her throat and the other came up under her left armpit. He pulled her back off her feet and allowed his full weight to collapse her to the mat. Rapp sat her down on her ass, dropping to his own knees and tightening the rear stranglehold on her throat.

  Rivera had been in this hold only once before, and it hadn’t ended well. She drew her legs in and tried to stand, but he leaned on her even harder and tightened the hold around her neck. She grasped for a finger to snap, but couldn’t get a hold of one. Spots started to enter her vision from the sides. She was winded from fighting and needed air. She knew all she had to do was raise her fight hand and submit, but she couldn’t allow herself to do that. With one final effort she dug her nails into his forearm and then started scratching for his eyes.

  Rapp didn’t bother to ask her to submit. She knew how this game was played. It was hers to ask for and his to grant. He also knew it was unlikely that she would. In a final attempt to break free she reached up to gouge his eyes. Something that was perfectly expected in a street fight, but here in the dojo it was strictly forbidden. He turned his head away and she gave him a good scratch on his cheek. Rapp held the hold firmly and a few seconds later Rivera went limp.

  32

  R app hadn’t worked up a sweat, so he got dressed and waited outside for Rivera. She came out ten minutes later, her hair wet and pulled back in a ponytail.

  “So, I suppose you hung around to gloat.” Rivera threw open the right side of her black trench coat and placed her hand on the hilt of her service pistol.

  “No, but from your tone it sounds like you could use another ass kicking.”

  “What do you want with me?” She sounded irritated.

  “We need to talk. Have you had breakfast?”

  She looked at her watch. “No time. I can’t be late for work. I’m under double secret probation.”

  “Is that the reason for your att
itude?”

  “If you really care to know, yes it is. Three months ago I was a rising star and now I’m an embarrassment.”

  “Come on.” Rapp grabbed her by the elbow. “I spotted a breakfast place around the corner. We need to talk about a few things.”

  “I told you I can’t. They’re looking for an excuse to fire me. I need to get to work.”

  “Fuck ’em. You didn’t do anything they didn’t train you to do. Come on, let’s go.”

  She dug in her heels. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You followed Secret Service procedure. Plain and simple.”

  “And what is wrong with our procedures?” she said defensively.

  “Oh, you’re a pain in the ass. Just drop the feminist, bull dyke bravado for thirty minutes, alright? I’m buying. Let’s go.”

  Rivera’s eyes squinted. “Did you just call me a bull dyke?”

  “No…I said drop the bull dyke attitude. You know…the whole female cop that has to prove she’s tougher than any man.”

  “You think I’m a lesbian?”

  “I don’t care if you’re gay, straight, bi, or whatever the hell floats your boat. All I’m telling you is that I don’t need your fucking attitude. I showed up here this morning, because I have something important to talk to you about, and you pull that classless, cheap shot, bullshit move, thinking you’re all tough.” Rapp got in her face. “My fucking back is killing me. You dropped me on my fucking gun…You’re lucky I didn’t break your jaw.”

  “Yeah…well if it makes you happy, I think you broke one of my ribs.” Rivera slid a hand under her jacket and winced as she touched her side.

  “Good.” Rapp looked around and then said, “Can we go have breakfast now?”

  “I’m not kidding. They’re building a file on me. Any excuse to get rid of me.”

  It occurred to Rapp that she was so outside the loop that she had no idea he’d captured the man responsible for the motorcade attack. “Did you read the paper or turn on the TV this morning?”

  “No. I got up and ran five miles and then came here.”

  “Five miles and then you came here?”

  “Yeah…that’s probably why you beat me. Next time I’m going to make sure I’m ready.”

  “Are you delusional?”

  “No…just realistic.”

  Rapp shook his head and started walking. “Come on. I need something to eat.”

  “I’m serious. I have to go. Maybe we could meet for lunch?”

  Without breaking stride, Rapp yelled over his shoulder, “Did I mention that I found the man in the red hat?”

  Rivera hesitated for a second and then called back, “What?”

  “You heard me.” Three seconds later the Secret Service agent was at his side.

  “Are you jerking me around? Because if you are, I swear…”

  “Easy, killer. You really need to calm down.”

  “You should talk.”

  “I’m a guy.”

  “There you go with the sexist stuff again.”

  Rapp glanced at her sideways and decided to ignore the comment. “I found the guy on Cyprus, dragged him back here yesterday, and handed him over to the FBI. They’re going to announce the whole thing at ten o’clock this morning.”

  “Does the Secret Service know?”

  “I talked to Jack Warch this morning. He knew.”

  “Bastards. You think they would have called me.”

  “Relax. There’s a chance they only found out this morning.”

  Rivera shook her head. “You don’t understand. I don’t exist to them anymore. All I am is a reminder of one of the Service’s greatest failures.”

  Rapp supposed she was right. They came up on a small diner, and Rapp grabbed the door and held it for her. They went to a booth near the back, and Rapp practically had to fight Rivera for the side that faced the door. Rapp took off his trench coat and when he sat down he lifted his right arm and checked out the torn seam on his suit coat.

  “I’m going to pay for that,” Rivera said.

  Rapp ignored her. “So I have a few questions for you.”

  “I’m serious about paying for it. Don’t ignore me.”

  “Are you always this confrontational, or is this all related to work?”

  “I think I used to be a pretty positive person.” She got reflective for a moment. “I was happy with my job. My life was good, although, things were a little barren in the love department, but when we’re in campaign mode there’s no time for anything, and then the damn bomb went off and it’s been pretty shitty ever since then.”

  Rapp studied her, slightly surprised by her honesty. Rivera was an extremely attractive woman. She could use a little softening around the edges, but the beauty was undeniable, and it was all natural. She didn’t have to work at a thing. Without any makeup or real sense of style she was an effortless eight. At a place like the Secret Service that would make her a ten, and like all law enforcement agencies the Secret Service had no shortage of puss hounds. If he remembered her file right she was in her mid-thirties. Any woman who was this attractive, and still single at this point in her life, must have some issues.

  “You ever wish you had died in the attack?” Rapp knew it was a common reaction from survivors. Especially, survivors whose job it was to protect those who died.

  Rivera studied Rapp for a moment and then said, “I think wish might be a little strong, but yeah, I’ve thought about it.”

  The waitress pulled up to the table and killed the conversation. They both ordered coffee and water, and Rivera ordered the heart-healthy omelet while Rapp asked for the corned beef and hash. When the waitress was gone, Rivera began peppering him with questions about the man in the red hat. Rapp gave her the vanilla version only, maybe just a little more than what the FBI already knew and then he took control of the conversation.

  “I haven’t read the report in sometime, so I can’t remember, did you use electronic jammers that morning?”

  Rivera shook her head. “That was one of the things I’ve been criticized for.”

  “They were available to you and you didn’t use them?” Rap asked a bit surprised.

  “That’s what they say, but there wasn’t a person on the detail who knew that, and no one back at headquarters ever told us directly that they were available. They dug up some bullshit, cover your ass, interoffice memo that they claim was sent to us. The only problem is, during the campaign, we’re on the fly nonstop. We don’t have time to read a forty-page memo on our BlackBerry.”

  “So no jammers.”

  “Correct.”

  Rapp grabbed the salt-and-pepper shakers and lined them up one in front of the other and then switched them. “But you shuffled the cars, right?”

  Rivera shook her head.

  Her answer shocked Rapp, but he hid his surprise. “All right, walk me through the last five minutes, please. How were you deployed? When did you begin to roll…the whole routine.” While Rivera began to talk, Rapp started to consider the possibility that Gazich had lied to him about the phone call telling him it was the second limo. If he’d lied to him about that, what else had he lied to him about? Rapp only half listened to Rivera as she relayed the details of the tragic afternoon. He was already trying to figure out how he could get his hands on Gazich for a more in-depth interrogation.

  33

  GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

  T he idyllic town of Geneva was perhaps the most conflicted city on the planet. As the bedrock of puritanical Calvinism the city was as buttoned up and straitlaced as any in a country that prided itself on cleanliness, good manners, and lots of rules. That was by day. The cars, most of them BMWs, Mercedes, or Audis, were spotless. The men, most of them bankers, financiers, accountants, or lawyers, wore expensive handmade suits that never went out of style. By some estimates as much as a quarter of the world’s private wealth was deposited in the vaults of Geneva’s banks, which meant that a town with only a quarter million people held more pr
ivate assets than New York, London, Paris, Hong Kong, or Tokyo. It hardly seemed possible, but it was.

  The Genevese, like the long line of religious hypocrites who had gone before them, had somehow managed to reconcile their Calvinist beliefs with an absolute lust for money. How could a quarter of the world’s private wealth end up in a relatively small city, you might ask. The answer was pretty straightforward. The Swiss maintained absolute secrecy when it came to their banking records. Many of their clients were legitimate business people and members of European royalty who simply wanted to keep their finances their own business. A disproportionate number, though, were reprobates and sociopaths. People who had lied, cheated, and even killed to amass their wealth.

  If these bad eggs had simply deposited their ill-gotten gains in the high-polished banks of Geneva, the story of the city by the lake would have been fairly boring. There was a byproduct of this secret banking relationship, however, that the community’s modern-day leaders had never predicted. Geneva had become a magnet for wealthy scoundrels and criminals from every continent. Because many of them obtained their wealth by breaking the law, they were wanted by their home countries for prosecution and in some cases the gallows.