by Vince Flynn
“What are you thinking about?”
Rivera’s words yanked Rapp back to the here and now like a slap to the face. He slowly turned and looked into the caramel eyes of the woman he had slept with less than a day ago. As bad as he was with relationships, he wasn’t so stupid as to tell her he was thinking about his deceased wife.
“I’m just wondering why they need me in Atlanta.”
Rapp was referring to his boss, CIA Director Irene Kennedy. She had called and had their plane diverted while it was over the Gulf of Mexico.
“She didn’t tell you why?”
“Only that the president needed to talk to me.”
Rivera got nervous. “You don’t think?”
“No.” Rapp shook his head. He knew what she was hinting at. The president knew nothing of Garret’s role in the death of his wife.
Rivera looked past Rapp out the window for a moment and then slowly let her gaze fall on him. She squeezed his hand and said, “I want you to know that I think I know why you did what you did last night, and I’m not mad.”
Rapp was surprised. “Really?”
Rapp had arrived back at the beach a little before 4:00 in the morning to find Rivera waiting for him. She was sitting at the tree line holding the secure radio looking worried. He walked out of the surf and across the soft sand not knowing what to expect but was fairly certain she was not going to be happy with him. For a brief moment, he even considered lying to her. Since the plan was to kill Garret on the second night, he thought about telling her he was doing some reconnaissance, but the lie wouldn’t hold up for long. The wife was sure to report him missing as soon as she awoke. They needed to leave the country before the police started poking around.
Rapp walked up to her and extended his hand. She grabbed it, and he pulled her to her feet.
She looked him in the eye for a long moment and then asked, “You killed him, didn’t you?”
Rapp hesitated and then said, “Yes.”
After studying him with her discerning eyes, Rivera nodded and in a very casual tone said, “We’d better pack up and get out of here.”
Rapp was expecting more of a confrontation. He followed her up to the house, pretty sure the interrogation would ensue later. While Rivera got started sanitizing the place, Rapp called the pilots and told them to get the plane ready. It took them less than an hour to put everything in order. As the Eastern sky was beginning to brighten, he threw their bags into the back of their rented Toyota FJ Cruiser and locked up the house.
They’d flown into Golfito on a rented corporate jet flown by former military pilots who were paid well to keep their mouths shut. Entering the country had given Rapp little concern. He and Rivera had landed at the small Golfito airport where the customs and immigration controls were almost nonexistent. An advance team had already made arrangements for a vehicle and the house. The only downside was all the nosy realtors who trolled the airport looking for potential buyers. The real estate boom had finally reached the remote southern part of Costa Rica. There were a lot of Americans who were living in the area trying to make their fortune. It was not unusual for private jets to land at the small airport, but it was not so common as to not be noticed. There was a chance that some aggressive reporter might try to run down the lead, but it wouldn’t get them very far. Rapp and Rivera were traveling with Mexican passports.
They were wheels up and heading north shortly before 7:00 a.m. A few hours later they touched down in Cancun and pulled into a private hangar where they changed planes as well as identities. This time they were Bob and Susan Luther, a married couple from Nashville. The next leg of their journey was to take them to Houston, but shortly after takeoff they received the call from Langley. Not wanting to go into detail over an unsecured line, Rapp’s boss explained to him that the president wanted his counsel on an urgent matter. She was with him in Atlanta, and they would be traveling back to Washington shortly after lunch.
Rivera had been quiet for most of the flight. She kept her head buried in a book and for the most part ignored Rapp. The fact that she was now telling him she understood why he had taken care of Garret himself was a good sign.
“You are very good at what you do,” Rivera said. “It scares me sometimes, but that’s not the point. There was a lot riding on this, and it had to go down perfectly. As much as I wanted to choke the life out of that piece of trash, it was foolish of me to think that I should be the one to do it.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you understand.”
“Now it’s your turn.”
“My turn?”
“To apologize.” Rivera brushed her shiny black hair back over her shoulder and twisted in her seat. Smiling, she said, “Come on. Let’s hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“Your apology for not telling me what you were up to.”
“I…” Rapp stammered.
“You thought you knew best, and you were afraid of how I would react, so you got me drunk, slept with me, and then snuck out of bed and went and took care of the job all by yourself.”
“That’s not entirely true.” Rapp wriggled uncomfortably in his seat. “I never planned on…”
“Yes, you did,” she cut him off. “You may not want to admit it, but you were thinking it from the moment we began discussing the operation. And I have no problem with your decision.”
“You wouldn’t have been upset? You wouldn’t have argued with me?”
“I might have, but in the end I would have respected your decision.”
Rapp laughed in disbelief.
“So your way is better?” Rivera shot him a watch-your-step sideways glance. “I’m your partner. I’m your backup. If things go south I’m supposed to be there to bail your ass out. I can’t very well do that if I’m asleep.”
“I left the radio turned on. If things got tough I would have called you.”
Rivera withdrew her hand and folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys that can’t admit he’s wrong to a woman.”
“That’s not it at all.”
“Then what is it? I told you that I respect your tactical decision to take the lead on this one. All I’m looking for is for you to admit that you should have kept me in the loop.”
“Fine…I should have kept you in the loop.”
Rivera smiled. “That wasn’t very hard, was it?”
“Actually, it was.”
Rivera smiled and then leaned over and kissed him on the lips. “I know who you are, Mitch. I’m not going to try and change you. At least not very much. Maybe just smooth out your rough edges a bit.”
10
The Atlanta International Airport was one of the busiest in the world, and thanks to a certain 747 parked alone on a remote section of the tarmac, it was about to become the most backed-up airport in the world. The presidential motorcade didn’t just stop ground traffic, it stopped air traffic as well. The caravan of cars, limousines, SUVs, vans, and motorcycles raced across the smooth concrete tarmac like they were late to catch a plane. They weren’t, but the men and women in charge of moving the president and his entourage knew that minutes meant money. The Secret Service worked very closely with local officials and authorities to make sure things ran smoothly. In this modern era of jet-setting commanders in chief they were acutely aware of the negative economic impact a visiting president could have on an airport. If you shut down a major hub like Atlanta for thirty minutes, it could back up the entire region and beyond, costing millions to air carriers and lost productivity to fliers.
Taking that into consideration, the folks from the 89th Airlift Wing and the Secret Service give it their all to make sure the plane is ready to roll the second the president is on board. The pool reporters had already been bused from the event at Ebenezer Baptist Church where the president had launched his inner-city faith initiative. They’d gone up a second set of stairs closer to the tail of the plane and were now settled and buckled in for takeoff. The Air Force crew had already c
ompleted their preflight checklist and had the four General Electric engines humming and ready.
As the motorcade approached the massive white and blue 747-200B, vehicles began to peel off. Normally, a line of dignitaries would have been at the bottom of the stairs but the president was in a hurry so it was canceled. Before the first Cadillac DTS Presidential Limousine stopped at the red carpet, doors began opening. Men in dark suits and a few women began joining those already standing post around the plane. President Alexander stepped from the back of his limousine and moved toward the forward set of stairs. He paused just long enough to take CIA Director Irene Kennedy by the elbow and start up the stairs with her. The president’s national security advisor and chief of staff were right on their heels. Three agents from his personal detail followed while more agents hurried up the second set of stairs.
Barely thirty seconds after arrival, the stairs were being pulled away from the craft and the vehicles were off to another part of the airport where they would be loaded onto cargo planes from the 89th Airlift Wing. The Air Force ground crew yanked the bright yellow blocks from the landing gear and gave the signal that everything was clear. A senior airman in an orange vest and headset walked out past the nose of the plane and gave the area one more visual check to make sure it was clear. He held up his signal sticks and started motioning for the plane to follow him. After the wheels began to roll, the airman walked off to the port side and saluted as the big beautiful bird rolled past.
Inside, President Alexander and his closest advisors were filing into the conference room where Rapp was waiting.
Rapp stood and said, “Mr. President, I apologize for my appearance.” He was wearing a pair of worn khaki cargo pants, a faded polo shirt, and a suit coat he’d borrowed from one of the Secret Service agents. To make matters worse, he hadn’t shaved in five days.
“Don’t worry.” The president took off his suit coat and threw it on the couch across from the conference table. “By the looks of you, I’m assuming you were off doing something I don’t want to know about.”
Rapp almost laughed, but thought better of it. He was momentarily at a loss for words.
The president read his discomfort and flashed Rapp one of his Southern grins. “I’m just kidding. Take a seat and buckle up.”
All five people settled into the fixed leather chairs. The president sat at the head of the table; his National Security Advisor, Frank Ozark, sat immediately to his right and then Ted Byrne, his chief of staff. Rapp and Kennedy were on the other side of the table with Kennedy sitting closest to the president.
As the plane began to roll, the president looked at an Air Force officer standing in the door and said, “As soon as we reach altitude I want the call placed.”
“Yes, sir.” The man saluted and closed the door.
With the powerful engines roaring outside, Rapp put his mouth within inches of Kennedy’s ear and said, “Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
Kennedy had already grabbed the file in anticipation of this question. She opened it, revealing a satellite image, and slid it between them. “Do you recognize this?”
Rapp studied the picture intently while he scratched the thick black stubble on his face. “It’s the Isfahan facility. Isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Kennedy showed him a second photo that at first glance appeared to be the same as the first.
“What am I looking for?” Rapp asked.
Kennedy tapped her finger on the upper right quadrant of the photo. “Right there.”
Rapp’s eyes moved back and forth several times to both the before and after shots. “Is that a cloud of smoke?”
“It would appear so.” Kennedy removed both photos and laid out two new ones. These were blown-up shots focusing on the immediate area of interest. In the first one you could clearly see the large air-conditioning units on the roof. In the second one everything was obscured by a large debris cloud.
“What the hell happened?” Rapp asked in a hushed voice.
“We’re not sure.”
“So it wasn’t us?”
“No.”
“Then it had to be the Israelis.”
“One would assume.” Kennedy showed him another photo while the plane taxied to the main runway. The debris cloud was clear in this shot.
Rapp studied the shot for a few seconds and then asked the obvious question. “Where the hell is the roof?”
“It appears to have fallen into that large hole.”
Rapp was trying to make sense of it all. “Let’s back up for a moment. When did this happen?”
“Shortly after noon today. Tehran time.”
“We have real-time footage?”
“Partial. The NRO is analyzing it as we speak.” Kennedy was referring to the National Reconnaissance Office.
“Have you talked to Ben?” Rapp was referring to Ben Freidman, Kennedy’s equal at Mossad.
“He hasn’t returned any of my calls.”
Rapp shook his head. “That’s not a good sign.”
“Possibly, but I would imagine he has his hands full.”
“Or he’s dodging you. How about their ambassador?”
“Nothing so far. State has reached out to him, but he claims he knows even less than we do.”
“He’s probably telling the truth.” Rapp glanced over at the president who was talking to his chief of staff and national security advisor. Moving closer to Kennedy, he asked, “Why am I here? This all seems a bit above my pay grade at this point.”
Kennedy pulled her reading glasses to the tip of her nose and said, “I have no idea.”
Rapp’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Come on.”
“Seriously. I found out about this right before I gave him his morning briefing.” Kennedy tapped one of the satellite photos. “That was why he had me come on the trip. Midway between DC and Atlanta he went into his office to make a call. Ten minutes later he emerged and told me he wanted you on the return flight to DC.”
Rapp leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, considered the possible implications of the president’s sudden interest in him and muttered, “I wonder who in the hell he talked to.”
11
In the last year Rapp had sat through more videoconferences than he had in all his previous years of government service combined. The post–9/11 counterterrorism bureaucracy had exploded from a few hundred dedicated men and women at the CIA, FBI, State, and a handful of other agencies to thousands of people with a combined budget of more than a billion dollars a year. In the grand tradition of Capitol Hill, the politicians had thrown vast amounts of money at the problem whether it was needed or not.
New agencies were created like Homeland Security, the National Counterterrorism Center, and the Terrorist Threat Integration Center. Agencies that Rapp didn’t even know existed like the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency were elevated in importance and brought into the big tent of counterterrorism. Rapp still wasn’t exactly sure what the Geospatial gang did, but he did know they had a shiny new headquarters and a budget big enough to embarrass a lobbyist. Add to this satellite offices in major cities all over the world, the ever-burgeoning counterterrorism operations at Defense, Justice, and State, and you were left with an unwieldy bureaucracy that was about as agile as a ballistic missile submarine in the Potomac River.
One of Rapp’s great fears had come to pass. Talented people and countless resources had been sucked into the support side of the business as opposed to the operations side, where it was really needed. And because one of the great lessons of 9/11 was that not enough people were talking to each other, the dictum had come down from Capitol Hill that everyone was to play nice and share information. Hence the boom in videoconferences. It had become a way of life, but not one that Rapp embraced.
A forty-inch plasma screen hung on the far wall of the conference room opposite the president. It was currently split in two, with Secretary of Defense Brad England on the left and Secretary of State Sunny Wicka on the r
ight. President Alexander had been in office a little over a year, and fortunately for the young leader his administration had thus far avoided any major international conflicts. That was all about to change. Rapp had heard good things from Kennedy about the president’s national security team, which was reassuring given the seeming gravity of whatever had happened at the Iranian nuclear facility. As with most videoconferences, Rapp’s plan was to say as little as possible. He was very suspicious of the claims made by the communications folks that the lines were secure. Whenever you started bouncing communications off satellites Rapp assumed someone was capturing those signals and decrypting them.
“Brad,” the president started, “I’m sorry for pulling you off the slopes.”
“That’s all right, Mr. President, it’s part of the job.” England had been taking a long weekend at his mountaintop retreat in Beaver Creek, Colorado. He was in his early fifties and despite his gray hair, he had a very boyish way about him. A former big gun for Merrill Lynch, England fit into the president’s plan of putting private sector people in his cabinet.
“Hello, Sunny,” the president greeted the secretary of state. “Have you heard anything further from the Israeli ambassador?”
“No. At least not anything useful.”
Wicka was at her desk in Foggy Bottom. Rapp knew his boss and Wicka had a good relationship. He took it as a good sign that she didn’t have five of her underlings sitting in on the call.
“Has the foreign minister returned your call?” the president asked.
“Yes. I just got off the phone with her.”
“And?”
“Officially, the Israeli government has no idea what happened at the Isfahan facility.”
“Unofficially?” the president asked.
Wicka twirled a black Mont Blanc pen in her right hand. At seventy-one she looked a decade younger than her age. “There are some rumblings that a certain outfit may have had a hand in it.”
