by Vince Flynn
Rapp laughed to himself as he moved down the empty street. He was walking a very thin line. The list of things he’d kept from his handlers was growing rather lengthy, and he knew they would take it as evidence that he couldn’t be trusted. He knew more than they thought, however. He wasn’t the only one breaking the rules.
CHAPTER 9
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SECRETARY of State Franklin Wilson was wearing a white oxford shirt under a yellow cardigan sweater. At seventy-one, with thinning gray hair, he looked every part the wise elder statesmen. A successful attorney, he’d served in three White Houses; the first as a chief of staff, then as the secretary of defense, and now as secretary of state. The money came from his wife’s family—a lucrative auto parts business in Ohio. The reputation was all his. He’d graduated near the top of his class from Harvard Law and joined one of D.C.’s top law firms. In between his stints as a public servant, he would return to the law firm, of which he was now a fully vested partner. It had been a great run. He was one of the titans of the District—a man who was respected by both parties and the press.
Despite all of his accomplishments, he was in a sour mood. The house felt lonely on this fall Saturday afternoon. Wilson had instructed his staff to take a few hours off so he could make this meeting as private as possible. The real reason it felt lonely, though, was that his wife of forty-seven years was gone—not physically but mentally. She’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s just two years ago, and although they’d all held out hope that the disease would advance slowly, it had instead ravaged her mind at a swift pace. Within a year, she’d forgotten her kids and grandchildren and could barely remember her husband. Six months after that she was dead to the world. One month earlier, Franklin Wilson did what he swore he would never do.
At the urging of friends, his staff, and his children, he checked his wife into a home where she could receive twenty-four-hour care. That was the justification, at any rate, but Wilson couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d abandoned her. It haunted him every day. This beautiful Georgetown brownstone where they’d hosted so many parties, with the who’s who of D.C., had now become a mausoleum for him. He refused to sell, feeling it would be another betrayal to her and the memory of the great lady she had been before that insidious disease had begun to eat away at the very thing that made her her. Wilson knew he’d lost some focus, but the demands of his job kept him busy and provided a welcome distraction from the tragic hand he’d been dealt.
When the doorbell sounded, he felt his mood lift. There was important business that needed to be conducted. Wilson bounded from behind his desk, proceeded across the marble foyer, and opened the door to his five-story Georgetown brownstone. He enthusiastically greeted his guest. “Paul, thank you for coming by on such short notice.”
Paul Cooke, the CIA’s deputy director, returned the smile and shook the secretary’s hand. “My pleasure, Mr. Secretary. I always like an excuse to spend some time in Georgetown on a fall afternoon.”
“I know what you mean, and call me Franklin when we’re not in our official capacities,” Wilson said as he closed the door and led his visitor down the hall, “That’s why I bought the place, by the way. No suburbs for me. Too quiet.” Wilson opened a door and pointed down the steps. “Do you like to play billiards?”
Cooke hiked his shoulders. “What Harvard man doesn’t?”
Wilson slapped him on the back. “Good man. You’re class of sixty-five, right?”
“Yes.”
Once they were downstairs, Wilson turned on the stereo and flipped a few switches behind the bar. A hearty fire was already burning and a college football game was on the TV. Wilson didn’t bother asking his guest what he wanted to drink. He grabbed two lowballs and placed three ice cubes in each glass before filling them halfway with single-malt scotch. He gave Cooke his glass and said, “I hope you don’t mind hanging out down here, but I had certain devices installed in this room that make it easier for us to discuss things of a delicate nature.”
Working at the CIA, Cooke understood all too well. He wondered who Wilson had used and when the equipment had been installed. Listening devices and countermeasures were constantly changing.
Wilson held up his glass. “To Harvard. The finest institution in the land.”
Cooke smiled. “To Harvard.”
Wilson made small talk while he racked the balls and continued to keep the conversation light all the way through the first game. After trouncing Cooke, Wilson smashed the second break and moved the conversation in a more serious direction. “Paul, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“This is serious, Paul . . . from one Harvard man to another.” Wilson looked at the other man from across the table for a moment, allowing the words to sink in. The innuendo was simple. We are both gentlemen. We do not lie to each other.
Cooke inclined his head respectfully, signaling that he understood.
“Do you trust Thomas Stansfield?”
Cooke was in the process of sipping his scotch, which was a good thing because it helped conceal the grin on his face. He quickly put his business expression on and said, “That’s an interesting question.”
Wilson knew he’d have to lead this one by the nose so he said, “Listen, I’ve known Thomas for close to thirty years. During the Cold War there was no one better, but the Cold War is over, and I’m afraid he’s failing to keep pace.”
Cooke had known there was some reason the secretary wanted to see him, but he had not expected it to be about Thomas Stansfield. He gave a noncommittal nod.
“Do you trust him?” Wilson asked again.
Cooke allowed himself to laugh openly. “If you knew him as you say you do, you wouldn’t bother asking that question. Thomas Stansfield was born to be a spy and is the most secretive man I have ever met in my life.”
Wilson pointed his glass at Cooke and extended his forefinger. “My point exactly.”
Treading carefully, Cooke added, “It does kind of go along with the job description.”
“To a degree, but he is not a king unto himself. He still has to answer to certain people.” Wilson searched the younger man’s face for a sign that he could be an ally. So far he was getting nothing. “He’s never been very good at handling oversight, and I’m afraid with the director slot open he’s gotten even worse.”
The previous director had unexpectedly retired for health reasons one month earlier and the president had yet to nominate a replacement, so for the meantime, Cooke was minding the store. “He does tend to run his own turf, and doesn’t take too kindly to anyone sticking his nose in his business.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, Wilson thought to himself. He refilled their drinks and kept the conversation moving in the direction he thought best for his objectives. He would touch on Stansfield and then move on to D.C. gossip or some funny story about him and the president pulling a practical joke on the hapless vice president. But he kept coming back to Stansfield. It was in the middle of the fifth game of pool and third drink that Wilson saw his opening. “Paul, I need to confide in you.”
Cooke leaned against his pool cue, understanding that they were finally going to get to the heart of the matter. “All right.”
“You’re on the president’s short list for director.”
This came as a surprise to Cooke. His intel had told him that the president was set on bringing in someone who hadn’t been tainted by the Agency. “Really?”
“Yes . . . and would you care to know how you ended up on that list?”
Cooke nodded.
“I put you there. I told the president you are a man who we can trust to get the job done.”
“Thank you, sir.” Cooke’s guard was up. He barely knew Wilson. If the man was recommending him to the president for the top spot at Langley, he must want something in return.
“Do you know who else is on that short list?”
“I’ve heard a few names,” Cooke said honestly. The rumor mill in D
.C. was churning out a couple of new possibilities every week.
“Thomas Stansfield is on that list,” Wilson said, shaking his head. “There’s a group of very influential senators who are pushing for him. And I mean pushing hard.”
Cooke nodded. Stansfield was connected, and on top of that, he knew where all the bodies were buried. Cooke would never admit it, but he’d always considered the deputy director of Operations a potential adversary and someone not to be taken lightly.
“The last thing we need is a Cold War cowboy running Langley,” Wilson said with real vigor. “That’s why I’m pushing you. You know the place, you’ve come up through the ranks, and you already have the respect of the front-line troops. All I need to know is, can you handle Stansfield?”
Cooke definitely knew the place. He’d worked there for almost thirty years. He’d come up on the administration side of things and knew how to run a tight ship. As for the respect of the front-line troops, that was a bit of a stretch, but he definitely had the respect of the majority of the employees working out of the Langley campus. As far as handling Thomas Stansfield, that was a tricky question. He wasn’t sure anyone could actually handle the man. His contacts ran deep, and his ability to see three moves ahead of his enemies had always made him a formidable foe. The Russians actually respected him, which spoke volumes. Stansfield saw angles and opportunity where others saw chaos, danger, and a problem not worth tackling. But Cooke had a few surprises of his own.
He took a gulp of scotch and decided to go all in. “I can handle Thomas. It won’t be easy, but I can do it.”
“Handling and reining him in are two different things. I need you to get the man under control. I need you to promise me you’ll get him playing by the rules. I’ve been warning the president for some time that Stansfield is a ticking bomb. Sooner or later, one of his little operations is going to blow up in our faces and he’s going to embarrass the crap out of the president. We’ll end up with committee hearings that’ll drag on for years. It’s hard enough getting elected president, but it’s tough as all hell to get reelected and even more so when you’re being dogged by a scandal.”
Cooke nodded. He’d seen it happen before. “I understand.”
“So we can count on you?”
Cooke wasn’t sure, but he’d figure something out. “You can count on me.”
“Good.” Wilson raised his glass and tapped it against Cooke’s. “I’ll tell the president you’re our man.”
Cooke took a sip and thought to himself, Just like that, I’m the next director of the Central Intelligence Agency. It had been a lifelong dream.
“There’s something we want you to look into first,” Wilson said.
The glass hadn’t left his lips yet and Cooke thought, Here comes the catch.
“This crap that went down in Paris last night.”
“Yes,” Cooke said, hiding his surprise at the new direction of the conversation.
“The president is pissed. He spoke directly to the Israeli prime minister this morning and they are denying any involvement.”
“They always do. That’s how it works.”
“Yeah . . . well, this time it’s different. There are certain things I’m not at liberty to discuss, but believe me when I tell you the president believes Mossad didn’t have a hand in it.”
Cooke’s face showed no emotion.
“I wish I could say more, but I can’t. You’re just going to have to trust me on this. Can you do that?”
Cooke wasn’t sure, but he wanted to see where this was headed. “I trust you, Franklin.”
“Good.” Wilson took his cue and leaned it against the wall. “Here’s where things are going to get a little dicey.” Not quite sure how to take the next step, he decided to simply spit it out. “I think Thomas Stansfield is involved.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“Nothing concrete. Just some things I’ve picked up. The point is he’s been running afoul of congressional oversight for years, and now I think he’s really stepped in it.”
“Thomas Stansfield is not to be taken lightly. If you want me to get him under control you’re going to have to give me more.”
“I will, but I need you to do something first,” Wilson said, sidestepping the request. “You remember a foul son of a bitch named Stan Hurley?”
Cooke certainly did, but he played it cool. “I know of him.”
“I thought you would. The bastard supposedly retired, but guys like Hurley don’t retire, they keep screwing with stuff in the shadows until the day they die.”
Offering no reaction one way or the other, Cooke simply said, “We have a lot of retired operatives. Not all of them remain as active as Mr. Hurley.”
“So you’re familiar with what he’s been up to?”
“I hear rumors, but they’re just rumors.”
“Well,” Wilson said, nodding his head vigorously, “you can believe at least half of them. The man is a certified paranoid schizophrenic and a sadist.”
“He was very effective back in the day. At least that’s what they say.”
“The operative phrase being ‘back in the day.’ It’s a new world now. No more of this Check Point Charlie, Berlin espionage where we need our own ruthless son of a bitch to go up against the Russians’ ruthless son of a bitch. The world is changing, Paul. Satellites and information are tearing down walls. What we need is intelligence and diplomacy. Hearts and minds are the keys. The president wants someone he can trust at Langley. Someone who is not only going to get Stansfield under control but will make sure goons like Stan Hurley are really retired. Can you do that for us?”
Cooke relished the challenge. Mustering up every bit of confidence he had and then some, he said, “I’m your man.”
“Good.” Wilson slapped him on the back. “Get to the bottom of what in the hell happened in Paris last night, and keep a lid on it. Report only to me. We don’t want the CIA airing its dirty laundry and embarrassing the president.”
“No FBI?” Cooked asked, feigning surprise.
“If we can avoid getting them involved, great. If we have to bring them in, the president will make that call.” Wilson wasn’t about to tell him he was making this up as he went. Part of his job was to insulate the president from scandal, and that’s what he was doing. “Focus on Stansfield and Hurley. Find out what they’ve been up to. Bring it to me, and we’ll have them dealt with. And then you will enjoy one of the quickest confirmations this town has ever seen.”
A broad smile spread across Cooke’s face. It wasn’t born simply of confidence, or of the thought of occupying the corner office on the seventh floor of the Old Headquarters Building. Cooke had been building a nice thick file on Stansfield and his old friend Stan Hurley.
CHAPTER 10
PARIS, FRANCE
PAUL Fournier looked up at the massive Sacré-Coeur Basilica shining on the hill—a stunning blend of Roman and Byzantine architecture. The church was a thing of genuine beauty that was almost certainly unappreciated by the men he was about to meet. Fournier took a deep drag from his cigarette before flicking it to the curb. Even at this late hour tourists were climbing all over the basilica grounds like ants. Two of Fournier’s men were with him. One had already gone ahead to make sure no one was lurking in the shadows and the other was following twenty steps back.
It had been a long day and Fournier wanted some answers, although he thought he had a fairly good idea of what had gone wrong. He walked around the front of the church and continued down a sidewalk, the crowd of tourists thinning as he went. His man flashed him the clear signal and Fournier moved up a short flight of steps, under a stone arch, and tapped on a door three times. A moment passed before the heavy door opened, revealing an old priest with hunched shoulders and cloudy eyes. He gave the intelligence agent a knowing smile but did not speak. With a gnarled hand, he waved for the visitor to enter and then closed and locked the door behind them.
“Thank you, Monsignor,” Fournier said in a ten
der voice. “How have you been?”
The priest answered in a weathered voice. “Life has been good to me, young Paul, but I’m afraid my days here on earth are drawing to an end.”
Fournier had been hearing this same line for five years. He did not know the exact age of de Fleury, but he looked to be at least ninety. The monsignor was a legend in the intelligence community. When the Nazis occupied Paris in 1940, de Fleury was a priest at the famous Dome Church in the Invalides Quarter near the Eiffel Tower. The church was the focal point of a grand gesture by Louis XIV, founded in 1670 to honor his wounded and homeless veterans, and of course the Sun King himself. In the subsequent years, the area around the church and veterans’ home became an administrative hub for the French military, and most famously in 1840 the final resting place of Emperor Napoleon. Hitler himself came to visit the church and pay homage to the tomb of the man and military tactician he so greatly admired. German troops were billeted in the surrounding buildings during the occupation. Many of them were Catholic, and de Fleury was fortunate to be fluent in German. These German soldiers lined up at his confessional weekly, divulging bits of information, but that was only the start. De Fleury insinuated himself into the company of the high-ranking German officers who were in charge of the occupation. He passed himself off as a Jew-hating Catholic who owed his allegiance to God and the pope. God had not spoken to him, but the pope had made it clear that the Church was neutral in this war. De Fleury passed along crucial information to the French Resistance, and after the war was over, he was privately awarded the Legion of Honor by General Charles de Gaulle.
Fournier had been introduced to him by his old boss years before. The introduction came with the assurance that Father de Fleury could be trusted in all matters involving the security of the Republic.
