by Vince Flynn
Cooke paid the two men more than a passing glance as he drove past looking for a parking place. If he became the director of the CIA he’d have his own security detail. As the deputy director he was on his own. Thomas Stansfield, who was his subordinate, had a security team, and while Cooke had never said a word to anybody, it irritated him that he didn’t have one, too. He outranked Stansfield, after all. Cooke had heard the reasons. The detail had been in place long before he’d become deputy director. It had something to do with the number of threats that Stansfield received and the consensus that he knew more state secrets than any other person in Washington and that it wouldn’t do to have him kidnapped and interrogated.
Having a security team in Washington was a real status symbol. Only the most important players received around-the-clock protection. The president and vice president, of course, the secretary of state, secretary of defense, director of the FBI, and Thomas Stansfield. From time to time other cabinet-level people would receive protection, but only if they’d received a specific threat. Cooke hated it that Stansfield was part of that rarefied club. He decided that the moment he became director he would yank Stansfield’s detail. And then with Wilson’s help, he’d force Stansfield to retire and put one of his own people in charge of Operations. Someone whom he could control. Someone who understood loyalty.
On his third pass Cooke gave up on finding a spot and decided he would wedge his Volvo into the short driveway that led to the heavy lacquered black garage door of Wilson’s house. He wasn’t blocking the street, but the back end of his wagon made the sidewalk nearly impassable. It wasn’t the ideal spot, but Cooke was in a hurry. He needed to have this meeting with Wilson, head back to the office to check on a few things, and then pack for France. They had an early flight. Cooke looked through his windshield at the two bodyguards on the front stoop. They both had brown hair, but one of them had more of it. Both men had casually opened their suit coats and placed their hands on their sidearms. Cooke knew he should have called ahead, but he wanted to surprise Wilson.
Cooke got out of the car. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a gray hooded sweatshirt that had Harvard Crew stenciled in crimson across the front. He put his right hand on the shiny red hull of the scull he had strapped to the hood of his car, looked up at the bodyguards, and said, “Guys, Deputy Director Cooke here. I need to have a brief word with the secretary. Is it okay if I leave my car here?”
The men exchanged a brief look and one of them said, “I’m sorry . . . who did you say you were?”
“Deputy Director Cooke.”
It was obvious by the way the two men looked at each other that they had no idea who they were talking to. “I’m sorry, which agency, sir?”
You’ve got to be kidding me, Cooke thought. “CIA,” he said with an impatient face. “Please tell the secretary it’s rather urgent.”
The one with more hair disappeared into the house while the other one stayed at his post. He looked down at the visitor and asked, “Do you have any identification on you, sir?”
Cooke shook his head and thought, How is it that these simpletons have no idea who I am? “Sorry, I don’t carry my wallet with me when I’m rowing.” Cooke patted his scull like a proud father. “And leaving it in the car isn’t very bright, is it?”
The man didn’t respond. He just stared at Cooke with a suspicious glare and wondered what kind of person drove around D.C. without any identification. A deputy director at the CIA should have more common sense. A few moments later his partner popped his head out of the door and the two exchanged a few words. The one who was losing the follicle battle motioned for Cooke to approach. Cooke swung around the back of his car and started up the steps. There were five of them, made out of the same brick as the house, and then a landing, a left turn, and five more steps. The front stoop was big enough for the three of them to stand comfortably, or at least so Cooke thought, until Mr. Male Pattern Baldness ordered him to raise his hands so he could frisk him.
“You’re kidding me,” Cooke said, irritated by the request. “I run the CIA. The secretary and I talk all the time.”
The bodyguard remained unfazed by the information. “If you run the CIA, where is your security detail?”
Now Cooke was really bothered. Who the hell did this rent-a-suit think he was, asking him questions? Staring the man down, Cooke lied. “I gave them the day off.”
The man considered the response for a moment. It didn’t make a lot of sense. The CIA was a serious place, with serious threats. Why would any sane man give his security detail the day off? “No disrespect, sir, but I don’t know you, you don’t have an appointment, and you don’t have any identification. My job is to protect the secretary, period. If I were to let a complete stranger into this house I wouldn’t be very good at my job, would I?”
Myriad retorts flashed across his mind, most of them involving Cooke putting the man in his place and insulting his intellect, but in the end he decided that making a scene on the secretary’s front stoop was unwise, so he raised his arms and allowed the guy to run his hands up and down his body.
When they were done checking everything but the deepest recesses of his groin, Cooke was escorted into the house. The second bodyguard told him they were to wait in the foyer. The two men stood on the black and white checked marble floor in silence for a few minutes until the secretary came down the long staircase. He was dressed in a pair of charcoal gray, wool dress pants, with a white button-down shirt, and he’d traded in the yellow cardigan from yesterday for a red one.
“Paul . . . two days in a row. Something must be very urgent.”
“Sorry, Franklin, but I’m off to Paris in the morning and I thought it would be a good idea if we discussed a few things.”
Wilson stopped on the far side of the foyer and eyed his visitor. He looked as if he might have been napping. “Paris . . . does this have anything to do with what we discussed the other day?”
“Yes.” Cooke gave the bodyguard a sideways glance and Wilson took the hint.
“Why don’t we go downstairs?”
“I think that would be a good idea.” Cooke crossed the foyer.
The two men proceeded down the long hallway to the kitchen. Wilson opened the door to the basement, flipped a light switch, and then motioned for Cooke to go ahead. The secretary followed and closed the door behind him.
Cooke watched the older man go through the same routine he’d been through the day before. He went behind the bar, opened a panel, and pressed several buttons. A few seconds later the sound of a string quartet drifted down from the ceiling speakers. After that Wilson grabbed two lowballs, tossed in a few ice cubes, and filled them with scotch. Cooke was about to protest. He had work to do, and the middle of a Sunday was no time to start drinking, but Franklin Wilson was not the type of man to be rebuffed. It was better to take the drink and baby it.
Wilson came out from behind the bar with a glass in each hand and gestured toward the two leather club chairs on each side of the fireplace. Apparently there would be no billiards today. “If I’d known you were stopping by, I would have had a fire going.” Wilson handed Cooke his scotch on the rocks and after both men were seated he asked, “So what’s on your mind?”
“As I said, I’m headed to Paris in the morning.”
“Yes, what’s that all about?”
“A couple of things. I want to see my people at our embassy and get a sense of their morale.” Cooke looked at his drink and added, “I also have a meeting with some of my contacts at the DGSE.”
“French Intelligence?” Wilson asked with an arched brow.
Cooke nodded. “As you can imagine, they’re not very happy about the current situation.”
“Have they told you who they think was behind the attack?”
“No,” Cook answered with a shake of his head, “but there are certain things in my business that we’re loath to discuss over the phone.”
“Of course.” Wilson took a gulp from his drink and sighed as
it warmed his throat. “Do you have a sense, though, that they might have some leads?”
“Apparently it’s turned into a spook convention in Paris and everyone is a suspect.”
“And Stansfield?”
“He’s flying over with me.”
Wilson stared at his visitor for a moment. “Your idea or his?”
“Mine. I thought it would be a good idea to get him out of his element. I have some surveillance teams set up to follow him. If he does anything unusual or meets with anyone of interest we’ll know.”
“Sounds like a good idea. What else?”
Cooke took a tiny sip and said, “Hurley showed up.”
Wilson edged forward in his seat. “Interesting. Where is he?”
“Paris . . . DGSE has him under surveillance.”
“You’re good,” Wilson said with an admiring tone. “Has he done anything stupid?”
“Not yet, but knowing his history, there’s a good chance he’ll give the French a reason to arrest him before the week is over.”
Wilson smiled. “I hope you’re right. What else?”
Cooke nodded and then took his time. He took another small sip, set his glass down on a cork coaster sitting atop a small wood side table, and leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and folded his hands. “I’m not sure how to put this, so I’m just going to come out and say it. Is there something between you and Stansfield you haven’t told me about?”
Wilson gauged that Cooke was in possession of some information that had caused him to ask the question. Being an attorney by trade, he did what all good attorneys do: Rather than answer the question he asked one. “What do you mean?”
“I mean some problem . . . some bad blood between the two of you?”
Wilson shook his head, gazed into his drink for a moment, and then said, “Other than the fact that I don’t trust the man, and that I think he should be tried and thrown in jail, no . . . there’s nothing I can think of.”
“Nothing specific?”
“Paul,” Wilson said, his tone turning testy, “if you have some information come out and say it. There isn’t anything that I can specifically think of that has transpired between Thomas Stansfield and me. He is my subordinate and has always been. When I was a senator, and I sat on the Intelligence Committee, we had our brawls, but so did every other senator. It was our job to push him, and in light of his uncooperative nature, there were a lot of heated moments.”
“Trust me, I know.”
“And now that I’m secretary of state, and one of the president’s closest advisors, he is, well, so far beneath me, he would hardly warrant a thought if it wasn’t for the fact that I fear he is ruining our relationship with one of our closest allies.”
Cooke nodded as if he only half bought Wilson’s explanation. “You might spend very little time thinking about him, but it doesn’t go both ways.”
“What do you mean?”
Cooked hemmed and hawed for a moment and then just said it. “I don’t think the man likes you.”
Wilson smiled as if he was proud of the information. “There are a lot of people in this town who are jealous of me. I don’t doubt for a moment that Thomas Stansfield is one of them.”
Cooke decided to push him a little. “Thomas Stansfield isn’t some amateur, and you’re not the first cabinet member to go after him. He’s outlasted more directors and presidents and Senate oversight committees than we could begin to count.”
Wilson shifted in his leather chair and straightened his back a few degrees. “Your point?”
“You’d be a fool to underestimate him.”
“I never underestimate my enemies and I have a strategy that will prevail.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to win because I will refuse to play Stansfield’s games. I don’t operate in the shadows. I work in the harsh light of day where the truth can flourish. These others who have gone after him were foolish enough to think they could beat him at his own game. I’m not so naïve.”
“Fine,” Cooke said, even though he was thinking the exact opposite. The only way to take on Thomas Stansfield was to plot so carefully, walk so softly, that he never saw you coming until you shoved the knife in his back. “Well, either you have him scared or you did something to really piss him off, because I’ve never seen him like this.”
“Like what?”
“I stopped by his office this morning to ask him about Paris.”
“And?”
“He denied any involvement, of course . . . not that I expected anything different.”
“So it was an unremarkable meeting?”
“I would say yes . . . at least until your name came up, and then he became uncharacteristically heated.”
Wilson liked this. He’d never seen so much as a crack in Stansfield’s sphinxlike demeanor. “What did he say?”
Cooke cleared his throat and started with his first lie. “He said that you should worry about managing all the dilettantes at the State Department and leave the espionage game up to us.”
Wilson didn’t flinch. “What else did he say?”
“Do you want the sanitized version or the unvarnished?”
“Unvarnished.”
Cooke had tried to figure out the best way to deliver this next part. With the right embellishment of Stansfield’s own words and a few lies, he would cut close to Wilson’s heart. “He said that you’ve turned into a bitter, angry man.”
Wilson laughed a little, thought about the comment, and then asked, “Why would I be bitter? I’ve had an amazing life. I’m one of the most powerful men in this country. What could I possibly be bitter about?”
Cooke tried his best to look uncomfortable. He stared at his own shoes for a moment and then he stared at Wilson’s. When he thought the proper amount of embarrassment had been conveyed, he said, “Your wife.” The words seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Cooke could see that he was on the right track. Just the mention of the wife had put Wilson on edge.
“What about my wife?”
“Well . . .” Cooke shook his head. “I don’t like repeating this, but as I said, it’s so out of character that I thought you must have done something to really piss Stansfield off.”
Wilson’s patience had hit a wall. “What did he say?”
Cooke cleared his throat. “He said you tossed her in an institution the second she became a political liability. That if you truly loved her, as you tell everyone, you would have kept her at home.” Cooke did his best to look embarrassed and added, “I’m sorry, Franklin.”
Wilson’s stately demeanor crumbled. His complexion turned ruddy, his jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, and he looked at the wall to his right. In a wounded voice tinged with anger he proclaimed, “How dare he.”
Cooke was pleased with himself but did a good job concealing it. “This was a private conversation, Franklin, between the deputy director of Langley and the deputy director of Operations. If word were to get out that I shared this information with you, there would be some very upset people at Langley. Even so, I felt you needed to know. I myself was shocked that he would make such an insensitive comment. I had no idea he disliked you so much.”
“Trust me . . . the feeling is mutual, and I get your point. I won’t be saying anything to Stansfield that would put you in a compromising position. That’s not how we’re going to win this battle.”
“I’m sorry,” Cooke said again, shaking his head for dramatic effect, “but I felt that I had to bring this to you. If anyone had said anything like that about me and my wife I’d want to know.”
Wilson nodded but didn’t say anything, he just stared off into space looking wounded.
Cooke stood. “There’s a dark side to him, Franklin. He’s a very dangerous man.” When Wilson didn’t respond Cooke said, “I’ll keep you informed about what I find out in Paris.” Cooke still didn’t get a response, so he started for the door. Letting Wilson stew over his words could only serve his purpose.
As he reached the stairs, though, Wilson called out.
“Paul, don’t worry . . . I’m not going to shoot the messenger. I appreciate your honesty.”
Cooke nodded. “Don’t worry, Franklin. He’s going to get what he deserves and you and I are going to be the ones to finally take him down.”
Wilson seemed to not hear anything that Cooke had said. “This is the part of this town that I truly despise. Where is the honor in going after a man’s wife?”
“There is none.”
“No, there isn’t, but I’m not going to let this distract us from our objective. Thomas Stansfield is a dangerous man and he needs to be dealt with before he brings the Agency crashing down around you. I appreciate your friendship, Paul, but I need to know that you are committed to seeing this through.”
“I am, sir. Thomas Stansfield has poisoned the CIA and the only way to right the ship is to get rid of him. Once he’s out of the way I can go about instituting the changes that will ensure the Agency follows the policies of the executive branch and the laws of this country.”
CHAPTER 33
PARIS, FRANCE
RAPP smiled. Luke was playing his role to perfection. He had his hands stuffed in both pockets of his jacket and every five steps or so he scanned the block to see if there were any signs of danger. It was not the way Rapp would have acted, but then again he’d told Kennedy that he’d been shot. It wasn’t a stretch for the men in the van to think that he was a little more jumpy than normal.
Rapp had a pretty good idea what was going on inside the van, and he wouldn’t deny that he was taking a certain amount of delight knowing that they were probably falling all over each other trying to figure out what to do. As to who was in the van, he didn’t have a clue, and until right now he hadn’t really considered the question. There were only a handful of people who had watched him closely enough to be able to tell the difference between him and an impostor. Even so, the street was dark and Luke had the same general build. In these situations they would see what they wanted, and that was Rapp returning to the safe house for something that he needed.
