by Vince Flynn
“Ross is not going to like the fact that I just walked in here like this unannounced.”
“I’ve thought about that.”
“Tell him the truth. Tell him Warch called you, and said I had something important to discuss with the director. I wanted to keep it real quiet. If Ross flips his lid, he can call Jack. Jack and the president are tight. He’ll be fine, and let’s just say if Ross wants to take it all the way to the president, I’ll be happy to lock horns with him.”
“Sounds good to me.”
The elevator lurched to a stop and the doors opened. Two men, who were slightly smaller versions of Small, were standing post to the right. Small nodded to both men; they’d already been told what was up. Small led Rapp through a reception area and into an outer office where two administrative assistants were manning the phones and pecking away at keyboards. Small peeled off to address one of them and Rapp just kept going straight for the door. The older of the two women started to come out of her chair.
“Excuse me, the director is in a meeting.”
“That’s all right,” Rapp said without turning. He could hear Small telling the woman that Rapp was from the CIA. “We’re old friends,” Rapp half shouted as he grabbed the door handle, twisted, and pushed. He stepped into the office and closed the door quickly.
Director Ross sat at the head of an oval conference table immediately to Rapp’s left, opposite a massive oak desk. The office was not very big. Maybe a fifth the size of Kennedy’s. Not very plush. He was sure that pissed off the new director of National Intelligence.
Ross looked up at Rapp, his head turned slightly. His expression froze and his brow furrowed. He was in a white dress shirt with French cuffs, replete with fancy links, and a really bold red power tie. He looked very important. The other three people at the table were all wearing their suit coats.
Rapp walked right over. It was only three quick steps.
“Don’t get up.” He intentionally used the same line Ross had used when he barged into Kennedy’s office earlier in the week. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.”
Ross slid his chair back and stood. He was the type of guy who preferred to meet someone eye to eye. There was a slight smile on his face, but it was obvious he was irritated by the unannounced interruption.
Rapp stuck his right hand out and grabbed the director’s with a firm grip and an over-the-top enthusiasm. Instead of looking Ross in the eye, he glanced across the table at Gordon and placed his left hand on the shoulder of whoever it was he was standing behind. Rapp was dead set on mimicking Ross’s unannounced intrusion into Kennedy’s office.
“Jonathan…good to see you again.” Rapp released Ross’s hand and looked down at the other two individuals who he did not know. Before he had the chance to introduce himself, something on the surface of the conference table caught his eye. Rapp stopped and stared at the grainy black-and-white photo on the table. His blood pressure started to rise almost instantly. His lips parted. Nobody moved.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Rapp reached down and grabbed the photograph.
It was a surveillance photo of a warehouse. Rapp had been there many times. Parked in front was a large Ford Excursion and standing next to it was a man with blond hair. The man was Scott Coleman. Rapp’s face was now flushed with anger. The man sitting beneath his hand started packing up the contents that were laid out on the table. Rapp grabbed the guy between the collarbone and clavicle. His fingers dug in.
“Don’t touch a thing.” Rapp reached over and placed the photo on the table. He released the man’s neck and put both hands on the back of his chair. He stepped to the side and wheeled the chair with the man in it away from the table. These people were anonymous. Underlings of some sort. They did not need to be involved in this. Looking at the other person who he had not met, Rapp said, “Would you two please excuse us for a minute?”
The men got up and left without a word. The solid door closed with a dull thud. Gordon stayed seated and to his credit remained calm. Director Ross on the other hand did not.
“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked furiously.
“Saving you from stepping in it your first month on the job.” Rapp didn’t bother looking up. He was leafing through the files on the table. Coleman’s service jacket from the Pentagon was there, his last five years of personal and corporate tax returns and a nifty little surveillance file that looked to have been compiled over the last few days. Rapp held up the surveillance file.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” He looked Ross right in the eye and resisted the urge to reach out and whack him across the head with the file.
Ross began to shake, he was so angry. “Get the hell out of my office right now!” He pointed at the door for good measure.
Rapp grabbed Ross’s finger like he was snatching a fly out of mid-air. He bent the index finger back and forced the director down in his chair. Men like Ross were always shocked by physical contact. Most of them had never been in a fight, or if they had, it had been a long time ago.
“What kind of a control freak are you?” asked Rapp. “You have over a hundred thousand people spread over I don’t even know how many agencies. Your job is to make these agencies work better together. That’s it. It’s not to run operations or investigate people, but you meet Scott Coleman for all of two minutes and you don’t like the way he answers you, so you start trying to dig up dirt on him.”
Ross’s face was twisted with anger. “You wait until I talk to the president. You have finally gone too far. You have no right barging in here like this.”
Rapp grabbed his cell phone from his hip. “Let’s call him right now. I’ve got his private line right here on speed dial.” Rapp thrust his phone in front of the director’s face. “You didn’t even know he had a private line, did you?”
The look on Ross’s face betrayed the truth.
“We can tell him,” said Rapp, “how good a job you’re doing of micromanaging the various intelligence agencies. We can tell him how you called up one of your lackeys over at the IRS, and told them to audit Scott Coleman…who the president knows and likes by the way. A decorated veteran. The president will be furious. While we’re at it, why don’t we call a few of your old buddies on the Hill and tell them how you’re using your staff to spy on private citizens?” He waved the file in front of Ross’s face. “That’s what this is by the way. It’s spying on a private citizen, you fricken hypocrite. And you spent twelve years up on that fucking hill pissing and moaning about the CIA. Grandstanding in front of the cameras and saying that we’d better not be spying on American citizens…suspected terrorist or not.”
The file was arranged with thumb tabs. One of the tabs was labeled Phone Records. Rapp opened it and started looking at the calls. “You have a subpoena for these records? Did you go to a judge? I didn’t know you had investigative powers. I don’t think the press knows you were given investigative powers. I’m sure they’d love to write about it. Get you all bogged down and ineffective before you even had a chance to make any reforms.”
Ross was indignant. He yelled, “I demand to know what the two of you are up to, and I demand to know right now! Neither of you are private citizens! You work for me!”
This time Rapp couldn’t resist. His anger got the best of him. The file was about an inch thick. He cracked Ross across the left side of his head with it. Ross’s perfectly combed hair went askew, with a clump falling across his forehead, partly obscuring his left eye.
Rapp grabbed him by the front of the shirt. “Listen, you idiot. I don’t answer to you. I answer to the president. I hunt terrorists for a living, and the last thing I need is some hack like you, who doesn’t know jack shit about what we’re up against, looking over my shoulder and telling me what to do.” Rapp released his shirt and shoved a shocked Ross back into his chair.
Rapp took a step back. “Don’t think I don’t know the game here. This is your stepping stone to bigger
things. That’s your plan, isn’t it, Ross? You want to be president someday.”
Ross was too angry to speak. Rapp glanced over at Gordon, who was still cool as a cucumber. “I heard you’re the reasonable one. Talk some sense into him, because I promise you this…I can’t make him president,” Rapp pointed at Ross, “but I’ll guarantee you I can make sure this is the last government job he ever holds.”
Rapp grabbed the other files and stuffed them under his arm. He didn’t even bother to address Ross. He looked at Gordon. “Call the IRS off by noon, or I’ll see you two in the Oval Office, and I promise it’ll make this look like a fucking picnic.”
Gordon didn’t answer. He just nodded.
Rapp left with the files and slammed the door shut behind him.
Gordon waited a few seconds and then heaved a huge sigh. He slowly began shaking his head. He looked over at his boss, and said, “I told you…”
“Don’t say it,” snapped Ross. “I know you told me this was a bad idea. I know you told me Rapp was the wrong guy to mess with. I know! I know! I know!” Ross sprang out of his chair. He walked over to his desk and looked out the window and down the street toward the White House. After fifteen seconds of silence, he said, “I think I should talk to the president about this.”
Gordon just looked at him. “Are you out of your mind?” There was no malice in his tone. It was more clinical. Like a shrink. “Did you hear anything he just said? That was Mitch Rapp, Mark. He kills people for a living. He penetrates terrorist cells. He ran I don’t know how many deep-cover ops. He’s on a first-name basis with the president. Get him out of your mind. Get Coleman out of your mind. We have more than enough stuff to tackle.”
Gordon watched his boss. He knew how the man thought. He knew how large the man’s ego was. He knew how hard it would be for him to walk away from something like this. “Mark, this isn’t worth it. It’s beneath you. You’re going to be president someday and when that happens, you can do whatever you want. Right now, though, we need to just walk away from it.”
Ross ground his teeth and kept staring at the White House. He’d never been more humiliated in his entire life. He didn’t give a crap who Mitch Rapp was. He could outmaneuver anyone in this town. Ross told himself to get control of his anger. He would regroup. Be more careful next time. Hire better people. As much as he hated to admit it, Gordon was right. It was good advice. At least for now. But if an opportunity presented itself, he would crush Mitch Rapp and make that Neanderthal pay dearly. Rapp needed to be taught his place in the natural order of things. He needed to be brought to heel at the boot of the elected officials. Ross nodded slowly, and a sly smile crept over his face. He would get even. No, he would get more than even. When the time was right he would destroy Mitch Rapp.
25
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
It had taken Gould the better part of the day to drive down from Montreal. The border crossing had been a joke. He put on a suit and tie. He bought a big travel mug, the kind you can purchase at any gas station in North America, and filled it with bad coffee. He put his briefcase on the front passenger seat and hung a garment bag in the back driver’s side window of his rented Ford Taurus. He was just another sales rep hitting the road. He timed it so he made the crossing during the morning rush. Cars were lined up in both directions for a hundred plus meters. The customs agent at the border didn’t even ask him where he was going. The woman took his Canadian passport, opened it to the first available page, hammered it with a stamp and handed it back. If she had asked, he was going to tell her he was headed to Boston for the rest of the week and would be returning on Friday. But she hadn’t asked. She had a line of cars to deal with and Gould was just another calm, bored businessman doing his job.
The drive took twelve hours with a few stops along the way. He started out on Interstate 87 going south through upstate New York. It was beautiful country. The road skirted the west side of Lake Champlain. When Gould had lived in the States, he’d traveled a lot. He’d been down to Georgia and Texas. Had gone out to see Mount Rushmore and Yellowstone National Park with some of his classmates during one summer break. He’d traveled from Vancouver to San Diego and from Portland, Maine, to the Florida Keys. The one thing that always amazed him about America was its vastness, its never-ending, always-changing landscape. Each part of it was different and each part beautiful in its own way. This slice of northern New York had been no different. The fall colors were in their glory, and the towns that dotted the landscape were quaint.
He took the interstate straight south to Albany and filled up on gas, a single pastry, and some water. He paid for it all with cash. The rental car had been paid for with a credit card belonging to Peter Smith. Gould was Peter Smith. At least he was to the bank teller in Montreal where he had set up the account more than a year ago. He’d gone into the bank and opened a corporate account into which he deposited $5,000. He listed a P.O. box as the business address. Pretty standard stuff. The teller had offered him a cash card and a credit card right there on the spot. Gould had received both within a week. The credit card bill was automatically deducted from his bank account. The cards fit very nicely with the passport and driver’s license he’d had forged by a close friend from his Legion days. Neither card had been used before today, and neither would be used after today.
From Albany, he took Interstate 88 to Binghamton, New York. This part of the journey wasn’t as nice as the first leg, but the road was in good shape and most of the traffic moved along at 80 mph. Gould moved in packs of cars. Tried not to be the lead vehicle or the last one. He went with the flow, and stayed in the right lane as much as possible. At Binghamton, he turned south and crossed the state line into Pennsylvania. He couldn’t remember if Pennsylvania was a red state or a blue state, but he did know it was a hunting state. Gould kept alert for the right type of place and found it on the outskirts of Scranton.
He pulled into the massive parking lot and walked into the equally massive building. It was some type of retail Mecca for hunters, fishermen, and outdoorsmen. A big stuffed grizzly bear greeted him at the front door, its front paws up, claws extended, ready to strike. It was an impressive beast, and made him think of Mitch Rapp for a moment. He wondered how the beast had been slain. Probably a rifle shot from a good distance. It would be far too risky to get close to an animal like this. They had a great sense of smell and good hearing and they were surprisingly quick for their size. You’d need a heavy bullet with a lot of punch to take him down. If you didn’t hit him in the brain, or the spine, he’d just keep coming. Even if you hit him in the heart, he might last another ten seconds, which would give him enough time to tear your head off with one of those big paws. What a shame to kill a beast like this without ever giving him a fighting chance.
He wondered if he’d give Mitch Rapp that chance, or if he’d simply conceal himself and shoot him in the head with a long rifle shot, like this hunter had undoubtedly done. Gould honestly didn’t know. Part of him wanted to see who was better. Do it up close, just to prove he was the better warrior. But that was his ego talking, and he knew it. Rapp was like this grizzly. You’d have to be crazy to go toe-to-toe with him.
Gould shook his head and turned his attention away from the stuffed bear. Canoes, kayaks, and small aluminum fishing boats hung from the ceiling. At the far back of the store was a climbing wall, replete with colorful toe- and handholds. Bright colored ropes hung from the steel girders that supported the barrel roof. Gould grabbed a shopping cart and started off in the fitness department. He picked out some sweats, a shirt, and a pair of shorts. The women’s stuff was right across the aisle and he loaded the cart with the same type of clothing for Claudia. Next he grabbed a pair of running shoes and socks for himself and then for Claudia. Gould had the beginnings of a plan. At least as far as the initial reconnaissance went.
He left the shoe department and found the hunting department. It took up half the store and it took him five minutes to get his bearings straight. He started off
with the field glasses, and found a nice sturdy pair. He was about to move on, but spotted a night vision scope. It might come in handy. He smiled to himself and thought, only in America can you buy gear like this with such ease. He kept filling the shopping cart with the various things he might need. He had spent enough time on patrol to know what worked and what didn’t. His last stop was the ammunition racks. He took his time finding the highest-grade ammunition available. The 9mm rounds for the pistol was no big deal. There was plenty of hollow-point steel jacket ammo to choose from. He grabbed two fifty-round boxes which was a lot of rounds considering he wasn’t planning on firing more than five shots to make sure the sights on the Glock were as he had last left them. The rounds for the rifle took a little longer. He eventually settled on a box of Federal 168-grain HPBT bullets. It was amazing what you could buy off the shelf in America.
He finished up and went to the checkout line. Both sides of the line were merchandized with trinkets and other small items. Gould grabbed a few Power Bars and a pack of gum. He plopped everything down on the scanning counter and dug out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. The total came to just under a thousand dollars. He paid the polite woman and carried his four shopping bags out to his car. The bags were placed in the trunk and he was back on the road. From Scranton he continued on Interstate 81 south to Harrisburg and took 83 across the state line into Maryland. The sun was firmly in the west and daylight was fading by the time he reached Baltimore. Gould called the American Airlines toll-free number to check on Claudia’s flight. It was on time and so was he. Just before the main entrance to Baltimore International Airport, Gould exited the highway and filled the car up. Claudia called while he was pumping gas. It was the first time his phone had rung since he’d purchased it two days earlier. It was good to hear her voice.
Gould topped off the tank, ran into the little shed, and paid for the gas. He pulled up to the American terminal just as she was exiting the building and fought the urge to jump out and kiss her. There were cameras everywhere. He kept the visors down and sat up straight. All Claudia had was a shoulder bag and a generic black carry-on bag. She put the carry-on in the backseat and got in the front with her shoulder bag. She leaned over and grabbed his face with both hands.
