by Vince Flynn
Ross considered his reply. “I know Mitch has sacrificed a great deal for this country, but a lot of people worry he’s uncontrollable. That it’s just a matter of time before he does something that really embarrasses the Agency. Neither of us want that to happen.”
“No, we don’t,” Kennedy said honestly.
“Then I suggest you keep him on a short leash.”
Kennedy nodded. She couldn’t really tell him that there were as many or more people in Washington who wanted to simply let Rapp loose.
“And this Coleman guy. I wasn’t born yesterday. That guy spells trouble.”
Kennedy said nothing.
“I’m going to do my best,” continued Ross, “to stay out of the day-to-day business of the Agency. I have a lot of faith in you, you’ve done a great job so far, but I worry that you have a blind spot where Rapp is concerned. I’ve already talked to the president about this and he shares my concerns.”
Kennedy listened to the words without showing an ounce of emotion. Inside, however, her stomach started to churn.
“We’ve decided,” said Ross, “to keep a close eye on the situation. If Rapp can’t start following orders and respect the chain of command, some changes might have to be made.”
“You talked to the president about this?” Kennedy wanted to be clear on this point. One of the classic power plays in Washington was to drop the president’s name to bolster your position.
“Yes, and he’s been worried for some time about it.”
Kennedy looked Ross in the eye and wondered if he had bothered to tell the president what had caused Mitch to become so insolent. She doubted that Ross had told him about his investigation of Scott Coleman and his company. Scott Coleman, a man who had been the commander of SEAL Team 6 and who had won both the Silver Star and the Navy Cross. A man who after leaving the navy had conducted dozens of black ops, a handful that the president himself had authorized.
Where Rapp was quick to anger, Kennedy was the opposite. She didn’t like any of this. She hated the fact that Ross was meddling in such delicate matters, and it really irked her that he had already begun politicking with the president. In spite of those emotions she remained calm.
She gave Ross a slight nod and said, “I’ll have another talk with him.” And with the president, she thought to herself.
“Good.” Ross pivoted so he was standing next to her. Gordon moved into position on her left. The two men had her bracketed. Talking out of the side of his mouth Ross said, “You’re probably wondering why I asked you to come to this reception.”
“The thought has crossed my mind.”
“The Saudis are the key.”
Kennedy looked across the room to the diplomatic receiving line. The foreign minister and his lengthy entourage had just entered the room. Kennedy had noticed that Ross liked to make statements like “The Saudis are the key” and then add nothing more. His aim was to get you to ask him why, so that he could then dispense his wisdom. Kennedy, a professional spy from the old school, was very good at keeping her mouth shut and listening.
“Don’t you care to know why they are the key?”
Kennedy spoke Arabic. She’d spent the majority of her youth moving around the Middle East, and understood the Saudi culture about as well as a foreign woman could hope. She had forgotten more about Saudi Arabia than Ross could ever hope to learn, but nonetheless, she was actually interested to hear where he would go with this.
“Why are they the key, and to what are they the key?”
“Very good qualification,” Ross replied. “They are the key to solving this whole mess.”
“Which mess?” asked Gordon in a slightly impatient tone.
“The whole mess…the Middle East, terrorism, the spread of radical Islam. They hold the key. If we can get them to trust us…to see that we mean them no harm, we will do more to secure this country from terrorist attacks than we could ever hope through use of force.”
Kennedy was suddenly hopeful, not that Ross would offer her a realistic solution, but that she was about to get an invaluable look at how the man’s mind operated. “And how do we go about doing this?”
Ross pointed. “The problem isn’t with people like the foreign minister, or the king. They like us. They get it. They know we don’t want to take over their country and their culture. The problem is with people like Prince Muhammad bin Rashid.”
Kennedy spotted the minister of Islamic affairs. He was in line right behind the foreign minister. He was the problem all right. The man had softened his rhetoric as of late, but Kennedy didn’t buy any of it.
“How well do you know him?” asked Ross.
Kennedy could write a lengthy briefing on the man. At the moment, though, she was more interested to hear what Ross thought of him. “I know a little. What’s your take on him?”
“The road to peace lies through their religious leaders, and he is the way to get to those leaders. He is the key,” Ross said emphatically. “I personally asked him to come on this trip. I told him I wanted to open an honest dialogue about how our two great nations can get to know each other better.”
Kennedy nodded. The fact that Ross would use the word great to describe the United States and Saudi Arabia in the same sentence would have been business as usual if he had been from the State Department, but this was the director of National Intelligence talking, a man who was supposed to use his words very carefully, a man who was supposed to collect intelligence. It was not his job to conduct affairs of state with any foreign citizen he chose, let alone someone who had a history of sponsoring terrorists. Kennedy understood the need to interact with adversaries and allies alike. She also very much wanted to get to know Prince Muhammad bin Rashid better, but not the way Ross did. She wanted to study him the way an FBI profiler studies a serial killer.
The man was an incurable bigot, and for Ross to not already know this was a bit unsettling. He was, after all, the president’s chief advisor on intelligence and the international terrorist threat. If their relationship had been better, she would have taken the time to explain to Ross why Muhammad bin Rashid could not be trusted, but at present it would be a waste of breath. Ross would not want to hear why his plan wouldn’t work. He would have to spend some time with the prince and figure it out for himself. In the meantime, Kennedy would have to make sure he didn’t reveal anything, or promise something that might screw up the delicate balance they fought to maintain with the Saudis.
“Irene,” said Ross as he looked at Prince Muhammad, “he is in certain ways the most powerful man in Saudi Arabia.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Kennedy reluctantly agreed. “And what a shame,” she added under her breath. Ross was too busy looking above the crowd to hear her, but Jonathan Gordon laughed softly. Kennedy turned to look at him.
“Prince Muhammad does not strike me as someone who is very receptive to change.”
Ross left them to go shake hands with someone.
“He’s a dyed in-the-wool Wahhabi. Change is not in their lexicon.”
“That’s what I tried to tell him, but he thinks his personality can win anyone over.”
Kennedy knew the type. The best politicians were all that way. They honestly believed in their personal power of persuasion. These were the men and women who never stopped campaigning. Every dry cleaner, bar, and café they stopped in, every golf outing and fund raiser they hit, they shook hands, smiled, remembered an amazing number of names and convinced people through nothing more than their personality that they were likable. These men and women excelled in politics. They were willing to make concessions and be flexible so others thought them reasonable. On the international stage, though, these types got taken to the cleaners. Neville Chamberlain, the British prime minister at the onset of WWII, was the classic modern example. He had met Hitler, looked him in the eye, made him laugh, and concluded that he was a decent chap despite the evidence to the contrary that had been provided by the British intelligence services. Hitler took Chamber
lain for a fool and played him through the occupation of Austria, the invasion of Poland, and right on up to the invasion of France. Somehow Hitler had been able to resist the irresistible charm of Chamberlain.
Kennedy had dealt with Prince Muhammad in the wake of 9/11. Her station chief in Riyadh as well as her counterparts in Britain, Germany, France, Israel, and Jordan all came to the same conclusion about him. While they couldn’t prove that he knowingly provided money to al-Qaeda and other terrorist organizations, they did know that he had given more than twenty million dollars to charities that were linked to terrorist organizations. Across the board the intelligence chiefs agreed that Muhammad was far too cozy with the religious extremists in Saudi Arabia to be trusted to run the Kingdom’s intelligence services. The leaders of America, Britain, France, and Germany all convinced the king to move his half brother to a different position on his council of ministers. The official Saudi position was that Mohammad was quite chastened over the whole thing. Unofficially, Kennedy had heard that Mohammad did not go quietly.
Kennedy watched Ross work his way across the room. Prince Mohammad had decided to eschew the diplomatic receiving line, a major breach in protocol, and something that was sure to be noted by all. He instead went straight for Ross, who was roughly in the middle of the room. They met and clasped hands, Ross with more enthusiasm than the prince. They were roughly the same height; both a little over six feet tall. Ross wore an expensive handmade suit, and Prince Muhammad wore his robes and ornamental headdress. Kennedy looked on with great interest as the prince broke into laughter. His perfect set of white teeth contrasted against his black goatee. Prince Muhammad clasped Ross’s shoulder with his free hand and continued to smile warmly. His gaze wandered and for an instant he looked straight at Kennedy.
“You don’t seem too excited to meet him,” said Gordon.
“Excited.” Kennedy continued to observe the two men talking. “There aren’t many people at CIA who would be excited to meet Prince Muhammad.”
“You don’t trust him?”
What a question, Kennedy thought to herself. “We’re not in the trust business, Jonathan. We’re in the business of espionage.” She was well aware that whatever she said would be repeated to Ross so she chose her next words carefully. “Prince Muhammad is no ally of ours. He is a man who in his heart supports everything al-Qaeda stands for. Don’t forget that, no matter how pro-America he acts on this trip.” Kennedy looked at Gordon. “If your boss has any future political aspirations, I’d advise him to not get too cozy with Prince Muhammad.”
36
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL
Rapp sat on the edge of the exam table and looked down at the swathe of smooth skin that ran from the middle of his left thigh to the middle of his shin. He was proud of the fact that he’d managed to shave it without cutting himself. He knew they would have done it for him, but he wasn’t all that crazy about people touching him with sharp objects. The reality that he was going to be put under for the procedure gave him enough anxiety as it was. As much as he hated it, though, he knew it had to be done. He’d put it off long enough.
Anna was in the room with him, but as usual she was talking on her cell phone. Sometimes Rapp wondered if the device was surgically attached to her head. He had no doubt, if the roles were reversed, and she was about to go under the knife and he was chatting away on his phone, she’d be shooting him daggers with her eyes. Rapp pointed at the sign on the wall above the small desk. There was a cell phone with a red circle and a line going through it. Anna frowned at him. Rapp pointed at the sign again. She stuck her tongue out and turned her back on him. Rapp laughed to himself.
According to his watch it was three minutes past seven in the morning and he was hungry as all hell. He was under strict orders, though. No food before surgery. They didn’t want him puking on the operating table. Anna got off her phone and turned around.
“That was Phil. He says good luck.”
“Who’s Phil?”
“My boss, Mr. Smart-ass.”
Rapp had never met the man even though his wife had worked with him for nearly a year. “Where’s the love, honey?”
“It’s right here.” Anna rubbed her belly.
Rapp smiled and motioned for her to come closer. She was wearing a dark brown Juicy Couture sweat suit. He placed his hand on her stomach and asked, “How are you feeling?”
“A little constipated, but other than that, fine.”
“Lovely.” He made a face.
“You asked.” She sat down next to him and leaned back. She tugged at the ties on his hospital gown. “I can see your butt crack.”
Rapp shook his head. “Why in the hell do they make people wear these things?”
“You don’t know?” she asked sounding a little surprised.
“No.”
“It strips away the patient’s identity so you’ll be more docile and do what you’re told.”
“Where did you hear this?”
She shrugged. “I can’t remember.”
Rapp thought about it for a moment and said, “I’ll bet you’re right.”
“I know I am. Think about it. What do you guys do when you interrogate a terrorist? You shave their head and beard and you take away all of their clothes.” She tried to straighten the back of the gown, but it wouldn’t cooperate. She let it hang loose and asked, “Seriously, how are you doing?”
“Fine. I just want to get it over with. I hate hospitals.”
“At least you’re not here to get a bullet taken out.”
Rapp looked at her sideways. “Thanks for that happy thought.”
She put her arm around him. “Honey, everything is going to be just fine. The doctor said it’s pretty straightforward. An hour or two at the most in surgery, and then two more hours in recovery. We’ll be home by one at the latest.” She was genuinely worried about him and not for the reasons one would think. Most people going in for surgery feared the recovery and the pain that were to follow. Pain was not a problem for Mitch. She doubted he would take anything stronger than Tylenol Three for more than a day or two. The real issue was not being in charge. Mitch was such a lone wolf, he was so used to being in charge and doing things his own way, that the idea of putting himself in the hands of others was purely unnerving to him.
“I’m starving,” Rapp blurted out.
Her husband was a big eater. She reached out and ran her fingers through his thick black hair. “We’ll have to stop and get something on the way home.”
The door opened and a petite nurse entered. She was wearing blue surgical scrubs and black clogs. She held a clipboard a few inches in front of her face. “Mr. Mitchell Rapp?”
“That’s me.”
She flipped through the chart. “We’ve got you scheduled for a vasectomy this morning.”
Rapp stared back at the woman, speechless. Before he could form a sentence, the woman said, “Just kidding. My name is Deb, and I’m going to get you ready for surgery.”
Anna laughed. Mitch didn’t.
“You must be Mrs. Rapp.” The nurse stuck out her hand.
“Anna. Nice to meet you.”
“Where’d you find a big stud like this? Look at these shoulders.” The nurse stepped back and sized him up like he was a piece of beef.
“It wasn’t easy. I had to go through a lot of guys.”
“I’ll bet.”
Rapp laughed.
“Okay,” the nurse returned her attention to Rapp. “The right knee, right?”
“No.” Rapp looked alarmed. “The left.”
“I know, I know.” She waved her hand at him. “I’m just kidding. Trying to get you to relax, you know? You look so tense. Here, sit all the way up on the table.” She took out a big black marker and wrote NO on Rapp’s right knee and YES on his left knee.
“Dr. Stone is the best. He did the vice president’s knee last year.”
“I’ve met the vice president. I’m not impressed.”
“Me
neither,” she whispered and rolled her eyes. “Kind of an ass if you ask me. Anyway…Dr. Stone handles all the hockey players on the Capitals. Big strong guys like you.” She grabbed him by the shoulders. “Come to think of it…you two look familiar. Are you someone important?”
“I’m nobody,” answered Rapp, “but she’s important.”
The nurse put her hands on her little hips and looked at Anna.
“I’m the White House correspondent for NBC. Anna Rielly.”
“That’s right. My husband loves you.”
“Doesn’t everyone’s,” said Rapp dryly.
Anna delivered a backhand to his chest. “Pay no attention to him. He’s a little crabby.”
“Is he worried?” the nurse asked without looking at Rapp.
“I think so.”
“I’m hungry,” moaned Rapp.
“Well, then, we’d better get things moving. Anna, I’m going to take him into prep, and then he’ll head straight into surgery. You can wait in the lobby and when we’re done, I’ll come get you and bring you to recovery.”
They both stood. Anna grabbed his face and kissed him on the lips. “I love you, honey. Good luck.”
“I love you too.” Rapp turned and limped toward the door.
Anna followed him into the hall and watched the tiny nurse lead him away. She glimpsed his backside through the flapping gown and couldn’t resist giving him a whistle. “Nice butt.”
Rapp lowered his head and shook it at the same time. Anna stifled a laugh and cursed herself for not bringing the camera.
37
ANNE ARUNDEL COUNTY, MARYLAND
Gould had found the pickup truck the day before at a small used car lot on the outskirts of Annapolis. It was the type of place that preferred to deal in cash. The truck was black with a gray cloth interior. The asking price was $4,999.99. It had high miles, which he expected, and a few dents here and there, but otherwise it was in decent shape. He got the guy to come down to $4,500 on the price and paid him in hundreds. The only glitch came when the guy asked to see a proof of insurance. “Maryland state law,” he told Gould. It was the one thing he hadn’t thought of. Fortunately, the guy did not want to lose the sale, so he wrote down Progressive and told Gould to fax him the information when he had a chance.
