Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2

by Vince Flynn

  With a smirk, he replied, “I have to share them with someone else first.”

  “Of course.” Kennedy held the thought for a while and then, changing back to the original subject said, “Don’t worry about the mundane stuff that goes on around here. I can protect you from most of it. And what I can’t . . . well you know how to handle yourself. I’m sure I’ll have to smooth some things over from time to time, but that’s to be expected.” Kennedy changed gears and went ahead with the assumption that Rapp had nowhere else to go. At least nowhere else that would provide the same challenges. “I’ll start you out with an annual salary of sixty thousand, and you’ll get another hundred and fifty for running the Orion Team. Tax free, of course, and deposited into your offshore account.”

  Rapp nodded. Money wasn’t the overriding issue, but it was at least nice to know he’d be taken care of. “What would my official position be?”

  “I’m working on that. We could easily put you in the CTC as an analyst, but I’d like to give you something with a little more clout. Possibly special assistant to the DCI on Middle Eastern affairs.”

  “I still need to think about it. When would you want me to start?”

  “Today,” Kennedy said with a straight face.

  “That’s not going to work. I need some time to take care of a few things, and Anna and I are going to Italy for seven days.”

  This was not good news to Kennedy. She stood and walked over to her desk. Grabbing a videotape, she returned to the sitting area and put it into the VCR. With the remote control in hand she stepped away from the TV and pressed play.

  On the screen a woman stepped from an elevator and started down the hallway. Rapp had already watched the tape a dozen times. The woman looked innocent enough, shoulder-length blonde hair, a little taller than average, her figure concealed by a roomy sundress. Bangs and large tinted glasses obscured her face, and she was careful to keep it directed away from the security camera. She was a pro. Halfway down the hall the woman stopped and knocked on an office door. The building was Funger Hall, located on the campus of George Washington University. The door was opened. You couldn’t see who she was visiting, but both Rapp and Kennedy knew it was Peter Cameron, the man who had tried to have Rapp killed in Germany.

  Kennedy pushed the fast forward button and sped through a section of the tape where the corridor was empty. Suddenly the blonde-haired woman reappeared in the hallway and went in the opposite direction toward the staircase. Just as she reached the fire door, almost on cue, the elevator doors opened and two men stepped into the hallway. The woman briefly glanced over her shoulder. Kennedy froze the tape and zoomed in on the face.

  “Any idea who she is?”

  Rapp stared at the grainy image. He remembered the whole thing very well. It had been less than two weeks since he’d stepped off that elevator with Scott Coleman. They had only moments earlier discovered the identity of the man who had failed to kill Rapp in Germany and then attempted to lure him into a trap at his own home. The man was Peter Cameron, and by the time Rapp and Coleman made it to his office he was dead. A sharp object had been shoved through his ear and into his brain. Cameron’s death had been extremely painful, but quick.

  In response to Kennedy’s question about the girl, he shook his head and said, “No.” It was a lie. He knew the second they found Cameron’s dead body who she was. The way she moved, the way Cameron was killed, it all pointed to one person. Her name was Donatella Rahn and Rapp owed her much.

  “I’m having Marcus run a search on her against known assassins.”

  Feigning indifference, Rapp simply nodded.

  Kennedy sat and pointed at the TV. “She is our only link right now. Somebody hired Peter Cameron to make sure you didn’t make it back from Germany. They wanted the CIA to be embarrassed. They wanted the Orion Team exposed, and if our thinking is right, your dead body would have been all the proof they needed. Whoever is behind this knows things they aren’t supposed to.”

  Rapp rolled his eyes at the obvious. “And what exactly do you want me to do about it?”

  With a genuine smile Kennedy said, “I want you to go to Italy and ask Anna to marry you.” She paused and took joy in the surprise she saw on his face. It would be nothing compared to his next reaction. “And then I want you to stop by Milan and ask your old friend Donatella who hired her to kill Peter Cameron.”

  The grin that had spread across Rapp’s face melted away at the mention of Donatella. Rather than say anything stupid he stayed silent and let Kennedy make the next move. She got up and walked over to the safe behind her desk. Returning with a file, she dropped it on Rapp’s lap.

  “It’s all in there. Most of it you already know. Some of it will be new to you, and some of it you might like to correct. You know her better than anyone in this building.”

  He looked down at Donatella’s file. It was rather thick, at least two inches. He tossed it back onto the coffee table without opening it. “How did you know?”

  “An educated guess, and then I had Marcus do some digging. Customs shows her arriving in New York the day before Cameron was killed.” She tilted her head and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wasn’t sure,” shrugged Rapp.

  “It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that you were involved with her?”

  He thought about it for a second and said, “I’m not sure. On some level it may have . . . but . . .” Rapp gave up on trying to explain.

  Kennedy pressed on, asking, “But what?”

  Rapp respected Kennedy a lot, so he chose his words carefully. “You have enough to worry about right now. I wanted to run this down on my own and make sure, before I brought it to you.”

  “You didn’t trust me.” Kennedy stared unflinchingly at him.

  He looked away and said, “I trust you.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that you have a leak.” Rapp sat forward on the edge of the couch. “No one was supposed to know I was going to Germany, but someone did. I know Donatella. She’ll talk to me. If it really was her who killed Cameron, I’ll know. If you send someone else to pick her up, either they’ll end up dead or she will, and that’s the last thing we need right now.”

  She wasn’t pleased to have to admit it, but he was right. Still, though, she didn’t like being kept in the dark. “Do you want me to send along any help? Have some of our people over there keep an eye on her until you get there?”

  “No. The fewer people who know about this the better.”

  Kennedy nodded and thought about the importance of Rapp’s trip. After a moment of reflection she said, “Mitch, she’s our only link.”

  Rapp looked away from his boss and out the window. He thought of how desperately he wanted to close this chapter in his life and said quietly, “I know.”

  5

  WASHINGTON, D.C., MONDAY EVENING

  Approximately two miles north and a little west of the White House is one of the most formidable embassies in Washington. Located atop a hill off Connecticut Avenue, the large encampment is fitting for a nation that has felt threatened throughout its entire existence. Most native Washingtonians didn’t even know that the embassy belonged to Israel. To them the series of buildings seemed to possess nothing more than an interesting architectural style and a commanding view. The more informed observer saw a fortress. The buildings were designed with small windows that were used sparingly. The architectural device was one that was used in the Middle East to combat the hot sun, but here in Washington it was employed as a security measure. The windows were all bulletproof and designed to neutralize audio listening devices. The buildings were set back a very comfortable distance from the street and a blanket of steel mesh was hidden beneath the varying façades. The perimeter fence looked normal enough, but was in fact reinforced to stop anything short of a tank.

  The Israelis had ample experience with car bombs, and that experience contributed greatly to the design of the embassy co
mpound. Humans are creatures of survival, and there is perhaps no greater modern-day example of a tribe fighting for its survival than Israel. The western world is very familiar with the horrific atrocities perpetuated against the Jewish people by the Nazis in World War II. Unfortunately, in Israel’s opinion, the west considers the Holocaust a historical event: the Nazis are gone and Israel now has a country of its own. What most of the West has failed to realize is that Israel is a piece of land surrounded on three sides by Arab countries that have, at one time or another over the last fifty years, attacked the tiny Jewish state and threatened to wipe it off the face of the earth. In addition to their neighbors, the Jews must also deal with a threat from within. The Palestinians, the people who occupied the ancient lands before Israel settled there after World War II, have also sworn to destroy Israel. Israel is a country, a people, a tribe that must fight every day for its very survival. When dealing with the Israelis this is something that must always be remembered.

  Senator Hank Clark never lost sight of this important fact. People who had to fight for their survival tended to be quite a bit more motivated. The senator’s limousine pulled up to the main gate of the Israeli embassy. As the limo’s headlights bathed the sturdy gate and the security personnel who were dressed in tuxedos, he thought of how much he admired the Jews and their tenacity. After the car was thoroughly checked it was allowed to pass.

  Parties at the Israeli embassy were never known to be lush affairs. Now the French, for all of their complaining and lack of devotion to their allies, were an entirely different matter. The French knew how to throw a party. The Israelis tended to be quite a bit more serious about life, and their parties had a rather austere atmosphere.

  Even so, Senator Clark made it a priority to attend as many functions at the embassy as he could. Everyone simply assumed Clark was pandering to the Jewish vote in Phoenix, but that wasn’t the case. Clark enjoyed immense popularity in his home state, and his getting reelected did not depend on whether or not he attended a party. But it was fine, if his staffers, his colleagues and the press thought he was currying favor with the Jews. Like most things with Clark, one had to dig a little deeper to find his real motive.

  The tall senator stepped into the main foyer of the embassy by himself. He had left wife number three at home. She didn’t care for the serious, cut-to-the-chase approach of the Israeli diplomats, so she had decided to sit in a warm bath and indulge herself in an aromatherapy session and an expensive bottle of wine. This suited the senator fine. He had enough on his mind tonight, and the last thing he needed was to babysit number three. In fact, Senator Clark would love nothing more than to replace number three with a number four, but he was afraid it didn’t fit into his current plans. The American people would give him a pass on two divorces, but a third would really be pushing it.

  Clark had barely made it through the entrance when the Israeli ambassador’s underlings besieged him. Hands were firmly squeezed. Clark doled out a few backslaps and greeted everyone with his best smile. One of the more senior diplomats, who knew Clark better than the others, helped whisk him away so he could take care of the first order of business. Thirty seconds later Clark was standing in the large ballroom with a tumbler of ice-cold Scotch in his hand. A full head taller than almost everyone at the party, Clark scanned the crowd for the face he doubted he would see. The man he was to meet with tonight did not like to be seen in public.

  After about an hour of schmoozing, Senator Clark was led away from the other guests by an unremarkable man in his forties. The senator had no idea who the man was and had no interest in finding out. After a brief stop at the men’s room, Clark was handed off to another individual who led him past the Shin Bet security personnel and into the working part of the embassy. None of the security officers asked for identification, much less looked at him. Everything had been arranged, Clark knew, by the man he was going to meet. By the time they reached the elevator the sounds of the party were a distant roar.

  The entire embassy was considered a secure facility by Shin Bet, the Israeli agency charged with handling security for all of the country’s embassies and consulates. But nowhere in the embassy was security taken more seriously than in sub level three. The entire floor was without windows and partitioned from the rest of the facility. It housed the offices of the military’s various intelligence organizations, AMAN, AFI and NI, as well as those of Mossad, Israel’s vaunted foreign intelligence service. The area could be accessed in only two ways; by a single elevator or staircase. The staircase, however, could only be used in the event of a fire, which to date had never happened. All traffic to and from the floor was by way of the elevator.

  Clark stepped into the elevator by himself and descended four stories beneath the earth to an area where electronic eavesdropping was more difficult. When he stepped from the elevator, he was greeted by a sterile combination of bright lights, white floor and white walls. The only noticeable feature in the room was a heavy secure door with a camera mounted above it and an automatic fingerprint recognition pad to the right. Clark heard the metallic click of the lock on the door being released and he opened it. Standing on the other side was a woman who Clark guessed to be in her mid thirties. Without speaking, she gestured for the senator to follow, and they were off. Midway down the corridor the woman took a right and then stopped several doors later. With a polite smile and an open palm she motioned for Clark to enter the dim room.

  Clark found his friend sitting at the other end of a rectangular ten-person conference table. He stepped into the room. The thick spring-loaded door closed automatically with an airtight click. The walls and ceiling were covered with a gray foam that looked similar in pattern to the inside of an egg carton. The senator knew the foam was designed to keep whatever was said inside the room, which was exactly what both men wanted.

  The man at the far end of the room closed the file he was reading and switched his cigarette from his right hand to his left. Standing, he extended his hand to the senator and greeted him warmly. “Good evening, Hank. It is a pleasure to see you, as always.”

  “Thank you for making the trip, Ben. I really appreciate it.”

  Ben Freidman shrugged as if to intimate that traveling halfway around the world from Tel Aviv was no big deal. Freidman gestured for Clark to sit, and he turned to a small portable bar that was behind him. Like Clark, Freidman also enjoyed his alcohol.

  “I had to come anyway. I need to see the president in the morning.” He poured two drinks and then eased himself into the chair at the head of the table.

  “Anything important?”

  “I’d say so,” Freidman replied with a troubled look.

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  “It involves Iraq. You will hear about it soon enough, but let’s not talk about my problems right now. Let me hear yours.” Freidman was a pit bull of a man in both personality and physique. He was aggressive, tenacious and loyal. If he did not love you, he was a man to be feared, but if he did love you, he was as dependable as a eunuch guarding a vestal virgin. Freidman loved his country first and foremost, and after that he loved those who helped protect Israel. Senator Clark fell into the latter category.

  Freidman kept his head shaved, and rarely wore a tie. Most of the time, like tonight, he wore a pair of dress pants with a plain short-sleeved dress shirt. A good fifty pounds overweight, the five foot ten inch spy liked to keep his shirts untucked. Not only did he find it more comfortable in the often oppressive heat of Tel Aviv, it also helped to conceal the gun he always carried in a holster at the small of his back. Born in Jerusalem in 1949, Freidman came of age just in time to distinguish himself in the famous Six Day War of 1967. He was in a front line unit that was overrun during the initial hours of the war. Instead of lying low and waiting for the Israeli Defense Forces to push the Egyptians back across the border, Freidman grabbed two men from his squad, and against the orders of his squad leader, set off into the night to harass the enemy. They succeeded brilliantly in t
heir mission, infiltrating the perimeter of a mobile Egyptian command post and wreaking utter havoc. His bold actions did not go unnoticed, and after the famous Six Day War, AMAN, Israel’s military intelligence organization, got their hands on him. By the age of thirty Freidman had risen to the rank of colonel and had fast gained a reputation as a man who got results. It was then that he had been recruited, or as some in the military felt, stolen by the Mossad.

  Over the next two decades Freidman became a legend within the Mossad. What was even more miraculous to some was his uncanny ability to avoid highly embarrassing situations. Whether it was luck or cunning, no one could be quite sure, but Ben Freidman had risen to the very top of what many considered the most effective intelligence agency in the world. He was a man to be respected and feared. He was the director general of the Mossad, and rarely did a month pass where he didn’t send someone to their death.

  Freidman took a sip of his Polish vodka, and looking at his guest, surmised that he would most likely keep the trend going. Tilting his head slightly, Freidman asked the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, “What troubles you, my friend?”

  “Oh, many things, but one thing in particular.”

  “Dr. Kennedy?”

  “Ummm . . . yes and no. She is an issue, but at present there’s someone who is a bigger priority.”

  A thin mischievous smile creased Freidman’s lips. “Mr. Rapp?” Shaking his head he added, “I told you, you should have never got him involved in all of this. He is far too dangerous a man.”

  “Yes, you were right about that, but we can’t turn back the clock.” Clark hesitated for a moment, as if he were struggling to suppress a bad memory. Freidman had indeed advised him to avoid Mitch Rapp. He had been very specific on that point, warning him that four continents were littered with the corpses of people who had gone toe-to-toe with America’s top assassin. At the time Clark had thought that Freidman had refused out of some respect for Rapp, some common bond they had forged while fighting the same enemy. That was the rationale the senator had used when he had been stupid enough to trust Peter Cameron.