Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2

by Vince Flynn

  “Calm down, Albert. I think you’ve gotten yourself so far into this you’re not seeing clearly.”

  “What could I possibly be missing? The speaker of the House picks me up in his limo, drags me over to the White House, I’m ambushed by my own party’s leadership, and I’m threatened by the president himself.” With a grimace Rudin added, “Please tell me what I’m missing.”

  Clark was tempted to remind Rudin that he’d brought it all down on himself, but decided it would be counterproductive to the task at hand. “Albert, I think you’re selling yourself short. When was the last time you were challenged in a primary? Ten years ago?”

  “Eight.”

  “When was the last time my party gave you a serious challenge?”

  “It’s been a while,” he conceded with some real pride.

  “So, how is the president going to stop you from going on to an eighteenth term?”

  “I haven’t been challenged from within my own party because there has never been an alternative, but if the president were to lean hard enough on the people who run the party back in Connecticut . . . if he were to promise to infuse a bunch of cash into their coffers, they’d dump me in a heartbeat.”

  “Maybe so, but that’s a risky proposition for the president. Voters don’t always like bigwigs from Washington interfering in their local politics. You could spin it in the media that the president had a vendetta against you. If you played it right you could make yourself into a victim of petty Washington politics. The local voters and media would love it.”

  Rudin thought about it for a moment and saw that it might work. Maybe he wasn’t in as dire of a spot as he’d thought. “But what about the present? If I launch an investigation they’ll cut my balls off.”

  “It might be too late for them to do anything if the media gets behind the story.” Clark folded his arms across his chest and gave this some time to sink in.

  Rudin gave the idea some serious consideration. “That would be a risky play.”

  Clark could see his words were having the right effect. It was time to lead him to action. “Albert, I know you as a man of great integrity. I don’t always agree with your politics, but you’ve stayed true to your party through the worst of times, and frankly I don’t think you deserve to be treated like this.” He studied the malleable congressman while he spoke. All he was doing was telling Rudin exactly what he wanted to hear. “Great men are often hated and envied by their peers. It is usually not until they are gone that their greatness is recognized.” Clark shook his head as if saddened by the whole affair. “I don’t think you should be treated like this. Being threatened by the president is wrong.”

  “Why don’t you say that to him?” asked Rudin in earnest.

  Clark shook his head emphatically. “In this town we have to fight our own battles. You know that, Albert. As a Republican my opinions on a dispute within your party would not be welcome. No . . . that wouldn’t work at all. You have always been a man of principle and conscience, and I don’t think you should change now.” The senator searched Rudin’s face for a sign that he was with him, and that his ego was inflated to the proper degree. Satisfied, Clark went for the kill. “Albert, you should follow your conscience. If you truly think Irene Kennedy is corrupt,” he hesitated as if it were painful for him to give such advice. Leaning closer, he finished by saying, “If she is as bad as you think she is then you really have no other choice.”

  Rudin let his head drop into his hands. The struggle he was having was apparent. In a pleading tone he said, “But it will be political suicide. They will kill me.”

  Oh, he was so close. He had to tread very carefully. “I have already told you how you can neutralize them. Let the media get the ball rolling and then call hearings. The president wouldn’t dare do anything to you at that point.”

  “How in the hell am I going to get the media to cover this? I’ve been bitching about the abuses at Langley for so long none of them listen to me anymore. I need some help. I need your help. All you have to do is get her in front of your committee during the confirmation hearing and hammer her.”

  “No way.” Clark shook his head vigorously. “I’m going to tell you this for the last time, Albert. I like Dr. Kennedy. I think she will do a good job. If you think she’s as bad as you say she is, then it’s up to you to prove to the rest of us that she’s rotten.”

  “But I can’t,” Rudin practically shouted. Regaining some control he said, “I know what I know, but I don’t have the kind of proof that I could take to the press. All you’d have to do is ask her some questions that I’d prepare, and I will guarantee that she’ll cave in.”

  In your wet dreams, Clark thought to himself. Irene Kennedy was not the type of person to wilt under the bright lights of a confirmation hearing. Not unless she was confronted with real evidence. Clark decided that a little anger was needed. Raising his voice, he said, “Albert, I’m not getting involved in this. If you want to derail her then it’s up to you. I’m here as your friend, but if you ask me again to ambush her in my committee room, in front of the cameras, after I’ve given my word to the president, I will get up and leave!”

  Rudin backed down. “All right. I understand your position, but what the fuck am I going to do? When I heard that bastard Stansfield had cancer I jumped for joy. I thought, finally we can clean out that rats’ nest. And now this . . . it’s just too much for me. I’ve given too much of my life to public service. I just can’t sit back and watch the blatant corruption continue.”

  There was a long silence. Finally, Clark decided Rudin was ready. “I feel bad for you, I really do. . . .” he said. “It’s just that I’ve given my word.” The senator looked away thoughtfully, as if he were struggling with a tough decision. “There is one thing I can do that might help.” Clark paused to see just how eager Rudin was. It was painfully obvious on the congressman’s face that he would gladly accept what his friend had to offer.

  “I know of someone who is quite remarkable at digging things up.” Clark stared his fellow politician in the eye. “Things that people don’t want dug up. I will articulate that you’d like to have a talk with him.”

  “Is he expensive?”

  Clark moaned inside. Rudin was the cheapest bastard he’d ever met. In truth the man was expensive, but Clark was willing to subsidize the job. “He’s actually quite reasonable.” With a grin Clark added, “Or so I’ve been told.”

  “When can I meet with him?”

  “I’ll see if he can stop by your office this afternoon, but I can’t make any promises. He’s a very busy man.”

  “The sooner the better. I don’t have a lot of time to derail this train.”

  Clark nodded. “And one more thing, Albert. Keep me out of this. All I’m doing is giving you someone’s name. What you do from this point forward is up to you.”

  “Don’t worry, Hank. I’ll never forget that you were there for me during my darkest hours.”

  With a soft smile, Clark said, “Don’t mention it. That’s what friends are for.” Clark kept the smile on his face, but inside he was elated. Rudin was about to be spoon-fed just enough information to bring about the end of Irene Kennedy’s bid for the directorship of the CIA. The Democratic Party was about to be blindsided.

  9

  TEL AVIV, WEDNESDAY MORNING

  The sleek, black Mercedes sedan moved quickly through the streets of Tel Aviv. The sedan had tinted bulletproof windows, anti-mine flooring and armor-plated sides and roof. Ben Freidman sat in the backseat by himself. Two Mossad bodyguards were in front, one driving, the other riding shotgun. A small arsenal of weapons was stashed throughout the vehicle in case of an attack, which was a very real threat. So real that Freidman had two armor-plated cars, the Mercedes and a Peugeot. Freidman was switched from one car to the other throughout the day, always in an underground garage or a secluded area away from prying eyes.

  Colonel Ben Freidman, the director general of Mossad, was perhaps the most hated man in the Mi
ddle East. Yes, characters like Saddam Hussein and Yasser Arafat had their enemies, but they were Arabs, and make no mistake about it, the Middle East was overwhelmingly Arab. The multitude of factions and tribes that made up the Arab people had fought each other for millennia. The feuds ran deep, rich in historical lore. Despite the tiniest of differences from one group to the next they rarely got along. There was, however, one exception, and that exception was an almost universal hatred of Israel.

  Amongst Arabs, the most hated and feared organization in all of Israel was Mossad. They were a den of assassins and thieves given official sanction by the government of Israel to conduct an illegal war against the Muslim peoples of the world.

  This reputation did not bother Ben Freidman. In fact, he did everything in his power to perpetuate the fear. If one of the fallouts was that he had to lead a life in which he was constantly surrounded by bulletproof composites and heavily armed men, then so be it. The Arabs had sworn to crush the Israeli state and he had promised to defend it. They were in a war and had been for over fifty years. This sham of Middle East peace perpetuated by American do-gooders and soft Israeli politicians had made his job more difficult, but Freidman was not one to complain. He was always adapting, always preparing for the next battle.

  For the first forty years of Mossad’s existence the agency had been cloaked in secrecy, so much so that the various directors general were unknown to all but the prime minister and his or her cabinet. Times had changed though, and in the nineties Mossad became a victim of Israel’s increasingly partisan and volatile politics. The agency’s anonymity was stripped away and the office of the director general became one of the hottest seats in the government. Ben Freidman’s name was regularly printed in the papers and his picture was shown frequently on television. Any terrorist with half a brain could pick him out of a crowd and blow his head off.

  The purges that Mossad underwent in the nineties had taught Freidman to be leery of all politicians. His allegiance was to his country and Mossad. The prime minister, and the rest of the squabbling politicians, could take a backseat. They had nearly destroyed the most effective spy agency in the world with their incessant desire to meddle. From 1951 to 1990, only six different directors general ran Mossad, but during the political bloodletting of the nineties four men had held the post. The lack of any sustained leadership had disastrous effects on recruiting and the morale of Mossad’s employees. Despite all of this, when Ben Freidman was named to the post by the current prime minister he had gladly taken the job.

  Freidman understood something his four predecessors didn’t. To run the world’s most effective spy agency you had to act like a dictator, not a politician. And to be a dictator you had to have power. Freidman had spent a fair amount of time in America over the years and had worked closely with the CIA in a mutual effort to battle terrorism. He learned that the CIA had been forced to adapt far earlier than Mossad had to the political game. Washington was a much more political town, and the media in the U.S. was absolutely unwieldy compared to the rags in Israel. Thomas Stansfield had shown Freidman how to get results in a supercharged political environment.

  Stansfield made it very clear that his agency was not interested in politics. The first thing he did was develop assets outside the normal channels so he could act without the politicians on the Hill knowing what he was up to, and then he began to use the Agency’s mounds of information against any politician who tried to make political hay out of the CIA. Most of the politicians in Washington understood that the CIA had a dirty job to do and they steered clear, but there was always a handful of opportunists who were looking to advance their own careers, or their party or both. Stansfield focused on building dossiers on the ones who were really aggressive, and over a period of years he performed admirably at keeping the wolves at bay.

  Freidman had learned that the politicians in Israel were no different. The ones who were looking to ascend to upper levels of government all had something that they were currently involved in, or something from their past, that they wanted kept quiet. Freidman collected that information into a tidy insurance policy that helped to keep the prime minister and the opposition parties quiet. With his flanks protected, he could go about the real business of his job, which was waging war against the terrorists who had sworn to push Israel into the sea.

  IT WAS MIDMORNING in downtown Tel Aviv, and as was almost always the case, the sun was out and the temperature was a comfortable eighty-one degrees. Both pedestrian and motor traffic were moderate. Moving fast, the limousine approached the prime minister’s office building. The driver radioed ahead to say they were on their way in. The security guards out front expertly scanned the street for any signs of an ambush, and then radioed the car to say it was clear. When the armored car came around the block the heavy barrier to the underground parking garage was down and four intense-looking individuals armed with Uzi submachine guns were fanned out to secure the area.

  The Mercedes zipped into the garage and the heavy spring-loaded barricade popped up almost instantly. This was life in Israel and none of the men who had just participated in the brief exercise gave it a second thought. They had all been raised on the front line. They had been taught from the earliest of ages to never pick something up in public that was just left lying around, to be very suspicious of strangers and call the police at the slightest sign of something out of the ordinary. Their enemy walked among them, and a day never passed where they didn’t think of it. To let one’s guard down was to invite death and become one of the thousands of casualties that had been racked up since the birth of the tiny country.

  Freidman stepped from the back of the car leaving his specially made metal briefcase with his men. He was wearing light-colored slacks and a loose fitting, short-sleeved, tan dress shirt. The shirt was, of course, untucked, and his pistol was firmly secured in his belt holster at the small of his back. Two security officers escorted him into the elevator and took him up to the prime minister’s suite. Freidman spoke to no one as he walked through the outer office and into the secure windowless conference room. He sat in one of the chairs and drummed his thick fingers on the shiny wood surface.

  A moment later David Goldberg entered the room and sat. The former army general was a no-nonsense hard-ass. Heavyset and set in his ways, he was the head of the conservative Likud Party. Despite holding just nineteen seats in the 120-member Knesset, Goldberg had been elected by the overwhelming majority of the Israeli people. They had grown tired of the ever-increasing concessions made by the Labor Party in their dealings with Yasser Arafat. Goldberg had been swept into office on a wave of national unity and given a charter to put the bloodthirsty Palestinians in their place. This was a campaign promise he intended to keep, and Goldberg was smart enough to know he couldn’t fulfill it without the aid of Ben Freidman.

  Goldberg had a mane of thin white hair, which framed a tan face and heavy jowls. Physically he shared many of Winston Churchill’s characteristics. He was a large man, but not muscular. If anyone bothered to look under his clothes they were apt to discover a body like a pudgy baby’s. Some might perceive this as a weakness, but those who understood Goldberg knew better. The man had a biting temper, and the balls of a bull. He had distinguished himself on the battlefield during the Yom Kippur War and had never forgotten the despicable sneak attack by Israel’s Arab neighbors on one of the holiest days of the Jewish year.

  Israeli governments had changed frequently over the last two decades, racking up one failed peace accord after another. And when each gambit for Palestinian and Israeli harmony failed, and the blood began to flow, the country turned to Goldberg’s party for guidance. Like Churchill, his country had no use for him unless things were dire.

  Goldberg smoothed his tie and let his hand rest on his belly. Leaning back he asked, “So tell me how things went with the Americans?”

  Freidman had refused to call Goldberg after his meeting with the president. Knowing all too well the capabilities of the NSA, he had opted to
deliver his news in person. “It got off to a slow start, but I think our goal will be achieved.”

  Goldberg liked President Hayes’s tough record on terrorism, but was suspicious of the man. In the year that he’d been in office he’d made it quite clear that he would not be pushed around by the American Jewish lobby. Goldberg understood better than most that Israel’s ace in the hole had always been their fellow Jews in America. “Why the slow start?”

  “I don’t think President Hayes liked the fact that it was me and not you making the call.”

  “Surely he understands why I didn’t call him.”

  “Like I said, after I told them what we’ve discovered, his attitude changed.”

  “And what was his response?”

  Freidman grinned, remembering the tension on Hayes’s face. “He was not happy.”

  Goldberg found these conversations with Freidman very tedious. The man never simply told a story. You had to extract information from him bit by bit. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. He didn’t need to, though. The anger on his face said it all.”

  “Who else was at the meeting?”

  “Dr. Kennedy, General Flood, Michael Haik and Valerie Jones.”

  “Did anyone speak?”

  “No.”

  Goldberg’s heavy face twisted into a concerned frown. “I find that very unusual. Don’t you?”

  “No. President Hayes has made it very clear that America’s best interests are not always the same as ours.”

  Anxious to disagree, Goldberg said, “That may be, but it doesn’t explain why they wouldn’t speak. For God’s sake, we’re their only true ally in this whole bloody region.”

  Inwardly, Freidman smiled. Goldberg would not have gotten far in the intelligence business. He was far too emotional. “The president clearly didn’t like the way I requested a backdoor meeting. My guess is he instructed everyone to keep their mouths shut while I was in the room.” With a shrug, he added, “This is not unusual, David. Being the head of Mossad often guarantees a frigid welcome. Even in one’s own country.”