by Vince Flynn
Turning, he went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. His nerves were dead. He grabbed a jacket and went outside onto the deck. For some reason he needed to see the water. As he looked out across the dark bay he tried to find an excuse for her. Why she wasn’t there, why she hadn’t called and left a message. He felt pathetic, for not facing the truth, for grasping at empty hopes. Needing to do something, anything, to take his mind off the pain he felt, he set off to get a few logs and start a fire.
Five minutes later he seemed to have found a brief moment of relief. The flames licked upward into the chilly night air and the bark on the birch logs popped and crackled. The wind blew in off the bay and carried the smoke with it. He took a sip of beer and looking into the flames, he remembered that Anna had given him the fire kettle for his birthday. He suddenly felt awash in a barren sea of loneliness. He’d spent years hiding his inner thoughts. Emotions were a luxury he could ill afford. Anna had changed all that. She’d gently peeled away the tough exterior to expose an array of feelings that he’d never known. Now those feelings had turned against him, and the pain was excruciating.
As he stared into the fire tears began to fill his eyes. He leaned back in the Adirondack chair and wondered what life would be like without her. The smell of her hair, the touch of her skin, her enchanting green eyes, her smile, her laugh, it was all gone and somehow he felt cheated. His sacrifices had been great and this had been all he’d asked for in return. A little happiness. A companion to spend the rest of his life with.
Through the tears his analytical mind raced ahead in an attempt to see his future. He would survive, he knew that. Strip away everything else and he was the consummate survivor. The pain of this loss would diminish but not entirely heal. There would be no other women, at least not for a long time, and when and if he ever found one, she would never measure up to Anna. She was his one true love, and he had lost her. With tears streaming down his tired face he began to wonder if any of it was worth his sadness.
Rielly stood in the shadows near the side of the house and watched. She smelled the smoke when she got out of her car and came around the side of the house. She did not want to be there when he got home. She wanted to make a point. She wanted him to feel what she had felt. Now standing in the shadows, seeing the pain he was in, she couldn’t take it anymore.
She stepped from the shadows and approached him. He stared up at her the way a child looks when they first awake from a long sleep. Gazing down at his tear-filled eyes, all she wanted to do was make his pain go away.
Reaching out, she cupped his face in her hands and said, “Darling, I’m sorry.” He did not speak. He grabbed her, pulled her down onto his lap, buried his face in her chest and wrapped his arms around her. Rielly kissed the top of his head and ran her fingers through his short hair. “How did you feel when you got home and I wasn’t here?”
“Like shit.”
She gazed at him seriously. “I wanted you to know what it feels like to wait for me, to wonder if I’m going to come through the door, if you’ll ever see me again. That’s what I went through in Milan.”
His head stayed buried in her chest. “It’s no fun.”
“No, it isn’t.” She grabbed his strong chin and lifted it toward her. “Now that you know how painful it is to be confronted with losing me, promise me that’ll you’ll never make me go through it again.”
Without hesitation Rapp said, “I promise.” They embraced in a long kiss and held each other as if they’d been apart for months.
After several minutes they stood and Rapp asked her to wait outside for a minute. He ran into the house and raced upstairs. A moment later he came back downstairs and out onto the deck. He grabbed Rielly by the shoulders and had her sit in the Adirondack chair. Kneeling in front of her he kissed her on the lips and asked, “Do you remember when we met?”
Rielly looked at him as if he were asking a trick question. It would be impossible for her to forget when they’d met. He’d saved her life. “Of course I remember.”
“Do you remember what you said to me when the hostage standoff was over? That it was fate?”
Rielly smiled. “Yes.”
“Do you still believe that?” he asked sincerely.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“So do I.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I think I was sent there to save you, so that later you could save me.”
Still smiling, she tilted her head and asked, “How?”
“By spending the rest of your life with me.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a beautiful diamond ring. Grabbing her hand he gazed into her eyes and asked, “Anna, will you please marry me?”
Her eyes filled with tears of joy, and her bottom lip began to quiver as he slid the ring onto her finger. Not able to speak, she slowly nodded her head and bent forward to kiss him on the lips.
49
THE WHITE HOUSE, ONE WEEK LATER
The president stood in front of the fireplace in the Oval Office. The cameras snapped away and flashes filled the room. On his left was Yasser Arafat, and on his right Prime Minister Goldberg of Israel. It had been a great week for Hayes. His poll numbers were through the roof. He had a mandate to get things done both in Washington and on the international stage. Even the press was fawning over him. There wasn’t a country in the Middle East, including Iran, that wasn’t relieved that Hayes had pulled the teeth from Saddam’s arsenal. Saddam was screaming bloody murder over the raid, but no one was listening. Hayes had carried the day.
The president’s chief of staff stepped in front of the press pool and said, “Okay, that’s it for now. Thank you.” Jones ushered them toward the door gesturing with her arms like she was moving livestock into a corral.
When the press was gone the president turned to his guests and said, “Something has come up that I need to attend to. It shouldn’t take long. My chief of staff will take you into the Roosevelt Room and get things started.”
Hayes smiled at both men and left the Oval Office. As soon as he reached the hallway, the smile vanished. He traveled by himself down to the basement. When he reached the Situation Room he entered and closed the door behind him. Irene Kennedy was sitting on one side of the table and her Israeli counterpart was sitting across the table.
Ben Freidman stood immediately and said, “Mr. President, thank you for your invitation to come to the White House.”
Hayes stood behind his leather chair, his hands resting on the back. This was Kennedy’s plan, and he was more than willing to play his part. “You’ll excuse me if I got you to travel all this way on a less than honest pretense, but I don’t think you would have made the trip if I’d told you the real reason I wanted to talk to you.”
The smile melted from Freidman’s face as warning flags went up.
“Sit.” Hayes pointed toward the Israeli’s chair. Reluctantly the intelligence chief sat. “Is there anything you’d like to get off your chest?” asked Hayes.
Freidman scrambled to come up with the source of the president’s ire. He’d just spent the entire morning with Kennedy and it had been very pleasant. No sign whatsoever that something was wrong. He looked across the table for her assistance and all he got was an inquiring glance. He turned to the president and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not quite sure I understand.”
“Oh, I think you do.” Hayes was ready to burst. He knew what Freidman’s eventual excuse would be and he already didn’t buy it. It was high time they started acting like true allies. “Does the name Peter Cameron ring a bell?”
Freidman was a professional liar by trade. He shook his head, and with absolute conviction said, “I don’t think so.”
The president scoffed at his answer. “How about Donatella Rahn?”
Freidman had been wondering where she’d gone and now he knew the answer. “Yes, I do, Mr. President. Unfortunately.”
“Oh, why is that?” Hayes asked with feigned concern.
“I recruited her personally, to work for Mossad. She w
as very good in her day, but several years ago we lost control of her.”
“Lost control of her?” asked Hayes.
“It happens from time to time in our line of work, sir.” Freidman glanced at Kennedy. “We don’t have the best retirement plan and there are people who are willing to pay a lot of money for someone with Donatella’s skills.”
Hayes glanced at his watch and then at Kennedy. “I don’t have time for this B.S.”
“Are you trying to tell us, Ben, that Donatella has not worked for you for two years?”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you.”
“You’re a liar, and not a very good one.” The president picked up the phone behind him and pushed a button. “Send them in.” He placed the phone back and watched Freidman squirm.
A moment later the door opened. Donatella Rahn and Mitch Rapp entered the room. Donatella went around the table and sat next to Kennedy. Rapp stood next to the president and glared at Freidman.
The president asked, “Would you like to amend your story now?”
“I don’t know what this woman has told you, but she cannot be trusted.” Freidman’s forehead was beginning to glisten with sweat.
The president laughed. “Somehow I think it is you who can’t be trusted, Mr. Freidman.”
“Mr. President, I beg you. You cannot listen to this woman. She has stabbed my country in the back. We have been hunting her for almost a year.”
“For the sake of making some progress, I’m going to at least for now ignore your comment about Ms. Rahn stabbing you in the back. I would like instead to focus on something else. Explain to me why you’ve been paying Ms. Rahn large amounts of money and hunting her at the same time.”
Freidman tried to act confused by the whole thing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Irene.” The president looked to Kennedy.
Kennedy produced a file, opened it and slid it across the table. They were the Swiss bank accounts that Freidman used to hide money from his own government. With Donatella’s help, Marcus Dumond, the CIA’s top hacker, had obtained this information and much more. The president asked, “Do you recognize these bank accounts?”
Freidman lied. “No.”
“Good, then you won’t mind that they were closed this morning and the money was transferred to us.”
Despite trying to keep his cool, Freidman was showing signs of unraveling. He chose not to respond to the president.
The president looked to Rapp and nodded. Then he held his hand out and said, “Ms. Rahn, it’s time for us to leave.”
Rapp drew his Beretta from his shoulder holster and methodically twisted a thick black silencer onto the end of it. Donatella got up from her chair and took the president’s hand. In response to the recent development Freidman let out a laugh that sounded a little more nervous than he would have liked.
“Mr. President, how naive do you think I am? You can’t intimidate me like this.” Freidman shook his head disbelievingly at Hayes. “You could never get away with killing me. Especially not here in the White House.”
“Oh, Mr. Freidman, I think you underestimate my dislike for you, and I think you overestimate your importance to your government. All I have to do is show Prime Minister Goldberg what you’ve been up to and by the time I’m done, he’ll be thanking me for killing you.” Hayes opened the door and ushered Donatella out.
“Wait,” said a nervous Freidman.
The president motioned for Donatella to go on without him and he closed the door. “Don’t waste my time, Mr. Freidman.”
“What do you want to know?”
Rapp asked the question. “Who hired you to kill Peter Cameron?”
Freidman squirmed. “That’s a complicated question.”
Rapp raised his gun and pointed it at Freidman’s knee cap. “No it isn’t.”
He looked at the gun and then at the man holding it. There was absolutely no doubt in Freidman’s mind that Rapp would pull the trigger. In the blink of an eye he made up his mind and said, “It was Hank Clark.”
“What?” asked a shocked president.
“Hank Clark.” Freidman looked at Kennedy and said, “Give me my money back, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Rapp turned to the president and said, “I’d like you to leave now.”
Hayes, still reeling over the name he’d just heard, said, “But—”
Rapp grabbed the president by his shoulder and said, “Leave.”
Hayes looked to Kennedy for guidance. She nodded and looked at the door. After a moment of hesitation he reluctantly left the room. When he was gone Freidman breathed a sigh of relief and said to Kennedy, “Good. Now we can deal.”
“Wrong!” bellowed Rapp. He pointed his gun at Freidman’s leg and pulled the trigger. A bullet spat from the end of the silencer and grazed the Israeli’s meaty inner thigh. Freidman lurched back in his chair and grabbed his leg in a mix of shock and pain.
Rapp moved the weapon back to Freidman’s knee and through clenched teeth said, “I’m looking for a reason to kill you, so there ain’t gonna be any negotiating. If you want to walk out of here alive, you’re gonna tell us everything you know.”
Clutching his leg in pain, Freidman nodded his head and began to talk.
EPILOGUE
The Cosmos Club was Senator Clark’s kind of place, especially around Christmas. The mansion at 2121 Massachusetts Avenue was a bastion of wealth, class, intellectual discussion, fine food, cigars and liquor. It was the type of place that would have never allowed Congressman Albert Rudin through its doors. The century-old club had rules, and chief among them was a sense of decorum. Differing opinions were encouraged, but loud divisive arguing was not.
The senator’s limousine was cued up on Mass Avenue with the other social elites of Washington. He was fifth in line with at least as many limos and cars behind him. Sally Bradley’s annual Christmas party at the Cosmos Club was an event not to be missed. That was, unless you were wife number three. She’d gone home to Phoenix. Washington’s cold gray December skies depressed her too much.
Clark was more than a little surprised at the lack of remorse and guilt he felt over killing Rudin. He found it very satisfying that he was the only person who knew the truth. Just three weeks after the death the case was ruled a suicide and closed. The police had been very easy to handle. Clark laid it all out for the detectives. Rudin had been depressed for some time, especially since a meeting he’d had with his party’s leadership and the president several weeks earlier. They’d threatened to strip him of his chairmanship and do everything in their power to make sure he didn’t get reelected. Rudin had been devastated. Blinded by his convictions, he tried to find a way to torpedo Kennedy’s nomination. Clark warned him against it, but Rudin said he’d discovered something that would ruin Kennedy. That was when he went on Meet the Press with his accusations. The next night his world fell apart around him when the president gave his speech to the nation. Clark told how a panicked Rudin came to him and begged him to talk to the president. He’d pleaded with Clark to intercede and get the president to call off the FBI’s investigation.
Solemnly, Clark told the investigators that he’d refused Rudin’s plea. How he’d told Rudin that he had nobody to blame but himself for the mess he was in. “I didn’t think he’d jump. The thought never occurred to me. Now I realize I failed him in his hour of need.” Clark seemed genuinely remorseful and the police believed him. Much of his story was backed up by the president himself and even Rudin’s wife had said he’d been in a dark funk for several weeks. Clark was never once treated as a suspect, and after a short investigation it was ruled that Rudin had committed suicide.
The feeling of having avoided near disaster was intoxicating. Knowing that he had fooled them all gave him a sense of omnipotence. His plans to run for the White House, however, were on hold. Ellis and his West Coast financiers were very upset that Kennedy had been confirmed as director, but there was nothing he could d
o about that. At least not for now. In the meantime he told Ellis that he would begin trying to find another mole at the CIA. Amazingly, neither Steveken nor Brown’s name had been dragged into the spotlight. After Rudin’s death the FBI just dropped everything.
President Hayes was untouchable at present. His numbers were so high, someone would have to be a complete fool to run against him. But that was now. Who knew what the political climate would be like in a year? Clark would hang around biding his time. He’d lived to fight another day, and his dream of someday occupying the Oval Office was still alive.
Clark’s limousine finally pulled into the small drive and a doorman, resplendent in topcoat and top hat, opened the door. The senator got out of the car in his double-breasted tuxedo and entered the club. He looked tanned and rested from another weekend retreat in the Bahamas and was in the mood to have some fun. He proceeded to the magnificent Warne Lounge where a band was playing and most of the partygoers had gathered. Too many in fact. Upon seeing that they were five deep at the bar, the senator reversed his course and headed off for the Cherrywood Bar. A few folks tried to stop him on the way but Clark politely informed them of his predicament and told them he would be back. Fortunately, there were only a few wise souls bellied up to the curved granite bar.
He ordered a glass of Merlot and settled in. He’d finish this one and order another before he went back to join the revelry. He was about to begin making small talk with the bartender when an absolutely stunning blonde in an ivory, beaded dress sauntered into the room. She cozied up to the bar one chair over from Clark and ordered a glass of Chardonnay.
When she looked in his direction Clark said, “How are you doing this evening?”
“Just fine, thank you.” She turned her attention back to the bartender.
The woman had just a touch of an accent, but Clark couldn’t place it. She was absolutely gorgeous, high cheekbones, full lips and a curvaceous figure with a tiny waist. Clark was already wondering what she looked like with her clothes off when he asked, “Are you enjoying the party?”
