Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2
Page 40
“Yes.” She studied Clark for a second and said, “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
He smiled and took a big sip of wine. “Most certainly not. I’d remember that.” Standing, he extended his hand. “I’m Senator Hank Clark.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She took his hand. “I’ve seen you on TV.” With a flirtatious smile she added, “You’re much better looking in person.”
“Why thank you, and so are you.”
The woman laughed and patted Clark’s hand.
“And what is your name?”
“I’m Mary Johnson.”
“You must not live in Washington, Mary, or I’m sure we would have crossed paths.”
“You are correct, Senator. I’m from Richmond.”
“So how’d you get mixed up with this crowd?”
The glass of Chardonnay arrived. “I was a sorority sister of Sally’s daughter in college.”
“Oh, great. Here, take a seat.” Clark offered the stool next to him.
“Thank you.” She sat and crossed her legs, the long slit in her dress revealing a healthy portion of her toned thigh.
Clark noticed the exposed flesh immediately and reached for his wine. He took a large gulp and smiled. “I love your dress. It’s beautiful.” He looked at the wedding ring on her finger, and then back down at her leg. “So where’s your husband?”
She hesitated for a second and then replied, “He’s down in Richmond. He doesn’t like coming to these things. In fact, all he pretty much likes to do is work.”
Clark moved a little closer and in a quieter voice said, “If I was married to you, I’d only have one thing on my mind.”
“And what’s that, Senator?”
“You.” Clark polished off his glass of wine and ordered another.
The woman blushed at the compliment and reached into her handbag to retrieve a compact. She opened it and checked her makeup, applying some more powder to her nose. “So tell me, Senator, where is Mrs. Clark tonight?”
“She is, fortunately, back in Arizona for the evening.”
The second glass of Merlot appeared and the bartender scurried off to help another customer. The woman pulled some lipstick out of her handbag and asked Clark, “Is that you in that photo over there?” She pointed over Clark’s shoulder at a collection of black-and-white photographs on the wall of the bar. When Clark turned to look, she casually moved her lipstick over the senator’s glass of wine and pressed a small button on the side. Several drops of a clear odorless liquid fell into the glass. The woman placed the lipstick back in her handbag and took a sip of her own wine.
When Clark turned back around he said, “Yes, I think that is me and some of my colleagues from the Hill.” He lifted his glass of wine and took a sip.
The woman nodded and then stuck her hand out. “Well, Senator Clark, I feel like dancing. What do you say?”
“I’d love to.” Clark took another sip and stood. He offered his hand to the woman and decided tonight was going to be a good night indeed. As he stared down at her full breasts peeking over the top of her tight dress, he once again tried to imagine what Mary Johnson would look like naked.
RAPP STOOD ALONE in his tuxedo near the bar in the ballroom. His black hair had been dyed mostly gray, and he sported a salt and pepper goatee. He adjusted the horn-rimmed glasses he was wearing and looked out over the crowd in search of Donatella. He’d sent her to follow Clark, and was waiting for her to return.
For the most part, Rapp had kept Kennedy out of the loop over the last three weeks. She knew what he was up to but didn’t want any details. The president, he assumed, had conveniently decided not to get involved. Freidman had given them a good start on what Clark had been up to. For his help, Kennedy and the president would stay silent about what the head of Mossad had done. Freidman’s money, though, would stay out of his reach for a while longer. Kennedy wanted it for leverage on some other things.
With Freidman’s information they began looking into Clark’s life. Rapp had done most of the surveillance and digging with the help of Donatella and a few other well trusted specialists. He’d been inside all three of Clark’s homes and examined his financial and medical records in detail. He’d also taken the opportunity to insert certain things here and there to help explain the senator’s upcoming death.
Just killing Clark wasn’t going to work. It would have been easy, but doing it so closely on the heels of Rudin’s apparent suicide would have raised too many questions. This was why Rapp had picked tonight. The more witnesses the better.
Through the festive sea of holiday revelers Rapp spied a blonde-haired Donatella working her way toward him with Clark in tow. Several people tried to stop the senator, but he was too focused on the bombshell in front of him to slow down.
Donatella approached Rapp and whispered, “It’s taken care of.” Then turning back to Clark she said, “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.” Donatella stepped out of the way and left the two men facing each other.
Rapp looked at Clark’s face for signs that the drug was working its way through his bloodstream. A layer of sweat was forming on his lip and his eyes appeared to be agitated.
Clark stuck out his hand and said, “Senator Hank Clark. Nice to meet you.” At that moment he seemed to lose his balance for a second.
Rapp grabbed his hand firmly. “My name is Mitch Kruse, Senator. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for some time.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Mitch Kruse.”
Over the loud music of the band Clark said, “I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”
Rapp shrugged. “Tell me, Senator, did Congressman Rudin jump, or was he pushed out your window?” Rapp was still holding on to Clark’s hand and wasn’t about to let go.
Clark tried to pull away, but Rapp was too strong. “I don’t find your attempt at humor very entertaining.”
“There’s nothing humorous about it, Senator. I think you killed him.”
Clark tried to pull away again and swayed a bit. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Rapp noticed a heaviness in the senator’s speech. “Senator, you don’t look so good.” Still holding Clark’s hand, Rapp stepped to the side revealing an armchair he’d been saving. “Here. Sit.” Rapp guided him into the chair and took his glass of wine. He handed it to Donatella who wiped it with a napkin and set it on the bar.
Clark clawed at his bow tie. “Something isn’t right. I’m having a hard time breathing.” The words barely made it out.
“You’re having a heart attack, Senator. Just try and stay calm, it’ll all be over in a minute.”
There was horror on Clark’s face. He tried to speak, but nothing came out.
Rapp leaned in real close and said, “By the way, Senator, my name isn’t Mitch Kruse, it’s Mitch Rapp.”
There was a flutter of recognition in Clark’s eyes, but he was too far gone to react.
“I just wanted to meet you face-to-face before you died.” Rapp stepped away so he could see the look of absolute horror on Clark’s face fade to a death stare.
With Clark sitting wide-eyed, Rapp turned and extended his arm for Donatella. She grabbed it and they walked across the dance floor to the sounds of music, conversation and laughter.
Atria Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by Vince Flynn
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Cover design by Jae Song.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-1-4391-3573-0
ISBN 978-0-7434-4922-9 (ebook)
To Sloan Harris
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prelude
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my lovely wife, Lysa, for once again keeping things together. To my editor, Emily Bestler, who came up with some great ideas that made this novel better than it would have been without her. To Sarah Branham for all of her hard work. To Jack Romanos and Carolyn Reidy of Simon & Schuster for all of their support. To Paolo Pepe and the art department at Atria Books for coming up with a great cover. To Larry Norton and the Simon & Schuster sales force for all of their tireless work. To Judith Curr of Atria Books and Louise Burke of Pocket Books, and all of the other folks who fall under the S&S umbrella who helped put this book together and get it out the door.
To my agent, Sloan Harris, and Katherine Cluverius at ICM for all of your hard work and candid advice. To Carl Pohlad for all of your generosity and friendship, and for providing me with a quiet place to write. To Larry Johnson for once again being an endless source of information. To Sean Stone for backstopping me on a few ideas. To Bill Harlow, the director of public affairs for the CIA, for once again patiently answering an endless stream of questions. To Paul Evancoe, a retired SEAL commander, who was kind enough to offer me his wisdom. To FBI Special Agent Brad Garrett, who has devoted an entire career to locking up the bad guys. And as always to all of my sources who wish to remain anonymous. Any mistakes in this novel are mine and mine alone.
PRELUDE
The sleek gray craft sliced through the warm water and humid night air of the Philippine Sea at twenty-five knots, its twin engines rumbling toward its destination with a guttural moan. The boat was in violation of international law and at least one treaty, but the men on board didn’t care. Technicalities, legalities and diplomacy were for other people to sort out, people who sat in comfortable leather chairs with Ivy League degrees matted and framed on their office walls. The men standing on the deck of the Mark V special operations craft were here to get a job done, and in their minds, it was a job that should have been taken care of months ago.
The low profile Mark V special operations craft was designed to sneak in under radar. It had been designed specifically for the United States Navy SEALs, and it was their choice of platform when running maritime insertions. It was eighty-two feet in length but the boat only drafted five feet when it was fully loaded and dead in the water. Instead of the standard screw it was propelled by two waterjets. All of this allowed the boat to maneuver very close to the beach with great precision.
Five men wearing black flight helmets and night vision goggles manned four .50-caliber machine guns and a 40mm grenade launcher. Eight other men dressed in jungle BDUs and floppy hats sat on the gunwales of the rubber combat raiding craft they would soon launch off the Mark V and went over their equipment for at least the tenth time. Their faces were smeared with warlike green and black camouflage paint, but their expressions were calm.
Lieutenant Jim Devolis looked down at his SEAL squad and watched them go through their last check. He’d observed them doing it countless times before and for some reason it always reminded him of baboons picking bugs from each other at the zoo. They meticulously examined their H harnesses to make sure every snap was secure and all grenades taped. The communications gear was checked and rechecked. Fresh batteries had been placed in everyone’s night vision goggles, and along with backup batteries the expensive optical devices were stowed in waterproof pouches attached to their H harnesses. Weapons were sandproofed with condoms secured over the muzzles and a bead of silicone sealant around the magazines and bolt covers. The only person wearing a rucksack tonight would be the squad’s medical corpsman, and Devolis sincerely hoped they wouldn’t be needing his expertise. The group was traveling light tonight. No MREs, only a couple of Power Bars for each man. The plan was to be in and out before the sun came up. Just the way the SEALs liked it.
The tension grew as they neared the demarcation point. Devolis was glad to see that the jaw-jacking had subsided. It was time to get serious. Turning his head to the right and down, his lips found the tube for his neoprene camel water pack and he sucked in a mouthful of fresh water. The men had been drinking all the water they could hold for two days. Hydration before an op in this part of the world was crucial. Even at night the temperature was still in the mid-eighties and the humidity wasn’t far behind. The only thing that was keeping them from sweating through their BDUs was the breeze created by the boat as it cruised at twenty-plus knots. Once they hit the beach, though, that would change. They had a two-mile hike ahead of them through the thick tropical jungle. Even with all the water they’d drunk in the last two days, each man on the team would probably lose five to ten pounds just hiking in and out.
A firm hand fell on Devolis’s shoulder. He turned to look at the captain of the boat.
“Two minutes out, Jim. Get your boys loaded up.”
Devolis nodded once and blinked, his white eyes glowing bright against the dark camouflage paint spread across his face. “Thanks, Pat.” The two men had practiced this drill hundreds of times back in Coronado, California, at the headquarters for Naval Special Warfare Group One.
“Don’t go wandering off on me now,” Devolis said with a wide grin.
The captain smiled in the manner of someone who’s confident in his professional ability. “If you call, I’ll be there guns a’blazin’.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Devolis nod
ded and then turned to his men. With his forefinger pointed straight up he made a circular motion and the SEALs instantly got to their feet. A moment later the boat slowed to just under five knots.
The Mark V, in addition to being extremely fast, also came with a slanted aft deck that allowed it to launch and receive small craft without stopping. Without a word the men grabbed the sides of their black CRRC with the forty-horsepower outboard leading and walked down the aft ramp. The men stopped at the end of the ramp just shy of the Mark V’s frothy white wake and set the rubber boat on the nonskid deck, the lower unit of the outboard hanging in the water. A crew member from the Mark V held on to the rubber boat’s bow line and looked for each man to give him a thumbs-up. All eight men were low in the boat clutching their handholds. One by one they returned the sign.
The call came over the headset that the launch was a go and the crewman tossed the bow line into the boat. A second crewman joined the first and together they shoved the black rubber boat down the ramp and into the relatively warm water. The small rubber boat slowed instantly, the SEALs hanging as far to the aft as possible to prevent the bow from submarining. The boat rocked gently in the wake of the Mark V and no one moved a muscle. The men lay perfectly still, listening to the ominous moan of the Mark V as it sped away. Not one of them had any desire for the boat to return until they needed it. They eagerly looked forward to carrying out their mission. Unfortunately, they were unaware that thousands of miles away they’d already been fatally compromised by someone from their own country.
1
Anna Rielly drifted in and out of sleep, the warm sun enveloping her in a hazy dream. Her bronzed skin glistened with a mixture of sweat and sunscreen. A slight afternoon breeze floated in off the ocean. It had been the perfect week. Nothing but food, sun, sex and sleep. The ideal honeymoon. A small resort on a remote Caribbean island with their own secluded cabana, gravity pool and beach. Total privacy, no TV, no phones, no pagers, just the two of them.