by Vince Flynn
“Hardly.” Kennedy snatched her glasses from her face and placed both elbows on her desk. “You have got some major explaining to do.” The reserved, analytical Kennedy was amazed at how good it felt to let her pent-up anger out.
Rapp, put in the unusual position of having to remain the calm one, said, “I think everyone needs to relax a bit.”
“Nice try, but you were way out of bounds on this one. When in the hell were you planning on telling me that you were shot?”
“Oh, come on, Irene, you’ve got enough stuff to worry about with running this place.” Rapp dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand as if one of her top advisors and best operatives getting shot was utterly trivial. “You don’t need to worry about every little injury to one of your people in the field.”
An offended, angry expression fell across her face. Her brown eyes focused intently on him and she said, “That hurt.”
Rapp was completely mystified. His head hurt, his eye hurt and his ass was absolutely killing him. How could a few words “hurt”? “What are you talking about?”
“You,” she started in an angry tone, “are not just simply one of my many employees. Next to my son and my mother you are probably the dearest friend to me in the entire world, so I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t insult my feelings by portraying me as some detached boss who has no concern for her employees.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Rapp as he shook his head.
“That is what you said, and what you meant, and don’t insult me further by trying to re-tailor your words.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Rapp started to stand. “I can’t take all of this estrogen.”
Kennedy stood abruptly and yelled, “Then take a little testosterone! Sit your ass back down, Mister!”
“My ass hurts too much to sit, thank you very much!”
“Don’t try to turn this around on me, Mitchell. This is not my fault. When you called me requesting that I get full authority for you to plan the hostage rescue you knew exactly what you were doing. You waited until the real chain of command was asleep, and then you went in and launched the rescue, without our final approval.” She angrily pointed a finger at him and said, “And you put yourself right in the thick of it.”
Looking down at her desk, she picked up a file. “This is the after action report filed by Lieutenant Jackson. Did you think I wasn’t going to find out?” She threw the file down onto her desk. “You crawled into that damn camp by yourself and almost got killed.”
“Almost got killed,” Rapp mocked her. “Where the hell have you been for the last fifteen years? Every time I walk out the door I almost get killed. That’s part of my job.”
“Not any longer. You’re not twenty-five anymore. We have other people who can lead the charge. You’re not some buck private storming the beaches. You have one of the best counterterrorism minds in this entire town, and we can’t afford to lose you over some macho need to be right in the thick of it.”
“Are you done?” Rapp looked at her defiantly. He knew there was some truth to her words, but he was sick of being on the receiving end of another tongue-lashing. “Could you try to see past your bruised ego at being left out of the loop for a few hours and thank me for a job well done? General Moro is dead, an entire sixty-plus-man force of Abu Sayyaf guerrillas has been silently exterminated, we have a new commander of the Filipino Special Forces who will vigorously take the war to the Muslim terrorists, the Anderson family has been rescued, and not a single asset was lost in the process.” Rapp held up his hand. “The only problem was that yours truly got shot.”
Kennedy decided to remove some of the emotion from the discussion. As good as it felt at first, she knew it was counterproductive. Especially when dealing with a bull like Mitch. He needed to be finessed, not pounded on. Thoughtfully, she nodded and said, “Thank you for a job well done.”
Rapp immediately relaxed. He did not enjoy fighting with Kennedy, especially on the heels of what had happened last night. She had always understood him—probably even better than he understood himself. “And I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. You know I think of you and Tommy as family…. It’s just that …” He shook his head in confusion. “I’ve always been on the front line. You know that. I’ve always been left alone to make decisions as I see fit in the field. We handled the General Moro thing without consulting you, and I saw no reason why I needed to call Washington and ask for the green light on the hostage rescue.”
“You didn’t want to consult with us,” answered Kennedy, “because you didn’t want to hear us tell you that you couldn’t go on the mission.”
Rapp thought about it for a moment and then admitted, “Maybe.”
“Well, let’s just chalk this one up as a learning experience. You’re probably having a more difficult time transitioning into your new duties than either of us predicted.”
Rapp shook his head and frowned. “I’m not having any problems.”
“Yes you are. In not-so-subtle ways. We need to sit down and clearly outline the parameters of your job.” She watched Rapp frown and said, “Don’t worry, I just don’t want any ambiguity in the future. You’re too valuable to this country, and too valuable to me as a friend, to be risking your life needlessly.”
Somewhat reluctantly, Rapp replied, “All right.”
In a conciliatory tone Kennedy asked, “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”
“No … not really. I’d just like a little less screaming and a little more gratitude.”
“I can work on that.” Kennedy smiled. “And as far as the gratitude thing is concerned … well, I think you’re going to get plenty of that.”
47
Rapp had never really taken the time to look around the Oval Office. He was usually ushered in, sat where he was told, and then left as soon as his audience with the president was over. This time, having declined to sit, he meandered around the room checking out the various pieces of art and waiting for the president to appear.
It was painful knowing that Anna was downstairs in her office. During the ride over from Langley he had relayed his version of last night’s events to his boss. She informed him in the gentlest of ways that he had neglected to do the single most important thing, which was to simply say he was sorry.
Rapp told Kennedy he felt torn. Yes, he was sorry that he’d hurt his wife’s feelings, but she didn’t marry an advertising executive. His injury shouldn’t have been entirely unexpected. Kennedy stressed that, expected or unexpected, it didn’t change the fact that in her mind Anna could have lost the man she had just promised to spend the rest of her life with. Kennedy asked Rapp how he would feel if the shoe were on the other foot and it was Anna who had been shot.
The thought of losing Anna sent such a pain through him that he began to see her point more clearly. When he was done with this meeting he would have to find her and apologize. Maybe he could even milk the shiner for a little sympathy. Despite his injury, he desperately wanted to be alone with her.
Rapp was studying a portrait of Thomas Jefferson when Valerie Jones entered the office. For some reason she was all smiles, which as far as Rapp could recollect was a first.
“Good morning, Irene,” she said.
Kennedy replied with a simple, “Hello, Val.”
Jones turned her attention to Rapp. “How are you, Mitch?”
Rapp remained facing the portrait of one of America’s greatest presidents. Instead of turning around he looked over his shoulder at the chief of staff. He and Jones had never gotten along. In fact, he could think of no other woman who he currently detested more.
Regarding her suspiciously he answered, “I’ve been better,” then returned his attention to the portrait of Jefferson.
“Oh … that’s too bad. How’d you get the black eye?”
Fortunately for Rapp the president entered the room before he could answer. “Sorry I’m late.” Hayes dropped a leather-bound folder on his desk and hurried over to gre
et Rapp.
“Mitch, once again you saved the day. Great job over there in the Philippines.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rapp took his hand.
The president’s attention locked in on Rapp’s shiner. “Did things get a little rough for you over there?”
“Not too bad.” Rapp shrugged it off.
“It looks like it hurts.”
Rapp shook his head. “No … not really. I’ve had worse.”
The president nodded. “Yes, I suppose you have. Well, listen, have a seat.” Hayes gestured to the couch opposite Kennedy and Jones. “There are a few things we want to discuss with you.”
“If it’s all right with you, sir, I’d prefer to stand.”
Hayes stopped and gave Rapp a questioning glance.
“It’s my back, sir. If I sit down, I might not be able to get up.”
“Oh I see. By all means … stand if it feels better.” Hayes took his usual chair in front of the fireplace. “Well,” said the president, “at eleven o’clock the secretary of state and the attorney general are going to hold a joint press conference announcing the prosecution of Assistant Secretary of State Petry and Ambassador Cox.”
Rapp was shocked. He’d figured the president would string him along for another few weeks, and then let the issue die down. “That’s good news, sir.”
Hayes looked up at Rapp, who was standing behind the couch on his right. “I’m told Mr. McMahon has Ambassador Cox in custody, and is on his way back?”
Rapp nodded. “That’s right. The embassy staff was told the ambassador had to rush home for a family emergency.”
“Good. The National Security Council is meeting next door as we speak. If you’re still up for it I’ve arranged for you to be present when Assistant Secretary Petry is arrested.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Hayes nodded and then turned to Kennedy. “Now on to an issue that isn’t so good … What in the hell is going on in Israel?”
“I’m working on that, sir.” The director of the CIA retrieved a file from her briefcase and pulled out a single sheet of paper. She handed it to the president and said, “That is a list of the terrorists who were killed in the attack.”
Hayes put on his reading glasses and scanned the names. “Holy cow! Is this for real?”
“As far as I can tell, yes, but the CTC is working to verify the names through other sources.”
President Hayes stood to reread the list for a second time. “What’s the death count?”
“Again, the CTC is trying to verify the number, but right now the Palestinians are saying over one hundred people were killed.”
“Is that possible?” asked a skeptical Hayes.
Kennedy hesitated and then said, “Yes.”
“But I thought they always exaggerated those numbers.”
“They might not have to this time.”
Hayes kept studying the list, even though he was thinking about something else. “Of those hundred people, how many were terrorists?”
“Right now we’re guessing anywhere from twenty to forty, but I stress that is only a guess.”
“And the whole bomb factory story that the Israeli’s have been putting out?”
Kennedy shook her head. “It doesn’t hold up. We have satellite imagery and radio intercepts of the attack. There was an initial explosion that we haven’t been able to pinpoint. That blast destroyed the house where we think the meeting was taking place, and then there were a series of explosions that followed.”
“Where did those come from?” asked the president.
Kennedy hesitated for a second, knowing the president would not like the answer. “They appear to have come from helicopter-launched missiles.”
“Appear to have?” Hayes wanted a more precise answer.
“The imagery people are saying they were Hellfire missiles launched from Apaches.”
“Back up a minute,” ordered the president. “Freidman told you that his people found out about this meeting and fired two missiles into the target area that ignited a secondary explosion that leveled the entire block. Correct?”
“That’s what he told me, sir.”
“And now you’re telling me,” said Hayes with a frown creasing his brow, “there was an initial explosion that we have not been able to identify, that was followed by a series of explosions that were caused by Hellfire missiles.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Sixteen of them, sir.”
“Sixteen?” asked an incredulous president.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Why so many?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“Have you asked him?”
Kennedy considered the question. “No I haven’t, sir. I wanted to discuss it with you first.”
“Well, by all means”—Hayes gestured to the bulky secure phone on his desk—“get him on the phone.”
“Sir,” cautioned the director of the CIA. “I’d like to do a little more digging before we confront him.”
Hayes was not in a patient mood. “The Palestinian ambassador to the UN is going to address the assembly this afternoon and demand that the UN make a full inquiry into this mess. The Saudi ambassador called me this morning to protest the slaughter of hundreds of innocent civilians.” Hayes shook his fist in anger. “This thing is not simply going to go away. I can get our ambassador to delay a vote by the Security Council until the end of the week, but we will not be able to put it off indefinitely. I need real answers, and I need to know what in the hell the Israelis are up to. I also need to know what our allies know. If we know they’re lying, there’s a good chance a few other countries know it too.”
“I’ll get started on it right away, sir.”
“And Freidman,” snarled the president. “I want him to either start playing by the rules he agreed to, or we will terminate our arrangement and he can kiss his ass good-bye.”
Kennedy nodded and told herself now was not the time to disagree with the president. The entire relationship with Freidman was fraught with potential disaster. The president could call up the Israeli prime minister and demand that Freidman be removed from his position as director general of Mossad, but even with the evidence they had, it might not work. Ben Freidman had files on everybody. She had a sneaking suspicion that if Freidman was ever really backed into a corner he would use those files to take down anyone and everyone. There wasn’t a thing that he wouldn’t rationalize if it was done to help preserve either himself or his country.
In a confident voice, Kennedy told her boss, “We’ll find out what really happened over there, sir.”
“Good.” Only slightly satisfied, the president turned to Rapp. “And, Mitch, I want you to take a very personal interest in this thing. You know a side of Freidman that no one else at Langley does. I want to know why he’s lying to us, and I want to know what you think we should do about it.”
“Yes, sir.” Rapp had a few ideas, but they would take some looking into. In the meantime he was betting on his initial suspicion. Ben Freidman had only one master, his country, and no matter how closely they held his feet to the fire, he would never betray Israel.
48
The National Security Council was one of those Washington terms that encompassed many things. In its truest sense the Council was made up of the president and a handful of very senior advisors. In a broader sense it represented an entire staff that coordinated the flow of intelligence between various agencies and departments under the executive branch and the White House. One such group within that staff was the Counterterrorism Support Group. As their name indicated they were charged with handling all issues involving terrorism, such as the kidnapping of the Anderson family by Abu Sayyaf.
Due to the leaks that occurred at the State Department during the initial hostage rescue, the Counterterrorism Support Group had been left out of the loop during the second and successful hostage rescue. This intentional breach of procedure wa
s missed by no one. In a town where being in the know was the ultimate sign of power, there were a lot of bruised egos. The rumors had been fast and furious as to why, and through a few well-designed leaks, all were led to believe that their exclusion was due to a power play by none other than Mitch Rapp.
These leaks, and his reputation in general, were the cause of the icy reception that awaited Mitch Rapp when he entered the National Security Council conference room on the fourth floor of the Old Executive Office Building across the street from the West Wing. The attendees, over a dozen of them, all stopped what they were doing and looked up at the unannounced visitor. The Department of Defense, the FBI, the CIA, the State Department and Homeland Security were all represented. These were people just two rungs from the top. They carried great responsibility, they worked tirelessly and they received very little public recognition. Of the people in the room, only Jake Turbes from the CIA knew Rapp.
They all knew of him, to be sure, but not a one of them had ever said more than hello to him. Some of them respected him, a few despised him, mostly due to the embarrassment they were now forced to endure, but to a one, they all feared him. Here in their midst was a cold-blooded killer, who had dealt with the national security issues they wrestled with every day, in a much more real and final way.
He was a man who came to meetings unannounced and rarely spoke. He was a man who had the president’s ear, respect and gratitude. He was a man who each feared could end any of their careers if he so chose. So when he entered the long narrow room all of the attendees squirmed a bit, and to make matters worse, instead of taking a seat at the table, he remained standing.
Rapp positioned himself in such a way that he could observe Assistant Secretary of State Amanda Petry. Of all the attendees only two, besides Rapp, had any idea what was in store. Jake Turbes of the CIA and Don Keane of the FBI were both in the know. Rapp kept himself from making eye contact with them and instead looked to Patty Hadley, the deputy national security advisor. He nodded for her to continue with the meeting.
