by Vince Flynn
David’s only request, which he offered to pay for, was to upgrade the electrical service in one of the upstairs rooms and get the house wired for high-speed Internet access. The landlord, who lived a little more than a mile away, objected to neither and stayed true to his promise that he wouldn’t bother David as long as David was a quiet and respectful tenant.
Now David sat in the converted office on the second floor of the Victorian home and concentrated on the array of visual equipment before him. Mounted on the wall were eight Sony twenty-one-inch flat-screen monitors costing over a thousand dollars each. Two workstations were set up on the long folding table that served as a desk. The station on the left was for checking e-mail, managing his funds, which were spread out at various financial institutions around the world, and keeping an eye on a certain online news service that provided almost instantaneous access to what was going on at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. The other workstation was dedicated to controlling the other seven monitors as they fed him live feeds from traffic cameras around the city.
That part of the plan had been achieved with less effort than he had anticipated. Simple bribery had bought him access to the Washington D.C. Department of Motor Vehicles’ traffic camera network. At any given moment he was just a few key strokes away from accessing any one of the more than one hundred cameras located throughout the District. The password to enter the system had cost him only $2,000. The DMV was a true menagerie of immigrants, most of whom had come from Third World countries where government salaries were often augmented by bribes and payoffs. The young Palestinian who he approached leapt at the chance to make a little extra money and never once asked why the stranger from his homeland wanted access to such information.
The man could have thrown out a decent guess, but he would have assumed wrong. David had his eyes set on a very ripe target. One that would enrage the United States and unite the Arab world. The pressure for peace in the Middle East and a free and autonomous Palestinian state was about to reach an apogee. David just needed one simple meeting to take place and he would spring the trap.
56
Rapp followed Turbes down the sterile hallway of the New Headquarters Building of the George Bush Center for Intelligence. The CTC had been recently relocated from its relatively small space on the sixth floor of the Original Headquarters Building to the bottom two floors of the south wing of the new structure. This massive increase in space, staff and budget was a reflection of just how seriously Washington was now taking the threat of terrorism.
To Rapp’s mind this was a mixed blessing. The new funding was great for buying high-tech equipment and training new people, but it also brought with it more oversight, more accounting, more red tape and in general more people getting in each other’s way. Rapp was an advocate of small specialized teams that could react quickly and plan operations with as little interference as possible. Instinctively he recoiled against large organizations and for that reason more than probably any other he always felt a little uncomfortable entering the new CTC.
Turbes stopped at a door and slid his ID through the magnetic card reader, while Rapp loosened the knot of his tie and undid the top button of his dress shirt. They had barely entered the CTC and analysts were already lining up to have a word with Turbes. Somewhere near the back of the line Rapp spotted Marcus Dumond and Olivia Bourne. Dumond was the CTC’s resident computer genius, and Bourne was the senior regional analyst for the Gulf States. Officially, she had nothing to do with Saudi Arabia. Unofficially, she kept as close a watch on the Saudi royal family as politics would allow.
When Rapp had been brought in from the field and named special assistant to the DCI on counterterrorism, Kennedy had sat him down and given him an overview on the CTC. At the top of the list of the center’s most valuable people, Kennedy had placed Olivia Bourne. The thirty-nine-year-old West Virginian had an undergraduate degree from Brown and a graduate degree from Princeton. She had literally no field experience, but was a walking encyclopedia when it came to tracking the Islamic Radical Fundamentalists, or IRFs, who they hunted.
Kennedy hadn’t bothered to brief Rapp on Marcus Dumond since it was Rapp who had recruited him. Rapp had met Dumond while he was a graduate student at MIT with Rapp’s brother. At the time of his recruitment Dumond had been a twenty-seven-year-old computer genius and almost convicted felon. The young cyber genius had run into some trouble with the Feds while he was earning his master’s degree in computer science at MIT. He was alleged to have hacked into one of New York’s largest banks and then transferred funds into several overseas accounts. The part that interested the CIA was that Dumond wasn’t caught because he left a trail, he was caught because he got drunk one night and bragged about the looting to the wrong person.
When the Feds came and broke down his apartment door, Dumond was living with Steven Rapp. Rapp heard about the incident from his brother and alerted Kennedy, who was then the director of the CTC, that the hacker was worth a look. Langley doesn’t like to admit the fact that they employ some of the world’s best computer pirates, but these young cyber geeks are encouraged to hack into any and every computer system they can. Most of these hacking raids are directed at foreign companies, banks, governments and military computer systems. But just getting into a system isn’t enough. The challenge is to hack in, get the information and get out without leaving a trace that the system was ever compromised. Dumond was a natural at it, and his talents were put to good use in the CTC.
Both Bourne and Dumond were gesturing to get Rapp’s attention. Bourne held up a piece of paper and pointed eagerly to the face on the printout. Rapp bypassed the line and went straight for Bourne. Grabbing her by the elbow, he pulled her away from the crowd.
Keeping his voice hushed, he asked, “What’s up?”
Bourne smiled. “We’ve got a bead on Prince Charming.”
Rapp’s first reaction was to turn and see what Turbes was doing. It looked like two CTC employees were wildly explaining a problem to the head boss in hopes that he would referee their dispute. Rapp looked to Dumond and Bourne and said, “Follow me.”
The three of them walked down the side aisle of the large open room that held a sea of cubicles. The maze of plastic and fabric dividers was affectionately known as the Bull Pen to those who worked counterterrorism. When they reached Rapp’s office he unlocked the door with a key and then entered. Glancing at Dumond he said, “Close the door.” Once it was shut Rapp turned to Bourne who spoke both Arabic and Farsi fluently and asked, “What did you find?”
Bourne handed over the printout. “Our boy flew from Nice to Paris to JFK on Sunday.”
Rapp looked at the grainy black-and-white image. “Where’d we get this?”
“Custom’s surveillance camera at JFK. We scanned the Brits’ photos into the facial imaging recognition system and let the computers go to work. We started with our in-house database on known or suspected terrorists and came up blank, so before checking with our allies I decided to run a search with Customs on the hunch that if this guy had anything to do with the Palestinian ambassador he would have had to enter the country on Sunday or Monday at the latest.”
Rapp nodded and looked at the grainy photo. “Are we sure this is him?”
“Ninety-eight point six three percent sure,” replied the hyperanalytical Dumond.
Holding the photo up, Rapp asked, “Does he have a name?”
“Charles Utrillo,” Bourne replied.
Rapp turned his attention to Dumond, knowing his little hacker would have already done a full background check. “I suppose that’s not his real name.”
“Nope.” Dumond shook his head. “I checked several French government databases and came up with nothing.”
Dumond handed over a printout. “Here’s the information on the credit card he used to pay for the plane ticket. We’re running a search on rental cars and hotels within a hundred-mile radius of New York City. If he used the card again we’ll know sometime in the next thirty minutes.”
“Yeah. It was set up for automatic payments from a bank in Paris. The account has a little less than eight grand in it.”
Unfortunately, Rapp thought he knew the answer to his next question, but he asked it anyway. “And how did that money get into the account?”
“Four separate cash deposits.”
Rapp cringed. This guy was covering his tracks like a real pro. Speaking from experience Rapp said, “The name’s a dead end. Wherever he is now, he’s using a different identity.”
“Even so,” asked Bourne, “do you want us to flag his passport and alert the FBI?”
“Flag his passport,” answered Rapp, even though he doubted it would do any good, “but hold off on the FBI for a bit. Let me talk to Irene first and see what she wants to do.” Rapp paused and put himself in the shoes of the assassin for a moment. He tried to guess what the man’s next move would be. His options were to either stay in New York and wait until things settled down or leave immediately. If it was Rapp he would have left immediately. Canada would have been his first choice, and then head back to Europe, or if he had time, head west.
“Start checking security cameras at the three major airports from eight last night until this morning. Concentrate on outgoing international flights … especially anything bound for Canada.”
“We’re in the process of doing it right now,” answered Bourne. “Do you want me to check with the DGSE or Mossad and see if we can get a match on the photo?”
Normally Rapp wouldn’t think twice about checking with either the French or Mossad, but given the current situation he hesitated. “Not yet. I need to run this by Irene first.” He checked his watch and then asked, “Anything else?”
“Yeah,” said Bourne. “Ask her if we can bring the Feds and local law enforcement in on this.”
Rapp nodded. Remembering something, he asked Dumond, “How are you coming with the prince’s finances? Ten million bucks is a lot of money. There has to be a sign of it moving from one account to another.”
Dumond shook his head in frustration. “Ten million bucks is nothing to a guy like this. It’ll take me the rest of the day just to try and identify all of the various accounts he uses and even then I could miss a few that I’m sure he keeps hidden.”
“I don’t care what it takes, get it done. Pull all the people you need for the busy work, and I’ll get Irene to authorize it. I want to know who this guy is and unless Olivia gets lucky, the best way to catch him is to follow the money trail.”
57
The sun was down and rush hour was over as Rapp turned onto the Chain Bridge and hit the gas. His turbo Volvo S80 shot across the low-slung bridge like a rocket. When he reached the other side he hung a right and again floored it. He was already fifteen minutes late for his 8:00 dinner date with his wife. At Reservoir Road he hung a left and shot across a lane of traffic and into a residential neighborhood just north and west of Georgetown University.
Anna had picked the restaurant. It was in Glover Park on Wisconsin Avenue. Austin Grill was a little hole in the wall that served great margaritas and decent Mexican food. Unfortunately, Rapp wouldn’t be drinking any margaritas tonight; as soon as dinner was over he’d have to head right back to Langley. They were no closer to finding out who Prince Omar’s minion was than they were eight hours ago.
Kennedy had given them the green light to bring in the counterterrorism people at the FBI, but had decided against alerting France or Israel. Bourne had done a routine search through Interpol’s database, shuffling John Doe’s photograph in with a half dozen others they were interested in. The intent was to make Interpol think it was a standard query, and nothing to get excited about. Against everyone’s hopes, the search came up empty.
The pressure from the White House wasn’t helping. If they didn’t know more by tomorrow morning, Rapp was prepared to get on a plane and fly to France. He had a few ideas about how he could crack this thing open and his best hope lay with Prince Omar’s personal assistant, the effeminate Devon LeClair. The Brits had provided a brief bio of the man, and it appeared he was the most likely person to handle Omar’s nefarious activities. Rapp was willing to bet he could get the guy to crack inside of five minutes. In the meantime he’d given Dumond orders to take a close look at the Frenchman.
Rapp took a left onto 37th Street, braking for several students who were lollygagging in the crosswalk and then accelerated up the hill. Less than a minute later he turned, heading south onto Wisconsin Avenue and grabbed the first available spot. Climbing out of the car he winced slightly as he put weight on his bad leg and then did a quick three hundred and sixty degree check of the area.
Rapp entered the bar with the collar of his jacket turned up and his head down, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. He squeezed past the young crowd that was bellied up to the bar. Even on a Tuesday night the place did great business. With every step he scanned faces and checked things out. He headed for the balcony where they always sat and hobbled up the stairs.
Just like a good girl he found his wife sitting in the corner with her back to the wall. Rapp smiled without hesitation, his deeply tanned face showing a pair of creased dimples. He hurried over to her and said, “Sorry I’m late, honey.”
Anna smiled and offered her lips. She was usually the one who was late so she couldn’t complain.
Rapp kissed her and took off his jacket, careful not to let his suit coat open too far and alarm any of the other patrons by revealing the gun in his shoulder holster. He took a seat next to his wife so they both had their backs to the wall. Taking her hand he asked, “How was your day?”
Anna took a drink of water and said, “Pretty hectic. People are really freaking out about the Palestinian ambassador.”
“Tell me about it,” responded Rapp.
“I heard the president went ballistic when he found out.”
Rapp thought about it for a second. “He wasn’t happy, but I don’t think I’d describe it as going ballistic.”
Anna wasn’t sure if her husband was spinning her or telling the truth. “You guys have any idea who did it?”
“We’ve got a few leads …”
“Nothing you can talk about,” finished Anna.
Rapp smiled and kissed her again. “You’re figuring this game out.”
She laughed and said, “Oh, I’m not done with you yet.” Staring at him with her emerald eyes she said, “The word on the street is that the president thinks the Israelis are responsible.”
Inside Rapp felt his gut tighten. The president had no business letting a rumor like this get started. At this point, any suspicion aimed at Israel was based on the president’s hatred and distrust of Ben Freidman and nothing more. What little evidence they had pointed in a very different direction, and one that he could not share with his wife.
“We have very little to go on right now, but I don’t think the Israelis did it.”
A waitress showed up at the table and dropped off a red, white and blue swirly margarita. She asked Rapp what he wanted and as tempted as he was to follow suit, he settled for a bottle of Lone Star beer instead.
When the waitress was gone, Anna asked, “Why don’t you think Israel did it?”
Rapp frowned. “Let’s change the subject. How’s your mother?”
Anna took a sip of her drink and said, “You never ask about my mother.”
“That’s not true. How is she doing?”
“She’s fine … now tell me why you don’t think the Israelis did it.”
Rapp was about to put up the stone wall and then remembered where it had gotten him lately. She was his wife and as long as he didn’t get into details, there was probably no harm in explaining his opinion. “I know a lot of Israelis, and although they’re a little crazy at times, they are far from stupid. Unless there’s something about Ambassador Ali that we don’t know, I see no benefit to Mossad taking him out.”
“Unless,” said
Ana, “they feel so isolated their only choice was to lash out.”
Rapp was already shaking his head. “Not here in the United States.”
“What if they’re thumbing their nose at the UN?” Anna took another sip.
“Why not kill him when he’s in the West Bank and avoid offending their one true ally?”
“Maybe they couldn’t get at him when he’s in the West Bank?”
Rapp laughed. His wife obviously knew very little of Mossad’s capabilities. “Trust me, Mossad could have taken him down any one of a dozen times in the last year.”
“Well,” Anna said a bit defensively, “I’m hearing the president is pretty convinced it was the Israelis.”
Rapp was tempted to tell his wife that the president didn’t know what in the hell he was talking about, but discretion won out and he simply said, “We’ll know a lot more in a few days, and until then I think we should all keep our theories to ourselves.”
Anna smelled dissension and pounced. “So the CIA and the president are in disagreement.”
Smiling and shaking his head, he said, “You’re awful. I never said any such thing. You asked your husband his personal opinion and that’s what I gave you. In no way does it reflect the official opinion of either the president or the CIA.”
Anna made a funny face while sucking on her straw. When she came up for air she said, “Nice try. I’m going to lead the news with it in the morning.” She held her drink in front of her mouth like a microphone. Using her fake on-air voice she said, “Breaking news here at the White House. Major dissension between President Hayes and the CIA.”
Rapp almost took the bait and then caught himself.
“By the way, aren’t you wondering how my ass is doing?”
