Act of Treason

by Vince Flynn

  16

  WASHINGTON, DC

  T he phone rang at 6:01 a.m. Kennedy noticed the time before she answered the phone. She was lying on her left side, and the glowing green numbers of her alarm clock were staring her straight in the face when she opened her eyes. She reached out with her right hand and grabbed the handset. Attempting to view the small caller ID screen without her glasses would be futile. The cord got caught on something, so she tugged. A magazine and the TV remote fell to the floor. For security reasons she did not own a cordless phone. She kept her head on the pillow and brought the sturdy beige handset to her right ear.

  “Hello.”

  “Director Kennedy?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Major Hansen…duty officer White House Situation Room.”

  “Yes, Major.”

  “POTUS has called a meeting for zero seven hundred.” POTUS was the military’s acronym for President of the United States.

  “In the Situation Room?”

  “No, the Oval, Ma’am.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Kennedy placed the handset back in its cradle and thought, So much for sleeping in on Sundays. She threw back the covers and laughed to herself. She was going to be out of a job pretty soon. Or at least this job, and whatever job came after this one would be undoubtedly less demanding. She could sleep in all the Sundays she wanted.

  The tile on the bathroom floor felt cold on her bare feet. January in DC. Kennedy turned on the bathroom light and studied her face in the mirror. At forty-five she looked pretty good for her age, but at six in the morning with no makeup and bed lines on her face, she was frightening. Being a woman in this town wasn’t easy. She turned on the shower to give it a chance to warm up and started brushing her teeth. With toothbrush in mouth she walked out to the kitchen and put on some hot water for her tea. On the way back she poked her head in her son’s room to check on him. He was safe and warm beneath the covers.

  Kennedy did not like being cold. She put her hair up and stepped into the hot shower. For five minutes she stood under the water, increasing the temperature until her skin turned pink. It took her five minutes to dry off and get dressed and another five to put on her face. By 6:33 she’d alerted her security detail of the meeting and was in the kitchen taking her first sip of tea and dialing the Global Ops Center at Langley on a secure line. The duty officer answered on the first ring. Kennedy asked him if there was anything worth reporting. He said it had been a pretty slow night. She was surprised by the answer and asked him if he was sure. He told her he was. The director thanked him and hung up.

  Kennedy grabbed the warm mug with both hands, leaned against the kitchen counter and asked herself why the president was calling a 7:00 a.m. meeting on a Sunday morning. If the Global Ops Center was in the dark, the odds were the crisis had emanated at the Pentagon, or maybe Justice. With one week to go until the ax fell, Kennedy found herself strangely ambivalent about the whole thing. She took another sip of tea and wondered if this was good or bad. She’d been the consummate professional her entire adult life. She spent more than twenty years at Langley and she had given it her all. The job had even cost her a marriage. She thought about that for a moment and realized it wasn’t fair to blame the failed marriage on Langley. It would have failed if she’d been a stay-at-home mom. Her ex was too selfish. He proved that yet again when his second marriage fell apart after nine short months. He was a decent man, but a mama’s boy, which made him extremely high maintenance and Kennedy had neither the time nor the desire to give his ego the attention he desired. Plus, one-way relationships were never a good idea.

  Kennedy climbed into the back of her Town Car and picked up the Sunday edition of the Post. Maybe withdrawing from the job was her subconscious protecting herself from the inevitable disappointment of being shown the door. Anything was possible, she supposed. She did not want to leave Langley, especially after such a brief stint as director. She’d been there over twenty years. Practically her entire adult life. She would miss the people and the action that went along with running the world’s most unfairly maligned spy agency. She wouldn’t miss the hours, and she most definitely wouldn’t miss the politics. She’d miss the place though. There was no doubt about it.

  When they pulled up to the first checkpoint, it was already 7:00 a.m. By the time she cleared security she was five minutes late. When she entered the Oval Office she found four men standing in a loose circle around the president’s desk. They were the president himself, Attorney General Stokes, FBI Director Roach, and President–Elect Alexander. Roach was in a gray suit and striped tie. The other three were wearing blazers, dress slacks, and open-collar shirts. At first glance she was surprised by the absence of several key players, the Secretaries of Defense and State, the president’s national security advisor and his chief of staff. Then she remembered it was a Sunday morning with just six days left until the peaceful, democratic transfer of power. Very little got done this week. The career bureaucrats and professionals were busy running the government while the political appointees had either moved onto new jobs or were busy looking for one.

  President Hayes stopped talking when he saw Kennedy and said, “There she is. The woman of the hour.”

  All four sets of eyes focused on Kennedy. She blushed slightly and asked, “And why would that be, Mr. President?”

  “Always modest, this one,” Hayes said to President–Elect Alexander. “You’ll figure that out soon enough. No offense to these two over here,” Hayes gestured to Stokes and Roach, “They have done admirable jobs, but this one here…she’s done an amazing job and she gets almost no credit for it. All of her victories and successes are locked up in a vault out at Langley. A hundred years from now they’ll be writing about her in the history books.”

  Kennedy blushed. She stood motionless midway between the door and where they were standing. She was not used to such attention and looked uncomfortable.

  Hayes smiled, gestured toward the furniture opposite his desk, and said, “Let’s sit.”

  Two lengthy couches, big enough to comfortably seat four adults each, faced one another with a glass-topped coffee table in between. In front of the fireplace sat two blue and gold striped silk armchairs. President Hayes gestured for Alexander to sit next to him in front of the fireplace. The place of honor.

  “Would anyone care for coffee or tea?” Hayes was hovering in between the two couches. He bent down and dropped a bag of Green Tea in a china cup and added hot water. His hand shook ever so slightly. “Irene.” He placed the cup on a saucer and handed it to Kennedy.

  Kennedy had not missed the president’s unsteady hand. Even with the medicine he’d been taking for his Parkinson’s, the tremors had grown in frequency and severity over the last few months. He’d lost nothing mentally, but she understood why he’d decided to not seek reelection. In this new media age the scrutiny would have been horrible. The other side would have attacked him as selfish for not stepping aside. Elements of his own party would have undoubtedly done the same, and with an approval rating in the low forties, his chances for victory were a crapshoot at best. With his decision not to run he had secured his reputation in the history books. He would be looked on as a wise, unselfish man. Kennedy agreed with that assessment. Robert Hayes had never lost sight of the fact that the office was bigger than the man.

  The other three men took coffee and then Hayes settled in next to Alexander in front of the fireplace. He looked over at his replacement and asked, “Where are you staying this week?”

  “The Willard.”

  “Ah,” the president nodded. “A grand old hotel.”

  “Yes.”

  “They have you in a good room, I hope,” Hayes grinned.

  “The top floor.”

  “My offer still stands.”

  “Blair House,” Alexander said in a dead voice.

  “It’s close, and very secure.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President, but there are simply too many people coming an
d going this week. The party has me booked from sun up till sun down.”

  “Thanking all the fat cats.” Hayes nodded, having gone through the same thing four years earlier.

  Hayes was turned sideways in his chair half facing his replacement. He barely knew the governor from Georgia, but it was obvious that he had changed since the attack on his motorcade. He seemed more distant. His eyes were not as full of promise as they’d been during the early months of the campaign. Hayes wondered if this would help him when he took over the reins of power. Make him more thoughtful and reflective. Or if he’d become jaded from his experience. The president felt sorry for him. This should be a week full of hope and promise. A renewal of sorts. Maybe the news he had for him would help bring about some closure.

  Hayes smiled. “Well…if you change your mind and decide you need to get away from it all, just let me know.”

  “I will, Mr. President. Thank you.” The president–elect took a sip of coffee and then asked, “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. President?”

  “For me?” Hayes grinned and shook his head. “I’m looking forward to retirement. Although my dreams of becoming a master model plane builder have been dashed,” Hayes held up an unsteady hand, “there’s still a lot of other things I can do. My doctor, who happens to be my old college roommate, tells me the Parkinson’s shouldn’t affect my golf game at all, which really surprised me. His explanation was very interesting. He said I’ve never been able to putt and since it was impossible for my putting to get any worse, there was actually a chance it might improve.”

  Hayes laughed at his own humor and the others smiled.

  “Can you believe that? One of my oldest friends. And I actually have to pay him to hear crap like that.”

  Everyone laughed. Alexander smiled briefly and then stared at the man whose job he was about to take. “Mr. President, your attitude amazes me.”

  Hayes shrugged and said, “What are you going to do? You’ve been dealt a bad hand. If you don’t laugh about it, it’ll eat you up.”

  “I don’t think I’ve laughed…I mean really laughed in over two months.”

  Hayes cringed slightly. “You’re situation is a little different from mine. I have a disease. A manageable disease,” he added in a hopeful tone. “It’s no joy, but I still have some good years ahead of me. Your situation is a little different. You were blindsided, and someone very important to you was taken away. Forever,” he added with a force that surprised everyone. “It’s hard to find any humor in that.”

  “No, just anger, shock, and sadness.”

  “Well…this might help.” Hayes uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “As you know, after the attack on your motorcade, the FBI launched one of the biggest investigations in the history of the organization. Homeland Security, Defense, State, NSA, CIA…everyone got on board to help, but the FBI was the lead agency. This is where they excel…the forensics, the thousands of man-hours it takes to run down every lead. Director Roach tells me he has kept you fully briefed on the investigation.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now here’s the part you don’t know.” Hayes pointed to Stokes and Roach. “They don’t know about it either. Homeland Security, National Intelligence, tearing down walls between the FBI and the CIA…that’s all fine in theory, and in the wake of 9/11 it actually looked like it might happen for a brief period, but it’s a pipe dream. It’ll never really work. Not in this town. Not with all the gotcha politics, and the journalists who care first and foremost about making a name for themselves. The FBI must follow the law and tread very carefully everywhere it goes. Lots of rules. Now the CIA on the other hand…they deal with a different crowd. And when it comes to international things…they can move much faster and in circles where the FBI would find themselves in over their heads. Agree or disagree with some of their methods, the CIA is much more suited to go up against an enemy that does not play by the rules. An enemy that’s willing to set off car bombs in Georgetown on a Saturday afternoon.”

  Alexander looked down at the floor and slowly nodded.

  Hayes continued. “After the attack on your motorcade, I sat down in private with Director Kennedy and told her to pull out all the stops. To put her best people on this…and once again she did not disappoint me.”

  Alexander looked up, his eyes wide with hope. “Did you find out who was behind the attack?”

  Hayes looked to his spy chief. “Irene.”

  Kennedy set her cup back on its saucer. She’d only realized a minute before what the president was up to. She covered her mouth with her fist, cleared her throat, and got down to business. “Do you recall hearing about the man in the red hat during any of your briefings with the FBI?”

  “No.” Alexander looked to Roach and Stokes to make sure he was remembering things accurately.

  “The man in the red hat,” Attorney General Stokes said, “is something that has never been proven. As with any chaotic event, like the attack on your motorcade, there was conflicting testimony among the eyewitnesses. Several recall seeing this man on the street just prior to the explosion, but most do not. We culled surveillance tapes from all the local businesses and nowhere does this individual show up. We believe that he is…”

  Kennedy’s gaze moved from Stokes to Roach. She was sure McMahon would have informed his boss of the meeting he’d had in Kennedy’s office less than twenty-four hours ago. The one where Baker had dropped the bomb on them. The two FBI men had worked together for a long time. McMahon would have called him immediately. She doubted, though, that the FBI director would have bothered his boss on a Saturday afternoon. It was a potentially crucial, but small piece of the investigation. He would have figured telling the attorney general could wait until Monday morning.

  Stokes was sitting closer to Alexander. Roach on the other side. Kennedy watched as Roach’s face twisted into a frown and he leaned forward. Sticking his arm out to get his bosses’ attention.

  “In an investigation like this,” Stokes was saying, “we have to be very careful…”

  “Marty,” Roach said, “I have to interject something. Yesterday afternoon I was informed by the special agent in charge of the investigation that the man in the red hat does in fact exist. I was planning on telling you about it in our staff meeting on Monday morning. I had no idea the CIA was already pursuing this matter.” Roach’s basset hound eyes settled on Kennedy and his expression seemed to say, thanks for blindsiding me.

  “As the president said,” Kennedy reasserted herself, “we operate under a different set of rules than the FBI. A special team headed up by Mitch Rapp has been pursuing this individual for almost a month. Last night their hard work paid off, and they found him.”

  “Where?” Alexander asked eagerly.

  “Cyprus. A town on the western end of the island called Limassol.”

  “Have we arrested him?”

  Kennedy pursed her lips as she considered the word arrested. Rapp had not briefed her on the specifics of the operation, but she doubted he had asked permission from the local authorities. “Let’s just say we have him in our possession.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” asked Stokes.

  The president laughed. “It means Mitch probably whacked him over the head and hog-tied him.”

  “Are we sure he’s the right guy?” Stokes asked with great concern.

  “Irene?” the president asked.

  “Mitch says he’s one hundred percent sure this is our guy.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” The president slapped his knee with finality.

  “Are they still on the island?” Roach asked.

  Kennedy shook her head. “No. They’re in transit.”

  “Where?”

  “They had a layover in Germany…” Kennedy glanced at her watch. “They’re probably somewhere over the North Atlantic right now.”

  “I want this man put on trial,” Alexander said with absolute conviction. “I want these terrorists to see that no matter how we
ll they plan, no matter how far they run, we’ll hunt them down and they will be brought to justice.”

  17

  41,000 FEET, NORTH ATLANTIC

  R app’s eyes fluttered and then opened. He checked out his surroundings, not sure where he was for a moment, and then things fell into place. He rubbed his face and then stretched his arms over his head. Behind the cockpit was a small cabin with seating for twelve. Old, gray, worn leather first class seats had been installed in two rows. Four seats on the port side, four in the middle, and four on the starboard side. No personal DVD players or entertainment of any kind. It was a bare-bones operation. What it lacked in ambiance it made up for in space. Plenty of legroom and the seats reclined to a comfortable napping position.

  Rapp sat in the back row on the port side. He checked his watch and for a second couldn’t remember if he’d changed it before they’d left Germany. He must have. As was his custom, the arrow on the red and black dial on the outside of the submariner was pointed at 11:00. That was the time they were due to arrive in DC. A little more than two hours from now. The layover in Germany had lasted a little longer than intended. They’d stopped to take on a load of cargo so as to cover their tracks, and then the warning light for the portside cargo door wouldn’t shut off even though a visual inspection showed the door to be seated properly. They sat on the tarmac for almost three hours while they waited for the faulty warning light to be switched out.

  That was when the big Russian woke up. The only thing they’d gotten out of him so far was a fake name. Rapp knew it was fake, because Dumond had run it through Langley’s database and come up with a dossier for Aleksandr Zukof. Everything was wrong. Age, height, weight, eye color. Everything except the black hair, and the fact that Zukof was a former employee of the KGB.