Act of Treason

by Vince Flynn

  This influx of sociopaths and megalomaniacs had created an extremely interesting social experiment. At least Joseph Speyer found it interesting. The fifty-six-year-old banker had grown up in Geneva, and like many gay men of his generation was forced to hide his sexuality until well into his thirties. His family was strict Protestant Reformation. Lots of rules and not a lot of fun. They were not unique in this regard, but all this repression ended up breeding a lot of closet gays, masochists, and perverts in general. Add to that the influx of extremely wealthy people suffering from a vast array of antisocial personality disorders and you had the perfect recipe for a city with a depraved counterculture.

  Speyer was on his way to find one of Geneva’s chief reprobates. It was Monday evening. Mondays were the one day of the week that the city’s hot nightclubs were closed, nightclubs that when you stripped away the thirty-dollar drinks and fancy décor were nothing more than whorehouses. Prostitution was legal in Switzerland. That had been a big dilemma for the lawmakers. The fathers of the Reformation would have never approved of making the flesh trade legal, but it was argued that the banking business needed it to stay competitive. The influx of wealthy Arab princes and other international players who began flocking to the city in the seventies liked their women and they didn’t mind paying exorbitant sums of money for them. After several decades of lying to themselves, and looking the other way, the ordered society came to grips with the problem, legalized it, and began collecting taxes.

  Speyer took perverse joy in all of this. He was a voyeur at heart, and few things excited him more than meeting the needs of his sexually depraved clients. Cy Green was one such client. The man had a thirst for sex that to some might seem like an addiction, but comparing it to a few other people he knew, Speyer saw it as simply a healthy appetite. Green wanted sex every night. He had confided in Speyer that he thought it was all part of the alpha male persona. Monogamous sex was out of the question. Green preferred two women and foreplay that almost always involved him watching. Speyer knew because he’d been forced to sit through it.

  Speyer wedged his BMW sedan into a spot a block away from Green’s apartment and walked along the narrow sidewalk. He stepped into the relatively small foyer and approached the bulletproof glass to speak to the doorman. Geneva had become a city of bulletproof glass and bodyguards. Far too many of its wealthy immigrants were wanted by their former governments and business rivals. At least once a year, if not more, there was a salacious murder.

  The man behind the glass recognized Speyer and greeted him in French before picking up the phone to call the penthouse. Green owned the top floor of the building. Six thousand square feet, which might not be obscene by normal wealthy standards, but was huge for downtown Geneva. After a moment the doorman buzzed Speyer through. When the banker reached the elevator, the door was already open. He stepped in, pressed the button for the top floor, and took off his leather driving gloves. The trip to the fourth floor was quick. When the door opened, Speyer found two men waiting for him. The older of the two was Green’s personal valet and butler. He was dressed in a black waistcoat, black vest, white shirt, and black bowtie. Speyer handed him his gloves and turned around so he could take his coat for him. As soon as the valet had the gray cashmere overcoat off, the bodyguard stepped in with a handheld metal detector and ran it around the periphery of Speyer’s body. It was the same routine every time; Speyer never complained and Green never apologized.

  When they were finished, Speyer was escorted into the living room and asked if he cared for anything to drink. He told the manservant he was fine and checked his watch. He hoped Green wouldn’t make him wait too long. It had been a long day and it was sure to be a long week. Some very big promises had been made and the time left to deliver on them was waning.

  Six minutes later Green appeared in a blue silk robe with white piping and matching house slippers. His dark hair was slicked back and slightly messed up in back. The eternally tan billionaire strode across the room pulling on the robe’s belt.

  He looked at Speyer with a devilish grin and said, “You’ve come to watch, haven’t you?”

  “No.” Speyer took off his black-framed glasses and placed them in his suit pocket. “I’m afraid I’m simply playing the role of messenger.”

  Green considered this for a moment and with a shake of his head said, “Follow me.”

  Speyer sighed and said, “I’m afraid I’m short on time.”

  Green kept walking. “Nonsense. We have important things to discuss. Plus I do not want to miss the show.” He disappeared down the hallway and then a few seconds later his head popped back around the corner. “By the way, I just opened a bottle of ninety-two Screaming Eagle. Even a French wine snob like you can’t say no to that.”

  A smile formed at the corners of Speyer’s mouth and then his feet started to move. Green was right. Screaming Eagle was very rare and very hard to resist. He followed him down the hall to the master bedroom suite.

  “Close the door behind you,” Green commanded.

  They walked through a wood-paneled library with a big screen TV and a sitting area. The heavy beat of Euro techno music could be heard beyond the double doors that led to the actual bedroom. Green thrust open the doors. Straight ahead was a turned-down king-size bed with black silk sheets. Speyer looked to his right knowing full well that was where the action would be. The large window that looked out over Lake Geneva was obscured by heavy black drapes that acted as a backdrop to the sex show that was taking place in the alcove of the window. Green had designed the small stage himself. The alcove was ten feet wide by four feet deep. On both sides were narrow doors that when opened revealed a series of hooks, chains, and ropes. Standing in the middle of the stage was a young blond wearing pigtails, clogs, and a short summer dress. Behind her stood a tall dominatrix covered, literally, in black latex from head to her spike heeled boots. The only openings were for her mouth, eyes, breasts, and crotch. The woman had a riding crop in one hand and an impossibly large dildo in the other.

  “Sit,” Green ordered.

  Two chairs were already set up. Green brought over the bottle of wine and poured a second glass. Speyer, even though he was gay, had been titillated the first time he’d attended one of these private shows. Green mistook his excitement as proof that he was actually bisexual. Speyer had experimented with a lot of things over the years, but he was simply gay. Nothing really too complicated about it. He’d figured it out when he was eleven and then spent the next ten years or so trying to repress it. He knew now that the aspect of the sex show that had originally excited him was the corruption of youth. The fall from grace of a young heterosexual woman. After that one show, though, Speyer couldn’t get past the fact that the women were simply Russian prostitutes whose fall from grace had taken place long before. Woo a duchess or other high society type, or even a straitlaced colleague over to the forbidden side, and that would be worth watching. These were just two hungry young women trying to earn some money by exciting a perverted billionaire.

  “What do you think?” Green asked without taking his eyes off the women.

  “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “Since when did you get shy about this type of stuff?”

  “I mean the wine.” Speyer took a sip, savoring the California wine.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Very, but I’m serious. You must not tell anyone.”

  “Relax.” Green grinned. “Now, what is the message you’ve been sent to deliver?”

  “I received a call this afternoon from Mr. Garret.”

  “Don’t tell me that little fucker is trying to wiggle out of the deal?”

  “It’s interesting you should put it that way, because if I didn’t know better, I would say that is exactly what he is trying to do.”

  Green’s tanned face slowly turned toward Speyer. His eyes narrowed and he asked, “What in the hell did he say? I want to hear it word for word.”

  “Supposedly, the person who was hired
to do the job has been captured.”

  “What?”

  “The man who Vasili hired was caught. The Americans have him in custody. There was a press conference this afternoon.” Speyer knew that Green was hearing this for the first time. The man never watched TV and left the Internet up to his assistants.

  “How is that possible? Vasili told me himself that it was being taken care of.”

  “Obviously he was premature in his promise.”

  Green stood and began waving his hands. “Stop…stop. Girls, take a break. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He grabbed the bottle of wine and said to Speyer, “Follow me.”

  They went out into the library and closed the double doors. Green set the bottle of Screaming Eagle on the fireplace mantle next to the pool table. A large portrait of none other than Green himself dominated the wall above the mantel.

  Speyer stood on the other side of the pool table and looked at Green next to his portrait. The double image spoke volumes of the man and his ego. “As I’m sure you can imagine, Mr. Garret was extremely upset.”

  “When isn’t that little fucker upset? Have you ever met a more irritating person in all your life?”

  Speyer decided it was better to not answer the question. “He has a point this time.”

  “I’m beginning to question your wisdom. You were the one who advised me to do this. That’s what I pay you to do. You said it would be a good return on my investment.”

  It was almost impossible for his clients to surprise him. He’d seen it all. Their selective memory, their ability to rationalize or simply forget every bad decision or deed they’d ever committed, was endless, while their capacity to fixate or create blame elsewhere was eternal. “Cy, before we go any further, I want to make it very clear that you brought this proposal to my attention. You expressed your desire to proceed from the very beginning and you never vacillated. You wanted to do this. I merely supported you.”

  Green stared at him for a moment and decided to change the subject. “I’ll tell you what pisses me off. I’ve already spent millions of dollars on this. I’ve leveraged some of my most important contacts, I’ve risked a lot…and what have they done?”

  Speyer shrugged.

  “They haven’t done shit. Where’s my fucking pardon?”

  “They always said it wouldn’t happen until the last minute.”

  “What are they waiting for? There isn’t much time left.”

  “I’ve told you it would likely take place this Saturday.”

  Green began pacing in front of the fireplace. “Are we sure the Americans have the right guy?”

  “I have no way of knowing. Plus I have no idea who the right guy is.”

  “Yeah,” Green said as if he had figured something out. “Vasili is the only one who knows. Have you called Vasili?”

  “No.” Speyer did not like dealing with the Russian mobster directly. Not if he could avoid it.

  “I’ll call him and find out what’s going on, and in the meantime you call that little prick Garret and tell him I said I want my pardon.”

  Speyer nodded, took a large gulp of wine, and questioned once again the wisdom of working with men like Green and Garret.

  34

  WASHINGTON, DC

  The Justice Department sat directly across Pennsylvania Avenue from FBI headquarters. Ross’s motorcade pulled up to the building unannounced at 9:30 on Tuesday morning. Stu Garret, Jonathon Gordon, and Ross emerged from the back of the armored limousine and proceeded across the wide sidewalk surrounded by a phalanx of Secret Service agents. A single agent ran into the building ahead of everyone so he could alert security that the vice president–elect was coming in to see the attorney general. Much of the hassle could have been avoided if they’d called ahead, but Ross liked to make surprise visits. The vice president to be told the agent in charge of his detail that it was a way of getting a better sense of how things actually ran. The agent suspected it had more to do with Ross liking to keep people off balance.

  Ross, his chief of staff, and his campaign manager skirted the security lines and crowded into an elevator with four tall agents. They went to the top floor and down the hall to the attorney general’s suite. During Ross’s short stint as the director of National Intelligence he spent many mornings attending security briefings at the Department of Justice. They passed several administrative assistants in the hallway. Ross, always the politician, smiled and greeted them.

  The attorney general had a good-sized outer office where three secretaries sat behind large desks. Ross was about to say good morning when the door to Stokes’s conference room flew open. A six-foot-tall blond appeared in the doorway with her back to the reception area. She was wearing a brown, long-sleeved, formfitting dress, belted at the waist, and a pair of leather boots.

  “You guys are out of your minds,” she yelled. “You can find someone else. I’m not going anywhere near this thing.”

  “Peggy, please come back in here and sit down.”

  Ross and his entourage stood motionless and silent on the threshold between the hallway and the reception area. Ross knew this woman, and although he couldn’t see Attorney General Stokes, he knew his voice well enough to know it was he who had asked her to come back in and sit down.

  “Marty,” the tall blond said, “you more than any other person in this building should know he is the wrong guy to mess with.”

  “Just close the door, and sit down. I’m in no mood for the theatrics this morning.”

  “Theatrics,” she yelled. “You want to see some real theatrics, keep doing what you’re doing. He gets wind of this and he’ll eat you for lunch.”

  Ross grinned. It appeared they had stepped in to the middle of a disagreement. The three secretaries were looking back and forth between the next vice president of the United States of America and the leggy blond deputy attorney general in the doorway. The leggy blond was Peggy Stealey. Ross knew her by reputation more than anything else. She was an intense lawyer who did not suffer fools lightly.

  “Peggy, I’m serious,” Stokes said raising his voice. “Get back in here. We need to finish discussing this.”

  “Marty, did I somehow give you the impression that I wasn’t taking this seriously? Because if I did, I would like to set the record straight. Where Mitch Rapp is concerned, I take things very seriously.” She folded her arms across her chest. “If you want to continue down this path, which I am advising against, that’s your prerogative. Just go find someone else, because I’m telling you I want nothing to do with it.”

  “You’re the deputy assistant attorney general in charge of counterterrorism. This case is yours whether you like it or not.”

  “I never said I wouldn’t handle the case. I’m just not going to investigate Mitch Rapp, and that’s final.”

  Stealey turned to leave but after a step she noticed the group of men standing in the doorway and she stopped dead in her tracks. Before she could speak the attorney general yelled from the conference room, “Times are changing, Peggy. Rapp and his boss have made a lot of enemies in this town, and this mess he created isn’t going to win him any friends.”

  Ross looked at the blue-eyed woman standing before him. With her high cheekbones and strong jaw, she looked decidedly Scandinavian. Ross extended his hand. “Ms. Stealey.”

  Stealey hesitated for a second, unsure of which title to use. “Mr. Vice President.”

  Ross clasped her right hand firmly, took a step closer and then placed his left hand on her shoulder. Smiling warmly he whispered, “He’s right, you know.”

  “Excuse me?” Stealey was taken slightly aback.

  “Times, they are a-changing.”

  “That tends to happen around here every four years or so.”

  Ross studied her. She was nearing forty and her skin was still flawless. Ross leaned forward placing his mouth within inches of Stealey’s right ear. “Don’t worry about Mitch Rapp. You won’t recognize the CIA a year from now.”

  Stealey’s
blue eyes narrowed into an analytical stare. “I don’t make mistakes very often, but when I do, I learn from them.”

  Ross nodded and smiled. He thought of something Stokes had once told him about Peggy Stealey. He had compared her to a thunderstorm. The anticipation of her arrival was made up of equal amounts of fear and excitement over the awesome spectacle that was about to commence. If she blew through quickly it made for a rather enjoyable watching. But if she hovered or stalled, she could cause serious damage.

  “And what am I supposed to glean from that comment?” Ross asked.

  Stealey pulled Ross closer and in a soft voice said, “Don’t fuck with Mitch Rapp.” And with that she was gone.

  Ross stood motionless for a few seconds, his perma-smile plastered across his face. Slowly he turned and watched his entourage move out of the way for Stealey. Ross kept smiling even though, inside, his temper was raging. Stokes may have found the woman’s outspokenness refreshing, but Ross found it downright disrespectful.

  Garret came forward and in a quiet voice asked, “What did she say?”

  Ross, smiling like a ventriloquist’s dummy, said, “I’ll tell you later.” He turned and walked into the conference room, finding the attorney general and two of his deputies sitting at the far end of a massive conference table. Stokes and the other two men quickly got to their feet when they saw Ross.

  “No…no,” said Ross after they were well out of their chairs. “Don’t bother getting up.” He gestured in a downward motion with his hands. “I just wanted to drop in and congratulate you on your victory. President–elect Alexander asked me to personally thank you for catching the man responsible for his wife’s death.”

  Attorney General Stokes looked awkwardly to his left and then his right. The three men all shared an uncomfortable look.

  “The case might not be as strong as we were originally led to believe.”