Consent to Kill (22 page)

W
ASHINGTON
, DC

T
he offices for the director of National Intelligence were temporary for a variety of reasons. Like any new department in Washington, it was evolving. Which in Beltway speak meant it was growing. The original plan called for a staff of approximately twenty-five to help support the new director. The idea was that the organization would act as a clearinghouse. A filter between the various intelligence assets and the president, designed to both coordinate and streamline the process. Within six months the organization doubled in size, then tripled, and then doubled again. At last count it had shot past the two-hundred-person mark, and had no sign of slowing. It was a fledgling little bureaucracy, growing in size and scope and each day becoming a little less efficient. It was quickly becoming exactly what its detractors had feared.

Until the new organization was on its feet the Secret Service had been given the job of protecting the director. This was good for Rapp. He had friends at the Secret Service who were more than willing to do him a favor. Rapp called Jack Warch, the Special Agent in Charge of the Presidential Protective Detail, and asked him if he knew the guy running Ross’s detail. Warch did. The Secret Service was a tight group. Rapp told Warch what he needed, and the man in charge of guarding the president’s life knew Rapp well enough to not ask any questions.

Rapp had to park on a ramp a half block away and across the street. The place was only a stone’s throw from the White House. Rapp entered the main door of the building and flashed his credentials to the uniformed Secret Service officer manning the desk. He asked for Agent Travis Small and then walked over to the corner of the lobby to wait. He stood near a large potted plant with his back to the wall, hoping to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He didn’t want Ross to know he was in the building. He wanted to return last week’s favor.

Rapp didn’t have to wait long. Travis Small was anything but. He looked like a power forward for the Washington Wizards. Rapp liked the team better when they were named the Bullets. It was more honest that way. More representative of the murder capital of America.

Small half-walked, half-shuffled across the terrazzo floor of the sunny lobby. He was six foot six and had to go at least 250. He had probably played basketball or football or both. His knees were undoubtedly less than perfect. He had short black hair and skin the shade of burnished walnut. Rapp guessed he was in his early forties. His eyes swept the lobby as he approached. He was an imposing man. All business. You’d have to be one spectacular badass to want to take this guy on. Either that, or crazy. Small was just the type of guy the Secret Service liked. Surround the president with a half dozen guys like Travis Small and he’d be pretty damn safe.

The big man drew close and extended his hand.

“Mitch … Travis Small. Real honor to meet you.”

Rapp took his hand. It was dwarfed by Small’s. “Likewise, Travis.”

“No.” Small flashed a perfect set of teeth and a surprisingly warm smile. “I mean it. I was on the president’s detail back when they hit the White House. I was on the evening shift, so I wasn’t there when it went down.”

Small was referring to a terrorist attack on the White House. The president had narrowly escaped capture, and would have probably died if it hadn’t been for Rapp.

“Sorry about that,” said Rapp. “You must have lost some close friends.”

“Yeah.” Small got quiet for a second. “But I would have lost more friends that day if you hadn’t put your ass on the line like that.”

Rapp wasn’t real good at stuff like this, so he just nodded his head a few times and looked around. He felt like a midget standing next to this mountain of a man.

“So how do you like working for Ross?”

Small eyed Rapp and carefully considered his answer. “I try not to have opinions about the people I’m charged with protecting.”

Rapp grinned. “Bullshit.”

Small shifted his girth from one foot to the other. “He’s probably a little on the high-maintenance side.”

“I bet. He strikes me as the type of guy who might not be so nice to the hired help.”

“No … it’s not that really. He’s nice enough. Remembers all of our names. Asks about our kids and stuff, but he’s a politician.” This was one man who carried a gun talking to another man who carried a gun. There were certain things they could communicate without speaking.

“He asks the questions, but doesn’t listen to the answers.”

“Yeah. He’s on the move. Bigger and better things to tackle. The way I see it, he was a senator who wanted to be president. Senators don’t become presidents. It’s rare. The road to the Oval Office goes through the state governorships or the vice presidency. So Ross knew he needed to either go run for governor back in New Jersey, or get on the president’s cabinet and starting angling for a VP slot. Senators don’t like going home and running for governor. It’s more work, less national notoriety … unless you’re talking New York or California. Definitely not New Jersey. So he takes the appointment from the president, and before he’s a year into this job he’ll be looking to move on to State or Defense. His résumé will be spectacular at that point and he’ll be a shoo-in for the VP slot on his party’s next ticket. Hell … he might even run for president.”

Made sense to Rapp. “What about the little guy who works for him?”

“Jonathan Gordon.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s a sharp one. He kind of balances the director out. Ross has a bit of a temper, but he keeps it real close. He blows up around Gordon and that’s about it. Gordon is real good at taking it, and then pointing out why it might be a bad idea to do whatever it is that the director wants him to do.”

“So Ross has a temper?”

Small nodded. “Real bad. Never loses it in public, though. Always behind closed doors.”

“Where is he now?”

“Up in his office with Gordon.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

The two men walked across the lobby. Small gestured for Rapp to pass through the metal detector first. Both of them set off the alarm, and they both ignored it. They stepped into the elevator and started up.

Rapp looked up at Small and said, “You want a little career advice?”

“Sure.”

“Ross is not going to like the fact that I just walked in here like this unannounced.”

“I’ve thought about that.”

“Tell him the truth. Tell him Warch called you, and said I had something important to discuss with the director. I wanted to keep it real quiet. If Ross flips his lid, he can call Jack. Jack and the president are tight. He’ll be fine, and let’s just say if Ross wants to take it all the way to the president, I’ll be happy to lock horns with him.”

“Sounds good to me.”

The elevator lurched to a stop and the doors opened. Two men, who were slightly smaller versions of Small, were standing post to the right. Small nodded to both men; they’d already been told what was up. Small led Rapp through a reception area and into an outer office where two administrative assistants were manning the phones and pecking away at keyboards. Small peeled off to address one of them and Rapp just kept going straight for the door. The older of the two women started to come out of her chair.

“Excuse me, the director is in a meeting.”

“That’s all right,” Rapp said without turning. He could hear Small telling the woman that Rapp was from the CIA. “We’re old friends,” Rapp half shouted as he grabbed the door handle, twisted, and pushed. He stepped into the office and closed the door quickly.

Director Ross sat at the head of an oval conference table immediately to Rapp’s left, opposite a massive oak desk. The office was not very big. Maybe a fifth the size of Kennedy’s. Not very plush. He was sure that pissed off the new director of National Intelligence.

Ross looked up at Rapp, his head turned slightly. His expression froze and his brow furrowed. He was in a white dress shirt with French cuffs, replete with fancy links, and a really bold red power tie. He looked very important. The other three people at the table were all wearing their suit coats.

Rapp walked right over. It was only three quick steps.

“Don’t get up.” He intentionally used the same line Ross had used when he barged into Kennedy’s office earlier in the week. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.”

Ross slid his chair back and stood. He was the type of guy who preferred to meet someone eye to eye. There was a slight smile on his face, but it was obvious he was irritated by the unannounced interruption.

Rapp stuck his right hand out and grabbed the director’s with a firm grip and an over-the-top enthusiasm. Instead of looking Ross in the eye, he glanced across the table at Gordon and placed his left hand on the shoulder of whoever it was he was standing behind. Rapp was dead set on mimicking Ross’s unannounced intrusion into Kennedy’s office.

“Jonathan … good to see you again.” Rapp released Ross’s hand and looked down at the other two individuals who he did not know. Before he had the chance to introduce himself, something on the surface of the conference table caught his eye. Rapp stopped and stared at the grainy black-and-white photo on the table. His blood pressure started to rise almost instantly. His lips parted. Nobody moved.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Rapp reached down and grabbed the photograph.

It was a surveillance photo of a warehouse. Rapp had been there many times. Parked in front was a large Ford Excursion and standing next to it was a man with blond hair. The man was Scott Coleman. Rapp’s face was now flushed with anger. The man sitting beneath his hand started packing up the contents that were laid out on the table. Rapp grabbed the guy between the collarbone and clavicle. His fingers dug in.

“Don’t touch a thing.” Rapp reached over and placed the photo on the table. He released the man’s neck and put both hands on the back of his chair. He stepped to the side and wheeled the chair with the man in it away from the table. These people were anonymous. Underlings of some sort. They did not need to be involved in this. Looking at the other person who he had not met, Rapp said, “Would you two please excuse us for a minute?”

The men got up and left without a word. The solid door closed with a dull thud. Gordon stayed seated and to his credit remained calm. Director Ross on the other hand did not.

“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked furiously.

“Saving you from stepping in it your first month on the job.” Rapp didn’t bother looking up. He was leafing through the files on the table. Coleman’s service jacket from the Pentagon was there, his last five years of personal and corporate tax returns and a nifty little surveillance file that looked to have been compiled over the last few days. Rapp held up the surveillance file.

“Are you out of your
fucking
mind?” He looked Ross right in the eye and resisted the urge to reach out and whack him across the head with the file.

Ross began to shake, he was so angry. “Get the hell out of my office right now!” He pointed at the door for good measure.

Rapp grabbed Ross’s finger like he was snatching a fly out of mid-air. He bent the index finger back and forced the director down in his chair. Men like Ross were always shocked by physical contact. Most of them had never been in a fight, or if they had, it had been a long time ago.

“What kind of a control freak are you?” asked Rapp. “You have over a hundred thousand people spread over I don’t even know how many agencies. Your job is to make these agencies work better together. That’s it. It’s not to run operations or investigate people, but you meet Scott Coleman for all of two minutes and you don’t like the way he answers you, so you start trying to dig up dirt on him.”

Ross’s face was twisted with anger. “You wait until I talk to the president. You have finally gone too far. You have no right barging in here like this.”

Rapp grabbed his cell phone from his hip. “Let’s call him right now. I’ve got his private line right here on speed dial.” Rapp thrust his phone in front of the director’s face. “You didn’t even know he had a private line, did you?”

The look on Ross’s face betrayed the truth.

“We can tell him,” said Rapp, “how good a job you’re doing of micromanaging the various intelligence agencies. We can tell him how you called up one of your lackeys over at the IRS, and told them to audit Scott Coleman … who the president knows and likes by the way. A decorated veteran. The president will be furious. While we’re at it, why don’t we call a few of your old buddies on the Hill and tell them how you’re using your staff to spy on private citizens?” He waved the file in front of Ross’s face. “That’s what this is by the way. It’s spying on a private citizen, you
fricken
hypocrite. And you spent twelve years up on that fucking hill pissing and moaning about the CIA. Grandstanding in front of the cameras and saying that we’d better not be spying on American citizens … suspected terrorist or not.”

The file was arranged with thumb tabs. One of the tabs was labeled Phone Records. Rapp opened it and started looking at the calls. “You have a subpoena for these records? Did you go to a judge? I didn’t know you had investigative powers. I don’t think the press knows you were given investigative powers. I’m sure they’d love to write about it. Get you all bogged down and ineffective before you even had a chance to make any reforms.”