Executive Power (28 page)

R
app 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 greet 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.

T
he 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 was 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.

She smiled a bit awkwardly and said, “Well, you're just the man we were looking for.” Her comment was followed by some uncomfortable laughter.

Rapp allowed a wry smile to form on his lips. His problem was not with Hadley. “Fire away.”

“We're all trying to figure out why we were kept in the dark on this one.”

Rapp directed his response to Hadley. “A decision was made to keep this operation as close to the vest as possible.”

She listened to the answer and then after a moment asked, “Why?”

“Let's just say that our previous rescue attempt didn't go over so well.”

After a long moment of silence, Steve Gordon, the coordinator for counterterrorism at the State Department, was the first to speak. His pride had been damaged enough that he felt he had to speak for the group. “I hardly think the people in this room were responsible for the failure of the first rescue attempt.”

“Really?” asked Rapp, his tone a bit menacing.

Gordon was slightly taken aback. He mustered up a bit more courage and reiterated his point. “Yes.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” said Rapp as he leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest, a red file shoved under his left arm. “Any other questions?” This time he looked directly at Amanda Petry. He knew her type. Her righteous indignation would never allow his accusation to go unchallenged.

She looked back at him, barely able to conceal her contempt, and completely oblivious to the role she'd played in the disaster of a week ago. The false belief that the rest of the group supported her gave her the confidence to say, “Mr. Rapp, you may not think very highly of us, but you should at least respect the fact that we care about this country every bit as much as you do, and we work very hard at our jobs.”

Rapp was simmering for the moment. He would blow later. This was a role he relished. It was an opportunity to remind everybody just how high the stakes were. What unfolded in this room in the next five minutes would be spread all over Washington by week's end. It would be whispered about around the coffeepots and water coolers, and it would grow and become more sensational with each retelling, and in the end people would be reminded that national security was something to be taken very seriously.

“To respond to your first point, I doubt very much that you care about this country as much as I do, and as far as your second point is concerned, I have no doubt that you all work very hard, but that by itself doesn't cut it. You people aren't on the board of some corporation. You are entrusted to help protect the national security of this country, and to be brutally honest with you, working hard isn't enough.” Rapp's eyes never left Petry's.

Her nostrils flared just a bit and unable to contain herself, she said, “The State Department plays a very important role in this country's national security, Mr. Rapp, whether you like it or not. And for us to do our job, we need to be kept abreast of what is going on.”

“Kept abreast,” Rapp repeated her words and slowly bobbed his head as if he were taking them very seriously. “Tell me, Ms. Petry, can you think of a single reason why the rescue operation was launched without consulting this committee?”

“I'd say somebody such as yourself advised the president that we be kept in the dark,” answered Petry with a look of disdain on her face.

“Exactly!” said Rapp, his tone rising a bit. “And can you tell me why I would have advised such a move to the president?”

There could be little doubt, by the expression on her face that she hated the man who was questioning her. “I have no idea.”

Rapp opened the file under his arm and threw two five-by-eight photographs down on the table. They were head shots of the two dead Navy SEALs. “Do you have any idea who these two men are?”

“No,” replied an indignant Petry.

“Irv McGee and Anthony Mason. United States Navy. They were killed last week on a little sand beach in the Philippines. Both were married and combined they left behind five kids.” Rapp made no effort to retrieve the two photos sitting in the middle of the table. This was as close as any of them would ever get to the two dead warriors, and he wanted to make sure everyone in the room looked at their faces.

“Ms. Petry, can you tell me how these two men ended up dead?” Rapp paused just long enough to see that she wasn't going to answer his question. “I'll tell you how they died,” his voice boomed out in anger. “Someone in this room disregarded operational security because they felt the rules didn't apply to them.” Petry didn't crack a bit and Rapp asked her, “You have no idea what you did, do you?”

Petry's face was now flushed but she had yet to register what was happening. Blinded by her own belief that she was being wronged, Petry said, “You'd better have a pretty good explanation for this, Mr. Rapp.”

The red file flew open and out came the copies of Petry's e-mails to Ambassador Cox. Rapp slammed them down on the table and yelled, “The
president
decided last week that our embassy in Manila was not to be told in advance about the hostage rescue! You ignored that order and sent Ambassador Cox an e-mail alerting him to the specifics of the rescue! Well, I guess since you work hard, and care about your country, you don't have to adhere to operational security!”

Petry looked at her own e-mail and still refused to admit any wrongdoing. “I hardly see how this ended up causing the deaths of these two men.”

“Because, you idiot,” screamed Rapp, “Ambassador Cox alerted President Quirino about the operation, who in turn notified General Moro, who just so happens to be a paid asset for Abu Sayyaf! If you would have done what you were told those two men would be alive right now. You and your fucking diplomatic arrogance got them killed, and that's why this committee was kept in the dark.”

Rapp stood at the end of the long table, his fists clenched in rage. No one attempted to speak. Amanda Petry sat in shock looking at the two photos, still refusing to believe that a simple e-mail could have caused their deaths. Rapp knew that there were those in Washington who would think what he'd just done was unprofessional and insensitive, but he couldn't have cared less. In his mind this town, especially the national security apparatus, could use a whole lot less sensitivity.

Rapp turned and opened the door. Two FBI agents were waiting outside to arrest Petry. He passed them and started down the hall, his thoughts turning to the two dead SEALs. Their families deserved his sensitivity and sympathy, not Petry.