Executive Power (34 page)

I
t wasn't quite 7:00 on Wednesday morning when David entered the tiny garage behind the house he was renting. Inside was a stripped-down white Ford minivan with no seats or windows in the rear passenger area. David had done all of his dry runs without the van. Even though he was confident the bomb wouldn't go off unless it was armed, he erred on the side of caution and kept it locked up in the garage. As he slid the key into the ignition he couldn't help but catch himself worrying that starting the engine might bring about a premature end to his plans.

The concern was foolish. He'd read all the manuals ad nauseam. There were ample materials available on explosives if one was willing to look, and besides, his people had become experts on bombs over the last two decades. The more difficult aspect of the plan had been obtaining the amount of explosives he needed and then getting them into the United States. The now deceased General Hamza had been kind enough to supply him with three separate shipments of Iraqi-made Semtex, a very powerful plastic explosive, and then using a series of export companies he had shipped a large cargo container from Jordan to Indonesia and then finally to the busy port of Los Angeles.

From there the container had made its way east to Richmond, Virginia, where it sat in a storage facility for two months while David made sure it wasn't being watched. Twelve forty-pound blocks of the claylike Semtex sat in the back of the van under a canvas painters' tarp. Underneath the tarp was a maze of det cord and blasting caps that would ensure the near simultaneous detonation of the 480 pounds of explosives.

David backed up slowly until he reached the street and then headed south. Due to all the government jobs, D.C. was not a city of early risers and the traffic was still light. He cut down a cross street and then turned the van onto Georgia Avenue. A short while later he passed Howard University and then Georgia turned into 7th Street. He was now less than a mile from the White House. After stopping for a red light he took a right onto Rhode Island and continued in the right lane avoiding as many potholes as he could.

He was more nervous now than when he had killed Ali. There was something about D.C. All the cameras and various law enforcement agencies each presented the possibility of capture. To David it was truly unbelievable that a city with so many cops in it could have such a high murder rate, but that was America.

He tried not to be overly optimistic about his odds of succeeding. He'd covered his tracks diligently and monitored the FBI's Web site hourly waiting for a photograph of him to appear at any moment, but it hadn't. They had no idea who he was, and if the papers were to be believed, the entire world, even the Americans, believed that the Israelis were responsible for the assassination of Ambassador Ali. Everything was going according to plan. Now all he needed to do was make one last grand statement. An act of pure violence that would force Israel to concede.

He turned onto the desired street less than a quarter mile from the White House and slowed for a car that had abruptly pulled out in front of him. David continued north for two more blocks in search of the optimal parking place. Much of the credit for this last bold move had to be given to Omar. He had convinced David that the best way to force Israel to the table was to enrage the Americans. Spill blood on their soil and watch them lose their patience with Israel.

Now more than ever David was convinced it would work. The French ambassador to the UN was scheduled to bring a resolution for Palestinian statehood before the Security Council at 11:00 this morning. So far everyone was onboard, minus the United States, but unfortunately that wasn't enough. As a permanent member of the Council, the American ambassador had veto power. As things stood right now, the Americans were not ready to back the French resolution, but that was about to change. After David was done this morning the vote would probably have to be postponed, but its odds of passing would be greatly increased.

David carefully parallel-parked the van and then plugged the meter with enough quarters to last into the afternoon. Standing next to the parking meter he took one last look at the van and made sure he'd done everything. The tabs were up-to-date, the meter was full and the bomb could not be seen from the front window. As casually as his nerves would allow, he turned and began walking away from the vehicle. He would wait to arm the bomb when he got back to the house. After he was sure his target was on the way.

R
app stepped out of the shower in the men's locker room of the New Headquarters Building and grabbed a towel. He'd managed to sneak in a few hours' sleep on the couch in his office, and right about now he was wondering if that had been such a good idea. Due to his wound he'd had to sleep on his side with his head up on the armrest. The contorted angle of his neck had given him a kink that a steaming hot fifteen-minute shower had done nothing to fix. As he dried off he told himself to ignore it. There were bigger problems to deal with, like finding this prick who worked for Fat Omar. That's what Rapp had taken to calling the Saudi prince, refusing to grant him his regal title.

With the aid of a full-length mirror, he taped a new bandage over his wound and got some clean clothes out of his locker. It was common for those who worked in the CTC to keep a change of clothes at work. When a crisis erupted there usually wasn't enough time to sleep, let alone go home and get changed.

Rapp was standing in his boxers when the locker room door flew open and a disheveled Marcus Dumond burst in yelling Rapp's name. “Mitch … Mitch!”

“Over here,” yelled Rapp.

Dumond skidded to a stop at the end of the aisle. “You gotta get upstairs! Olivia found something!”

Rapp pulled his pants on. “What?”

“She's got a lead on this guy, and you're not gonna like it.”

 

Rapp stood over Bourne's shoulder, his thick black hair wet and uncombed, staring at the flat screen monitor. For the third time in a row he watched the man walk across the expansive floor of Penn Station, and for the third time in a row he asked Bourne, “Are you sure it's him?”

She smiled confidently and said, “Yep. The software mapped his face and gave us a lock on the surveillance photos the Brits provided.”

Rapp watched the man in the dark trench coat. The times worked out. Kill Ali, get away from the area, dispose of the weapon and then catch a train out of town. Or go to the station and make everybody think you got on a train, then duck back outside and disappear. Rapp had used the trick himself on more than one occasion. “Have you checked to make sure he didn't turn around and come back out?”

“No need to,” replied a confident Bourne. She made a couple of key strokes and more black-and-white surveillance footage came up on the second monitor. Bourne handed Rapp a printout that showed the schedule of trains leaving Penn Station for the night in question.

Rapp looked down at the one she had circled and squinted to read the small type.

“Going off of that,” offered Bourne, “I pulled the footage at Union Station. The train left New York at ten oh five and pulled into D.C. at one-twenty in the morning.” Bourne hit her Enter key like a concert pianist striking the final note of a glorious performance and then sitting back she crossed her arms and watched the digital video stream play across her screen. “That's our guy walking across the lobby right there.”

Rapp didn't bother to ask if she was sure this time. “The bastard's in D.C.,” he mumbled more to himself than Bourne. His mind instantly seized, not on who he should call, or where the man might be, but rather on who he was after. When you stripped away all the bullshit, Rapp was an assassin. He was also much more than that, of course, but in the most raw, blunt way he was an assassin. He understood the thought processes involved in running an operation virtually alone. It was his preferred mode. That way he didn't have to worry about anyone other than himself screwing up. This guy looked like he was operating alone, and if Rapp was guessing right there was only one reason why he would come to D.C. He wasn't done killing.

“Do we have any more footage on him?”

“No, this is it.”

“Dammit,” swore Rapp. “Have you told Jake?”

“No. He's on his way up to the Hill to brief the Intel Committee.”

“Irene?”

“No. She's on her way to the White House.”

Rapp stood up straight and looked across the sea of cubicles at the far wall to see if Tom Lee, the CTC's deputy director, was in his office. If Rapp had been a typical government employee, he would already be racing across the Bull Pen on his way to tell Lee everything he had just learned. Needless to say, Rapp was more than some bureaucrat worried about covering his ass and making sure his government pension was protected at all costs. This was a tricky situation. Lee was not an employee of the CIA, he merely had an office in the building. He was FBI and with the FBI came a lot of rules on how things were handled. Rules that Rapp felt got in the way.

Rapp had to make a quick decision. They needed to catch this guy, but they didn't want to spook him. Plus once they told the FBI about him there was no taking it back, no flexibility in how to handle the situation.

He decided on a cautious course for the moment. Looking down at Bourne and Dumond who were seated he said, “Call the cab companies and find out who was working the station at the time this guy stepped onto the curb, and”—Rapp lowered his voice—“keep it within our little group right here.”

Both Bourne and Dumond nodded. They were CIA and knew exactly what Rapp was talking about.

“And, Marcus, keep working on Fat Omar's accounts. There should have been a large chunk of change moved sometime in the last week. If anything comes up call me on the digital.” Rapp grabbed the printout of the surveillance photo and a train schedule and started for the exit.

“Where are you going?” asked Dumond.

Rapp folded the printouts and shoved them into his pocket. “The White House.”