Executive Power (43 page)

A
dams and Urness found themselves huddled under the small awning at the front of the restaurant with their umbrellas in hand. Each man scanned the rain-splattered windows of the closest executive cars in search of a white placard with their name. Adams was lucky. His car was only twenty feet away. Urness said a rushed goodbye and then darted away between the puddles. At each passing sedan he stopped to search for his name. Adams plotted his own course and bolted for the rear passenger door of what he thought was his Lincoln Town Car. He opened the door, closed the umbrella, and ducked into the back seat.

The driver gave him a polite nod and a soft “Hello,” followed by, “Back to the hotel, sir?”

Adams was half tempted to ask him if he knew of any good bars and then thought better of it. Urness's admonishment over his drinking had wounded his pride. “Yes, my hotel, please.” Adams was already looking out the window, his mind trying to justify the joy he received from a good glass of booze or bottle of wine. A guy like Urness didn't understand. He was too focused on his career to enjoy the other things life had to offer. Come to think of it, the man didn't have a single hobby or passion other than the law.

Besides,
Adams thought to himself,
I'd like to see Urness walk in my shoes for a month, let alone six years
. Adams felt like General Custer at times: surrounded by savages, trying to fight the good fight. Every day brought a new level of duplicity and treachery. The entire Clandestine Service, and most of the leadership at Langley, was staffed by professional liars and manipulators, men and women who had not an ounce of respect for the Constitution and the coequal branches of the republic. There was nothing wrong with the occasional drink, he decided. He would just have to be a little more discreet about it.

Adams looked out the window as they rolled through a busy intersection. Despite the concern over his drinking, he was pleased with the pact he'd made with Urness. Considering how complicated it was, he felt the night couldn't have gone better. Adams smiled at his bold step, allowed himself to think how sweet victory would feel when the rotten house of Langley came tumbling down on itself.

Adams realized he hadn't felt this good in months. It was as if a massive yoke had been lifted from his exhausted shoulders. This was going to be fun—turning it around on them. Adams did not miss the irony. He was going to use one of their own ploys to take them down. He'd come to think of it as his own little covert operation. He would have to continue in his role as inspector general and look, with feigned zeal, for the leaker. He'd have to be careful, though, to not seem too eager. The obtuse operatives, while not bright, were at least instinctive. If he changed his behavior too much they would sense it, so he would have to do his job, while letting it be known that he had warned all of them this day would come. Adams couldn't wait to see the looks on their faces when the news broke.

The car hit a pothole and began to slow. Adams looked up, about to ask the driver why he was pulling over, when suddenly the passenger's side rear door opened. A dark figure dripping with water glided into the vehicle and took a seat next him. Before Adams had the chance to figure out who it was, the door was closed and the car was moving again. Somewhere in a seemingly distant part of his brain he heard the automatic locks slam into place with an ominous thud. His mind was suddenly racing to understand what was going on. Why was this strange man in his car? Adams was about to ask him just that, when the man turned to face him.

The alcohol caused a slight delay in connecting the dots, but Adams knew instantly who he was looking at. The jet-black hair with a touch of gray at the temples, the olive skin and eyes so dark they looked like two pools of oil—they all belonged to none other than the CIA's chief thug, Mitch Rapp. But what in the hell was Rapp doing in New York City, let alone his car?

“What?” Adams stammered. “What in the hell are you doing?”

“How was your dinner?” Rapp asked in a casual tone.

“My dinner? What in hell are you doing? Get out of my car right now!” A note of panic crept into his voice as his addled brain began to comprehend the severity of the situation.

“Easy, Glen,” Rapp spoke in a deep, calm voice. “You're in no position to be handing out orders.”

“The hell I'm not!” Adams reached inside his jacket. Rapp made no effort to stop him. “What do you think you're doing?”

“I'm calling the attorney general, that's what I'm doing!”

Rapp let out a protracted sigh, followed by “Put your phone down.” He'd figured this was how Adams would react. Rapp lifted his gloved right hand, brought it up to his left shoulder, and unleashed a backhanded slap that caught Adams square in the nose. The blow was just enough to stun. Rapp did not want him bleeding— at least not yet.

Adams yelped like a dog and dropped the phone at the same time. He instinctively brought both hands up to cover his face and began complaining loudly.

Rapp grabbed the phone and started patting Adams down, sliding his hands around his waist to make sure there wasn't another phone or pager that he didn't know about.

“Take your hands off me!” Adams demanded. “Stop moving,” Rapp ordered as he quickly searched the jacket pockets.

“This time you've gone too far!” Adams shouted. “There is no way you're going to be able to weasel your way out of this. Kidnapping, assault . . .”

Rapp ignored the list of charges and told the driver, “It's just the one phone.”

The driver nodded and put out his hand. Rapp gave him the phone and a second later the driver pulled over, rolled down his window six inches, and handed the phone to a man standing on the street corner.

Rapp turned his attention back to Adams, who had finished listing the potential charges and had now moved on to expressing the joy and satisfaction he would receive over watching Rapp brought to justice.

“Glen,” Rapp said, “that's not going to happen.” “The hell it isn't!” Adams said emphatically.

Rapp sighed, “The chance of you ever seeing me brought to justice is zero.”

“You don't know me very well if you think for a minute I'm somehow going to be talked out of going to the attorney general with this.”

“I know you all too well, Glen, but apparently you don't know me very well, if you think I'm going to let you live.”

“Live?” Adams asked incredulously. “You wouldn't dare!”

“I've dared more times than I can count, and for far less than this. You're a traitor, and unless you can somehow explain to me why in hell you've been leaking classified information, I'm going to kill you.” Rapp looked into the eyes of the man sitting next to him and said, “It's really not that complicated, and if you really believe I'm the monster you claim, you should know I'm serious.”

The severity of his predicament finally sank in. Adams, his jaw slack, stared at Rapp for a long moment and then blinking, looked to the driver and shouted, “Pull over right now!” The driver ignored him, so Adams repeated himself but even louder.

Rapp twisted in his seat, took a good look at Adams, picked his spot, and then let loose a left jab that caught the inspector general square on the chin. Adams's head bounced off the window and then his entire body went slack.

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