Kill Shot (30 page)

Bramble slowly backed off, holding his hands up in the air. Borneman was former Delta, the kind of guy who measured his words very carefully. If he said he’d shoot him, Bramble wasn’t about to doubt him.

McGuirk sat up straight and said, “You’re a real prick, Victor. We’re on a fucking stakeout, for Christ’s sake. Take a joke.”

Bramble looked at McGuirk and then Borneman, who still had his gun out. “Sorry . . . I’m frustrated. Put that thing away,” he said to Borneman.

Borneman pointed the gun at the floor, but kept it out. “Who was that on the phone?”

Bramble considered lying but decided it would do little good. “It was Stan.”

“What did he want?”

“Nothing.”

McGuirk shook his head and said, “So you were pissed off about nothing. You’re so full of shit.”

Victor wished Borneman would put his gun away so he could slug the shit out of McGuirk. “He wants us to hang out here for another hour or two and then head back to the hotel and wait for orders.”

“And what could be so bad about that?” Borneman asked.

“This is our only lead. That little prick is going to show up eventually, and we need to be here. Not sitting on our asses back at the hotel.”

Borneman cocked his head an inch to the right and asked, “Why do you hate him so much?”

“Who . . . Rapp?”

“Who else would he be asking about, you mental midget?” McGuirk snapped. This time he was ready, sitting on the edge of his seat, ready to move if Victor came after him a second time.

Bramble stifled his anger and ignored McGuirk. Looking at Borneman he said, “It’s a long story. There’s a lot of stuff you two don’t know about. Stuff Stan hasn’t shared with you.”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with him breaking your arm . . . would it?” Borneman hadn’t been there that day, but he’d heard the story. Victor was a real prick, especially to the new recruits. Hurley had come up with the idea to insert Victor among the recruits so he could gain their confidence and then trip them up. Supposedly Rapp had seen right through it, and when given the chance he removed Victor from the equation. As far as Borneman could see, Rapp had only done what everyone else had dreamed of doing.

“He should have been washed out because of that. Even Stan says so.”

“Did Stan say that before or after Rapp saved his life?” McGuirk asked.

“Don’t believe every rumor you hear. Stan was doing just fine on his own. If anything he saved Rapp’s life.”

“That’s bullshit,” Borneman said. “I was part of the extraction team. Stan was too fucked up to walk. Rapp saved his ass and all you two can do is bitch about him.”

“And I’m telling you,” Victor said, leaning forward, no longer caring that Borneman had a gun in his hand, “there’s a lot of shit you don’t know. I have orders to kill him if he so much as looks like he’s going to run.”

“And why haven’t we been given those orders?” McGuirk asked.

“Because you’re on the bottom of the totem pole.”

“Does Irene know about this order?” Borneman asked.

“How the fuck would I know? Stan doesn’t read me in on every aspect of every order.”

“This is going to be interesting.”

“What?”

“Kennedy’s on her way over.” Borneman checked his watch. “She’s due to land within the hour.”

Just the mention of her name soured Bramble’s already foul mood. That must be why Hurley was pulling the plug. If Bramble could only figure out a way to kill both Kennedy and Rapp. He was at the beginning of exploring that fantasy when the surveillance console began to beep. Bramble spun around in his chair, his heart already picking up the pace. His eyes flashed to the blinking light on the panel. The motion sensor in the front hallway of the apartment had been tripped.

Bramble’s eyes darted from one monitor to the next.

“What is it?” McGuirk asked.

“While you two ladies were asking a thousand questions and distracting me, someone walked up the front steps, climbed one flight of stairs, and is now poking around the apartment.”

“How do you know it wasn’t the back door?” McGuirk asked.

“I don’t, so why don’t you get over here and find out how he got in.”

McGuirk stood in front of the far side of the console and began typing in commands and winding dials. A few seconds later they had footage of a man walking up the front steps of the building and into the entryway.

“That’s him,” Bramble announced.

“Are you sure?” Borneman asked.

“I’d put a million bucks on it.” Bramble’s eyes danced over the other monitors. McGuirk and Borneman traded an
oh fuck
expression.

“Damn!” Bramble grabbed a radio and an earpiece. “You two shitheads stay right here and don’t move a fucking muscle unless I tell you to do so. Am I clear?”

Both men nodded, McGuirk a little more enthusiastically than Borneman.

“Good, and if I call for the van be ready to move!” Victor suddenly had the beginnings of a plan forming. He clipped the radio to his hip and ran a wire up the inside of his brown leather jacket. After wrapping the coil around the back of his ear, he wedged the little flesh-colored earpiece into position. Bramble turned up the volume and did a quick radio check. The last thing he did was tell them to give him constant updates on what was going on inside the apartment, and then he was out the back door of the van like a shot.

T
WO
suits from diplomatic security were posted at the front door of the five-story brownstone. Their black Suburban was parked directly in front of the house between two orange cones meant to keep the space available 24/7 for the men and women who babysat the secretary of state. Security here in the United States wasn’t a big deal. The biggest threat on a weekly basis was the Georgetown students who wandered past late at night smashed out of their minds. Always loud and short on common sense, they sometimes thought it was a good idea to stop in front of Secretary Wilson’s house and try to bait the security personnel. The men and women on the detail were professionals, but every once in a while they had to strong-arm someone on their way.

Cooke paid the two men more than a passing glance as he drove past looking for a parking place. If he became the director of the CIA he’d have his own security detail. As the deputy director he was on his own. Thomas Stansfield, who was his subordinate, had a security team, and while Cooke had never said a word to anybody, it irritated him that he didn’t have one, too. He outranked Stansfield, after all. Cooke had heard the reasons. The detail had been in place long before he’d become deputy director. It had something to do with the number of threats that Stansfield received and the consensus that he knew more state secrets than any other person in Washington and that it wouldn’t do to have him kidnapped and interrogated.

Having a security team in Washington was a real status symbol. Only the most important players received around-the-clock protection. The president and vice president, of course, the secretary of state, secretary of defense, director of the FBI, and Thomas Stansfield. From time to time other cabinet-level people would receive protection, but only if they’d received a specific threat. Cooke hated it that Stansfield was part of that rarefied club. He decided that the moment he became director he would yank Stansfield’s detail. And then with Wilson’s help, he’d force Stansfield to retire and put one of his own people in charge of Operations. Someone whom he could control. Someone who understood loyalty.

On his third pass Cooke gave up on finding a spot and decided he would wedge his Volvo into the short driveway that led to the heavy lacquered black garage door of Wilson’s house. He wasn’t blocking the street, but the back end of his wagon made the sidewalk nearly impassable. It wasn’t the ideal spot, but Cooke was in a hurry. He needed to have this meeting with Wilson, head back to the office to check on a few things, and then pack for France. They had an early flight. Cooke looked through his windshield at the two bodyguards on the front stoop. They both had brown hair, but one of them had more of it. Both men had casually opened their suit coats and placed their hands on their sidearms. Cooke knew he should have called ahead, but he wanted to surprise Wilson.

Cooke got out of the car. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a gray hooded sweatshirt that had Harvard Crew stenciled in crimson across the front. He put his right hand on the shiny red hull of the scull he had strapped to the hood of his car, looked up at the bodyguards, and said, “Guys, Deputy Director Cooke here. I need to have a brief word with the secretary. Is it okay if I leave my car here?”

The men exchanged a brief look and one of them said, “I’m sorry . . . who did you say you were?”

“Deputy Director Cooke.”

It was obvious by the way the two men looked at each other that they had no idea who they were talking to. “I’m sorry, which agency, sir?”

You’ve got to be kidding me,
Cooke thought. “CIA,” he said with an impatient face. “Please tell the secretary it’s rather urgent.”

The one with more hair disappeared into the house while the other one stayed at his post. He looked down at the visitor and asked, “Do you have any identification on you, sir?”

Cooke shook his head and thought,
How is it that these simpletons have no idea who I am
? “Sorry, I don’t carry my wallet with me when I’m rowing.” Cooke patted his scull like a proud father. “And leaving it in the car isn’t very bright, is it?”

The man didn’t respond. He just stared at Cooke with a suspicious glare and wondered what kind of person drove around D.C. without any identification. A deputy director at the CIA should have more common sense. A few moments later his partner popped his head out of the door and the two exchanged a few words. The one who was losing the follicle battle motioned for Cooke to approach. Cooke swung around the back of his car and started up the steps. There were five of them, made out of the same brick as the house, and then a landing, a left turn, and five more steps. The front stoop was big enough for the three of them to stand comfortably, or at least so Cooke thought, until Mr. Male Pattern Baldness ordered him to raise his hands so he could frisk him.

“You’re kidding me,” Cooke said, irritated by the request. “I run the CIA. The secretary and I talk all the time.”

The bodyguard remained unfazed by the information. “If you run the CIA, where is your security detail?”

Now Cooke was really bothered. Who the hell did this rent-a-suit think he was, asking him questions? Staring the man down, Cooke lied. “I gave them the day off.”

The man considered the response for a moment. It didn’t make a lot of sense. The CIA was a serious place, with serious threats. Why would any sane man give his security detail the day off? “No disrespect, sir, but I don’t know you, you don’t have an appointment, and you don’t have any identification. My job is to protect the secretary, period. If I were to let a complete stranger into this house I wouldn’t be very good at my job, would I?”

Myriad retorts flashed across his mind, most of them involving Cooke putting the man in his place and insulting his intellect, but in the end he decided that making a scene on the secretary’s front stoop was unwise, so he raised his arms and allowed the guy to run his hands up and down his body.

When they were done checking everything but the deepest recesses of his groin, Cooke was escorted into the house. The second bodyguard told him they were to wait in the foyer. The two men stood on the black and white checked marble floor in silence for a few minutes until the secretary came down the long staircase. He was dressed in a pair of charcoal gray, wool dress pants, with a white button-down shirt, and he’d traded in the yellow cardigan from yesterday for a red one.

“Paul . . . two days in a row. Something must be very urgent.”

“Sorry, Franklin, but I’m off to Paris in the morning and I thought it would be a good idea if we discussed a few things.”

Wilson stopped on the far side of the foyer and eyed his visitor. He looked as if he might have been napping. “Paris . . . does this have anything to do with what we discussed the other day?”

“Yes.” Cooke gave the bodyguard a sideways glance and Wilson took the hint.

“Why don’t we go downstairs?”

“I think that would be a good idea.” Cooke crossed the foyer.

The two men proceeded down the long hallway to the kitchen. Wilson opened the door to the basement, flipped a light switch, and then motioned for Cooke to go ahead. The secretary followed and closed the door behind him.

Cooke watched the older man go through the same routine he’d been through the day before. He went behind the bar, opened a panel, and pressed several buttons. A few seconds later the sound of a string quartet drifted down from the ceiling speakers. After that Wilson grabbed two lowballs, tossed in a few ice cubes, and filled them with scotch. Cooke was about to protest. He had work to do, and the middle of a Sunday was no time to start drinking, but Franklin Wilson was not the type of man to be rebuffed. It was better to take the drink and baby it.

Wilson came out from behind the bar with a glass in each hand and gestured toward the two leather club chairs on each side of the fireplace. Apparently there would be no billiards today. “If I’d known you were stopping by, I would have had a fire going.” Wilson handed Cooke his scotch on the rocks and after both men were seated he asked, “So what’s on your mind?”

“As I said, I’m headed to Paris in the morning.”

“Yes, what’s that all about?”

“A couple of things. I want to see my people at our embassy and get a sense of their morale.” Cooke looked at his drink and added, “I also have a meeting with some of my contacts at the DGSE.”

“French Intelligence?” Wilson asked with an arched brow.

Cooke nodded. “As you can imagine, they’re not very happy about the current situation.”