Kill Shot (34 page)

Kennedy returned to the Embassy, called Stansfield on a secure line, and told him everything she knew. He listened patiently, then told her he was moving up his travel plans. Stansfield immediately understood if he couldn’t put a lid on this, and do it quickly, it would irreparably damage U.S.-French relations. Kennedy then sought out Hurley and the sparks started to fly. Over the ensuing hours it seemed that he lost it every thirty minutes. Hurley was stuck at the Embassy, knowing if he left it was highly likely that his new friend Paul Fournier would snatch him off the street and conduct a thorough, not very gentle interrogation. After his sixth or seventh tirade, Kennedy had reached her limit. She told Hurley, “I’ve listened to you for the past two hours, and I haven’t said a thing. But let me give you a little advice. You’re putting a lot of faith in a man who has some serious flaws. Chet Bramble is no saint. He’s a narcissist and a proven liar, and I don’t believe anything he says, so here’s the deal. If you’re right . . . then I’m done. I’ll resign and you’ll never have to deal with me again. But if you’re wrong, you’re done. Your ranting and your raving and all your other bullshit, it’s over. You resign, you walk away from all of this, and you admit to me and everyone else who was involved in this that it was your fault for not supervising your stupid goon.” Kennedy didn’t stick around for his answer.

She left the basement office of the Embassy and moved to the rooms that were reserved for CIA operatives in search of a bed. She found one, but she didn’t sleep. The best she could do was close her eyes and ask herself the same questions over and over. In the end she knew there was only one way she would get any answers that would satisfy her. She needed to sit down with Rapp and hear his side of the story.

The next morning, after having slept only a few hours, she was standing on the flat tarmac hoping Stansfield would for once put Hurley in his place. Three black Range Rovers were idling bumper to bumper. The Gulfstream IV taxied to a stop 150 feet from the trucks. The stairs were lowered and a customs agent walked out to meet the plane. The head of Stansfield’s security detail presented him with the proper paperwork. The man looked at the forms and then the passports and applied the appropriate stamps. Two secured diplomatic pouches were presented and the man gave them a consenting nod. Kennedy kept looking over her shoulder to see if some of their friends from the DGSE had shown up.

Stansfield finally appeared with another security officer behind him. He was in a suit and tie and a gray trench coat. The boot at the rear of the plane was opened and four small roller bags and some black cases were offloaded by the crewmember. A fourth man exited the plane and Kennedy tried to figure out why he looked familiar. Stansfield spoke to him briefly and then he walked over to Kennedy.

Kennedy opened the rear door of the middle SUV. “Good morning, sir.”

Stansfield nodded, climbed in, and closed the door. Kennedy climbed in the other side and the head of Stansfield’s detail got in the front seat. The other bodyguard got in the first vehicle and the fourth man got in the last vehicle with the luggage. The convoy started to roll toward the gate.

The deputy director of Operations leaned over and peered through the front windshield. “Any new fallout?”

“It’s hard to say. A lot of people have been asleep and are going to wake up to some rather ugly news. The Directorate will be understandably upset.”

“I’d say so . . . And Stan?”

Kennedy decided to leave out all the melodrama of their late-night argument and keep it to the facts. “He’s safe, but not by much. He was with Paulette. A few minutes after he left she had her door kicked in.”

Stansfield nodded. “Have these vehicles been swept?”

Kennedy shrugged. “The Embassy claims they’re checked on a routine basis.”

Stansfield frowned and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. They’d have to do this the old-fashioned way. He placed a lighter in the center cup holder in case he needed to act quickly and destroy the notes. “Where is Rob?”

Kennedy knew he was asking about Rob Ridley, one of their top field operatives. “He’s in the city.”

“I need to speak with him this morning. How does the Embassy look?” Stansfield asked, and then started writing.

“The Directorate has the front and rear entrances covered.”

“We’ll have to figure something out. I want Rob to personally sweep everything, and I have a little job for him.” Stansfield slid the pad over and showed her what he’d written. “Mitch?”

Kennedy shook her head. “Nothing so far.”

Stansfield scribbled, “Message Service?”

“I’ve been checking.” Again she shook her head.

“Victor?” Stansfield wrote.

Kennedy shrugged. She didn’t believe a word that came out of his mouth, but he was going to hear it from Hurley, so she reasoned she might as well give him the latest. She was about to speak, and then she reached for the pen and paper. She began printing in neat block letters. “Claims Mitch sent a decoy into the safe house and then ambushed them. Killed McGuirk, Borneman, and two DGSE agents.”

Stansfield was reading as she wrote. “Oh, my God.”

Kennedy kept scratching. “V in the process of destroying surveillance van, and the other incriminating evidence. Claims he had to flee for his life and Borneman’s body was left at the scene.”

The deputy director of Operations kept his composure despite the fact the situation had just become drastically worse. He grabbed the pad from Kennedy. Held the pen for a moment and then wrote, “Do you believe him?”

Kennedy shook her head vigorously.

“Are they looking for him?” Stansfield asked.

“Not that we know of.”

The deputy director scratched out another question. “Have they ID’d Borneman?”

“We have no idea. The police are handling the investigation and the Directorate isn’t exactly known for their cooperation.”

“Unless it’s to their advantage.” Stansfield put the pen to paper again, “What was DGSE doing there?”

“Not sure, but if I had to guess I’d say they followed V and his people there.”

“Why do you say that? They could have known about it beforehand.”

“Stan and Paulette had dinner last night.” Kennedy grabbed the pen. “Paul Fournier showed up unannounced and joined them for a bottle of wine.”

“You think they had Stan under surveillance?”

“Yes. I was followed all the way from the airport to the Embassy when I arrived last night.”

“And this morning?”

“There was a car. It’s probably behind us right now.”

Stansfield nodded.

“Does Deputy Director Cooke have any idea what’s going on?”

“No.”

“Did you let him know you were leaving?”

“No, I ordered another jet. His will be waiting for him when he gets to the airport in another six hours.”

“And when he asks where you are?”

“I have Waldvogel flying over with him. He’s going to tell him I was forced to make other travel arrangements.”

“And if he digs?”

“The Brits wanted to meet with me about something.”

“And if he checks with the Brits?”

“He’ll find out that I had breakfast at the British Embassy this morning.” Kennedy’s eyes narrowed, revealing tiny wrinkles.

“He could probably verify that if he wanted to.”

“And he can go right ahead.”

“We’re having breakfast at the British Embassy?”

“That’s right.”

“May I ask why?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

They rode in silence for a while and then Stansfield wrote, “You need to convince Mitch to talk to me.”

“I can’t even get him to talk to me.”

Stansfield tapped the pen on what he’d already written.

“I know. I’ve been trying to figure something out, but he doesn’t exactly trust us at the moment.”

“He’s going to have to start, Irene, or I’m going to be left with no other choice.”

She took him to mean that he would issue a kill order. She’d seen it done before. A dossier would be put together, a price would be determined, and then the usual suspects would be contacted. Certain assets within Langley would also be used, but this type of stuff was usually handled with outside contractors. Rapp was good. He could probably last for a year or two, longer if he was willing to undergo plastic surgery, and there was a better than fifty-fifty chance that he would eliminate the first man or two who were sent to deal with him. She was suddenly reminded of what Dr. Lewis had said to her only a few days earlier.
If there comes a time where you need to neutralize him, you’d better not screw up. Because if he survives, he’ll kill every last one of us.

The thought sent shivers up Kennedy’s spine. What if she’d already lost control of Rapp? What if Victor was telling the truth? She refused to believe it. She knew better than anyone. He wasn’t just another one of Hurley’s heartless killers. She needed time and she needed to convince Stansfield. Lewis could help with the latter. Looking at her mentor, Kennedy said, “I need you to talk to our good doctor this morning. He has some observations you need to hear.”

“In regard to what?”

“Who.” Kennedy grabbed the pad and pen and wrote down Victor’s name.

“Fine,” Stansfield said. He knew what was going on here. His two chief lieutenants were both going to champion their men. He should have never let it get this far. There was too much bad blood between Rapp and Bramble. He should have cut one of them loose a long time ago, and despite the current evidence against Rapp, it was Bramble whom he would have dumped. He was Stan’s man, though, and what Stan wanted he almost always got. Unfortunately, what Stan wanted right now was a dead Mitch Rapp.

Stansfield stretched his legs and leaned against the door’s armrest. He couldn’t allow his personal bias to interfere. Rapp was far more likable. Bramble was an obtuse brute, but he had his purposes. If Rapp didn’t come in and tell him exactly what he’d been up to, Stansfield would be left with only one choice. He would have to order the execution of perhaps his best operative.

T
HE
crane moved the heavy magnet into position and then the cable was played out and the rusty steel disk dropped until it was a few feet from the van. The magnet was turned on and the rear tires of the van levitated off the ground until the roof was pinned against the steel disk. The power was increased and slowly the front end, weighted down by the engine, began to inch upward. When the roof was firmly immobilized to the underside of the magnet, the big diesel engine on the crane revved and belched black smoke and then the thick steel cable moaned until it had the van twenty feet off the ground and swinging toward the industrial-sized compactor.

Bramble watched as the van was not so gently placed inside the three-sided metal box. The magnet disengaged, leaving the van in place, and moved clear. Steel jaws swung into place above the van and the crushing began, top to bottom first for a few feet and then the sides. It went back and forth like that for several minutes. When the van was finally smashed into a four-by-four-foot cube, Bramble noticed a red liquid leaking from the base. It was expected. There were two bodies inside, after all. There should have been three, but Borneman had been lost along the way.

The man next to Bramble held out his hand and said something in his gruff native Serbian tongue. Bramble didn’t understand a word of any of the Slavic languages, but he didn’t need to. They had an agreement and the man wanted to be paid. Bramble had already counted the money, twenty-five hundred dollars in advance and twenty-five hundred when they were done, and the guy was going to throw in a piece-of-shit two-door Renault that he would drive back to Paris.

Bramble had wiped the prints from his gun and left it in the van to be crushed with all the other evidence, the bodies, the surveillance equipment, and most important, the recording of him shooting the man he thought was Rapp. It had all appeared to be going perfectly. Rapp was dead, and he’d dealt with Borneman and McGuirk. All of that he could have explained to Hurley. They were pulling out when Rapp ambushed them. He killed Borneman and McGuirk and then Bramble jumped in and put a bullet in the back of Rapp’s head, end of story. But then those two
Frenchies
showed up. Bramble still had no idea who they were. More than likely cops, or maybe French Intelligence, either way it wasn’t good. Bramble was still proud of the shot. He bet there weren’t more than a dozen men on the planet that could have hit that first guy square in the face, as he had. They’d been stupid in how they came after him, no cover, and they were standing too close together. In Bramble’s mind they had gotten what they deserved.

Bramble handed the man the rest of the cash, and the dirty mutt gave him the keys to the Renault. In his broken French, Bramble did his best to convey the fact that he’d be back in two days, and if what was left of the van wasn’t melted down he’d be sticking some people in the compactor. He’d never come back, of course, but Bramble only knew of one way to conduct business—threaten.

Limping, Bramble walked across the yard toward his subcompact piece of shit. He folded himself into the driver’s seat, inserted the key, and gunned the little four-cylinder engine. The car was a stick shift and under normal circumstances Bramble wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but he had a bullet hole in his right calf and a bullet lodged in the brawny triceps muscle of his right arm. Driving one-handed was not possible, so he engaged the clutch, bit down hard, and jammed the stubborn stick shift into first gear. The bald front tires spun on the gravel and then bit, and the car lurched forward, Bramble acutely feeling every bump and pitch.

He had a few bruised ribs as well, courtesy of that pussy Rapp lodging four slugs in the back of his bulletproof vest. If the dumbass had used a .45 caliber like Bramble he may have succeeded in killing him, but his little 9mm slugs couldn’t do the job. Bramble shifted the dusty car into second gear and popped the clutch a bit too early. The jolt made him wonder if one or more of his ribs weren’t broken. It was all good, he decided. The more beat up he was the more believable his story.