The Third Option (23 page)
«Thank you. And so were you, Charles.» Clark took a drink of scotch and shifted gears. «I don't think we can go back and change the past, gentlemen. We need to look to the future. Director Stansfield is dying. I've heard he has about six months left.» The men nodded. «Our job, as I see it, is to help the president pick someone who can bring the Agency into the twenty-first century. Someone who will be respectful of the concerns of the Congress.» As Clark looked at the other men. he couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment that he had almost perfectly maneuvered all of the pieces of the puzzle into place. Just as he was about to put one more very important piece into play, the phone next to him buzzed and stopped him short.
Clark snatched the phone from its cradle. «Hello.»
«Sir, I need to speak with you immediately.»
It was Peter Cameron. Clark remained calm, even though the man's timing couldn't have been worse. «I'm in the middle of something.»
«This is really important. I'm in the briefing room across the hall from you.»
Clark thought about it for a second. Cameron sounded very serious. «Give me a minute. I'll be right over.»
Cameron scratched his beard and tried to figure out what to do. He was standing in the parking ramp at George Washington University. After hanging up on Rapp, Cameron was forced to make a practical decision: use his own car, or find other transportation. As he huddled behind a concrete pillar in the ramp, he went over the phone conversation, trying to figure out how Rapp had found him. Something occurred to him. Rapp had never used his real name. He only called him Professor. Cameron put himself in Rapp's shoes. If he were the one doing the confronting, he would use the person's real name, not an alias. Hell, he wouldn't even call them, he'd show up on the person's doorstep with a little muscle and beat the truth out of them.
Cameron had decided it was Villaume. That slimy little frog had gotten hold of Rapp and given him the phone number. That was the only thing that made sense; otherwise, Rapp would be all over him. Cameron checked the under- side of his car for tracking devices and left the ramp. He took his time driving to the Hill. The normal ten-minute drive took forty-five as Cameron zigzagged his way across the city. When he finally pulled into the underground garage of the Hart Senate Office Building, he was pretty confident that he had not been followed.
Senator Clark entered the small room and shut the airtight, soundproof door. He was in a light blue shirt with a white collar and an expensive gold silk tie. He had left his suit coat across the hall in the larger conference room. He was far from enthused about the interruption, but he didn't show it.
Clark remained standing. «What's wrong, Peter?»
«Nothing we can't handle,» answered Cameron with reserved confidence.
The senator eyed him cautiously; «Elaborate, please.»
«I received a phone call this afternoon from Mitch Rapp.»
Clark 's eyes opened wider. «Really?»
«Yes, but I don't want you to be too alarmed. He doesn't know my real name.»
Clark wasn't sure if he believed Cameron. «How did he find you?»
Cameron held up his mobile phone. «He called me on this.»
«How did he get the number?»
«Villaume gave it to him.» Cameron neglected to tell Clark that this was an educated guess.
The senator took a deep breath and glanced over at the blank wall. «I thought you said Villaume wasn't going to be a problem now that his large friend is gone.»
«I don't think he will be.» Cameron lied, again neglecting to mention the conversation he'd had with Villaume earlier in the day.
«Well, I think him giving Rapp your number would fall into the creating problems category.»
«It's not what you think.» Cameron held the phone up again. «There is no way they can use this to find me. It was purchased under a false name and was paid for with a credit card that can't be traced to me. Villaume doesn't know my real name; he knows nothing about me.»
Clark strained to keep his demeanor calm. None of this was good news. «You don't feel the slightest bit threatened by Rapp?»
«No.» Cameron lied. «I can handle him.»
«I'm not so sure.» The senator looked away and said, «Maybe I should bring in someone else to take care of things?»
«No. I can handle it.»
«You're sure?» The senator studied him.
«Yes.»
«How are things proceeding with the girl?»
«We have all of the information you requested.»
«All right.» Clark sat at the small table, and Cameron did the same. «Grab the girl, and be very discreet about it. Has Rapp shown up at his house yet?»
«No, and I don't think he will until this thing blows over.»
Clark sat in silence for a while, concentrating on how to proceed. After several minutes, he began to tell Cameron what to do. His attention to detail was amazing. So much so that Cameron felt the need to take notes, but he knew better than to ask. After ten minutes of Clark talking and Cameron listening, the meeting was over. Clark had sent his minion on his way with very specific orders on how to proceed.
Clark stayed in the small room by himself for several minutes, taking the time to gather his wits before he went back into the other meeting. As he sat there, he thought of one thing he'd forgotten. This would be the end of his relationship with Cameron. Whether the man succeeded in taking care of Rapp or not, he had become too big a liability. He had received confirmation that a man called the Colonel had accepted the contract on Cameron and was on his way to Washington. When Clark got home, he would have to put the Colonel in a holding pattern until this business with the reporter was taken care of. He absolutely could not allow Rapp to get his hands on Cameron.
ANNA RIELLY WAS tired. She'd just finished giving her last nightly news update and was packing up to head home. The rain had finally stopped. She did her first two stories standing under an umbrella on the north grounds of the White House. The dreary weather was affecting people's moods, including hers. It had been a long week, and it was only Wednesday. All she wanted to do was go home, curl up in her own bed, and go to sleep. It would be nice if Mitch was there, but she doubted she would be that lucky.
She had told Liz all about her conversation with Mitch. She had yet to tell Liz who Mitch worked for or what he did, and Liz had been a good enough friend not to force the issue. Although Liz O'Rourke seemed to be relieved by the news that Mitch had contacted Anna, the same couldn't really be said for Liz's husband. Michael was not happy about the events of the last week, and Anna was still worried that he might use his contacts to start digging around.
As Rjelly walked toward the northwest gate, she made the decision that she would stay at her apartment tonight. She had imposed enough on the O'Rourkes. They didn’t need this kind of stress in their lives, especially with the baby on the way: Mitch had called and said everything fine. If he wasn't worried, then she could relax a little.
As she approached the first gate, Rielly stuck her access badge under a sensor, and the lock on the gate released. She pushed the gate open and waved good night to the uniformed Secret Service officers as she walked past the guest house. At the next gate, she repeated the process and then stepped out onto the sidewalk bordering Pennsylvania Avenue. As she turned west, her thoughts settled on taking a nice, long, hot bath when she got home. Then maybe she would put a call in to her parents in Chicago and see how things were going.
There were always plenty of good stories about her nieces and nephews. The count was even right now. Three boys and three girls with two unknowns on the way: Rielly and her mother were hoping for girls. Anna had grown up with four very protective older brothers. Three of the four were married, and one was currently unmarried and looking for number two. Rielly needed to get home and see them. It had been almost three months. That was too long. Maybe when Mitch came out of his debriefing or whatever it was that he was doing, they could book a trip. The family had met Mitch the previous summer, and they had all gotten along wonderfully.
Rielly didn't even notice the two men at first. She was a thousand miles away, skinny-dipping in the water of Lake Poygan with her future husband, reliving the pleasant memories of last summer's trip. She stopped abruptly and looked up at the two serious-looking individuals.
«Ms. Rielly, I'm Special Agent Pelachuk with the FBI.»
The man gestured to his right. «And this is Special Agent Salem. We need to ask you a few questions.»
Rielly took half a step back and glanced over her shoulder. The White House was only a block away. She was not nervous; rather, she was checking to make sure none of her fellow reporters was witnessing the exchange. «May I see your badges, please?»
Without hesitation, both men produced their identification. Rielly studied them, not really knowing what an FBI badge looked like, other than what she'd seen on TV. The pictures matched, and they looked fancy enough. Rielly handed them back and asked, «What is it that you would like to talk to me about?»
«I'd rather not say, right here.» The man looked uncomfortable as he glanced over his shoulder and then across the street at the Old Executive Office Building.
«I'd rather you did.» Rielly folded her arms across her chest as if to say she wasn't moving until she got some answers.
The man slowly leaned forward and whispered, «This has something to do with your boyfriend.»
Rielly took half a step back. «Excuse me?»
The man waved his hands back and forth in an attempt to rid Rielly of her fears. «It's not what you think. It's a good thing.» He smiled.
«What?»
«I can't really talk about it out here on the street.» Rielly still looked concerned, so the man again leaned in and whispered, «He wants to see you.»
«Where is he?»
«I can't say. All I can tell you is that he is safe, and he would like to see you.»
«And if I say no?»
«If you say no, we will walk away and report back that we tried and you rejected us. It's not a big deal. He should be done in about two weeks, and you can see him then.»
Two weeks was out of the question. Rielly didn't know if she could wait two days. «All right. I'll come with you, but I need to make a phone call. Someone is expecting me.»
«That’s fine, but we'd ask that you not mention his name on a nonsecure line.»
«That's not a problem.»
«Good. Our car is right here.»
Rielly walked with them to a sedan that was parked only a few feet away. Always the reporter, Rielly checked the plates and was relieved to see they were government issue. She got into the back seat and pulled out her cell phone. After a few rings, Liz O'Rourke answered.
«Hello.»
«Liz, it's me. I think everything is back to normal.»
«Are you sure?»
«Yeah. Don’t worry.»
«So you talked to him again.»
Rielly watched through the front window as the car pulled out into traffic. «No… not really.» She wasn't sure how much she could say. «I'm on my way to meet him right now.»
«Is that good?» Liz asked.
«Yes. I'll call you in the morning.»
«All right. Let me know if you need anything.»
«I will, Liz, and thanks for everything. Apologize to Michael for me, please.»
«Don't worry about him. You don't need to apologize for anything. He'll just be happy he gets to sleep in our bed again.»
Anna laughed. «Liz, you're the best. I love you.»
He'd taken his last shot of morphine somewhere between five and six P.M. Now, some three hours later, the pain was hitting him in waves – deep, stabbing discomfort in the pit of his stomach. Thomas Stansfield wanted to be lucid for this meeting. It was probably the last time he would see the president. He did not want to be remembered as a glassy-eyed morphine addict, and, more importantly, he needed to have a firm grip on his faculties.
Many would think Stansfield's way of thinking was antiquated, but it had served him well during his years in Washington. His duty was to his country and then his president, in that order. Not all of those presidents had been good, and Stansfield had worked hard to limit the damage the bad ones could do to his beloved Agency through their whimsical or ill-conceived proposals. President Hayes was different in this regard. The man was about as whimsical as a CPA. Hayes was not the brightest president to occupy the Oval Office, but in Stansfield's mind he was one of the best. Unlike some of his predecessors, Hayes disdained polls. He instead chose to surround himself with talented individuals. He would heed their counsel, and when the time was right, he would act decisively:
Stansfield allowed his bodyguard to help him from the back of the limo. It would take all of the strength he could muster to make it to the Situation Room under his own power. He was, as always, in a suit and tie. He had never gone to the White House in anything other than business or formal attire. There were no casual days for Thomas Stansfield.
It was approaching nine P.M., and the West Wing of the White House was relatively calm. The president was still on-site, working late in the Oval Office and waiting for his guest to arrive. That meant the Secret Service was there in full force, but most of the support staff was gone. Stansfield used a cane for balance as he walked to the door. The man looked as if he had aged ten years in the last month. They entered the building through the ground-floor entrance on West Executive Avenue, and Stansfield was escorted to the secure conference room within the Situation Room.
Stansfield was a little surprised to find President Hayes waiting for him. Hayes was sitting in his usual spot at the head of the table reading a report. His suit coat was draped over the back of the chair, and his tie was loosened several inches.
Hayes stood and snatched his reading glasses from his face. The first thing he noticed about Stansfield was how thin he looked. The president took his hand and said, «Thank you for coming, Thomas. I wish you would have let me come to you.»
«Nonsense, sir. I needed to get out of the house. Besides, it is I who serve you.»
Hayes laughed softly. «Sometimes I'm not so sure about that.» The president pulled out a chair for Stansfield. «Here, Thomas. Have a seat.» Stansfield sank into the plush leather chair, and the president asked, «Can I get you anything?»
«No thank you, sir.»
As the president took his seat, Stansfield's bodyguard retreated and closed the door. In the still silence of the room, the president studied Stansfield, and after a long reflective moment, he asked, «How are you doing?»
«Between you and me?» Stansfield asked. The president nodded. «It won't be long now.»
«What are the doctors telling you?»
«Not much. I've stopped talking to them.»
Hayes looked confused. «Why?»
«I'm eighty years old, sir. I have lived a very full life. I see no sense in torturing myself for another six months of questionable living.»
The president had tried to get Stansfield to call him by his first name when they were alone, but the director of the CIA had resisted. «Do you miss your wife?» Mrs. Stansfield had passed away just a few years before.
«Every day, sir.»
The president smiled sadly and said, «I respect your decision, Thomas. You have lived an incredible life and have given immeasurable service to this country.»
«That is kind of you to say, sir.»
President Hayes brought his hands together and said, «I heard Irene had some trouble on the Hill this morning.»
«Where did you hear that?» Stansfield always wanted to know where people got their information before responding.
«I received a call from one of the committee members.»
«Chairman Rudin?»
«No.»The president laughed slightly. «Chairman Rudin and I aren't exactly on speaking terms.»
«If you don't mind me asking, sir, why can't you get the party leadership to reel him in?»
President Hayes thought about the question for a moment and said, «Chairman Rudin is a strange duck. Between you and me, I've never liked the man. He is filled with irrational hatred which tends to cloud his judgment. He has his place in the party, however.» Hayes shook his head. «Unfortunately for you and me, the party put him where they thought he could do the least damage. I suppose I could make a few calls, but it might only serve to enrage him further.»
«Well, do what you think is best. I might be able to do some things to help, but my real concern is where he's getting his information.»
«He could just be guessing.» The president looked at Stansfield for a response.
«He could, but given the fact that Mitch's mission was \ compromised, I'm inclined to believe we have a leak.»
President Hayes didn't like hearing this. He exhaled a slow, painful breath. «What in the hell have I gotten myself into, Thomas?» The president put his elbows on the table and cupped his face with his hands.
«What do you mean, sir?»
«If it gets out that I ordered the assassination of one of Germany 's leading citizens, it will be devastating.»
«Sir, in your position, you have. three options to deal with this growing threat. The first, diplomacy, has had very poor results; the second, military action, is ill suited to combat the small force we are up against; and the third option, sir, the one you have chosen, is the best option. We take the battle to them with small covert units. You made the right decision, sir.»
«If this thing blows up in my face, it will not have been the right decision.»
«I will not let that happen, sir.»
«How?»The president sounded skeptical.
«We are making some progress in finding the leak.»
«Really?»
«Yes.»
«What have you found?»
«We think it might be someone at the State Department.»
«How high up?»
Instead of answering the question, Stansfield said, «Irene told me about the meeting you had the other day with the German ambassador.»
Hayes leaned back in his chair. «And?»
«How have things been between you and Secretary Midleton?»
After thinking about it for a moment, the president replied, «I don't think he ever got it in his head that I'm the boss.»
«He thinks you're both still colleagues back in the Senate.»
«Yes. You've seen it before?»
«Many times. It's strange that it always seems to be that position more than the others.»
«Secretary of state?»
«Yes. For some reason they tend to think of themselves as the most important person in each administration.»
«I should have known better. Charles has always fancied himself as American royalty. When I won the election, I owed him. He had raised a lot of money for the campaign, and I knew he would be an easy confirmation. He was my first nominee, and I wanted to get it right.»
«You're not the first, sir.»
«And I’m sure I won't be the last.»
«No, you won't.»
«What have you found out?» asked the president. Stansfield had thought this next part through and was determined to get his way. He had the gift of all great tacticians. He could focus on the smallest detail and never lose sight of the overall picture. Over the last few days, he had seen a pattern developing. Like reconnaissance photos before a battle, he was beginning to see what the enemies' objectives were.
«Sir, I have decided that for your own good, I am going to keep you in the dark about what I know so far and what I think is going to happen over the next week or so.»
President Hayes looked miffed. «I'm not so sure I like that idea.»
«I knew you wouldn't, sir, but it's for your own good. If things go wrong, I want you to have complete deniability.»
«I'm afraid that will be impossible.»
«No it won't, sir. You will be able to blame me whole thing on me. I will have me documents prepared, and I will leave them in Irene's care.»
President Hayes was more man surprised. After staring at Stansfield for a while, he asked, «Why would you do that?»
«I am about to die, sir. It was I who counseled you to use me third option, and it is I who will take the blame if things don't work out.»
«I'm not so sure about this, Thomas.»
«I am, sir. I think things are going to get very ugly.»
«How ugly?»
Stansfield thought about his answer for a second.» Mitch has made some progress in finding who it was mat set him up in Germany.»
«And?»
«And I've given him orders to follow that trail as high as it goes.»
The president cleared his throat. «What are his orders once he finds them?»
«Deniability, Mr. President. You don't want me to answer that.»
Hayes leaned forward and in a whisper said, «Thomas, if this thing ends up at the feet of Charles Midleton, you can't just simply have Rapp kill him.»
«Sir, it is my sincere hope that this trail does not go that far.»
NINE BLOCKS AWAY from me White House, a taxi pulled into me drive of me Four Seasons Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue and 28th Street. A doorman dressed in black from head to toe opened me back door of me cab and extended a gloved white hand for the passenger. A woman with shimmering auburn hair emerged from the cab, and heads turned. It was difficult for Donatella Rahn to hide her beauty. She was wearing a simple black Armani pants suit. Nothing fancy, nothing too sexy; it was perfect for thirteen and a half hours of transatlantic travel. Donatella had left Milan shortly after noon. The eight-hour flight to New York 's JFK landed at 2:34 in the afternoon, local time. It took about an hour to clear customs and then another hour to get into the city. Donatella stopped in Manhattan just long enough to say hello to a few of her fashion contacts and grab some things, and then it was off to Grand Central Station. It was 8:30 in the evening by the time her train pulled into Union Station just two long blocks north of the United States Capitol.
Donatella was tired, but she could handle it. She'd been through a hell of a lot in her life. She didn't let simple things like fatigue get to her. She walked casually across the expansive lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel and ignored the looks she was receiving from men and women alike. She had stopped noticing them years ago. She approached the front desk, where an Asian woman was standing ready to punch the new arrival's information into the hotel's computer.
«Hello.» Donatella spoke perfect English.
«Good evening, ma'am. Are you checking in?»
«Yes. The name is Mary Jones.» Donatella extracted a credit card from her purse and slid it across the counter. She also had a California driver's license with the same name. She had picked them up in Manhattan at a safe deposit box she kept.
«You'll be with us for four nights, Ms. Jones.»
«That's right.» Donatella signed the charge slip with her own pen and took the room key. The woman pointed to the elevators and informed the guest that a bellhop would be up with her luggage in a moment. Donatella thanked the woman and took the elevator to the fifth floor. Once in her room, she grabbed a sunglasses case from her purse and opened it. Inside was a small countermeasure device designed to detect RF transmitters, tape recorders, and AC line carrier transmitters. Donatella swept the entire room. She didn't bother checking the phone, though. She would not be using it.
When the bellhop arrived, she gave him a five-dollar bill and then locked and chained the door. The clock next to the king-size bed told her it was 9:41, which meant it was almost three in the morning in Milan. Sleep would have to wait. Donatella took off her Armani suit and hung it in the closet. From her suitcase, she grabbed a pair of jeans, brown boots, and a large wool sweater. She dressed quickly and put a faded red Eddie Bauer baseball hat on her head, pulling her ponytail out the back. From her purse, she grabbed a pair of small binoculars, her StarTAC Trimode phone, and her Heckler amp; Koch HK4 pistol. The compact gun carried eight. 32-caliber rounds and was easily concealable under her bulky sweater.
Donatella left the hotel, heading west on M Street for several blocks and then taking a right onto 30th Street. The evening air was chilly but pleasant. It felt great after spending most of the day on a plane and a train. On the flight over from Milan, she had carefully studied the dossier of her target. The choice of the Four Seasons Hotel was an easy one. It was centrally located between the man's home and office. Donatella took her time walking up the steep hill. She was canvassing the neighborhood as she had been taught by the Mossad.
Donatella Rahn was not a very conflicted woman, at least not when compared to the person she had been in her twenties. At thirty-eight, she had learned to let certain things go. The Mossad, however, was a different story. They had turned her into something she had never been and in all likelihood would never have become. The vaunted Israeli intelligence service had turned her into a spy and an assassin, and it had not been of her free will.
As Donatella's modeling career had taken off, so had her drug use. By the age of twenty-one, she was a full-fledged coke fiend. On a modeling job in Tel Aviv, she had been busted trying to bring an ounce of coke into the country. She was in a jail cell, strung-out and freaking out, when a man named Ben Freidman came to her and offered her a way to avoid going to prison. The man told her he would help her kick her drug habit, and after a period of time she could return to Milan. He also assured her that her release had nothing to do with sex.
Not exactly being of sound mind and desperately wanting to avoid jail, Donatella agreed. The next day, she found herself strapped to a bed in a medical facility shaking and sweating from withdrawal. By the time the first week was over, they had helped her shake the habit. It would not be the last time they would do so. They indoctrinated her slowly at first, teaching her information-gathering techniques and then self-defense. She was sent away after that first month feeling grateful and, for the first time in her life, as if she had a real purpose. They had helped her understand her Jewish roots, helped her understand the plight of her people and their need to defend themselves against those who had sworn to rid all Jews from the face of the earth.