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Rapp looked down at his hands. They were covered in blood. Both literally and figuratively. “It’s not mine.”
“Did you . . . did you kill someone?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then where did the blood come from?”
“A man I tried to save.” Rapp stared straight ahead. “We can talk about this later. Right now I need to think.”
“Where should I drive?”
“Just keep heading east. We’ll find a new hotel. Sit tight for the night and figure out what to do next.” He sank down in his seat. Kennedy had warned him to stay away from the apartment. She’d tried to save him, but someone else had ordered his death. What a bunch of ungrateful bastards, Rapp thought. They have no idea who they’re fucking with.
CHAPTER 36
THE eastern horizon was orange with the premorning light. Kennedy stood on the concrete tarmac and watched the private jet bank and settle in on its final approach, the sun glistening off its skin. She was in a dark brown pantsuit and cream-colored shirt. The morning air was a bit chilly, but it didn’t faze her. She was too preoccupied with what had transpired the previous evening. It had been an unmitigated disaster that could mushroom into something serious enough to set the CIA back decades. There would be hearings on Capitol Hill and then trials in federal courthouses. Good people would lose their jobs and more than likely a few more people would die.
As Kennedy watched the plane touch down her mind was swimming with details, innuendos, and God only knew how many deceptions. Stansfield would want answers, and unfortunately she was running short on them. She had been in the country only a few hours when Hurley had called her with the news that the safe house had been compromised, and worse, that there had been casualties. He then said the words that she still found impossible to believe.
“It was your boy. He ambushed them.”
Kennedy replied by saying, “I thought your men had been pulled?”
“They were, and that was when your broken toy struck. I warned you this would happen.” In typical Hurley fashion he hung up on her before she could ask more questions.
Kennedy had no idea who was dead, or how many, and after an hour of trying to find answers, she gave up and drove to the safe house.
The police had cordoned the entire block. At each end of the street curious neighbors and reporters pressed against the barricades. It was easy to tell the reporters from the locals as they carried Dictaphones or steno pads and some of them had cameramen attached at the hip. Unlike the locals, they were shouting questions at the police. Kennedy stayed away from the press and began canvassing the locals. Her French was flawless, so no one gave her a second glance. The stories varied from person to person, but a common theme emerged; at least two people were dead and another had been rushed to the hospital. The bombshell came later when she overheard two police officers talking. The man who had been taken to the hospital was DGSE. If this was true, Kennedy instantly understood the dire implications. It was highly unlikely that a Directorate agent had accidentally stumbled upon a gunfight in this little Parisian enclave. Kennedy could think of only two reasons for the DGSE to be on this block. They’d either discovered the safe house or followed Hurley’s men. Either road led back to the CIA.
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 fou
nd 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.”
