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This approach did not work. Cameron knew he had a relatively easy shot, and if he missed it, Villaume would see it as proof of his amateur status. When the car started to back out of the garage, Cameron took a moment to close his eyes and wipe a layer of sweat from his forehead. Counting backward from one-hundred, he concentrated on his breathing in an attempt to slow his pulse. Everything needed to be brought back down into the zone, and he would be fine.
Villaume whispered in his ear, “I’ll let you know if the woman comes out. Keep the guy in your sights.” The car backed out of the garage and turned around in the driveway. When the driver jumped out and ran back into the house, Villaume said, “This is it. When he comes back out, wait as long as you can to shoot until she comes out, but don’t let him get behind the wheel. We don’t want to have to shoot up the car if we don’t have to.”
Cameron did not reply. He felt better. His breathing and pulse had slowed. He could feel himself falling into the zone. The cross hairs stayed centered on the open front door. He kept counting down, slower and slower. His breaths were shallow and taken through the nose. When Jim Jansen appeared on the porch a minute later, Cameron was not startled. He simply followed the man as he walked toward the rear of the wagon. After throwing several bags in the back, Jansen reached up and slammed the tailgate closed. The action left his face perfectly bisected in the black cross hairs of the scope. Cameron’s right forefinger sat poised over the cold trigger of the Stoner rifle. He heard Villaume start to speak, and at that moment the target turned his head toward the front door. Cameron knew immediately what Villaume was saying, and without waiting another second, he squeezed the trigger in one smooth, constant motion.
SCOTT COLEMAN BROUGHT the pair of binoculars to his eyes and looked down on the Jansens’ house. It looked as if they were getting ready to go someplace, and it appeared they were in a hurry. Keeping the binoculars up, he turned his head toward the sliding glass door and in a hushed voice said, “Dan, get the truck out of the garage. We’ll come back and sanitize the place later.”
If they hurried, they could beat them down to the main road and block them from getting into town. If things could be handled peacefully, they could talk them into coming back to Washington. If they couldn’t cut them off, they’d have to follow, and things could get tricky.
Coleman watched as Jim Jansen came back out of the house and threw two large duffel bags into the back of the Subaru station wagon. Jansen’s mouth was opening, as if to say something, and then his body lurched violently away from the car and thudded to the gravel driveway. Coleman instinctively crouched several inches lower and moved the binoculars toward the front door. For the briefest of moments, he saw Beth Jansen alive and staring, her mouth agape, at the limp body of her husband lying on the ground. Before she could overcome the shock of watching her husband struck down, a bullet hit her in the forehead and sent her into the bushes next to the porch steps.
Irene Kennedy greeted the start of the week with little enthusiasm. The Monday morning traffic was heavy, and so was her mood. Mitch Rapp was still missing, and the only two people other than Rapp who could tell her what had happened in Germany were dead. For someone who prided herself on being able to block out distractions and focus on the task at hand, she wasn’t exactly measuring up to her expectations this morning. Sitting on her lap was a copy of the president’s daily brief, or PDB. The document was a highly classified newspaper that was prepared by the CIA’s Office of Current Production and Analytical Support. The PDB was prepared by a dozen officers and analysts who spent much of their evenings amassing the most current information that may affect the national security of the country. Every president since John F. Kennedy has handled the document differently. Some have read it religiously every morning, while others have directed their national security advisors to do so. President Hayes treated it with the zeal of a Calvinist. He read it every morning, asked his briefer pointed questions, and took notes. As deputy director of Counterterrorism, Kennedy did not usually give President Hayes the daily briefing, but the attack on the White House had changed all of that. Combating terrorism had become Hayes’s top priority. It worked out that she gave the briefing about once a week, sometimes more, sometimes less. President Hayes used the briefing as a cover so the two could discuss the activities of the Orion Team.
Kennedy closed the book and looked out the window. The government sedan she was traveling in had just turned off Constitution onto 17th Street. The Ellipse was to her right, and ahead was the White House. The entire mansion was covered in scaffolding as workers raced to mend the damage of the terrorist attack by Christmas. President Hayes had been adamant that repair of the old, glorious building be conducted with around-the-clock vigilance to help erase the scars from the American mind as quickly as possible. The entire building had been placed in a bubble of aluminum and plastic to keep the cameras away. Fortunately, severe damage had been avoided, thanks to the quick actions of the fire department. The buzz around town was that the general contractor that had been hired was ahead of schedule. If they finished by Christmas, they would get a twenty-percent bonus. The West Wing was already open for business, but there was much speculation and wagering on the street about whether or not the president and the first lady would be celebrating the birth of Christ in the Executive Mansion. For now, they were staying in Blair House across the street from the Old Executive Office Building.
The four-door sedan maneuvered its way through the barricades designed to thwart a truck bomb and stopped at the southwest gate of the White House grounds. Two uniformed Secret Service officers stepped out from the guardhouse and began checking IDs. It wasn’t too long ago that they would simply have opened the gate and waved them through, but the attack had changed everything. Kennedy visited the White House frequently, and often with the same driver and bodyguard, but that didn’t matter anymore. She rolled down her window and handed over her credentials. The officer looked at them briefly and then handed them back. A third Secret Service officer circled the sedan with a bomb-sniffing dog and checked the trunk. The whole exercise took less than a minute, and then the gate opened.
The driver pulled up to the long cream-colored awning that led to the ground floor of the West Wing. Kennedy thanked the two men and told them to wait in the car. Once through the doors, she held up a heavy blue pouch with a metallic lock across the top. The officer was used to seeing the arrival of the blue pouch, which contained the PDB. The Secret Service officer sitting behind the desk said good morning and spun a clipboard around so the doctor could sign in. With that done, Kennedy headed up the stairs to her left. One of the blue suits, an agent from the president’s Personal Protection Detail, was standing at the top of the stairs. She knew this meant the president was in the West Wing. Kennedy checked her watch; at 7:12, he was probably eating breakfast and reading his morning papers.
Just before she reached the Oval Office, she stopped at a door on her right and held up the blue pouch. A towering Secret Service agent in a dark gray suit nodded and allowed admittance into the president’s private dining room. Kennedy found the president sitting in his usual spot, with his four folded newspapers laid out in front of him.
A small Filipino man dressed in a white waistcoat and black pants approached and said, “Good morning, Dr. Kennedy.”
“Good morning, Carl.”
The man took the pouch from Kennedy and then her jacket. Kennedy sat at the circular oak table across from the president and unlocked the pouch.
The president glanced up and said, “Good morning, Irene.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“How was your weekend?”
“Just fine, sir, and yours?” Kennedy extracted a copy of the PDB and slid it across the table. She knew they would continue with the small talk until Carl left.
“It wasn’t too bad. Camp David is really beautiful this time of the year.” Hayes perused the headlines on the first page of the PDB and noted that they covered many of the same topics that were on the front page of the Washington Post. He knew the content would be a different matter.
Carl approached Kennedy and set down a mug of black coffee and a blueberry muffin. “The muffins are very good today. Low fat.”
Kennedy smiled. “Thank you, Carl.” The man always went out of his way to try to get her to eat.
“Mr. President, the pot on the table is full. If you need me, just buzz.”
“Thank you, Carl.” President Hayes was a huge coffee drinker. Eight to ten cups a day was his standard. He liked to point out to all who criticized his coffee consumption that Dwight D. Eisenhower drank twenty-some cups a day and smoked four packs of unfiltered cigarettes while he was the Supreme Allied Commander. After that, the man went on to serve as president for two terms and lived until he was seventy-nine. Hayes was very fond of telling overly concerned types the Eisenhower bio. His wife was equally fond of telling him, “You’re no Dwight D. Eisenhower.” It had now gotten to the point where Hayes told the story just so he could hear his wife utter her line. Hayes was the first to admit he was no Dwight D. Eisenhower. Very few people were. Hayes was a Democrat, but the more time he spent in the Oval Office, the more he grew to like Eisenhower, who was a Republican. Ike was Hayes’s dark horse candidate for best president. Everybody always mentioned Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and FDR, but Ike was the only one of the group who came from abject poverty and rose to the most important office in the land. Add to that the fact that he whupped the Nazis, his trailblazing efforts to end segregation, the way he helped out the farmers, and the way he kept military spending at bay, and in Hayes’s mind he had a real shot at being the best.
The outer door clicked shut while President Hayes was pouring another cup of coffee. Looking over the top of his reading glasses, he asked, “What in the hell happened in Germany? We have a meeting with their ambassador in forty minutes.”
Kennedy didn’t quite know how to answer the question since she herself was in the dark. “I’m trying to figure that out, sir. In a nutshell, we’re short on specifics.”
“Haven’t you talked to Mitch?”
Kennedy shook her head. “No. Originally, we were told that he had been lost during the operation.”
Hayes leaned forward, moving his bowl of cereal and newspapers out of his way. “Say again?”
“Some of the other assets that were involved in the operation reported that Mitch had been killed. We no longer believe that to be true.”
Hayes frowned. “You’d better back up and give it to me from the start.”
