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The coffee shop was six blocks away. It was the brainchild of Marcus Dumond. Mitch Rapp and his brother Steven had put up the money and were silent partners. The name of the place was Café Wired. It was one of the original Internet coffee shops, and Rapp was sure one of the only profitable ones. Rapp had met the incredibly unique Dumond while he was a graduate student at MIT with Rapp’s brother. Dumond could be classified as one of those people who was smart in school and dumb on the bus.
Dumond was a twenty-seven-year-old computer genius and almost convicted felon. Rapp had brought Dumond into the fold at Langley three years earlier. The young cyber-genius had run into some trouble with the feds while he was earning his master’s degree in computer science at MIT. He was alleged to have hacked into one of New York’s largest banks and then transferred funds into several overseas accounts. The part that interested the CIA was that Dumond wasn’t caught because he left a trail; he was caught because he got drunk one night and bragged about his financial plunders to the wrong person.
At the time of the alleged crime, Dumond was living with Steven Rapp. When the older Rapp heard about Dumond’s problems with the FBI, he called Irene Kennedy and told her the hacker was worth a look. Langley doesn’t like to admit the fact that they employ some of the world’s best computer pirates, but these young cyber-geeks are encouraged to hack into any and every computer system they can. Most of these hacking raids are directed at foreign companies, banks, governments, and military computer systems. But just getting into a system isn’t enough. The challenge is to hack in, get the information, and get out without leaving a trace that the system was ever compromised. Dumond was a natural at it, and his talents were put to good use in the Counterterrorism Center.
Rapp opened the door and stepped into a room filled with the aroma of fresh-ground coffee. There, sitting in the rear of the establishment, was Marcus Dumond, with his back to the door. Rapp frowned. Dumond’s instincts were horrible. He would last about five minutes in the field. Rapp stopped at the counter and said hello to the young woman who was working. He was pleased to see that, unlike the last one, this employee didn’t have any pierced body parts, at least none that he could see. Rapp tried to read the hodgepodge of flavors, blends, and specials scrawled across the grade-school chalkboard that hung on the wall above the espresso machines.
The number of choices was too great. “I’ll just take a cup of your daily roast.”
“Small, medium, or large?”
“Large, please.”
Rapp continued to check the place out. There were fourteen customers at the moment. Most of them looked to be around twenty. The four computers on the back wall were all being used, one customer was reading a book, and two more were scribbling in spiral notebooks. Aspiring anarchists, Rapp thought to himself. The rest of the customers were working on their own laptops.
Dumond was sitting at a table with two women surfing the Web and chatting. Dumond had heard the familiar voice ask for a cup of coffee, and he fought the urge to turn around and look. It belonged to Mitch Rapp, a man he knew things about that he wasn’t supposed to—that no one was supposed to. It wasn’t unusual for Rapp to stop by the café, but he usually did it on Sundays with his girlfriend. Dumond stood and grabbed his half-finished cup of coffee. As he walked up to the counter, he unconsciously licked his suddenly parched lips.
Rapp paid for his coffee and thanked the woman. As he turned, he faced Dumond and nodded toward the back. The two men picked their way through the tables and chairs and sat down in a booth next to the bathrooms. Rapp took the side facing the front door.
“Nice afro, Marcus.”
Dumond instinctively re
ached up and touched his black hair. “They’re coming back, you know.”
“I’m sure Dr. J will be happy to hear that.”
“Who?”
Mitch shook his head and grinned. Marcus had to be the only twenty-eight-year-old African American in D.C. who didn’t know who Dr. J was. “Never mind.”
“You look like you’ve been in the sun.”
“I’ve been traveling.”
“Business or pleasure?”
Rapp grabbed his cup of coffee with both hands and said, “Business.”
“How did it go?” asked Dumond a little tentatively.
“Not so good.” Rapp took a sip. “How have things been at the center?” He was referring to the Counterterrorism Center.
“Same old shit.”
“Nothing unusual in the last three days?”
“No.” Dumond frowned. “Nothing that came across my screen.”
“How about Irene? How’s she been acting?”
“Same as always. She’s Irene.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Mitch, the woman probably doesn’t even moan when she has an orgasm. Hell, she’s probably never even had an orgasm.”
Rapp frowned at Dumond, and before he could say anything, Dumond added, “I’m sorry. I like Irene, but you know what I mean. She’s a cool customer. The building could be burning down, and she’d just keep on going like she always does.”
