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Stansfield shook his head. This was not good news. The director knew exactly who Peter Cameron was. The man had been in charge of the CIA’s Office of Security from 1996 to 1998. During his tenure as the head of Langley’s Gestapo, his access to sensitive information would have been almost limitless.
SENATOR CLARK GOT out of bed at seven A.M. It made no difference if he was in Washington or Arizona. Clark was a bit of a night owl, usually staying up until one in the morning. On this particular Thursday morning, the senator was sitting in the sun room just off the kitchen of his Washington, D.C., estate. Clark was in his white robe and a pair of slippers. He was alone. Wife number three was already off to the club for a morning aerobics class of some sort. It wasn’t stepping or spinning, he knew that. She’d moved on to the newest fad and swore it was the best yet. Clark didn’t care what it was called just so long as it worked.
He munched on a piece of toast and perused the front page of the Wall Street Journal. The help didn’t arrive until eight. Clark always made his own breakfast, which was no great feat considering the fact that it consisted of black coffee and two slices of toast covered with butter and jelly. He rather enjoyed this time of the day. He was alone in his castle with no one there to intrude. It was usually the one and only time of the day that he devoted to his investments. Clark would peruse the Journal and then give marching orders to his various brokers, advisors, and money managers. Then he was done with it for the day. He refused to become a slave to the emerging trend of constant on-line market updates.
A buzzer sounded from the kitchen, and Clark leaned back in his chair to look at the TV mounted above the microwave. The estate’s security cameras could be viewed by any TV in the house. The TV showed the senator a picture of a cleanly shaven Peter Cameron sitting behind the wheel of his car, waiting at the gate. Clark walked into the kitchen and pressed the intercom button.
“Good morning, Peter.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“I’ll buzz you in. There’s coffee in the kitchen if you’d like, and then show yourself into my study. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” Clark cinched the belt on his robe and headed upstairs. He had a good feeling about this unannounced visit by Cameron. If the news was as good as he hoped, he just might call off the hit. Cameron was a valuable tool. Too valuable to waste unless it was absolutely necessary.
PETER CAMERON PARKED his car and headed straight into the study. He didn’t need any coffee. He was already edgy enough without it. The thought of the ensuing conversation with Senator Clark had his stomach acid acting up. Cameron felt the senator was a fair man, though. He took care of people who were loyal to him, and Cameron had been extremely loyal.
; Cameron approached the fireplace and studied the beautiful 1886 Winchester .45-70 lever-action rifle. It was perfect. A weapon years ahead of its time. A magnificent piece of craftsmanship. He had secretly hoped that the senator would be so pleased with his recent work that he would give Cameron the rifle as a gift. That no longer seemed to be a possibility.
It was almost twenty minutes before Senator Clark came down. He was dressed in an expensive suit and carried a cup of coffee. Clark crossed the room to his desk and set the mug down. Remaining on his feet, he said, “Peter, you shaved your beard. It looks much better.”
“Thank you, sir.” Cameron did not know what to say.
“You look ten pounds lighter already.”
“Thank you.” Cameron reluctantly crossed the large study and stood across from Clark.
Clark was about to sit, and then he noticed the less than confident expression on Cameron’s face. “Please, sit. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.” Cameron reluctantly sat in one of the two end chairs.
The senator slowly eased into his plush leather desk chair and looked over the top of his mug. He could see it in Cameron’s slouched shoulders: things had not gone as planned. “I trust Rapp and his girlfriend have been dealt with?”
“Ah…” Cameron searched for the most delicate way to put it. “Things didn’t go so well.”
“Really?”
“Yes. In fact, I fear Rapp may have grabbed the upper hand.”
Clark did not like what he was hearing. Setting his mug down, he said, “Tell me what happened.”
“I left Rapp’s house after midnight to head back into the city. I needed to get a few things set up for the rendezvous this morning. When I left, everything was fine.” Cameron desperately wanted to stress this point. “Rielly was convinced that we were legit. Before leaving my place to head back out to Rapp’s, I called Duser to see how things were going…and…” Cameron started to fidget. “That’s when things started to go bad.”
“How so?”
“I’m not exactly sure. While I was talking to Duser, there was a bit of commotion, and then the line went dead.” With a pained look on his face, Cameron said, “And then a few minutes later, I received a phone call from Duser.”
“And?”
“It wasn’t Duser. The call was from his phone, but it wasn’t him.”
“Who was it?”
“It was…ah…Rapp.”
Clark set his mug down, his mind rapidly filling in the blanks of what must have happened. “And what did he have to say?”
“Same stuff as last time. That he’s going to kill me.”
