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"Kennedy."
"What do the tapes show?"
"They show her coming and going."
Freidman noticed that Clark seemed very disturbed by this bit of news. Always with one eye on the end game, he decided to play the whole thing off as unimportant. "She's a pro. I doubt they will find anything on those tapes."
"But what if they do?"
Freidman acted as if he were giving the senator's words serious concern. He scratched one of his muscular forearms and said,"I'm not worried. Even if they got lucky and found her, they would never get anything from her."
The thought of the CIA finding the woman caused Clark 's chest to tighten. He reminded himself to keep breathing and stay calm. "I'm worried," he said flatly. "I would like this potential problem to go away. No loose ends. Rapp got close enough last time."
Freidman grimaced at Clark 's words as if he were wrestling with an idea he didn't like. "This woman is very good. One of my best. I have put years and years of training into her."
"Five hundred thousand."
Freidman liked the number. It was easily double what he had expected. That was another thing he really liked about Clark and his cowboy attitude. There was no dicking around when it came to money. After considering the issue for a bit longer, Freidman nodded and said, "I'll take care of it, but it will have to wait until I return. This is too delicate to handle from America."
Clark felt as if a heavy weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. Relieved, he asked, "When are you heading back?"
"Tomorrow afternoon."
Smiling, Clark said, "Ben, I can't thank you enough for coming all this way. I really appreciate it. I should have listened to you when you warned me to steer clear of Rapp."
"Don't worry." Freidman shrugged off the comment as if it were trivial. "You have been a good ally, and when you are President," the director of the Mossad raised his glass in a toast, "you will be an even better ally."
CHAPTER SIX.
Maryland, Monday evening
The stars were bright even with the fire. Anna had given him a portable wrought iron fire kettle for his birthday, and Mitch had put it to good use. The temperature was around fifty and dropping. Rapp sat on the deck of his small cottage overlooking the Chesapeake. A slight breeze was coming in off the water, just enough to keep the smoke from billowing into his face. He was dressed warmly in jeans, a beat up sweatshirt and an old brown Carhartt jacket. He was sitting all the way back in a white Adirondack chair with his feet up on a footstool that was barely a foot from the flames. Shirley was lying at his side quietly. All he needed to make the night perfect was for Anna to get home.
Ten minutes later he got his wish, or at least he hoped. Shirley heard the car first. Her head snapped up, which alerted Rapp. He listened carefully to the sounds with his eyes closed for a moment. The dog leapt to her feet and scampered off the deck and around the side of the house to investigate. Rapp continued to listen while his left hand slid between the folds of his jacket in search of the cold hard comfort of his 9mm Beretta. The harsh reality of Rapp's life was that people wanted to kill him. During the first ten years of his career in counterterrorism he could always count on coming home and letting his guard down. His job required it. The weeks and sometimes months that he spent abroad on missions was absolutely draining. The sheer amount of information he had to memorize for a mission was sometimes overwhelming: maps, codes, specifics on his target, the local authorities, political groups and competing terrorist groups. It all had to be memorized, and that was before being inserted.
Once he was in the country it got even worse. Without letting others see, he had to be hyper aware of everything that occurred around him. Imagine walking through a sea of people in the vibrant city of Damascus. Not only did he have to track those he had been sent to kill, but he also had to constantly look over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him. This was no easy task in a part of the world where ninety plus percent of the men had black hair and mustaches and most of the women were covered from head to toe in the traditional Muslim wrap. If his true identity were discovered he would be painfully stoned to death without a tribunal, and that would be the easy way out. If he were caught by the police, or a foreign intelligence service, he would be brutally tortured. And not just slapped around and screamed at. This was the Middle East. No part of his body would remain un violated He would be forced to endure the most inhumane conditions imaginable. Rapp regained control of his wandering imagination and pushed the horrible thoughts from his mind.
This was why he needed a safe place. A place where he could let his guard down and recuperate. That had been taken away from him, though. Someone in America knew about Rapp's secret life. They had tried to kill him twice now: once in Europe and once back in the States. Europe was bad enough, but setting a trap for him in his own home and using his girlfriend as the bait was way too close. Someone knew too much about Rapp and as each day passed it strengthened his resolve to find out who that person was. Before he could get on with his life he had to close this chapter. And Rapp desperately wanted to get on with his life. He wanted Anna, and he wanted children. He wanted a normal life, but he knew as he looked into the kitchen and saw Anna standing in front of the refrigerator that it would have to wait. He would have to do what he was trained to do. He would have to hunt down the person who had hired Peter Cameron, and he would have to kill him.
Rielly stepped out onto the deck with Shirley following close behind. She had a beer in each hand and a sly grin on her face. She bent over and kissed Rapp on the lips. "How was your day, honey?"
"Just great," he replied with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. "How was yours?"
Rielly straightened up and handed him a beer. "Fine." Turning, she said, "I'm going to put some jeans on. I'll be back in a minute."
Rapp smiled at her as she went back into the house. That was easy, he thought. He'd been dreading the interrogation she would give him about his meeting with Kennedy. Rapp took a swig of beer knowing that as soon as she came back down she would dig in. He wondered how he should edit his story so it would come out in the best light. There were certain things he couldn't tell her for reasons of national security and others that he just couldn't tell her because he feared she would think less of him.
When Rielly came back outside she had on jeans, one of Rapp's flannels and an old wool blanket draped over her shoulders. She plopped down in her chair, tilted her chin up, pursed her lips and closed her eyes.
Rapp leaned over and kissed her on the lips. "Thanks for the beer."
"You're welcome." Rielly took a sip of her own and said, "Now tell me all about the meeting."
"You know we talked a little bit about this and a little bit about that. It lasted about an hour. No big deal, really. Anything happen at the White House today?"
"Nice try." Rielly grinned. "You could care less about what happened at the White House today, and I have no idea what a little bit of this and a little bit of that means. So cut the crap and tell me what happened."
"I'm not sure where to start." Oh, he loved her. She was so beautiful and strong, both physically and mentally. Rapp was equally drawn to both. He knew himself well enough to know that if he were to ever survive in a long term relationship he would need a woman who would keep him in line from time to time. Rapp had been a loner for far too long and had picked up some habits that weren't very helpful in running a successful partnership.
