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Without taking his eyes off the photograph, Freidman reached out and pressed the intercom button. "Send him in." The head of Mossad looked down at the image and sadly shook his head. What a waste, but it had to be done. Mitch Rapp could not be allowed to find out that he'd been involved in any of this.
Marc Rosenthal was one of Freidmans most trusted kidons. At thirty-two he had been with the Mossad for almost fifteen years. He had always been small and even now could pass for someone in his early twenties. When he had joined the Mossad at nineteen he could have passed for a twelve-year-old, and that was exactly what he did. Freidman used the teenager to run sensitive information in and out of the occupied territories and to scout out areas before raids were launched. By the time he reached his twenty-first birthday Rosenthal was garroting terrorists in the back alleys of Hebron and Gaza.
Freidman had only a handful of people he could trust with this operation and Rosenthal was one of them. There were two others who Freidman could think of, but both of them had worked with Don at ella and he did not want her powers of persuasion to get in the way. Thus he was left with little Marc Rosenthal. He was a Mossad man through and through, and more important, he had been recruited and trained by Freidman himself. He would do as he was told and would ask few questions. And if things went wrong, he would keep his mouth shut.
"Marc, I have something very delicate and important that I need you to take care of." Freidman stabbed out his cigarette and closed the file. Picking it up, he handed it to Rosenthal and said, "Her name is Don at ella Rahn. She used to work for us." Freidman lit another cigarette and exhaled a billowing cloud of smoke. "She's good very good. Unfortunately, she's been doing some things that could be very embarrassing to us."
Rosenthal nodded. Nothing more needed to be said. The boyish looking man began looking through the file. "When do you want it taken care of?"
"As soon as possible."
"Do you want me to do it solo or bring my team?"
Freidman let loose an ominous laugh as he thought of Marcus trying to take Donatella down all by himself. It was possible, but not wise. "Bring your team, Marcus. This woman is very dangerous. She's killed more men than both you and I combined." The comment elicited an arched eyebrow but nothing else. "What about the body?"
"Use your judgment. If you can, I'd like you to dispose of it yourselves. If things get hairy, leave the body and get out." Having worked in the field for years, and detesting interference from HQ, Freidman tried whenever possible to give his people the freedom to make decisions themselves.
While still looking at the file, Rosenthal said, "I can be in place by tomorrow morning."
"Good." Freidman pointed
the tip of his glowing cigarette at Rosenthal. "Use only your best people, and take care of it as quickly as possible." The colonel leaned back in his chair, took a drag off his cigarette and then added, "And of course don't get caught."
CHAPTER TWELVE.
Capitol Hill, Wednesday morning.
Senator Clark sat behind his massive desk in the Hart Senate Office Building. It was cold and windy in the nation's capital. He stared out the window, studying the weather, putting off for at least another moment a more pressing problem. The last vestiges of fall hung stubbornly from the burly oak trees on the grounds across the way. Only a few dark sodden leaves were left. Winter was on the nations doorstep, and the thought of it brought a sense of dread. Clark did not do well in cold climates. A native of the southwest, he thought that DC. winters were anything but mild. To Clark, if it snowed for even a day the city was too cold. Looking out the window at the gray sky, he decided he would get out of town for the upcoming weekend: either Phoenix for golf or down to the island for a little fishing. Wife number three had something planned in New York, so he didn't have to worry about trying to convince her. He would be on his own, which at present was what he preferred. Number three was becoming increasingly confrontational and demanding.
This was something he couldn't understand. He had come into the marriage knowing exactly what he wanted, and he had made his intentions very clear. For Christ's sake, he was sleeping with number three while he was still married to number two. What did the woman expect, that after all these years he was going to change just for her? Well, he wasn't going to change. Things would have to be managed. Another divorce at this juncture was out of the question. It would torpedo his chances at running for President. He would have to strike a deal with her at some point. He had, of course, made her sign an ironclad prenuptial. Under that agreement she would get a million-dollar lump sum payment and another $250,000 a year until she remarried. If things got ugly he could put some more money on the table and get her to play nice for a few more years. That would be a last resort, though. The real jewel to entice her with would be the White House. Being First Lady, after all, wasn't a bad deal.
A voice from the recesses of Clark 's constantly plotting mind came up with another option. Have her killed. No, he told himself, she's not that bad, at least not yet. The morbid idea gained a little more weight with him as he thought of the potential advantages. The grieving spouse role might really help him connect with the soccer moms. The more he thought about the idea the more potential he saw. Wife number three was an extremely attractive and polished woman. They looked very good together. At least they did when she was happy, but she had a bitchy streak in her that was impossible to hide. When she was mad at him, she liked to make it a point to tell others. That could become a real liability during a long campaign. The press sooner or later would pick up on it and pile on. Clark doubted number three had the mental toughness to withstand such a barrage. No, he would have to decide on a course of action long before it came to that.
Clark returned his focus to a file on his desk and decided the problems of wife number three would have to wait for now. At present, he had a more pressing issue that needed his attention. Mark Ellis and the other money men from California could not be put off indefinitely. They expected a return on their investment, and they had their sights set on the CIA and its treasure chest of valuable industrial secrets. The problem for Clark was not a new one. He needed to effect the outcome of an event without anyone knowing that he'd had a hand in it. He'd built his entire political career on this simple concept. He had gained the President's confidence by professing his support for Kennedy, and now it was time to get someone to do the dirty work. Someone was going to have to take Kennedy down, and Congressman Albert Rudin was just the man. Clark had planted the seed in Rudin's head during their last meeting. His own party was wronging him. His years of loyalty had been casually tossed aside by the party's leaders, and for what? For the nominee to a post that any one of a thousand people could fill. Clark sensed that Rudin was ready to take the gamble of his political life. He was ready to go against the party in order to save the party. At least that was the self-righteous reasoning that Rudin would use. All the congressman from Connecticut needed was one good push. No, Clark thought. He didn't need a push; he needed a trail of crumbs. Clark looked down at the file on his desk and grinned. The information in the file would become that trail.
Clark closed the file and pressed the intercom button on his phone. "Mary, would you please send in my next appointment." The senator stood and buttoned his suit coat. When the door opened, Clark walked around his desk to meet his visitor. Extending his hand he said, "Good to see you, Jonathan."
The deputy director of the CIA shook the hand of his patron. "Good to see you also, Hank. You look nice and tanned."
"I was down at the island last weekend." Clark was distracted for a split second as he thought of his meeting with Ellis. "I'll have to have you down sometime. You love it. Do you like to fish or sail?"
"Both"
"Good, then. If all goes well in the next few weeks we'll have to fly down and celebrate our victory." Clark gestured to a wing chair. "Have a seat. May I get you anything to drink?"
"No, thank you." Brown sat in the chair and watched as Clark walked around the coffee table and sat down on the large brown leather sofa.
Clark unbuttoned his jacket and laid his arms out casually across the back of the couch. "This is the part where it gets tricky, Jonathan."
With a laugh that was more nervous than humorous Brown said, "I thought we were already in the tricky part."
Clark chose to ignore what he took as a sign of weakness and pushed on. "Rudin is ready to jump, or almost ready. All he needs is a little push from us, and he'll bring Kennedy's confirmation to a screeching halt."
Brown knew Clark didn't call him to his office to simply fill him in. "Where do I come in?"
"I'm meeting with someone tomorrow. Former FBI. His name is Norb Steveken." Clark winked. "Very trustworthy."
The former federal judge wasn't impressed that the man had worked for the FBI. There were times on the bench when he thought the FBI was every bit as ruthless and corrupt as the people they were after. "What does he do now?"
