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With his mouth slightly agape, the normally talkative Steveken found himself at a loss for words. He just stood there with the envelope in hand watching as Brown disappeared into the darkness. When the judge was too far away to hear, Steveken mumbled, "Thanks for nothing." He had the distinct feeling that he was being played, but he owed Clark too much to do anything about it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.
The White House, Friday evening
As night fell on Washington the limousine approached the White House. Rapp didn't like coming here, too many cameras, too many reporters, and too many people who liked to talk. Besides, in his present state he looked like someone who would like to assault the President, not meet with him. He hadn't accepted the mission yet, but he knew which way he was leaning. It would be a quick insertion, and because of that he couldn't shave, at least not until he knew what his cover would be. If he had to go in across the desert and play the role of a nomad, he would need a scruffy beard to pull it off. After missing several days with the razor it was already thick. He was wearing his black leather jacket, and in an attempt to fit in a bit he was wearing a blue U.S. Secret Service baseball hat.
As the limousine pulled up to the southwest gate of the White House Kennedy leaned over to Rapp and said, "Have you ever noticed the President paces when he's upset?"
Rapp had to think about it for a second. He seemed to remember that the President was prone to standing in meetings, but not the pacing part. "I've noticed he stands a lot."
"He stands because his back bothers him," she said in her clinical tone. "That doesn't mean he's mad. When he starts pacing, that means he's mad." Kennedy was a frequent visitor to the White House, and the limo was allowed through the heavy gate without inspecting the passengers. Before the vehicle came to a stop Rapp asked, "So, do you think he's going to do some pacing?"
After rolling her eyes, Kennedy said, "I think this is going to infuriate him like nothing I've ever seen." The limo stopped in front of the awning on West Executive Drive. "It's a good thing we're meeting in the Situation Room. That way he can scream his head off, and no one will hear a word of it."
Rapp let Kennedy get out first and he followed close behind, keeping the brim of his hat tilted down. When they went through the door Jack Warch, the special agent in charge of the President's Secret Service detail, was waiting for them with his hand extended palm up. Rapp took his weapon from his shoulder holster, checked to make sure the red dot was covered and then handed the gun over to Warch. Warch thanked him and the three of them started down the hallway.
"Nice hat, "Warch said with a grin.
"I earned it," Rapp backhanded the Secret Service agent in the stomach, "by bailing your ass out."
Warch laughed. "No arguments here." "Hey," said Rapp. "When are you going to trust me to carry in this place?"
"Its procedure, Mitch. You know that."
"Yeah, but come on. I've fired more rounds in this place than your entire detail."
Warch was quiet for a moment as he thought about the hostage standoff that had taken place not so long ago. Rapp had bailed everyone out, that was for certain. "Let me talk to the President about it. We'll see if he'll make an exception."
They turned into the area of offices known as the Situation Room and stopped at a heavy reinforced door with a camera mounted above it. Warch punched his code into the cipher lock and opened the door. Immediately on the left was the soundproof conference room. "He's in there waiting for you."
Kennedy and Rapp found the President alone, sitting at the head of the table with his back to the door. The President stood immediately and grabbed Rapp's hand. "Mitch, thank you for coming. I really appreciate it. Irene tells me you've been doing some traveling."
"Yeah," Rapp had no desire to get into the subject of Italy, at least not the personal aspect of his trip. He sat one spot farther away from the President and Kennedy took the seat between them. President Hayes asked if either of them would like anything to drink. They both declined.
Hayes plopped himself down in his leather chair. The man looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was slightly mussed. The white sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up and his top button was undone. It looked like the crisis was getting to him.
Hayes picked up his reading glasses and twirled them around. "Irene, I heard you did a nice job on the Hill this afternoon."
"It seemed to go smoothly."
"Good." Turning his attention to Rapp the President said, "General Flood tells me he talked with you this morning."
"That's right."
"So what do you think?"
"I think we have one hell of a problem."
"We sure do," replied the President, "and that's why I want you involved." The commander in chief of the world's sole superpower stared unflinchingly at one of his best offensive weapons.
Rapp already knew his answer. His day had been filled with a repeating chain of thoughts: Anna, Donatella, and Baghdad. It had gone like that over an dover. As soon as he stopped thinking about one it was on to the next. He didn't know it, but he'd already started to build walls around the Anna issue. His feelings were hurt, and his defense mechanisms had kicked in. His undying love had been damaged. He'd begun to question Anna's loyalty and sense of commitment. Maybe she wasn't the one for him. Not if she wouldn't give him the common courtesy of allowing him to explain himself. The more Rapp thought about her storming out in Milan, the more distance it put between them. If she couldn't understand the importance of what he did, he was better off without her.
That, at least, was the flimsy conclusion he'd come to the last time he'd thought of her. It had been several hours earlier. He'd gone to his home on the bay to get some things, and he was instantly awash in memories of Anna. Everywhere he turned there were reminders of her. They were too painful to deal with, so he pushed them from his mind. He hurriedly gathered his things and left. He refused to admit the truth to himself. That he would give or do almost anything to get her back. Rapp was too busy putting up walls. Sealing off that part of his life so he could deal with more urgent problems.
"We really need your help on this one, Mitch," the President pleaded.
For the most part, Rapp had already made up his mind. For a lot of good reasons he didn't want the hospital bombed by the air force. The Iraqi patients and the medical staff inside should be spared if at all possible, and on an almost equal footing was the fallout from the bombing. Every terrorist group in the Middle East would receive an influx of cash and recruits as a result of the military action. The evil United States of America would be blamed for everything. No one would dare question Saddam's despicable act of placing the facility under a hospital. The anger would be directed toward America. Leveling the hospital would create more problems down the road. He'd seen it before.
