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The high billowing clouds had moved on and the midmorning sun was poking its way through the trees of the Rose Garden. The president sat behind his desk, elbows planted on the armrests of his Kevlar lined leather chair. His hands were clasped in front of his chin, the crisp white sleeves of his dress shirt forming a pyramid before him. He was engrossed in what he was being told by his guest.
Mitch Rapp, his dark suit coat open and his hands on his hips, strode back and forth across the blue rug of the Oval Office. The man moved with an athletic grace that hinted at his many talents. As he walked he laid out the operation for the president. Director Kennedy and General Flood sat in silence while Rapp paced behind them.
Rapp had been talking without interruption for nearly five minutes. He was about to go over the final part of the plan, but decided at the last minute to pause. Looking down at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Rapp said, “General, if you would like to excuse yourself from the room at this point, I would completely understand.”
The general scratched his chin and in a surprisingly lighthearted tone replied, “I think I’ve got an idea where you’re going with this, and I’m guessing you’re not worried about offending me.”
Rapp grinned. “General, I’m not sure it would be possible for me to offend you with words alone.”
With a laugh, the general said, “As long as you leave my wife and children out of it, I’d say you’re right. I assume you’re offering me a chance to excuse myself from the really nasty part of this, in case it goes south.”
“That would be correct.”
There was a fairly long pause before the general answered and then he said, “My wife likes to accuse me of having selective memory.” Looking up at Rapp he added, “You know what I mean?”
“I think I do.” Rap smiled and then turned back to the president. “As long as I’m over in the Philippines, I think it would be a good idea to stop by and visit General Moro.”
The president shifted uncomfortably in his chair. A voice in the back of his head was telling him to just nod, tell Rapp to have good trip and then get on with his day, but another part of him wanted to know more. “And what will you be discussing with General Moro?”
Rapp stopped with his shoulders squared to the president and looked down at his shoes for a moment. “Sir, does the first lady ever accuse you of having selective memory?”
“Ever since the day I met her, and truth be told she’s right. But that’s not the point.” The president spun his chair a quarter turn and looked out the window. “Mitch, I’m not comfortable having you stick your neck out this far.”
“Don’t worry about me, sir. That’s what I’m paid for.”
The president nodded. “Yeah, I know you are, but that doesn’t give the rest of us the excuse to say we were kept in the dark every time something goes wrong.”
“Sir,” said Kennedy with great sincerity, “that’s the way it has to be.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean I have to like it, and to be honest, I’m not so sure eliminating General Moro will do anything other than satiate our short-term need for blood.”
Rapp frowned at the president’s words. In his tactical mind blood lust had no bearing on whether Moro deserved to die or live.
“Mr. President,” Rapp said in a voice that was neither pleading nor condescending, “General Moro is a traitorous bastard who is directly responsible for the death of two United States Navy SEALs. And if you’re worried about offending President Quirino, I can assure you that after she finds out Moro was a paid informant for both the Chinese and Abu Sayyaf, she’ll be thanking us for getting rid of him.”
The president tapped his finger on his lips a few more times and then leaning forward and grabbing a file announced, “Let me think about all this, and I’ll get back to you.”
Rapp didn’t have to be a seasoned Washington bureaucrat to recognize a brush-off. Not one to give in so easily, he stood his ground and asked, “When will you have an answer for me, sir?”
Hayes eyed Rapp cautiously for a second and said, “In a couple of days.”
Rapp shook his head. “That won’t work, sir. Once the story breaks on the ambassador and Petry, our ability to move on Moro will be compromised.”
Hayes again leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “Listen,” he said in a no-nonsense tone, “from what you’ve told me this morning, this General Moro deserves to rot in a cell for the rest of his life, but as far as assassinating him goes … I’m not so sure. The fallout could be very ugly and to be honest with you, we really need the Philippine government with us in this fight. So as I said, I’m going to need a few days to consider our options.” Having spoken his piece, Hayes spun his chair away from Rapp and opened the file he’d grabbed off his desk.
Rapp watched him with curiosity, and then looked down at Kennedy for guidance. She stood and motioned toward the door with a jerk of her thumb. She looked at General Flood and did the same thing. Reluctantly, Rapp followed her orders and began to leave the famed office wondering how many other people over the years had felt his same sense of frustration. As he placed his hand on the doorknob, he heard Kennedy say to the president, “Sir, I need to have a word alone with you.”
Rapp grinned ever so slightly as he looked back at his boss. Kennedy, despite her subdued demeanor, could be surprisingly persuasive. He felt confident that by the time she left the office they would have the approval they were looking for.
14
David’s demeanor was calm though perhaps slightly distracted as he walked down Via Dolorosa, passing from the Muslim Quarter of the Old City to the Christian Quarter. It was a walk he’d taken countless times. In his youth he did so without a care in the world, but as he grew older he began to see things, to notice the dangers that lurked in the entryways of the storefronts, in the eyes of the old men selling fruit and nuts on the street and the women running errands. There were spies and informants everywhere. It was in the thirteenth year of his life that innocence had been beaten from his body. He still carried scars from that day, both physical and mental, but he never spoke of them.
The eyes of the street spies no longer intimidated David as they had in the years after the beating. He was above reproach by such people. If he chose he could have any one of them killed with a single order, but that was not who Jabril Khatabi was. His parents had raised someone infinitely more judicious. He used his power with gr
eat care, discretion and patience. Now more than ever he needed those three traits.
More than twenty years past, he had been walking down this same street in Jerusalem when he had been snatched in broad daylight and thrown into the trunk of a car. His own people thought he had been collaborating with the Jews. Back then they had been wrong. David had been nothing more than an innocent boy, walking through the Old City on his way to meet his mother at the hospital. Today all was different. If the PLO, or Hamas, or Hezbollah or any one of a dozen groups had any idea what he was up to they would torture him until he begged to die.
