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Forester remained calm despite the anger that boiled beneath the surface. “So back to my other question. Is General Moro still with us?”
“No,” answered Rapp without the slightest hint of remorse.
Jackson, knowing Rapp’s reputation and that he’d been at the Special Forces camp this very morning, asked in a hopeful tone, “Did you kill him?”
Forester cleared his throat loudly and eyeing Rapp said, “Lieutenant, I don’t think we want to ask that question.”
Rapp appreciated the captain’s discretion. “That’s all right. No, I didn’t kill him. General Moro was shot by a sniper.”
“A sniper,” repeated Jackson.
“That’s right. The camp’s perimeter security was nonexistent. Abu Sayyaf got someone in close enough and they shot the general early this morning.” Rapp paused to see how this was going over and added, “That’s the official story. Now would you like to hear what really happened?”
Both men nodded, Jackson more enthusiastically than Forester.
“The information I’m about to share with you is highly classified. I can’t stress this enough.” Satisfied that they knew the stakes he said, “In the predawn hours this morning a U.S. Special Forces sniper team was inserted onto the island. They moved into position and sometime after sunup they took the shot.”
Both officers took the news in silence.
“That’s not all, however. While moving into position the team sighted the Anderson family and their captors. The four-man team split into two elements: one to follow the Andersons and the other to take out the general.”
“We know where the Andersons are?” asked a cautious Jackson.
“Yep.”
Forester uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “We know precisely where they are?”
“Precisely,” replied Rapp, “and we’re going to go get them.”
32
Light flurries floated down from the chill March evening sky as black stretch limousines cued up along Pennsylvania Avenue waiting to disgorge their important passengers under the north portico of the White House. The event was black tie; a state dinner for the Canadian prime minister. Irene Kennedy asked her driver to bring her around to the southwest gate. She didn’t have time to wait in line. A private word with the president was needed before the festivities started.
Trust was not something that came easily to the young director of the Central Intelligence Agency. She worked in a profession where things were not always as they first appeared, where people and countries were constantly attempting to deceive her, and even when she did trust someone there were motives to consider. Mitch Rapp was one exception to her rule. He was one of the few people who Kennedy could rely on.
God knows they had a different way of going about things, but Rapp was effective and his motives clear. He had nothing but disdain for the people who ran Washington. As the failed rescue mission in the Philippines had proved, the nation’s capital had a habit of getting too many people, and too many agencies, involved in matters that could often be handled by a very small group. It didn’t take a master of espionage to realize that the more players involved in an operation, the greater the chance for a leak.
This in essence was why the director of the CIA needed to speak with the president and General Flood this evening. Rapp had called to give her the good news about the Andersons, but then had made a somewhat unorthodox request. At first Kennedy didn’t like it, but now, having had some time to think it through, she felt it held some real merit. It was classic Rapp and one couldn’t really argue with his track record.
After a brief check by the Secret Service, the director’s limousine was allowed admittance through the southwest gate. It pulled up West Executive Drive and stopped. Kennedy stepped from the back of the car clutching her black velvet wrap tightly around her shoulders with one hand and holding up the hem of her full-length evening gown with the other. A uniformed Secret Service officer opened the door for her and she hurried into the welcome warmth of the West Wing.
Kennedy walked through the ground floor past the White House Mess and the Situation Room and then up a flight of stairs and past the Cabinet Room. Outside once again, she walked quickly down the Colonnade. This was the way the president walked to and from work every day. She entered the White House and waiting for her in the tropical Palm Room was Special Agent Jack Warch, the man in charge of President Hayes’s Secret Service detail.
“You look very nice this evening, Irene,” the always gallant agent said.
“Thank you, Jack, and so do you.”
Warch, like all the agents working the detail this evening, was dressed in formal attire. He offered his arm. “The president and General Flood are upstairs waiting for you.”
Kennedy liked Warch. He was a hardworking professional who adored his family. “How are Sheila and the kids?” asked Kennedy.
“They’re doing well. And Tommy?” Warch was referring to Kennedy’s seven-year-old son.
“Growing like a weed … starting to get a little lippy.” She shrugged. “You know … all the stuff that goes along with being seven.” Kennedy thought of adding that it might be nice to have a father around, but she didn’t. It was not her style to act like a victim.
They entered the elevator that would take them up to the second floor of the residence. Warch placed his back to the wall and clasped his hands in front. “How’s my favorite counterterrorism agent?”
Kennedy looked at him sideways wondering if the comment was merely conversational or if Warch knew what Rapp was up to. He knew Rapp fairly well and in truth Warch could be trusted, but he was not in a need to know position. “He’s fine.”
