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A small table lamp was the only illumination in the large corner office of the building. It was past ten in the evening and all but a few of the thousands of bureaucrats who toiled there had gone home. The black-clad security staff patrolled the hallways and the woods outside, as they did twenty-four hours a day every day of the year. There were no holidays in the business of protecting secrets.
For the woman charged with protecting those secrets, and stealing those of her adversaries, it was a never-ending circle of suspicion. On this particular night an unshakable sense of foreboding enveloped her as she looked out over the dark landscape that surrounded the massive office complex. Nightfall had crept across the countryside, bringing to a close another day and with it more worries. She sat in her office on the top floor of one of the world’s most notorious organizations, and pondered a multitude of potential threats.
They were not imaginary, exaggerated or petty. Dr. Irene Kennedy knew better than anyone the lethal nature of her foe. She had seen it with her own eyes. She had watched the tide of fanaticism swell over the last thirty years, watched it roll toward America’s shores like an increasingly ominous storm. She had been Churchillian in her warnings about the growing threat, but her dire predictions had fallen on deaf ears.
The people she answered to were infinitely more concerned with the issues that dominate the political discourse of a peacetime democracy. No one wanted to deal with, or even hear about, an apocalyptic threat. They were more concerned with triangulating issues and with weakening their opponents through real or imagined scandals. She was even called an alarmist by some, but through it all she stayed the course.
It was an irony that didn’t sit well with her, that many of the same senators and congressmen who labeled her an alarmist were the same ones who were now calling for her resignation. Some had even suggested that the CIA should be put out to pasture like some old plow horse that had served its purpose, but was no longer capable of doing its job.
The storm that she had predicted, however, was upon them, and the professional politicians who had ignored her warnings, and frustrated her actions at every turn, were not about to take an ounce of the blame. This unique breed of human was utterly incapable of accepting responsibility for any past mistakes, unless they wrapped it first in a well-timed act of contrition that would gain them sympathy.
Fortunately for Kennedy there were a few honorable senators and congressmen on the Hill who shared her commitment and concern. These were men and women who had been with her every step of the way as she attempted to change policies and operational procedures in order to prepare for the coming threat. They and the president had come to her defense and stymied a plan to have her removed as the director of the CIA.
Now it was time to play catch-up. In the glow of the desk lamp Dr. Irene Kennedy looked down at the transcripts before her and was sickened by what she read. It wasn’t in her personality to get angry; she had divorced intellect from emotion a long time ago. She was simply pained. Men had died. Good men with families and children and mothers and fathers, and they had died because people who should know better couldn’t grasp the importance of operational security. Even worse, they couldn’t even keep a simple secret for just twenty-four hours.
Even after September 11 they lacked the commitment to protect their country. People simply didn’t understand how serious the task before them was. Intelligent, educated people put the politics of their various agencies before operational security and because of it two men were dead, an entire operation involving hundreds of soldiers, marines, aviators, airmen and sailors was called off and
a family of innocent Americans were still trapped in a hell that no adult, let alone child, should have to suffer through.
The entire episode was a monumental security failure and Kennedy had decided enough was enough. She would not lose her cool and begin screaming for people’s scalps. That was not the way she’d been taught to perform her duties. She had been trained by one of the best. Thomas Stansfield, the now deceased director of the CIA, was fond of saying that a master spy should be a closed book unless it wished to be opened. A day did not pass that his advice went unheeded.
Before her were two red folders. The one on her left consisted of e-mail intercepts between a high-ranking State Department official and an overseas ambassador. It also contained some transcripts of phone conversations and other intelligence data. The folder on the right was much thicker. It contained bank records from the last several years for a variety of accounts spread around the Pacific, an in-depth biography of the person in question, and satellite images and intercepts. Both folders held clear and convincing evidence that certain individuals, at home and abroad, were guilty of compromising the hostage rescue in the Philippines.
In years past, this was the type of information the CIA would have quietly disseminated to a few select individuals around Washington. Since no administration liked scandal, that’s where it would have ended. A few wrists would have been slapped. Some people might have been reassigned to less desirable posts or asked to retire early or find a job in the private sector, but rarely was anyone really made an example of.
This time it would be different. Kennedy was adamant about what needed to be done. The file on her left was going to be handled very publicly. When the press found out, the two bureaucrats involved were going to get a nonlethal dose of what those SEALs faced when they hit the beach over in the Philippines. They would be met with a landslide of lights and cameras, and where the cameras were in Washington, you could always count on politicians to show up.
As Kennedy looked out the window she knew which senators and congressmen would take to the airwaves. There were a handful from each party that couldn’t resist. Their vanity made it impossible for them to ever pass up an opportunity to show their faces to millions of potential voters. There were a few others who knew TV time meant increased campaign contributions, and increased contributions meant reelection. Within those two groups there were those who would try to blame the president, there were those who would try to blame the previous president, and there were those who would try to blame the State Department for being a bastion of lefties who cared more about the UN than the national security of America. There were also those who would demand justice, when justice was the furthest thing from what they wanted. And finally there were those who would demand justice and really mean it.
All of this would be a side show to the main event, though. What Kennedy really wanted to do was remind everyone in Washington with a security clearance that this was serious business. It was not up to any given individual to decide what secrets they could and couldn’t discuss. These were not just bureaucratic rules, they were laws. And to break those laws would mean public embarrassment, prosecution, and if a judge and jury saw fit, jail time.
The other file was going to be handled more subtly, and in a much more final way. Kennedy knew just the man to take care of both problems. She had been tempted to recall him from his honeymoon, but decided it could wait another twenty-four hours. Things were about to change in Washington, and Mitch Rapp was going to play a crucial role.
Kennedy knew Rapp better than anyone. She had recruited him, she oversaw his training and she had been his handler through the most stressful of times and delicate of situations. Over the years she had grown to love him like a brother. His sense of commitment and honor was of the highest order. When he got back from his honeymoon and found out what had happened he would need no direction, no prodding, no explanation of the bigger picture. The only thing he might need was restraint, and Kennedy had yet to decide if she would even attempt to calm him when he heard the news. There would be those at the White House who would want to keep this entire mess out of the papers. They would want to sweep it under the rug and have the offenders in question transferred to different jobs. That could not be allowed to happen this time, and Kennedy knew Rapp was the one man in Washington who would tell the president in the roughest and most graphic terms that heads needed to roll.
5
David took a sip of orange juice and looked out upon the vista of Monte Carlo. It was a place of serene beauty. With the warm sun beating down on him and the peaceful sounds of the harbor he could almost allow himself to fall asleep, but there was too much to be done. He checked his watch. In front of him only a few scraps of his exquisite breakfast remained. The prince had a team of chefs that accompanied him wherever he traveled. It had been thirty minutes since Devon had left to awaken the Large One, and although David did not expect the prince to bound out of bed and come meet him, he truly wasn’t going to wait around all day.
The prince had summoned him in the midst of the final stages of preparation for their grand plan, and for that, David was not going to leave without exacting a heavy fee from his benefactor. Despite his irritation at the interruption, it was time that if they were going to discuss business, it was better to do it in person. Conducting such matters over the phone was always risky. One never really knew what the Americans could pick up with all those damn satellites of theirs.
David had many talents, but there was one area in particular where he was exceptionally gifted. It was getting wealthy people to part with their money. The key, David had learned, was to show them a return on their initial investment. He’d perfected that skill while working for a small venture capital firm in Silicon Valley after he’d graduated from the University of California at Berkeley. David had specialized in bringing in wealthy Saudi oil money, and that was how he had met the man whose boat he was now on.
He felt the prince before he actually heard him. A slight tremor rumbled across the deck and tiny ripples spread across the surface of his water glass. David looked over his shoulder just in time to see the Large One step through the glass sliding door and onto the covered part of the sun deck. The prince’s ring-studded hand protected his eyes from the offending light of day. In Arabic he yelled a command, and instantly a man appeared at his side with a gold tray and a pair of sunglasses placed perfectly in the middle. The prince snatched them and somehow managed to squeeze them onto his fat head.
Looking at David sitting in the sun, Prince Omar began shaking one of his beefy fingers at him and cursing him in his native Arab tongue.
David stifled a smile and apologized effusively for interrupting the prince’s sleep. Switching over to English he said, “You know, Your Highness, that I would not have interrupted you if it were not important.”
Rather than come out into the sun, Prince Omar plopped his ample body down on a large couch overflowing with pillows. Chung, the mountainous bodyguard, took up his post on the other side of the sundeck so he could both keep an eye on things and stay out of the way of the servants who constantly buzzed about the prince. After adjusting his white silk robe, Omar began stuffing and throwing pillows about until his fleshy body was supported just right.
David watched all of this with amusement. He had seen photographs of the prince in his younger years. Omar had once been a handsome and slender man. He had been an international playboy. One of the world’s wealthiest men, he jetted from one continent to the next, always attending the best parties. Now in his early fifties, he was a gluttonous wreck. All of the hard years had finally caught up with him. After his fiftieth birthday he entered a downward spiral of depression sparked by the realization that the party would not go on forever. With his depression came great mood swings and a seemingly insatiable thirst for a plethora of vices.
Three servants in crisp white tunics and black pants stepped onto the sundeck and formed a conga line just to the side of the prince. They all held gold trays overflowing with various things the prince might desire. Just serving the prince was not enough. These men were to predict his needs so that when the prince decided he wanted something it appeared as if they had anticipated his every whim. The first servant presented a tray with cigarettes. Omar snatched one and the servant held a diamond-studded gold lighter to it. When the cigarette was lit the man bowed and peeled away only to be instantly replaced by the second man who held a tray of drinks for the prince to choose from. There was an orange one, a red one, a pink one and even a blue one, and all them were perfectly garnished with skewers of fruit or vegetables. Omar’s bejeweled fingers danced above the glasses while his tongue tried to decide which one it wanted. He picked the pink one, took a sip and then put it back with a sour expression on his face. Quickly, he zeroed in on the red one, which David assumed was a Bloody Mary.
After taking a long sip through the straw, he waved the servant away and stared at David for a long moment. Prince Omar admired the Palestinian. He had guts, he had brains and he was dashingly handsome. If anyone other than one of his family members had just awakened him, he would have told Devon to have Chung throw them into the sea. In fact, now that he thought about it, there were several family members he’d like to have thrown into the sea anyway, and they hadn’t even interrupted his sleep.
Omar finally said, “David, come, tell me why you are in such a hurry.” The third servant appeared at the prince’s side holding a tray overflowing with pastries. Omar gestured for the tray to be placed on the table before him.
