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“Let’s just say that our previous rescue attempt didn’t go over so well.”
After a long moment of silence, Steve Gordon, the coordinator for counterterrorism at the State Department, was the first to speak. His pride had been damaged enough that he felt he had to speak for the group. “I hardly think the people in this room were responsible for the failure of the first rescue attempt.”
“Really?” asked Rapp, his tone a bit menacing.
Gordon was slightly taken aback. He mustered up a bit more courage and reiterated his point. “Yes.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Rapp as he leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest, a red file shoved under his left arm. “Any other questions?” This time he looked directly at Amanda Petry. He knew her type. Her righteous indignation would never allow his accusation to go unchallenged.
She looked back at him, barely able to conceal her contempt, and completely oblivious to the role she’d played in the disaster of a week ago. The false belief that the rest of the group supported her gave her the confidence to say, “Mr. Rapp, you may not think very highly of us, but you should at least respect the fact that we care about this country every bit as much as you do, and we work very hard at our jobs.”
Rapp was simmering for the moment. He would blow later. This was a role he relished. It was an opportunity to remind everybody just how high the stakes were. What unfolded in this room in the next five minutes would be spread all over Washington by week’s end. It would be whispered about around the coffeepots and water coolers, and it would grow and become more sensational with each retelling, and in the end people would be reminded that national security was something to be taken very seriously.
“To respond to your first point, I doubt very much that you care about this country as much as I do, and as far as your second point is concerned, I have no doubt that you all work very hard, but that by itself doesn’t cut it. You people aren’t on the board of some corporation. You are entrusted to help protect the national security of this country, and to be brutally honest with you, working hard isn’t enough.” Rapp’s eyes never left Petry’s.
Her nostrils flared just a bit and unable to contain herself, she said, “The State Department plays a very important role in this country’s national security, Mr. Rapp, whether you like it or not. And for us to do our job, we need to be kept abreast of what is going on.”
“Kept abreast,” Rapp repeated her words and slowly bobbed his head as if he were taking them very seriously. “Tell me, Ms. Petry, can you think of a single reason why the rescue operation was launched without consulting this committee?”
“I’d say somebody such as yourself advised the president that we be kept in the dark,” answered Petry with a look of disdain on her face.
“Exactly!” said Rapp, his tone rising a bit. “And can you tell me why I would have advised such a move to the president?”
There could be little doubt, by the expression on her face that she hated the man who was questioning her. “I have no idea.”
Rapp opened the file under his arm and threw two five-by-eight photographs down on the table. They were head shots of the two dead Navy SEALs. “Do you have any idea who these two men are?”
“No,” replied an indignant Petry.
“Irv McGee and Anthony Mason. United States Navy. They were killed last week on a little sand beach in the Philippines. Both were married and combined they left behind five kids.” Rapp made no effort to retrieve the two photos sitting in the middle of the table. This was as close as any of them would ever get to the two dead warriors, and he wanted to make sure everyone in the room looked at their faces.
“Ms. Petry, can you tell me how these two men ended up dead?” Rapp paused just long enough to see that she wasn’t going to answer his question. “I’ll tell you how they died,” his voice boomed out in anger. “Someone in this room disregarded operational security because they felt the rules didn’t apply to them.” Petry didn’t crack a bit and Rapp asked her, “You have no idea what you did, do you?”
Petry’s face was now flushed but she had yet to register what was happening. Blinded by her own belief that she was being wronged, Petry said, “You’d better have a pretty good explanation for this, Mr. Rapp.”
The red file flew open and out came the copies of Petry’s e-mails to Ambassador Cox. Rapp slammed them down on the table and yelled, “The president decided last week that our embassy in Manila was not to be told in advance about the hostage rescue! You ignored that order and sent Ambassador Cox an e-mail alerting him to the specifics of the rescue! Well, I guess since you work hard, and care about your country, you don’t have to adhere to operational security!”
Petry looked at her own e-mail and still refused to admit any wrongdoing. “I hardly see how this ended up causing the deaths of these two men.”
“Because, you idiot,” screamed Rapp, “Ambassador Cox alerted President Quirino about the operation, who in turn notified General Moro, who just so happens to be a paid asset for Abu Sayyaf! If you would have done what you were told those two men would be alive right now. You and your fucking diplomatic arrogance got them killed, and that’s why this committee was kept in the dark.”
Rapp stood at the end of the long table, his fists clenched in rage. No one attempted to speak. Amanda Petry sat in shock looking at the two photos, still refusing to believe that a simple e-mail could have caused their deaths. Rapp knew that there were those in Washington who would think what he’d just done was unprofessional and insensitive, but he couldn’t have cared less. In his mind this town, especially the national security apparatus, could use a whole lot less sensitivity.
Rapp turned and opened the door. Two FBI agents were waiting outside to arrest Petry. He passed them and started down the hall, his thoughts turning to the two dead SEALs. Their families deserved his sensitivity and sympathy, not Petry.
49
David had practiced the routine precisely eight times. He looked like just any other New Yorker as he walked up Park Avenue, his shoulders set with determination and the collar of his black trench coat turned up both to conceal his face and to ward off the bite of the cool March evening air. The pedestrian traffic had died down from its post-workday peak, but at a quarter past seven David was far from alone.
Unlike in Jerusalem, however, David did not feel as though he were being watched. There was an outside chance that the FBI was trailing him, or an even slimmer chance that Mossad had somehow followed him to America, but David was confident in his ability to both elude and detect surveillance. No, he was alone. He’d seen the footage of the massacre in Hebron. Ben Freidman would think he had killed his Palestinian informant. The destruction in Hebron was so complete it would be some time before all the bodies were accounted for.
And as far as the Americans were concerned, they had their hands full chasing Arab students on expired visas. David had already changed identities twice since leaving Hebron and was now traveling with a French passport. His first-class ticket from Nice to Paris to New York had been purchased with an American Express card that matched the name on his passport. He was now Charles Utrillo, a mergers and acquisitions specialist in town to meet with J. P. Morgan. The cover was not deep. If he was arrested, and the FBI looked into his credentials, they would quickly discover it was a sham. The passport and credit card were merely there to ensure entrance into America without raising any suspicion.
This portion of his plan had been relatively easy to put together. The West Bank was rife with arms merchants, and for the right amount of cash almost anything was obtainable. David’s purchases were never very large or exotic. Mostly small arms, silencers, ammunition and one very expensive rifle. He preferred dealing with the Russians. They were hungry for cash and despite their recent cooperation with the West, they were still capable of keeping their mouths shut and records closed.
Getting the weapons to the United States had been a little more difficult, but not much. The import-export business, worldwide, was known for not asking too many questions. David had shipped a crate of rugs to a warehouse in Philadelphia and picked it up back in January. Broken down and rolled up within the various rugs were two handguns and a Russian-made VAL Silent Sniper rifle. The weapon fired a 9mm subsonic heavy bullet and was capable of defeating standard body armor at distances up to 400 yards. According to David’s information his target wouldn’t be wearing anything so cumbersome. The man had reason to celebrate this evening and he wasn’t about to put on a bulletproof vest to dine at his favorite restaurant.
As David crossed 65th Street he glanced to his right. Halfway down the block stood an old brownstone with bars and steel mesh over all the windows. In front of the house, on the sidewalk, the New York City Police Department had erected a blue and white guardhouse large enough for only one person. A police of
