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Alexander looked up, his eyes wide with hope. “Did you find out who was behind the attack?”
Hayes looked to his spy chief. “Irene.”
Kennedy set her cup back on its saucer. She’d only realized a minute before what the president was up to. She covered her mouth with her fist, cleared her throat, and got down to business. “Do you recall hearing about the man in the red hat during any of your briefings with the FBI?”
“No.” Alexander looked to Roach and Stokes to make sure he was remembering things accurately.
“The man in the red hat,” Attorney General Stokes said, “is something that has never been proven. As with any chaotic event, like the attack on your motorcade, there was conflicting testimony among the eyewitnesses. Several recall seeing this man on the street just prior to the explosion, but most do not. We culled surveillance tapes from all the local businesses and nowhere does this individual show up. We believe that he is…”
Kennedy’s gaze moved from Stokes to Roach. She was sure McMahon would have informed his boss of the meeting he’d had in Kennedy’s office less than twenty-four hours ago. The one where Baker had dropped the bomb on them. The two FBI men had worked together for a long time. McMahon would have called him immediately. She doubted, though, that the FBI director would have bothered his boss on a Saturday afternoon. It was a potentially crucial, but small piece of the investigation. He would have figured telling the attorney general could wait until Monday morning.
Stokes was sitting closer to Alexander. Roach on the other side. Kennedy watched as Roach’s face twisted into a frown and he leaned forward. Sticking his arm out to get his bosses’ attention.
“In an investigation like this,” Stokes was saying, “we have to be very careful…”
“Marty,” Roach said, “I have to interject something. Yesterday afternoon I was informed by the special agent in charge of the investigation that the man in the red hat does in fact exist. I was planning on telling you about it in our staff meeting on Monday morning. I had no idea the CIA was already pursuing this matter.” Roach’s basset hound eyes settled on Kennedy and his expression seemed to say, thanks for blindsiding me.
“As the president said,” Kennedy reasserted herself, “we operate under a different set of rules than the FBI. A special team headed up by Mitch Rapp has been pursuing this individual for almost a month. Last night their hard work paid off, and they found him.”
“Where?” Alexander asked eagerly.
“Cyprus. A town on the western end of the island called Limassol.”
“Have we arrested him?”
Kennedy pursed her lips as she considered the word arrested. Rapp had not briefed her on the specifics of the operation, but she doubted he had asked permission from the local authorities. “Let’s just say we have him in our possession.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Stokes.
The president laughed. “It means Mitch probably whacked him over the head and hog-tied him.”
“Are we sure he’s the right guy?” Stokes asked with great concern.
“Irene?” the president asked.
“Mitch says he’s one hundred percent sure this is our guy.”
“That’s good enough for me.” The president slapped his knee with finality.
“Are they still on the island?” Roach asked.
Kennedy shook her head. “No. They’re in transit.”
“Where?”
“They had a layover in Germany…” Kennedy glanced at her watch. “They’re probably somewhere over the North Atlantic right now.”
“I want this man put on trial,” Alexander said with absolute conviction. “I want these terrorists to see that no matter how we
ll they plan, no matter how far they run, we’ll hunt them down and they will be brought to justice.”
17
41,000 FEET, NORTH ATLANTIC
R app’s eyes fluttered and then opened. He checked out his surroundings, not sure where he was for a moment, and then things fell into place. He rubbed his face and then stretched his arms over his head. Behind the cockpit was a small cabin with seating for twelve. Old, gray, worn leather first class seats had been installed in two rows. Four seats on the port side, four in the middle, and four on the starboard side. No personal DVD players or entertainment of any kind. It was a bare-bones operation. What it lacked in ambiance it made up for in space. Plenty of legroom and the seats reclined to a comfortable napping position.
Rapp sat in the back row on the port side. He checked his watch and for a second couldn’t remember if he’d changed it before they’d left Germany. He must have. As was his custom, the arrow on the red and black dial on the outside of the submariner was pointed at 11:00. That was the time they were due to arrive in DC. A little more than two hours from now. The layover in Germany had lasted a little longer than intended. They’d stopped to take on a load of cargo so as to cover their tracks, and then the warning light for the portside cargo door wouldn’t shut off even though a visual inspection showed the door to be seated properly. They sat on the tarmac for almost three hours while they waited for the faulty warning light to be switched out.
