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“Why?”
“They’ve arrested someone.”
There was a long pause before Speyer responded. “Do you know who?”
“I don’t have a name, but I’ve heard it’s the guy.”
“Impossible. I just spoke with your boss on Saturday. He said the FBI’s investigation was dead in the water. He was being briefed daily.”
“It wasn’t the FBI who found him.”
“Who was it?”
“The CIA.”
“That is wonderful news,” Speyer said with feigned enthusiasm.
“Just fucking great.”
“I will make sure to pass it along to our friend.”
“Yeah…you do that, and on an entirely different matter, tell him I want scorched earth. Do you follow me?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
“You know this man the CIA grabbed…it’s too bad that it’s probably as far as they’ll get. I’ve seen how these people operate. They rarely know who hired them.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I will call you back after I speak with our friend.”
“Don’t bother,” Garret said. “Just tell him if he doesn’t handle this problem immediately I have no intention of following through on our end of the bargain.”
“He will not be happy to hear that.”
“I don’t give a fuck what makes him happy or not. He needs to do what he said he would do and he needs to do it today.” Garret slammed the phone back into its cradle and walked out of the office.
27
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Kennedy sat behind her desk and watched and listened as McMahon and Juarez worked themselves into a frenzy. She knew both of them extremely well. It was not abnormal to see either of them get this upset. They were very passionate about their jobs. The unusual part was seeing them upset at the same time. Well, that wasn’t exactly right either. The abnormality lay in them being upset over the same thing. Their jobs dictated that they approach situations from different angles. Angles that didn’t always intersect. What Juarez deemed to be best for America did not always jibe with the FBI’s vision. In essence, McMahon’s job was to enforce the law and investigate and arrest those who broke it. Juarez’s job was to send men and women to foreign countries to recruit spies, gather information, conduct covert operations, and pretty much break laws on a weekly if not daily basis. There was an undeniable conflict between the two missions.
Mitch Rapp had somehow managed to get both men on the same page, which was another red flag to Kennedy. Mitch was a disrespectful, almost always unmanageable asset. He was akin to a company’s top sales rep, who was often the same guy who thumbed his nose at the sales manager, showed up late to meetings, or didn’t show at all and in general did whatever in the hell he wanted, just so long as he kept hitting his numbers. Pretty much every successful company had a rep that fit that bill. Men and women who were at their best when management stayed out of their way. Smart bosses knew it was wise to turn them loose and look in the other direction. In a sense Rapp had been the CIA’s top rep for ten-plus years and counting, and Juarez was his de facto sales manager. Juarez did not resent Rapp. He’d been on the messy end of black ops himself and the two men shared that unique bond, which was no small thing in a bureaucracy where ninety-nine percent of the employees had a desk job. Juarez respected Rapp, even revered him and depended on him in situations just like this to get results where others had failed. The problem, Kennedy knew, lay in the fact that Rapp had corrupted one of Juarez’s precious recruits. Rapp had gotten Brooks involved in what could quickly become a criminal investigation. If this went south it would be a big blow to the Clandestine Service. Juarez might even lose his job over the deal.
“The videotape,” McMahon said, “from the Starbucks…is not enough evidence to convict this guy. The attorney general is losing his mind over this. You told us he was the guy.”
“He is,” Kennedy said calmly. She’d had almost a day now to consider the situation, and she was slightly embarrassed that she had allowed her own emotions to cloud her judgment. First off, getting upset with Rapp served no purpose. She should have known that after all these years. He was going to do what he thought best regardless of orders from HQ.
“Can you back that up?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Shit.” McMahon had his dark blue pinstripe suit jacket open and a hand on each hip. A bulky pistol sat on his right hip and his badge was clipped to his belt above his left front pocket. As a general rule he didn’t carry his passport sized FBI credentials. Some people acted funny around guns, so he kept his badge displayed.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” the agent continued. “The press conference is in less than three hours, and I need some real evidence. All I’ve got at the moment is a shot-up Greek guy who keeps claiming he was kidnapped and tortured. This could get really embarrassing.”
