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The line went dead and Kennedy slowly put the handset back in the cradle. She turned around and relayed Rapp’s message to both Juarez and McMahon. And then she looked at the two men and said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to have some time alone with Ms. Brooks.”
30
WASHINGTON, DC
Rapp got off the metro at the Farragut West stop and took the escalator up to the sidewalk. It was before eight and traffic was still light. The wind had picked up a bit, but it wasn’t bad. Nothing wrong with a little frigid gust of wind slapping you in the face to let you know you were alive. There was the inevitable Starbucks directly across the street. There was also one half a block down on his right and another one around the corner to his left and to the south a few storefronts. Rapp figured there were over a hundred of them in the downtown area.
Rapp had been trained to avoid routines. Routines led to predictable behavior and identifiable tendencies. Things that could be used to an adversary’s advantage. Effective people developed routines and efficiencies in their day-to-day lives. Those routines almost always manifested as extremely predictable behavior. Rapp knew because he’d used it to his advantage many times. People woke at the same time every day, or at least Monday through Friday; they ate at the same three or four restaurants, worked out at the same club, typically at a set time, and got their coffee at the same one or two Starbucks every day. Usually the one closest to their home and the one closest to their office. There were of course exceptions. There was Caribou and Seattle’s Best and a few others, plus the independents, but in sheer number of stores, none of them could compare to Starbucks. America was a caffeine nation and Washington being its capital was no exception.
Rapp wasn’t sure if the person he was looking for was a coffee drinker or not. There was probably a twenty percent chance that she was one of those yoga bending, new age health nuts. She took care of herself. That much was obvious. Rapp had visited her shortly after the attack on the motorcade to get her version of the events. He was helping put together a kind of postmortem report for the CIA. Something that would not be shared with the other agencies. The FBI was running the official investigation, and the Secret Service had already done their own internal investigation. Rapp had not seen that report, and he’d wondered how rough it had been.
Rapp looked west down I Street and then east before crossing. He entered the Starbucks and walked up to the clean, organized counter where he was met by a nice young black woman who greeted him warmly and asked him what she could get for him and said it like she meant it. Good service minus the attitude. Rapp grinned and ordered a medium dark roast. She asked him if he wanted room for cream and he said no. While she poured the coffee he checked out the other two employees behind the counter. Not one of them had a visible tattoo, pierced body part, or bad hairdo.
When the woman returned with his piping hot coffee, Rapp gave her three dollars and told her to keep the change. She told him to have a nice day, and then added that he should stop back in. Rapp smiled and thanked her. He didn’t feel like telling her he doubted he would be. With a napkin in hand he took his coffee over to the ledge by the window, set it down, took the cap off, and placed it on the tan recycled napkin. It would be too hot to drink for at least a few minutes. Rapp had already noted the faces and general demeanor of the other five patrons in the place. They all looked harmless enough. Probably accountants and admin types.
Rapp set his phone on the counter face down and inserted the SIM card and the battery. After he’d turned it on he opened his address book and hit W. The first name that came up was Jack Warch, former Special Agent in Charge of President Hayes’s Secret Service detail and recently promoted deputy director of the United States Secret Service. Rapp hit the send button and brought the phone up to his ear.
After a few rings a voice answered saying, “Warch here.”
Rapp brought his free hand up to partially cover his mouth. He whispered into the phone, “I have a bomb.”
There was a long pause and then Warch said, “Excuse me?”
Rapp muttered a quick sura in Arabic and then repeated his assertion. “I have a bomb.”
“You have a bomb?” the concerned voice on the phone asked.
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to shove it up your ass.” Rapp started to laugh.
There was a pause and then Warch said, “Is that you, Mitch? You jerk.”
“Come on,” Rapp said while still laughing, “I’m just trying to liven up your day now that you’re full-time management.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“Yes, you will.”
“I know, and I’m not sorry.”
“Where the hell are you?”
Rapp looked out the window. The Secret Service headquarters was only a few blocks away. “I’m in town.”
“I hear people are looking for you.”
“Yeah…so what’s new?”
“Some people are saying you fucked up, Mitch.”
“Nothing I’m not used to.”
“Is this really the guy?”
