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“Morning, Charlie.”
The man studied Rapp for a moment and then checked his clipboard. “I don’t see you on the list, Mitch.”
It was a long-standing joke between them. His name was never on the list.
“Just open the damn gate and go back to your coffee.”
He grinned, as he always did, and let Rapp through.
President Alexander hadn’t been kidding when he said he wanted to keep this meeting quiet. No security was in evidence, and the lights indicating power to the surveillance cameras were conspicuously dark.
He walked through the semidarkness to the Oval Office’s partially open door. The president was at his desk, scanning a document through metal-rimmed reading glasses.
“Sir?”
“Come on in,” Alexander said. “Close the door behind you.”
Rapp did as instructed and then took a seat in front of the man’s desk.
“Can I get you anything, Mitch?”
“I’m fine.”
The relaxed façade that Alexander normally kept between him and the world was showing cracks. Not that this was unusual during their meetings. If Rapp was at the White House, something had gone very wrong. On this particular morning, though, the cracks seemed dangerously deep.
“I assume you’re aware of what happened in Morocco with Prince bin Musaid?”
“I’m sorry about that. With Scott out of action, we’re spread pretty thin.”
He nodded. “And you’re aware of my meeting with Aali Nassar?”
“Irene mentioned it.”
“And how did she characterize that meeting?”
“As less than ideal.”
“So she didn’t tell you that he unzipped his fly and told America to get on its knees?”
Actually, in her own sterile way, she had.
“Nassar isn’t a diplomat. He—”
“Don’t start. I already got that speech from your boss.”
Alexander began pacing around the room, forcing Rapp to scoot his chair around to keep eyes on him.
“I assume you’re also aware of the deal that was made with the Saudi government after 9/11.”
Rapp nodded. In fact, he was far more aware than Alexander was. While the administration at the time had ordered the CIA to drop the matter, the director had interpreted those orders loosely. The Agency had quietly continued to gather intel, which was now squirreled away on an encrypted drive accessible only by Irene Kennedy. The specific names, dates, and bank account numbers in that file were no longer of much practical use—the players were largely dead or headed for the nursing home. What was still relevant was the portrait of a country playing both sides hard, counting on oil reserves and radical Islam to keep it intact.
“I know something about it,” Rapp replied.
“So do you think bin Musaid’s a lone wolf? An anomaly that got by the king?”
“I don’t have enough information to make that call.”
“Then speculate.”
