Executive Power Part 31

Dumond shook his head in frustration.

"Ten million bucks is nothing to a guy like this. It'll take me the rest of the day just to try and identify all of the various accounts he uses and even then I could miss a few that I'm sure he keeps hidden."

"I don't care what it takes, get it done. Pull all the people you need for the busy work, and I'll get Irene to authorize it. I want to know who this guy is and unless Olivia gets lucky, the best way to catch him is to follow the money trail."

FIFTY SEVEN.

The sun was down and rush hour was over as Rapp turned onto the Chain Bridge and hit the gas. His turbo Volvo S80 shot across the low-slung bridge like a rocket. When he reached the other side he hung a right and again floored it. He was already fifteen minutes late for his 8:00 dinner date with his wife. At Reservoir Road he hung a left and shot across a lane of traffic and into a residential neighborhood just north and west of Georgetown University.

Anna had picked the restaurant. It was in Glover Park on Wisconsin Avenue. Austin Grill was a little hole in the wall that served great margaritas and decent Mexican food. Unfortunately, Rapp wouldn't be drinking any margaritas tonight; as soon as dinner was over he'd have to head right back to Langley. They were no closer to finding out who Prince Omar's minion was than they were eight hours ago.

Kennedy had given them the green light to bring in the counterterrorism people at the FBI, but had decided against alerting France or Israel. Bourne had done a routine search through Interpol's database, shuffling John Doe's photograph in with a half dozen others they were interested in. The intent was to make Interpol think it was a standard query, and nothing to get excited about. Against everyone's hopes, the search came up empty.

The pressure from the White House wasn't helping. If they didn't know more by tomorrow morning, Rapp was prepared to get on a plane and fly to France. He had a few ideas about how he could crack this thing open and his best hope lay with Prince Omar's personal a.s.sistant, the effeminate Devon LeClair. The Brits had provided a brief bio of the man, and it appeared he was the most likely person to handle Omar's nefarious activities. Rapp was willing to bet he could get the guy to crack inside of five minutes. In the meantime he'd given Dumond orders to take a close look at the Frenchman.

Rapp took a left onto 37th Street, braking for several students who were lolly gagging in the crosswalk and then accelerated up the hill.

Less than a minute later he turned, heading south onto Wisconsin Avenue and grabbed the first available spot. Climbing out of the car he winced slightly as he put weight on his bad leg and then did a quick three hundred and sixty degree check of the area.

Rapp entered the bar with the collar of his jacket turned up and his head down, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. He squeezed past the young crowd that was bellied up to the bar. Even on a Tuesday night the place did great business. With every step he scanned faces and checked things out. He headed for the balcony where they always sat and hobbled up the stairs.

Just like a good girl he found his wife sitting in the corner with her back to the wall. Rapp smiled without hesitation, his deeply tanned face showing a pair of creased dimples. He hurried over to her and said, "Sorry I'm late, honey."

Anna smiled and offered her lips. She was usually the one who was late so she couldn't complain.

Rapp kissed her and took off his jacket, careful not to let his suit coat open too far and alarm any of the other patrons by revealing the gun in his shoulder holster. He took a seat next to his wife so they both had their backs to the wall. Taking her hand he asked, "How was your day?"

Anna took a drink of water and said, "Pretty hectic. People are really freaking out about the Palestinian Amba.s.sador."

"Tell me about it," responded Rapp.

"I heard the President went ballistic when he found out."

Rapp thought about it for a second.

"He wasn't happy, but I don't think I'd describe it as going ballistic."

Anna wasn't sure if her husband was spinning her or telling the truth.

"You guys have any idea who did it?"

"We've got a few leads"

"Nothing you can talk about," finished Anna.

Rapp smiled and kissed her again.

"You're figuring this game out."

She laughed and said, "Oh, I'm not done with you yet." Staring at him with her emerald eyes she said, "The word on the street is that the President thinks the Israelis are responsible."

Inside Rapp felt his gut tighten. The President had no business letting a rumor like this get started. At this point, any suspicion aimed at Israel was based on the President's hatred and distrust of Ben Freidman and nothing more. What little evidence they had pointed in a very different direction, and one that he could not share with his wife.

"We have very little to go on right now, but I don't think the Israelis did it."

A waitress showed up at the table and dropped off a red, white and blue swirly margarita. She asked Rapp what he wanted and as tempted as he was to follow suit, he settled for a bottle of Lone Star beer instead.

When the waitress was gone, Anna asked, "Why don't you think Israel did it?"

Rapp frowned.

"Let's change the subject. How's your mother?"

Anna took a sip of her drink and said, "You never ask about my mother."

"That's not true. How is she doing?"

"She's fine now tell me why you don't think the Israelis did it."

Rapp was about to put up the stone wall and then remembered where it had gotten him lately. She was his wife and as long as he didn't get into details, there was probably no harm in explaining his opinion.

"I know a lot of Israelis, and although they're a little crazy at times, they are far from stupid. Unless there's something about Amba.s.sador Ali that we don't know, I see no benefit to Mossad taking him out."

"Unless," said And, "they feel so isolated their only choice was to lash out."

Rapp was already shaking his head.

"Not here in the United States."

"What if they're thumbing their nose at the UN?" Anna took another sip.

"Why not kill him when he's in the West Bank and avoid offending their one true ally?"

"Maybe they couldn't get at him when he's in the West Bank?"

Rapp laughed. His wife obviously knew very little of Mossad's capabilities.

"Trust me, Mossad could have taken him down any one of a dozen times in the last year."

"Well," Anna said a bit defensively, "I'm hearing the President is pretty convinced it was the Israelis."

Rapp was tempted to tell his wife that the President didn't know what in the h.e.l.l he was talking about, but discretion won out and he simply said, "We'll know a lot more in a few days, and until then I think we should all keep our theories to ourselves."

Anna smelled dissension and pounced.

"So the CIA and the President are in disagreement."

Smiling and shaking his head, he said, "You're awful. I never said any such thing. You asked your husband his personal opinion and that's what I gave you. In no way does it reflect the official opinion of either the President or the CIA."

Anna made a funny face while sucking on her straw. When she came up for air she said, "Nice try. I'm going to lead the news with it in the morning." She held her drink in front of her mouth like a microphone.

Using her fake on-air voice she said, "Breaking news here at the White House. Major dissension between President Hayes and the CIA."

Rapp almost took the bait and then caught himself.

"By the way, aren't you wondering how my a.s.s is doing?"

Anna shook her head.

"Nope. Your current ailment is n.o.body's fault but your own. You'll get no sympathy from me."

Rapp pulled a woebegone face.

"My doctor tells me I might never be able to have s.e.x again."

Anna tried her best not to smile.

"The divorce papers will be on your desk in the morning."

Rapp burst out laughing. It was the first time in several days and it felt great. As he looked into his wife's eyes he wished he didn't have to go back to the office, but he did. He had to find out who this guy was and when he did he would demand that the President allow him to launch an operation that set an example, an operation that would send a warning to people who wanted to finance terrorism. He knew the President would be reluctant to grant him the authority to do what he wanted, so he would have to work that much harder to make sure he had overwhelming evidence and sound reason on his side.

FIFTY EIGHT.

It wasn't quite 7:00 on Wednesday morning when David entered the tiny garage behind the house he was renting. Inside was a stripped-down white Ford minivan with no seats or windows in the rear pa.s.senger area. David had done all of his dry runs without the van. Even though he was confident the bomb wouldn't go off unless it was armed, he erred on the side of caution and kept it locked up in the garage. As he slid the key into the ignition he couldn't help but catch himself worrying that starting the engine might bring about a premature end to his plans.

The concern was foolish. He'd read all the manuals all nauseam.

There were ample materials available on explosives if one was willing to look, and besides, his people had become experts on bombs over the last two decades. The more difficult aspect of the plan had been obtaining the amount of explosives he needed and then getting them into the Unite States. The now deceased General Hamza had been kind enough to supply him with three separate s.h.i.+pments of Iraqi-made Semtex, a very powerful plastic explosive, and then using a series of export companies he had s.h.i.+pped a large cargo container from Jordan to Indonesia and then finally to the busy port of Los Angeles.

From there the container had made its way east to Richmond Virginia where it sat in a storage facility for two months while David made sure it wasn't being watched. Twelve forty-pound blocks of the clay like Semtex sat in the back of the van under a canvas painters' tarp.

Underneath the tarp was a maze of detcord and blasting caps that would ensure the near simultaneous detonation of the 480 pounds of explosives.

David backed up slowly until he reached the street and then headed south. Due to all the government jobs, D.C. was not a city of early risers and the traffic was still light. He cut down a cross street and then turned the van onto Georgia Avenue. A short while later he pa.s.sed Howard University and then Georgia turned into 7th Street. He was now less than a mile from the White House. After stopping for a red light he took a right onto Rhode Island and continued in the right lane avoiding as many potholes as he could.

He was more nervous now than when he had killed Ali. There was something about D.C. All the cameras and various law enforcement agencies each presented the possibility of capture. To David it was truly unbelievable that a city with so many cops in it could have such a high murder rate, but that was America.

He tried not to be overly optimistic about his odds of succeeding.

He'd covered his tracks diligently and monitored the FBI's Web site hourly waiting for a photograph of him to appear at any moment, but it hadn't. They had no idea who he was, and if the papers were to be believed, the entire world, even the Americans, believed that the Israelis were responsible for the a.s.sa.s.sination of Amba.s.sador Ali. Everything was going according to plan. Now all he needed to do was make one last grand statement. An act of pure violence that would force Israel to concede.

He turned onto the desired street less than a quarter mile from the White House and slowed for a car that had abruptly pulled out in front of him. David continued north for two more blocks in search of the optimal parking place. Much of the credit for this last bold move had to be given to Omar. He had convinced David that the best way to force Israel to the table was to enrage the Americans. Spill blood on their soil and watch them lose their patience with Israel.

Now more than ever David was convinced it would work. The French Amba.s.sador to the UN was scheduled to bring a resolution for Palestinian statehood before the Security Council at 11:00 this morning.

So far everyone was...o...b..ard, minus the United States, but unfortunately that wasn't enough. As a permanent member of the Council, the American Amba.s.sador had veto power. As things stood right now, the Americans were not ready to back the French resolution, but that was about to change. After David was done this morning the vote would probably have to be postponed, but its odds of pa.s.sing would be greatly increased.

David carefully parallel-parked the van and then plugged the meter with enough quarters to last into the afternoon. Standing next to the parking meter he took one last look at the van and made sure he'd done everything. The tabs were up-to-date, the meter was full and the bomb could not be seen from the front window: As casually as his nerves would allow, he turned and began walking away from the vehicle.

He would wait to arm the bomb when he got back to the house.

After he was sure his target was on the way.

FIFTY NINE.

Rapp stepped out of the shower in the men's locker room of the New Headquarters Building and grabbed a towel. He'd managed to sneak in a few hours' sleep on the couch in his office, and right about now he was wondering if that had been such a good idea. Due to his wound he'd had to sleep on his side with his head up on the armrest. The contorted angle of his neck had given him a kink that a steaming hot fifteen-minute shower had done nothing to fix. As he dried off he told himself to ignore it. There were bigger problems to deal with, like finding this p.r.i.c.k who worked for Fat Omar. That's what Rapp had taken to calling the Saudi Prince, refusing to grant him his regal t.i.tle.

With the aid of a full-length mirror, he taped a new bandage over his wound and got some clean clothes out of his locker. It was common for those who worked in the CTC to keep a change of clothes at work. When a crisis erupted there usually wasn't enough time to sleep, let alone go home and get changed.

Rapp was standing in his boxers when the locker room door flew open and a disheveled Marcus Dumond burst in yelling Rapp's name.

"Mitch Mitch!"

"Over here," yelled Rapp.

Dumond skidded to a stop at the end of the aisle.

"You gotta get upstairs! Olivia found something!"

Rapp pulled his pants on.

"What?"

"She's got a lead on this guy, and you're not gonna like it."

Rapp stood over Bourne's shoulder, his thick black hair wet and uncombed, staring at the flat screen monitor. For the third time in a row he watched the man walk across the expansive floor of Penn Station, and for the third time in a row he asked Bourne, "Are you sure it's him?"

She smiled confidently and said, "Yep. The software mapped his face and gave us a lock on the surveillance photos the Brits provided."

Rapp watched the man in the dark trench coat. The times worked out. Kill Ali, get away from the area, dispose of the weapon and then catch a train out of town. Or go to the station and make everybody think you got on a train, then duck back outside and disappear. Rapp had used the trick himself on more than one occasion.

"Have you checked to make sure he didn't turn around and come back out?"

"No need to," replied a confident Bourne. She made a couple of key strokes and more black-and-white surveillance footage came up on the second monitor. Bourne handed Rapp a printout that showed the schedule of trains leaving Penn Station for the night in question.

Rapp looked down at the one she had circled and squinted to read the small type.