Executive Power Part 32

"Going off of that," offered Bourne, "I pulled the footage at Union Station. The train left New York at ten oh five and pulled into D.C. at one-twenty in the morning." Bourne hit her enter key like a concert pianist striking the final note of a glorious performance and then sitting back she crossed her arms and watched the digital video stream play across her screen.

"That's our guy walking across the lobby right there."

Rapp didn't bother to ask if she was sure this time.

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's in D.C.," he mumbled more to himself than Bourne. His mind instantly seized, not on who he should call, or where the man might be, but rather on who he was after. When you stripped away all the bulls.h.i.+t, Rapp was an a.s.sa.s.sin. He was also much more than that, of course, but in the most raw, blunt way he was an a.s.sa.s.sin. He understood the thought processes involved in running an operation virtually alone. It was his preferred mode. That way he didn't have to worry about anyone other than himself s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up. This guy looked like he was operating alone, and if Rapp was guessing right there was only one reason why he would come to D.C. He wasn't done killing.

"Do we have any more footage on him?"

"No, this is it."

"Dammit," swore Rapp.

"Have you told Jake?"

"No. He's on his way up to the Hill to brief the Intel Committee."

"Irene?"

"No. She's on her way to the White House."

Rapp stood up straight and looked across the sea of cubicles at the far wall to see if Tom Lee, the CTC's deputy director, was in his office.

If Rapp had been a typical government employee, he would already be racing across the Bull Pen on his way to tell Lee everything he had just learned. Needless to say, Rapp was more than some bureaucrat worried about covering his a.s.s and making sure his government pension was protected at all costs. This was a tricky situation. Lee was not an employee of the CIA, he merely had an office in the building. He was FBI and with the FBI came a lot of rules on how things were handled.

Rules that Rapp felt got in the way.

Rapp had to make a quick decision. They needed to catch this guy, but they didn't want to spook him. Plus once they told the FBI about him there was no taking it back, no flexibility in how to handle the situation.

He decided on a cautious course for the moment. Looking down at Bourne and Dumond who were seated he said, "Call the cab companies and find out who was working the station at the time this guy stepped onto the curb, and"-Rapp lowered his voice-"keep it within our little group right here."

Both Bourne and Dumond nodded. They were CIA and knew exactly what Rapp was talking about.

"And, Marcus, keep working on Fat Omar's accounts. There should have been a large chunk of change moved sometime in the last week. If anything comes up call me on the digital." Rapp grabbed the printout of the surveillance photo and a train schedule and started for the exit.

"Where are you going?" asked Dumond.

Rapp folded the printouts and shoved them into his pocket.

"The White House."

SIXTY.

President Hayes sat behind his desk with a phone to his ear while his national security team sat on the couches and waited for him to join them. Kennedy was sitting next to Valerie Jones pretending to read a file. In truth she was listening to what the President was saying, or more accurately what he wasn't saying. The senior senator from New York, a state the President had barely carried, had called to advise him not to come down too hard on the Israelis for their incursion into Hebron.

Hayes didn't even want to take the call, but Jones had practically demanded it. When he was up for reelection they would need New York. This was not the first call placed to the White House this morning on behalf of Israel. The powerful Jewish lobby was in crisis mode trying to avert a potentially disastrous vote that was to take place at the UN later today. Every member of the National Security Team had fielded at least two calls from influential power brokers pleading the Israelis' case. Secretary of State Berg had been solicited the hardest, followed by Chief of Staff Jones and then Secretary of Defense Culbertson. Even Kennedy and General Flood had been hit up.

"I'll take it all under advis.e.m.e.nt," said the President as he looked at nothing in particular. Hayes listened for a few seconds and then said firmly, "I fully understand the gravity of the situation, Senator. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." Hayes slammed the phone down in its cradle and shot Valerie Jones an extremely unhappy look.

Getting up from behind his desk he kept his eyes on his chief of staff and said, "That's the last one I'm taking. These people are more concerned about Israel than their own country."

"What did he say?" asked Jones.

"Pretty much that if I want to win New York next time around I'd better make sure this French resolution doesn't make it out of the Security Council." Hayes chose to stand rather than sit.

"And if things weren't already bad enough, they went and sent tanks into Hebron.

American-made tanks, I might add."

"Sir," started Jones, "I think we need to focus our efforts on getting the vote delayed."

Hayes ran a hand through his hair and then grabbed the back of his neck.

"Bea?" He looked to his Secretary of State for an answer.

"From what I'm hearing the French are h.e.l.l-bent on putting this to a vote now. Especially since the tanks rolled in last night."

"Let's not forget about the suicide bombs," interjected Secretary of Defense Culbertson.

"That's how this all got started. Israel has a right to defend herself and if the Palestinians are going to locate their bomb factories in residential neighborhoods, then no one should feel too bad for them when one of them blows up."

The Secretary of State ignored her colleague and said, "Mr. President, I would never argue that Israel doesn't have the right to defend itself, but the reality is that the UN is fed up with this never-ending cycle of violence, and the a.s.sa.s.sination of one of their own has galvanized the entire a.s.sembly like nothing I've ever seen before."

Culbertson moved to the edge of the couch.

"But there's no proof Israel had anything to do with the Amba.s.sador's death. In fact, it's preposterous to think they'd do such a thing."

The President turned his gaze on Kennedy. Now was the time to let the rest of the team in on what only a few knew.

"Irene."

Kennedy closed the folder on her lap and looked at the secretaries of state and defense and General Flood. The President had been very specific about what he wanted her to say, or more precisely, what he didn't want her to say. There was to be no mention of the mysterious man who had met with Prince Omar. The Brits had quite an extensive file on the brother of the Crown Prince. While they felt that he was somewhat business savvy, or at least wise enough to surround himself with people who made good decisions, the Brits also felt that Omar was a bit dense. Their initial opinion was that they doubted Omar could be involved in something as complicated as the a.s.sa.s.sination of a UN Amba.s.sador. So for now, Kennedy was sticking with what they knew to be fact.

In a voice barely above a whisper she said, "There was no bomb factory in Hebron."

Secretary Berg stared at Kennedy.

"Did the Israelis admit to this?"

"No. In fact they are standing by their story."

Culbertson asked suspiciously, "Then how do we know there was no factory?"

"We had satellite coverage of the attack. There were no secondary explosions."

"Then where did all the damage come from?" asked Berg.

"Sixteen h.e.l.lfire missiles fired by Apache helicopters."

"American-made h.e.l.lfire missiles," added the President, "fired by American-made Apache helicopters."

Secretary of State Berg made the connection first.

"That's why they went back into Hebron last night. They wanted to clean up the mess."

"Or," said Kennedy, "knowing Ben Freidman, they'll plant the evidence to make it look like they were telling the truth the whole time and the Palestinians were lying."

"Or," contradicted Culbertson, "they simply went back into Hebron to clean out these martyr brigades."

"I'm sure it's a bit of both," agreed Kennedy, "but right now I'm inclined to believe one is a pretense for the other."

"The reality," said the President, taking control of the discussion, "is that we have an ally who is not being truthful with us."

"What is Freidman saying about the Amba.s.sador's a.s.sa.s.sination?"

asked Berg.

Kennedy looked at the keen Secretary of State. Berg was well aware of Israel's official denial of any involvement in Amba.s.sador Ali's death.

Her question by itself showed that she believed Mossad capable of conducting a brutal version of their own foreign policy.

"The director general is denying any involvement."

Culbertson grimaced.

"Just because they lied about the bomb factory doesn't mean they had anything to do with the Palestinian Amba.s.sador's a.s.sa.s.sination."

"I'm not so sure," replied Hayes.

"At a bare minimum, however, it proves that we can't take them at their word."

Culbertson turned to Kennedy and skeptically asked, "You don't really think they would have done something so brazen, do you?"

Kennedy took a moment to compose her thoughts.

"I don't see the benefit of such an action at least not here on American soil, but then again I don't have all the facts. For all I know this could be the start of an all-out offensive on Israel's part to clean out the West Bank once and for all."

"Why kill the Amba.s.sador then?" asked Berg.

"All they've managed to do is galvanize the UN."

Until this moment, for several reasons, Kennedy had restrained herself from voicing her next comment. First and foremost was that she didn't want to believe Israel could be so reckless, but her strained relations.h.i.+p with Freidman and the a.s.sault of the suicide bombers on the Israeli psyche led her closer to the conclusion that they were indeed capable of such a brutal move.

"There is a school of thought"-Kennedy couched her words carefully-"that Israel no longer cares what the UN thinks."

The President had not heard this before and asked, "How so?"

"To be sure, there are elements within Israel that believe engagement is the only way to lasting peace and security, but there is a growing lobby that thinks every time Israel trusts her concerns and security to another country or organization, she gets burned."

Secretary of State Berg concurred.

"They see the UN at a bare minimum as being unsympathetic and at worst, as blatantly anti-Semitic."

Kennedy agreed.

"So by killing the Palestinian Amba.s.sador in New York, they're telling the UN what they really think of them, while at the same time sending a message to the Palestinians that they can be every bit as brutal as they are."

Culbertson started to see their point.

"UN resolutions go un-enforced all the time, so why bother trying to appease them."

"Exactly," replied Berg.

SIXTY ONE.

The armor-plated Mercedes limousine came to a stop in front of the north entrance to the West Wing. Two spit-polished marines stood at attention in their dress blues, one on each side of the door, like sentries to an ancient palace. Prince Abdul Bin Aziz stepped from the black limousine and b.u.t.toned his suit coat, while ignoring the reporters who were shouting questions at him from the lawn on the other side of the driveway. The cousin to the Crown Prince had left his keffiyeh back at the emba.s.sy. In fact, the only time he wore the traditional garb of his people was when he returned home or was forced to do so because of ceremony.

Over the last fifty-four years the Amba.s.sador had spent more time in America than Saudi Arabia, which was fitting, since he'd been born at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. His early schooling had been handled by tutors and then at the age of fourteen he was s.h.i.+pped off to Philips Exeter Academy, the ultra-exclusive prep school in New Hamps.h.i.+re. After Philips Exeter it was on to Harvard for both his undergraduate and graduate degrees.

Abdul Bin Aziz had a great affinity for America. More than anything, though, he admired his host country's secular approach to governance.

He had seen the true evil that could be perpetrated by men with deep religious conviction and it scared him. This was why he owned three homes in America and rarely allowed his children to return to Saudi Arabia. Prince Abdul Bin Aziz believed that in his lifetime the House of Saud would fall. It would be trampled by the very fanatics his relatives had supported over the years.

The ultra-orthodox Wahhabi sect of Islam had spread like an unruly weed across his country and beyond, choking out all forward and rational thinking, silencing all dissenters within and without the faith, and d.a.m.ning millions of people to a belief system that had more in common with the Stone Age than the twenty-first century.

And now, in this dangerous time, he was once again sent to the White House by his cousin, the Crown Prince, to try to appease the fanatics without slitting their own throats.

SIXTY TWO.

The entire security team was tense. Twenty or so protestors stood on the other side of the heavy black steel gate, but that's not what concerned Uri Doran, the man charged with protecting Israel's Amba.s.sador to the United States of America. It was the camera crews, two of them to be precise. Doran had been with s.h.i.+n Bet, Israel's internal security service, for eighteen years. The organization was the rough equivalent of the Secret Service and the State Department's Bureau of Diplomatic Security. He'd learned over the years that cameras were far more dangerous than any bullhorn, sign or brick.

Through simple editing, he and his people could be made to look like jackbooted thugs.

The Metropolitan Police had dispatched two squads to help deal with the crowd, but their presence did little to abate Doran's worries.

He'd watched Was.h.i.+ngton's finest in action before, and with a record number of law suits for police brutality in the past few years, the men and women in blue were not about to forcibly subdue unruly protestors and put their careers in jeopardy. To make matters even worse, Was.h.i.+ngton was a town filled with professional protestors who knew exactly when and how to provoke a confrontation. When forced to move, they were p.r.o.ne to pratfalls and overly dramatic wails of pain as if their limbs were being twisted to the point of breaking. All of this was done, of course, right in front of the cameras to elicit maximum drama for the nightly news audience.