Consent To Kill_ A Thriller Part 26

Senator Hartsburg coughed and said, "He's going to kill anyone who had anything to do with his wife's death."

"That's right," said the president, "and I can't say I blame him."

"Then what's this nonsense about revoking his pa.s.sport and putting him under protective custody?"

"Not my idea." Hayes shook his head. "And what does it really matter? You and I both know there's no stopping him. Pa.s.sport or not...he's going to leave the country and go wherever he d.a.m.n well pleases."

"Mr. President, I'm confused. Mitch has sacrificed a great deal for this country. I think there is a better way to handle this than treating him like a criminal." Kennedy shook her head in disgust. "To be honest, sir, after all Mitch has done for you, I would have expected you to stand by him when he needs you most. Not cave into the demands of a few cabinet members."

Hayes took the rebuke surprisingly well. He sat back and looked at his two former colleagues from the Senate and then slowly returned his gaze to Kennedy. "I'm going to let you in on something that only a handful of people know, but first I need your word that you will not discuss this with anyone."

Kennedy looked at him intently. "Of course."

"I've decided not to seek reelection."

Kennedy's eyes opened a bit wider upon hearing the shocking news. With a little more than a year left in his first term, and a solid approval rating, there wasn't a person in town who had even mentioned the possibility of Hayes not seeking a second term. "Do you mind my asking why, sir?"

"I have some health issues that I think preclude me from serving as president."

Kennedy wanted to ask what those health issues were, but knew it could be personal. "I'm sorry, Mr. President."

Hayes glanced up at the clocks on the far wall and then said, "Parkinson's. It runs in my family. My mother's side."

"But I haven't noticed any signs."

"They're there. Trust me. I've been taking medication for five months. At first the results were good, but over the last few weeks things have gotten worse. My doctor tells me I should have no problem serving out my first term, but any hope of a second term would be purely selfish."

"But Parkinson's..."

Hayes shook his head. He'd studied every side of it. He'd discussed it with his wife until they had beaten the subject to death. Was there a chance he could stay on top of his game for four more years? The answer was maybe, and maybe wasn't good enough. And then there was the other issue of his physical appearance. That was the thing that really decided it for him. Hayes smiled and said to Kennedy, "The man in charge of the word's most potent nuclear a.r.s.enal cannot be seen standing at a podium with shaky hands."

Kennedy blinked slowly and glanced at the other two men. They all knew he was right, and admired him for making the difficult decision. There were others who would not have relinquished the mantle of power so easily. "Mr. President, I'm very sorry."

"Don't be. This office is bigger than any single person. It's been my honor to serve." Hayes regarded his two old friends from the Senate. Walsh smiled, Hartsburg frowned, and they both nodded. The two career politicians would have gladly settled for one term. Not one to feel sorry for himself, Hayes changed the subject. "Irene, let me lay things out for you. I have a vice president who is in over his head, I have a deeply flawed attorney general, a secretary of state who is more concerned with appeasing foreign governments than protecting our own long-term national security, and I have a new director of National Intelligence who will probably throw a party when he learns that I have Parkinson's." Hayes gave Hartsburg a sideways glance. It was Hartsburg who had recommended Ross for the top intelligence job.

The gruff senator said, "Bob, he's an ambitious fellow, but I wouldn't go so far as to say he's going to celebrate your misfortune."

"Okay, he'll celebrate his own opportunity."

"He's off to a bit of a rocky start," Hartsburg conceded and then looked to Kennedy. "Don't worry. We'll have a talk with him and get him settled down."

"The point is, Irene," the president said, "that I don't plan on spending my last year in office refereeing battles between my cabinet members. They sprang this one on me this morning," Hayes shook his head, "I should have seen it coming, but I didn't have a lot of time to prepare for it. As it is, I don't agree with them, but I do see their point."

"I'm afraid I don't, sir."

"We are a civilized country ruled by laws. We are constantly preaching to other countries about free speech, due process, and fair and just courts. It is one of the most important missions of the State Department. Here at home, our Justice Department and the courts are tasked with keeping things fair. A crime has been committed on American soil. Yes, it was perpetrated against an employee of the CIA, but the jurisdiction still falls squarely in the lap of Justice, and there is nothing any of us can do about that."

"Irene," said Senator Walsh, "there's another angle to consider. Mitch's wife was a fairly well-known reporter. The press is going to follow this story closely. The Justice Department would much rather announce that this was an accident, that way they won't have to set the bar too high for themselves. They'll quietly continue to investigate, but my guess is they will not cla.s.sify it as a crime unless they have a suspect they can pin it on."

"That explosion was not an accident."

"We all know that," answered Hayes.

"Then what are we going to do about it?"

"Let me be very clear about this." Hayes placed his forearms on the table and clasped his hands. "I want whoever did this brought to justice, and I want it to happen quickly. I don't want an investigation that goes on for years, and I don't want to see a single person dragged in front of a court unless there is absolutely no other alternative."

"What about the Justice Department?"

"Let them run their official investigation." Hayes waved his hand as if the ma.s.sive Justice Department were some inconsequential nuisance. "You and Special Agent McMahon have a good working relations.h.i.+p. Anything he finds I want him to pa.s.s on to you, but to be honest, I expect you to be way out in front of him on this."

"Why is that, sir?"

"Because you don't have to play by the rules, Irene, and they do."

"What about Ross?" Kennedy turned to Senator Hartsburg.

"Mark will be fine."

Kennedy shook her head. "I don't think so." She looked to the president expecting him to back her up. Ross had after all told the president about Rapp's insubordination and thuggish behavior.

Instead of giving her a knowing nod, Hayes's face twisted into a frown of confusion.

Kennedy realized at that moment that Ross had lied to her. "Mr. President, I don't think Director Ross has been as forthright with you as he's led me to believe."

"What has he led you to believe?"

"He told me that he briefed you on a problem he'd had with Mitch recently."

Hayes shook his head. "He hasn't said a word to me about Mitch since he got the job."

"Last week I was having a meeting in my office with Mitch and Scott Coleman." Kennedy spoke directly to the president. "Director Ross showed up at Langley unannounced and barged in on the meeting." Kennedy went on to explain how the IRS showed up on Scott Coleman's doorstep the next day and that Ross had his people call the Pentagon and request Coleman's service record. She ended the recap by explaining that Rapp had decided to pay Ross a visit at his office and when he walked in, Ross was having a meeting with several investigators and the topic of conversation was Scott Coleman. Rapp picked up a dossier containing Coleman's tax returns and slapped Ross across the face with it."

Hartsburg looked a little stricken, while Walsh and the president sat in stunned silence until finally Senator Walsh said, "I told both of you he was the wrong man for the job."

"He'll be fine," said a defensive Hartsburg. "I'll have a talk with him."

"He's done listening to you," grumbled Walsh. "I told you, he's a d.a.m.n power-hungry peac.o.c.k."

"I'll talk to him," the president said quietly.

"I don't want you to have to do that, Mr. President." Hartsburg had pushed Ross on the president and he felt obliged to straighten out the mess. "Let me have one more shot at him."

"Fine." Hayes turned his attention back to Kennedy. "We'll keep Ross off your back. You just stay out in front of Justice and the FBI."

"What about Mitch?"

The president leaned back and gave the matter some thought. After a lengthy pause he said, "Officially...I want him involved in the CIA's international aspect of this investigation. Please take special note of the word international." international." Hayes paused for effect. "Unofficially...he has my consent to kill anyone who had a direct hand in this." Hayes paused for effect. "Unofficially...he has my consent to kill anyone who had a direct hand in this."

44.

VENICE, ITALY.

T he cruise s.h.i.+p turned into the Ca.n.a.le di San Marco, churning up a muddy wake as it slipped slowly through the water. The vessel seemed ridiculously large to be entering such a narrow body of water, but Abel reasoned they knew what they were doing. Tourism was after all Italy's biggest industry and it wouldn't do to have one of these steel behemoths ramming its prow through the intricate facade of the Palazzo Ducale. This was the third such s.h.i.+p this afternoon and by far the largest. Abel was lounging on the terrace of his $2,000-a-night penthouse that overlooked the confluence of the Grand Ca.n.a.l and the San Marco Ca.n.a.l. During the peak summer season the room ran $5,000 a night, but only a fool would come to Venice in the summer. The city was overrun with tourists. Heat and humidity combined with sweat to give off a sour odor that could be exceedingly unpleasant. Prices were obnoxiously high and service was shoddy. Fall or spring, though, was a different matter. The temperature was mild and with the humidity gone the ripe summer smell of the ca.n.a.ls was gone. The narrow streets were pa.s.sable, and the service was good. he cruise s.h.i.+p turned into the Ca.n.a.le di San Marco, churning up a muddy wake as it slipped slowly through the water. The vessel seemed ridiculously large to be entering such a narrow body of water, but Abel reasoned they knew what they were doing. Tourism was after all Italy's biggest industry and it wouldn't do to have one of these steel behemoths ramming its prow through the intricate facade of the Palazzo Ducale. This was the third such s.h.i.+p this afternoon and by far the largest. Abel was lounging on the terrace of his $2,000-a-night penthouse that overlooked the confluence of the Grand Ca.n.a.l and the San Marco Ca.n.a.l. During the peak summer season the room ran $5,000 a night, but only a fool would come to Venice in the summer. The city was overrun with tourists. Heat and humidity combined with sweat to give off a sour odor that could be exceedingly unpleasant. Prices were obnoxiously high and service was shoddy. Fall or spring, though, was a different matter. The temperature was mild and with the humidity gone the ripe summer smell of the ca.n.a.ls was gone. The narrow streets were pa.s.sable, and the service was good.

The s.h.i.+p let loose three quick bursts from its horn. Abel glanced up at the pa.s.sengers who seemed to be on top of him. They lined the railings of all four decks, towering over him, taking photos, waving, and gawking. If there was one common denominator among them it was that they in general seemed unconcerned with physical fitness. While he perched atop his penthouse sundeck, they looked down on him like plump birds in search of a morsel of food. His initial awe over the engineering it took to a.s.semble such a s.h.i.+p and then maneuver it through the tight channel was now gone, replaced by a sense of irritation that these commoners were intruding on his privacy. Abel did his best to ignore them and read the screen of his laptop.

It had been an interesting day. He had risen from a sound night's sleep at 7:00 a.m. and showered and shaved. Breakfast in the grand ballroom was followed by a long walk around the city. He'd crossed over the Grand Ca.n.a.l to San Paolo and then Santa Croce with no intent other than to observe how the unique floating city prepared itself for another day. Garbage barges came and went. Water taxis and ferries brought people from the mainland and the surrounding islands to work. Food, office products, mail, wine, merchandise, and everything else it takes to keep a city functioning was brought in by water and off-loaded by young, strong men wielding carts of varying shapes and sizes. It was a way of commerce that was unique to Venice.

Abel returned to the hotel before 10:00 and checked his e-mail. He was both pleased and shocked to find a message that Mitch Rapp was dead. And not only was he dead, but the a.s.sa.s.sin had managed to make it look like an accident. Abel was absolutely floored by the speed and apparent ease with which the contract had been carried out. Saeed Ahmed Abdullah would be a very happy man. It was no surprise that the a.s.sa.s.sins were demanding payment immediately. As tempting as it was for Abel to call Abdullah and give him the good news, he knew that he should confirm the story from an independent source. With the time difference between Venice and Was.h.i.+ngton, DC, it took a while. For fear of raising unwanted attention he did not want to call any of his contacts in the international intelligence community. At 2:00 in the afternoon he was finally able to track down the story on the Was.h.i.+ngton Post Was.h.i.+ngton Post's Web site. Abel read the words with his heart in his throat. A quarter of the way into it he began dancing around the room. He had just made an additional six million dollars without having to lift a finger. Abel was not a dancer, and he was not someone accustomed to spontaneous celebration, but this was an exception.

After finis.h.i.+ng the article he called Abdullah directly via an encrypted satellite phone and told him the news. The father began sobbing. In between sniffles he praised Allah and thanked Abel profusely for giving him his just retribution. Not wanting the call to last too long Abel brought up the issue of payment. Abdullah said it would be taken care of before the close of business today and thanked Abel over and over for helping him. Abel demurred, and then ended the call by warning the billionaire to be very careful. Even though the American press was calling it an accidental explosion, there would surely be people at the CIA who would never believe it for a second.

Now the close of business was approaching, and Abel was nervously waiting for confirmation from the various banks that the funds had been received. Twelve million dollars in total. After Prince Muhammad bin Ras.h.i.+d requested that Abel make the murder look like an accident, the German had ignored the request to shoulder the cost himself and had taken the matter to Saeed Ahmed Abdullah. The billionaire seemed entirely unconcerned by any investigation that might take place after Rapp's death. Abel tried to impress him with the potential gravity of the aftermath, but Abdullah cared not how Rapp was killed-only that he was killed. Abel pressed him further until the billionaire finally agreed to foot the bill.

Twelve million dollars total, and it had taken less than two weeks. Abel thought that it must be a record in his line of work. It was going to be difficult not to brag about his payday, but there was an obvious disincentive. If the a.s.sa.s.sins found out they would likely kill him, and if the Americans found out they would torture him and then then kill him. He would keep his mouth shut for some time. Maybe in twenty years, when he finally slowed down, he could write his memoirs and take credit for killing America's top counterterrorism operative. He knew where the real risk lay, and unfortunately there was nothing he could do about it. The father would want to brag. He would want to take credit for killing the mighty Mitch Rapp. kill him. He would keep his mouth shut for some time. Maybe in twenty years, when he finally slowed down, he could write his memoirs and take credit for killing America's top counterterrorism operative. He knew where the real risk lay, and unfortunately there was nothing he could do about it. The father would want to brag. He would want to take credit for killing the mighty Mitch Rapp.

A thought occurred to Abel as he stared at his in-box waiting for confirmation. He was surprised he hadn't thought of it sooner. Why not use some of his newfound fortune to take out a contract on the father? He decided he'd have to explore the option. An e-mail landed in his in-box with a chime. Abel opened it and smiled as he read the confirmation that two million dollars had arrived in his account, and as per his instructions, one million of it was immediately wired to the designated bank in the Bahamas. Five more e-mails arrived in short order, all basically saying the same thing. Abel picked up the phone and asked for a bottle of 1989 Pichon Longueville Baron to be sent up. He looked out at the bulbous domes of Santa Maria della Salute across the ca.n.a.l and thanked G.o.d for the efficiency of the Swiss.

45.

CIA S SAFE H HOUSE, VIRGINIA.

R app woke up, once again hoping it was all a dream, but one look at the unfamiliar surroundings told him it wasn't. His own personal nightmare was upon him. His wife and unborn child were gone. Those horrible memories that had haunted him after his girlfriend had been blown out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland, came flooding back, only this time they were worse. He'd spent years getting over her tragic death. The pa.s.sage of time and taxing nature of his work combined to slowly mend him. And then Anna came along, and all was perfect again. The painful wound was healed, and he was left with a small scar that was the fleeting memory of a woman who had died more than a decade ago. Now in a flash Anna was gone and with her all his hopes and aspirations. The old wound had been torn asunder and it ached with a pain that was white-hot compared to the previous one. The love of his youth seemed utterly naive in comparison to the absolute devotion and adoration he felt toward his wife. The pain gripped him in a writhing agony that he knew would have no end. app woke up, once again hoping it was all a dream, but one look at the unfamiliar surroundings told him it wasn't. His own personal nightmare was upon him. His wife and unborn child were gone. Those horrible memories that had haunted him after his girlfriend had been blown out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland, came flooding back, only this time they were worse. He'd spent years getting over her tragic death. The pa.s.sage of time and taxing nature of his work combined to slowly mend him. And then Anna came along, and all was perfect again. The painful wound was healed, and he was left with a small scar that was the fleeting memory of a woman who had died more than a decade ago. Now in a flash Anna was gone and with her all his hopes and aspirations. The old wound had been torn asunder and it ached with a pain that was white-hot compared to the previous one. The love of his youth seemed utterly naive in comparison to the absolute devotion and adoration he felt toward his wife. The pain gripped him in a writhing agony that he knew would have no end.

Rapp fought back the tears and forced himself to a.s.sess the situation. He had vague memories of being moved in the night. He could tell by his splitting headache, foggy vision, and general lethargy that he had been given a sedative. He lifted his head just enough to confirm what he'd already guessed-that his arms and legs were tied down with straps. He didn't like this one bit and immediately began to test how secure the bonds were. After a brief struggle he gave up. The room was dark, but there was enough light for him to realize that he was not in a hospital. It was more like a hotel room, or a bedroom in someone's house.

His only vivid memory of his time in the hospital was hearing Kennedy telling him Anna was dead and then having to be restrained by some very large men. After that there was a vague recollection of an ambulance ride. Kennedy must have moved him to a more secure location. Rapp went over a brief list of possibilities, and then whispered to himself, "How in the h.e.l.l did this happen?"

He sensed movement somewhere in the building-like a heavy door had been shut. Now he could hear footsteps. He rolled his head toward the door and watched as the bra.s.s k.n.o.b began to turn. It occurred to him that he was probably being monitored by a low-light camera. The door opened with barely a sound and a dark figure stepped into the room. Rapp couldn't make out his face, but there was something familiar in the way he moved. The man approached the bed cautiously, and Rapp wondered for an instant if he was in danger.

"How are you feeling, buddy?"

It was Scott Coleman. Rapp relaxed a notch and asked, "Where am I?"

"Agency safe house."

Rapp surveyed the former Special Forces operator. "Which one?"

"Near Leesburg." Coleman walked around to the other side of the bed and opened the blinds.

Light filled the room and Rapp turned away. "What time is it?" he asked with squinted eyes.

"Almost noon."

Rapp was bothered by the simple fact that he couldn't bring his hand up to s.h.i.+eld his eyes. "Untie me."

Coleman hesitated. He weighed the alternatives. Kennedy had left orders that she wanted him to be kept sedated and tied until she had a chance to further a.s.sess his att.i.tude. Coleman didn't like seeing him tied up as if he was some prisoner, and given all that he'd been through he didn't feel right ignoring him. He reached down and grabbed one of the canvas straps that held his wrist to the bed frame. "Don't do anything stupid, Mitch. You've got a broken arm, two broken ribs, a deep thigh bruise, and your knee is still swollen from surgery." The former SEAL finished with the straps and gently placed a couple of pillows behind Rapp so he was propped up.

Rapp guessed from the view that he was on the second floor. The slight greenish hue of the gla.s.s also told him the window was bulletproof. He had been here before but had never ventured to the second floor. To the average unsuspecting person, the place looked no different from all the other horse farms and corporate retreats that dotted the rural Virginia landscape. It was very charming on the surface, but the subterranean levels beneath the main building held a secret the CIA guarded very closely. The place was so covert, it didn't even have a name. To the handful of people who knew of its existence, it was referred to as The Facility. The Facility.

It was off the books, not even listed in the black intelligence budget submitted in secret to Congress every year. The Facility was a place where they could clinically drain information from people. In decades past the subjects were usually traitors or spies, almost all of them atheists or agnostics. More recently the guests were decidedly more fervent in their religious beliefs. The place was located near Leesburg, Virginia, and was situated on sixty-two beautiful rolling acres which had been purchased by the Agency in the early fifties. The Facility was a necessary evil in the sometimes brutal high-stakes game of espionage.

Rapp was about to ask Coleman about Anna, but he choked on his words. After he got control of his emotions he asked, "What happened?"

"Do you remember the explosion?"

Rapp shook his head.

"As near as I've been able to piece it together, you came home after your knee surgery and the house blew up. Somehow you ended up in the bay. A nearby fisherman pulled you out of the drink and you were mede-vacked up to Johns Hopkins."

"Anna?"

Coleman s.h.i.+fted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "She ended up in the front yard. The EMS people said they think she hit a tree as she was blown out of the house. Ma.s.sive trauma to the head. They operated," Coleman shook his head sadly, "but she never had a chance."

Rapp looked away from his friend and stared out the window. He was trying desperately to keep it together. To keep his mind focused on what had happened, and not on what had been lost. "Who did it?"

"We don't know yet, but we have some leads."

"Bring me up to speed," Rapp ordered with clinical detachment.

"I got to your house last night around ten. Skip McMahon was there with some other feds, but they were letting the locals run the show." Coleman paused and then said blandly, "The fire chief says it was an accidental propane explosion, and so far the feds concur."

Rapp frowned.

"Don't worry, we're not buying into it for a second. Let me finish with the official version, and then I'll fill you in on the rest. The fire department found traces of an accelerant. They're pretty sure it's gasoline."

"Where?"

"Between the garage and the propane tank. They figure you kept your gas for the boats on the side of the garage."

"I fill my boats at the marina."

"I thought so. Besides, I told them there was no way in h.e.l.l you'd leave gas stored that close to a propane tank."

"You're right. What else?"