Separation of Power (33 page)

Coleman nodded. “Do I need to worry about her taking off?”

After thinking about it, Rapp said, “No. As long as she feels safe, she’ll stay put.”

“We’ll have to make sure she stays safe, then.”

“Where are you taking her?”

“Eastern shore of the bay. Irene has all the info.”

It was just like the old SEAL to pick a spot on the Chesapeake. Rapp held up his phone. “You’ve got the number for this, right?”

“Yep.”

“All right, call me if you need anything.”

“Don’t worry, Mitch. I won’t let anything happen to her.”

Rapp slapped Coleman on the arm and said, “I know you won’t.”

He walked with Kennedy and Rapp over to the small door and punched the green button that opened the large hangar doors. He went in and got
into the van and Kennedy and Rapp walked outside and got into the limousine. Alone in the backseat of the limo Rapp blurted out the question that had been eating away at him. “How is she doing?”

“She’s fine. She stayed at the Four Seasons last night.”

Before leaving Italy, Rapp had asked Kennedy to have someone keep an eye on Anna. “What did she do today?”

“She left the hotel and went to the Duomo.” Kennedy turned to the side so she could better observe Rapp. “My person tells me she’s been very emotional. He’s seen her crying on three separate occasions.”

Rapp dropped his head into his hands. He did not like to hear that she was in pain, but at least she still cared enough to cry.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

He shook his head slowly.

“I think you might have to.”

“Why?”

“I need to know what she knows.”

“Irene, Anna isn’t going to say anything.”

“I disagree, but my real concern is what Ben Freidman will do when he discovers his men have gone missing.”

Rapp thought of the three dead bodies in Donatella’s apartment. “Did you get that taken care of?”

“I’ve been told it’s no longer a problem.” Kennedy studied Rapp for a moment and said, “I’d feel better if Anna was back here in the States.”

Rapp thought he would too, but was reluctant to put any pressure on her. She had said some very hurtful things, and although they were spoken in the heat of the moment, they all had a ring of truth to them. In a solemn voice he said, “I can’t ask her to come back.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to get into it.”

“Is there anything I need to know?”

Rapp shook his head.

“What happened between you and Anna?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Kennedy was reluctant to say what was on her mind, but felt she couldn’t let it go. “What were you thinking when you decided to bring her along?”

That I wanted to ask her to marry me. That I wanted to get out of this shitty thankless job before it sucked all normalcy from me. I was thinking all of that and much more,
thought Rapp. He couldn’t say it to Kennedy, though. He was too proud. It was time to be tough. Anna had let her true feelings be known. He had been a fool to think that she would marry him. Beautiful, smart Anna Rielly. There were guys all over America who would jump at the chance to marry her, guys with normal jobs, good jobs, guys that could offer stability. Guys who would be willing to move to New York when and if the time came. He’d been a fool for even dreaming of marrying her. An utter idiot for thinking that he could have what other people had. Love had clouded his otherwise good judgment, and Rapp had ignored one simple fact. He was a killer, and killers didn’t marry women like Anna Rielly.

Embarrassed that his personal life had interfered with his professional life, Rapp was determined to put an end to this line of discussion and get down to business. “I don’t want to talk about Anna.”

“Well, I would like to know—”

Rapp cut her off. “I said I’m not going to talk about it, Irene. I made some bad decisions. It’s over. Let’s move on.”

Rapp’s words gave Kennedy great concern. “When you say it’s over, you don’t mean it’s over between you and Anna?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Rapp replied with an intensity that told Kennedy it would be unwise to probe further. It was clear that more had happened in Milan than she knew. Kennedy decided that if Rapp wouldn’t call Rielly, she would. With Ben Freidman in his current state of mind she didn’t think it was wise to simply let Anna roam about Italy. She would make arrangements to bring Anna home and then she would talk to her.

G
eneral Flood’s office was located in the E Ring of the Pentagon on the second floor. He’d arrived at work well before sunup. He didn’t usually come in so early, but the Iraqi problem was weighing heavily on his mind. The president had made it very clear that he wanted to keep a tight lid on the recent developments with Iraq. If Saddam got even the slightest whiff that they were on to him the nukes would be moved, and their chances of ever finding them would vanish. This presented one hell of a problem for General Flood and his people. How do you prepare to wage war without telling your own people? In this regard Saddam had done the U.S. military a great service. He had provided them with the best peacetime live-fire training ground the U.S. had ever seen.

Since the end of the Gulf War the U.S. military’s Central Command had kept a very active presence in the region. Most notably they enforced the northern and southern “no fly zones.” On a lesser note, the army and Marine Corps regularly conducted exercises in the deserts of Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.

On the clandestine front, the air force and navy conducted almost nonstop photographic and electronic
aerial surveillance of Saddam’s kingdom. In addition to the military intelligence that was gathered, the National Security Agency and the National Reconnaissance Office probed deep into the heart of Iraq with their billion-dollar satellites orbiting the earth. The Middle Eastern dictatorship had become enemy number one of the U.S., and with such distinction came great attention.

Back on the ground a full-time contingent of Delta Force commandos and Green Berets had been added to the region. They trained regularly with the Special Air Service, Britain’s elite commando unit. The American and British commando units had made a habit of ignoring the Iraqi border and running operations that penetrated hundreds of miles into the Iraqi desert. They did not seek out Iraqi troops, but they had been known to engage them from time to time and the battles were very lopsided.

It was all part of a coordinated strategy, to keep the U.S. troops sharp and the enemy wary. The men manning the Iraqi air defenses were loath to turn on their targeting radar for fear that a patrolling U.S. fighter might slam a missile down their throats. The unlucky Iraqis charged with operating in the deserts of southern Iraq and the mountains of northern Iraq had heard one too many stories about their comrades going out on patrol and never returning. The few survivors who did make it back told stories of being ambushed in the middle of the night by men they never saw or heard. Morale in the Iraqi military wasn’t good.

But for General Flood it was the opposite. His men were well trained, well equipped and ready to go. The Iraqi theater was one massive ongoing drill. The wealth of information that was collected was constantly fed to air force, navy, Marine Corps and army experts who continually updated their target assessments. The result was that an effective and concise battle plan was never more than twelve hours away.

In essence, Flood did not need to let a half million American troops in on the secret. All he needed to do was tell the Joint Chiefs that the president wanted options. That Saddam had once again pissed off President Hayes. None of this was unusual. Since the Gulf War a single year hadn’t passed without some type of military action being leveled against Baghdad’s Bad Man. Flood could tell the Central Command that he wanted them to put together a comprehensive bombing plan, and he would have a preliminary report on his desk within the hour. The whole force would be ready to strike in a day or less. General Flood wielded a mighty stick.

It was no small comfort to him that his front line troops were ready to commence such a large operation on such short notice. It gave him the peace of mind to tackle a far more complicated problem, the problem of trying to steal three nuclear weapons out from under Saddam’s nose.

His intercom buzzed and one of his four administrative assistants announced that his visitors had arrived. Flood said to show them in. He stood and as he buttoned his green jacket, he looked down at the
shelf of brightly colored ribbons on his barrel chest. He remembered in detail how each one had been obtained. Many of them were B.S. Given to him for things that he thought had little to do with soldiering, but there were a few that he was very proud of.

A strange thought occurred to the general.
How many ribbons and medals would Mitch Rapp have been awarded if he’d been in the army instead of the CIA?
Flood had seen some great soldiers in action over the years, and there was no doubt in his mind that Mitch Rapp was one of them. Maybe the best. Flood desperately wanted to believe in Rapp’s abilities. He’d told no one of his dreams lately, but they horrified the old soldier. He had been visited in his sleep by the specter of nuclear battle. On a nightly basis he found himself looking out over a charred battlefield. The golden soft sand of the desert was burnt and black. The bodies of his soldiers were strewn about, thousands of them, charred from the heat wave of a nuclear detonation.

General Flood had never met Saddam face-to-face. He’d never even talked to the man, but he’d studied him and felt he knew him well. Or at least he knew his type. The pages of history books were sprinkled with megalomaniacs just like him. It seemed that every century could count a half dozen as their own.

Flood was willing to risk his entire career to make sure Saddam never got the chance to use those weapons. This would be the biggest gamble he’d ever taken. Sending a dozen Delta Force commandos into the heart of Baghdad, during the middle of an air strike,
to steal three nuclear warheads was pushing the odds a bit. If the mission failed the critics would stone him from the bleachers and then they would go after the president. At a bare minimum he wanted Rapp leading the way. The man with the Midas touch. He had a way of succeeding where others failed.

Irene Kennedy entered the room first. Her small stature was perfect for her profession. She was not the first person noticed in a crowd. Mitch Rapp, on the other hand, was a different matter. In his black leather jacket and two-day-old beard, he stood out like a sore thumb. Fortunately, General Flood’s staff practiced discretion with his visitors, especially when they arrived before 7:00
A.M
. and were in the company of the director designate of the CIA.

Flood met them midway across his large office. “Good morning, Irene.”

“Good morning, General.”

Flood reached out for Rapp’s hand. “Thanks for coming in to see me, Mitch.”

“Not a problem, sir.” Rapp liked Flood, so he lied. There were other things that he would rather be attending to, but he would hear the man out.

“Please, sit.” Flood motioned to an arrangement of two couches and several chairs on his right. There was a small table in the middle. On top was a basket of muffins, a coffeepot, sugar and cream and several cups, as well as side plates. “I figured you’d be hungry, Mitch. Help yourself to whatever you want.” Flood leaned forward and poured a cup of coffee. “Irene?”

“Please.” Kennedy took the cup, but passed on the muffins. “Thank you.”

Rapp poured himself a cup and took a muffin. “Irene tells me you have a little bit of a problem.”

“I’d say so. How many times have you been in Baghdad?”

“Before the war I spent a lot of time there, but since the war I’ve only been back three times.”

The general looked at Kennedy. “How much does he know?”

“Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to brief him. We had some other things that we needed to discuss.”

Flood didn’t bother to ask what, but he was a little surprised that they could have something else cooking that would take priority over his current problem. “Mitch, you’re about to become part of a very select group. The Joint Chiefs don’t even know what I’m about to tell you. The president has asked us to keep an extremely tight lid on this.”

“Understood.”

“A week ago one of our allies came to us with some pretty damning intelligence that Saddam is about to go operative with three nuclear weapons.” Flood stopped so Rapp would have a chance to absorb the seriousness of the problem. To his surprise Rapp smiled.

“I knew it.”

“Knew what?” asked Flood. “Don’t tell me you already knew.”

“No. I just knew sooner or later it would come to this. That’s why I disagreed when we stopped back in 1991. We should have gone all the way to Baghdad and ousted the nut bag.”

“You don’t need to tell me. I was over there with my Rangers preparing a nighttime assault on several bridges when the truce was announced. We could have been in Baghdad in two days, but the man who previously occupied this office, in his infinite wisdom, convinced President Bush to stop. Thanks to him I am now confronted with a much bigger problem than the invasion and occupation of Kuwait.”

“How much time do we have?” asked Rapp.

Flood looked to Kennedy. She turned to Rapp and said, “This information was provided by the Israelis. We have a little more than a week to take the bombs out, or they will do it themselves.”

In light of his recent trip to Italy, Israel was not at the top of his favorite country list. Rapp was tempted to say,
let them,
but kept his mouth shut. When he and Kennedy were alone he would probe deeper in regard to the veracity of the intelligence provided by Israel. “I assume we know where the bombs are?”

“Yes.” Flood got up and went over to his desk. He came back with a file containing aerial photographs of the target. “We don’t have anybody on the inside, but we’ve been told they are located here.” Flood pointed to a building circled in red. “That’s the Al Hussein Hospital.”