Separation of Power (51 page)

Rapp grabbed the president by his shoulder and said, “Leave.”

Hayes looked to Kennedy for guidance. She nodded and looked at the door. After a moment of hesitation he reluctantly left the room. When he was gone Freidman breathed a sigh of relief and said to Kennedy, “Good. Now we can deal.”

“Wrong!” bellowed Rapp. He pointed his gun at Freidman’s leg and pulled the trigger. A bullet spat from the end of the silencer and grazed the Israeli’s meaty inner thigh. Freidman lurched back in his chair and grabbed his leg in a mix of shock and pain.

Rapp moved the weapon back to Freidman’s knee and through clenched teeth said, “I’m looking for a reason to kill you, so there ain’t gonna be any negotiating. If you want to walk out of here alive, you’re gonna tell us everything you know.”

Clutching his leg in pain, Freidman nodded his head and began to talk.

T
he Cosmos Club was Senator Clark’s kind of place, especially around Christmas. The mansion at 2121 Massachusetts Avenue was a bastion of wealth, class, intellectual discussion, fine food, cigars and liquor. It was the type of place that would have never allowed Congressman Albert Rudin through its doors. The century-old club had rules, and chief among them was a sense of decorum. Differing opinions were encouraged, but loud divisive arguing was not.

The senator’s limousine was cued up on Mass Avenue with the other social elites of Washington. He was fifth in line with at least as many limos and cars behind him. Sally Bradley’s annual Christmas party at the Cosmos Club was an event not to be missed. That was, unless you were wife number three. She’d gone home to Phoenix. Washington’s cold gray December skies depressed her too much.

Clark was more than a little surprised at the lack of remorse and guilt he felt over killing Rudin. He found it very satisfying that he was the only person who knew the truth. Just three weeks after the death the case was ruled a suicide and closed. The police had been very easy to handle. Clark laid it all out for the detectives. Rudin had been depressed for some time, especially since a meeting he’d had with his party’s leadership and the president several weeks earlier. They’d threatened to strip him of his chairmanship
and do everything in their power to make sure he didn’t get reelected. Rudin had been devastated. Blinded by his convictions, he tried to find a way to torpedo Kennedy’s nomination. Clark warned him against it, but Rudin said he’d discovered something that would ruin Kennedy. That was when he went on
Meet the Press
with his accusations. The next night his world fell apart around him when the president gave his speech to the nation. Clark told how a panicked Rudin came to him and begged him to talk to the president. He’d pleaded with Clark to intercede and get the president to call off the FBI’s investigation.

Solemnly, Clark told the investigators that he’d refused Rudin’s plea. How he’d told Rudin that he had nobody to blame but himself for the mess he was in. “I didn’t think he’d jump. The thought never occurred to me. Now I realize I failed him in his hour of need.” Clark seemed genuinely remorseful and the police believed him. Much of his story was backed up by the president himself and even Rudin’s wife had said he’d been in a dark funk for several weeks. Clark was never once treated as a suspect, and after a short investigation it was ruled that Rudin had committed suicide.

The feeling of having avoided near disaster was intoxicating. Knowing that he had fooled them all gave him a sense of omnipotence. His plans to run for the White House, however, were on hold. Ellis and his West Coast financiers were very upset that Kennedy had been confirmed as director, but there was nothing he could do about that. At least not for now. In the meantime he told Ellis that he would
begin trying to find another mole at the CIA. Amazingly, neither Steveken nor Brown’s name had been dragged into the spotlight. After Rudin’s death the FBI just dropped everything.

President Hayes was untouchable at present. His numbers were so high, someone would have to be a complete fool to run against him. But that was now. Who knew what the political climate would be like in a year? Clark would hang around biding his time. He’d lived to fight another day, and his dream of someday occupying the Oval Office was still alive.

Clark’s limousine finally pulled into the small drive and a doorman, resplendent in topcoat and top hat, opened the door. The senator got out of the car in his double-breasted tuxedo and entered the club. He looked tanned and rested from another weekend retreat in the Bahamas and was in the mood to have some fun. He proceeded to the magnificent Warne Lounge where a band was playing and most of the partygoers had gathered. Too many in fact. Upon seeing that they were five deep at the bar, the senator reversed his course and headed off for the Cherrywood Bar. A few folks tried to stop him on the way but Clark politely informed them of his predicament and told them he would be back. Fortunately, there were only a few wise souls bellied up to the curved granite bar.

He ordered a glass of Merlot and settled in. He’d finish this one and order another before he went back to join the revelry. He was about to begin making small talk with the bartender when an absolutely stunning blonde in an ivory, beaded dress sauntered
into the room. She cozied up to the bar one chair over from Clark and ordered a glass of Chardonnay.

When she looked in his direction Clark said, “How are you doing this evening?”

“Just fine, thank you.” She turned her attention back to the bartender.

The woman had just a touch of an accent, but Clark couldn’t place it. She was absolutely gorgeous, high cheekbones, full lips and a curvaceous figure with a tiny waist. Clark was already wondering what she looked like with her clothes off when he asked, “Are you enjoying the party?”

“Yes.” She studied Clark for a second and said, “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

He smiled and took a big sip of wine. “Most certainly not. I’d remember that.” Standing, he extended his hand. “I’m Senator Hank Clark.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She took his hand. “I’ve seen you on TV.” With a flirtatious smile she added, “You’re much better looking in person.”

“Why thank you, and so are you.”

The woman laughed and patted Clark’s hand.

“And what is your name?”

“I’m Mary Johnson.”

“You must not live in Washington, Mary, or I’m sure we would have crossed paths.”

“You are correct, Senator. I’m from Richmond.”

“So how’d you get mixed up with this crowd?”

The glass of Chardonnay arrived. “I was a sorority sister of Sally’s daughter in college.”

“Oh, great. Here, take a seat.” Clark offered the stool next to him.

“Thank you.” She sat and crossed her legs, the long slit in her dress revealing a healthy portion of her toned thigh.

Clark noticed the exposed flesh immediately and reached for his wine. He took a large gulp and smiled. “I love your dress. It’s beautiful.” He looked at the wedding ring on her finger, and then back down at her leg. “So where’s your husband?”

She hesitated for a second and then replied, “He’s down in Richmond. He doesn’t like coming to these things. In fact, all he pretty much likes to do is work.”

Clark moved a little closer and in a quieter voice said, “If I was married to you, I’d only have one thing on my mind.”

“And what’s that, Senator?”

“You.” Clark polished off his glass of wine and ordered another.

The woman blushed at the compliment and reached into her handbag to retrieve a compact. She opened it and checked her makeup, applying some more powder to her nose. “So tell me, Senator, where is Mrs. Clark tonight?”

“She is, fortunately, back in Arizona for the evening.”

The second glass of Merlot appeared and the bartender scurried off to help another customer. The woman pulled some lipstick out of her handbag and asked Clark, “Is that you in that photo over there?” She pointed over Clark’s shoulder at a collection of black-and-white photographs on the wall of the bar. When Clark turned to look, she casually moved her lipstick over the senator’s glass of wine and pressed a
small button on the side. Several drops of a clear odorless liquid fell into the glass. The woman placed the lipstick back in her handbag and took a sip of her own wine.

When Clark turned back around he said, “Yes, I think that is me and some of my colleagues from the Hill.” He lifted his glass of wine and took a sip.

The woman nodded and then stuck her hand out. “Well, Senator Clark, I feel like dancing. What do you say?”

“I’d love to.” Clark took another sip and stood. He offered his hand to the woman and decided tonight was going to be a good night indeed. As he stared down at her full breasts peeking over the top of her tight dress, he once again tried to imagine what Mary Johnson would look like naked.

R
APP STOOD ALONE
in his tuxedo near the bar in the ballroom. His black hair had been dyed mostly gray, and he sported a salt and pepper goatee. He adjusted the horn-rimmed glasses he was wearing and looked out over the crowd in search of Donatella. He’d sent her to follow Clark, and was waiting for her to return.

For the most part, Rapp had kept Kennedy out of the loop over the last three weeks. She knew what he was up to but didn’t want any details. The president, he assumed, had conveniently decided not to get involved. Freidman had given them a good start on what Clark had been up to. For his help, Kennedy and the president would stay silent about what the head of Mossad had done. Freidman’s money, though, would
stay out of his reach for a while longer. Kennedy wanted it for leverage on some other things.

With Freidman’s information they began looking into Clark’s life. Rapp had done most of the surveillance and digging with the help of Donatella and a few other well trusted specialists. He’d been inside all three of Clark’s homes and examined his financial and medical records in detail. He’d also taken the opportunity to insert certain things here and there to help explain the senator’s upcoming death.

Just killing Clark wasn’t going to work. It would have been easy, but doing it so closely on the heels of Rudin’s apparent suicide would have raised too many questions. This was why Rapp had picked tonight. The more witnesses the better.

Through the festive sea of holiday revelers Rapp spied a blonde-haired Donatella working her way toward him with Clark in tow. Several people tried to stop the senator, but he was too focused on the bombshell in front of him to slow down.

Donatella approached Rapp and whispered, “It’s taken care of.” Then turning back to Clark she said, “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.” Donatella stepped out of the way and left the two men facing each other.

Rapp looked at Clark’s face for signs that the drug was working its way through his bloodstream. A layer of sweat was forming on his lip and his eyes appeared to be agitated.

Clark stuck out his hand and said, “Senator Hank Clark. Nice to meet you.” At that moment he seemed to lose his balance for a second.

Rapp grabbed his hand firmly. “My name is Mitch Kruse, Senator. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for some time.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Mitch Kruse.”

Over the loud music of the band Clark said, “I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”

Rapp shrugged. “Tell me, Senator, did Congressman Rudin jump, or was he pushed out your window?” Rapp was still holding on to Clark’s hand and wasn’t about to let go.

Clark tried to pull away, but Rapp was too strong. “I don’t find your attempt at humor very entertaining.”

“There’s nothing humorous about it, Senator. I think you killed him.”

Clark tried to pull away again and swayed a bit. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Rapp noticed a heaviness in the senator’s speech. “Senator, you don’t look so good.” Still holding Clark’s hand, Rapp stepped to the side revealing an armchair he’d been saving. “Here. Sit.” Rapp guided him into the chair and took his glass of wine. He handed it to Donatella who wiped it with a napkin and set it on the bar.

Clark clawed at his bow tie. “Something isn’t right. I’m having a hard time breathing.” The words barely made it out.

“You’re having a heart attack, Senator. Just try and stay calm, it’ll all be over in a minute.”

There was horror on Clark’s face. He tried to speak, but nothing came out.

Rapp leaned in real close and said, “By the way, Senator, my name isn’t Mitch Kruse, it’s Mitch Rapp.”

There was a flutter of recognition in Clark’s eyes, but he was too far gone to react.

“I just wanted to meet you face-to-face before you died.” Rapp stepped away so he could see the look of absolute horror on Clark’s face fade to a death stare.

With Clark sitting wide-eyed, Rapp turned and extended his arm for Donatella. She grabbed it and they walked across the dance floor to the sounds of music, conversation and laughter.

About the Author

Vince Flynn
is the #1
New York Times
bestselling author of thirteen previous thrillers, including most recently
Kill Shot
and
American Assassin.
He lives in the Twin Cities with his wife and three children.