The Third Option (13 page)

Rielly stared down at her fingers for a moment. «Sir.» She hesitated not knowing quite where to start. «This is all off the record. Very far off the record. It will never be on any record.»

Hayes grinned. «All right.»

«Where is Mitch, and what kind of trouble is he in?»

The grin on Hayes's face vanished. He began to cautiously consider his reply.» Anna, you already know more than you should. What Mitch does for – «The president paused. He was going to say «the government» but decided that would be too much of an admission. «What Mitch decides to do on his own is something that I am not at liberty to discuss.»

«So you know where he is right now?» Rielly stared at the president with her green eyes, watching every little expression.

Having his law degree and working in Washington for several decades allowed Hayes to focus on the words right now. The president shook his head. «I have no idea where Mitch is.»

«Do you know why he left the country on Thursday?»

Hayes blinked several times and said, «No… I don't.»

Rielly studied him. «Sir, with all due respect, I don't think you are being entirely honest with me.»

«Anna, I don't think we should be talking about this.»

«Sir, I did you and your administration a huge favor by not going public with my story after the hostage crisis was ended.»

«Yes, you did, but this has nothing to do with that.»

Rielly's voice took on a more confrontational tone. «It has everything to do with it.»

Hayes held up his hands. He didn't want this to get heated. «Anna, for your loyalty, you have been given phenomenal access. The fact that you were able to get in here to see me at this hour speaks volumes.»

Rielly cut him off.» And that has been greatly appreciated, sir. But that was the deal you made so I would stay quiet.»

«That's not the only reason you've stayed quiet.»

«What do you mean?»

«Anna, Mitch saved your life. He saved mine. He saved a lot of people's. His wish to keep his life private deserves our respect and continued commitment.»

«I owe Mitch my life. A day doesn’t go by when I don't think about it.» She frowned. «Please don't confuse the issue here. This is not about keeping Mitch's life private. I'm not going to tell anybody about what he does for the CIA. This is about me being worried sick that something has happened to Mitch. It's about me needing to know if he's all right.»

Hayes sighed and looked up at the ceiling. He couldn't believe he was discussing something with a reporter that he wouldn't even discuss with his own national security advisor.

Rielly reached out and touched his arm. «Sir, all I want to know is if he's all right. As far as I'm concerned. we never had this conversation.»

«As far as I know» – Hayes shook his head – «he's fine. But that's all I'm going to say.»

Rielly's face lit up. She reached out and grabbed the president's hand. «Thank you, sir.»

It was dark when American Airlines Flight 602 touched down on the runway at Baltimore Washington International Airport. The flight had just completed its 1,565-mile nonstop journey from San Juan, Puerto Rico. Mitch Rapp looked down at his watch as they taxied to the gate. It was twenty past nine on Monday evening. Once he was out of Germany, the journey back to America had been fairly simple. From Lyon, France, he had taken a Trans North Aviation flight to Fort de France, Martinique, in the Caribbean. The nonstop 4,440-mile flight allowed him to catch a full six hours of sleep as he stretched out in first class.

On the tiny island, which was an overseas department of France, he had checked into a quaint family-run hotel up in the hills overlooking the blue waters of the eastern Caribbean Sea. Rapp paid for both Saturday and Sunday night in cash. Sunday was spent by the pool, relaxing, healing, staring out at the fishing village below, and planning his next step. That evening, he'd allowed himself a cold six-pack while he sat on his balcony and listened to the waves crash in on the rocky shoreline below. He'd allowed his imagination to roam as he thought about what he'd do to the Hoffmans when he got his hands on them.

That night he'd slept for almost eight hours. He awoke with a slight hangover, but after a jog down to the water and a one-mile swim, he felt invigorated and ready to face whatever awaited him back in the States. The two nights and one day spent on tranquil Martinique had brought his mind and body back into focus.

On Monday morning he caught an Air Guadeloupe flight to San Juan, where he cleared U.S. Customs. Monday afternoon was spent shopping for new clothes and eating, and then at 6:15 that evening, he boarded the flight for Maryland. Rapp stepped off the plane in Baltimore looking every bit the tourist who had just returned from a weekend in the sun. He was wearing a faded red baseball cap from Larry's Dive Shop in San Juan, a blue-and-white Hawaiian shirt, a pair of khakis, and blue boat shoes. His face and forearms were tanned.

Rapp was all but sure the folks at Langley had not been able to track him. He had traveled using two separate identities, identities the watchers at Langley had never been told of. If they got lucky and saw him on one of the airport's security tapes, that would be fine. He would be gone then, having disappeared into a city that he knew intimately. There was a chance they might have people at the airport staking out the gates. If they were there, Rapp was confident he'd spot them. As he walked with the rest of the vacationers toward the baggage claim, Rapp stayed close to two women he had met at the airport in San Juan. He kept the brim of his hat down and his eyes alert. He'd stay with the crowd until he was sure he could make a safe break.

On Martinique, Rapp had devised three different plans. The first stage of each involved obtaining some protection. None of them involved going back to the house. At least not until he did a little digging and found out what in the hell had happened. Anna also would have to wait. He desperately wanted to talk to her but knew it was a bad idea, and for more than one reason. She would want him just to walk away and put the whole thing behind him. What she didn't understand was that in this line of work, loose ends had a way of coming back and biting you in the ass. He would get word to her that he was safe and back in the country, but that would be it.

When the herd of freshly tanned tourists neared the baggage claim, the two women from Bowie, Maryland, suggested to Rapp that they get together for drinks. Rapp smiled sheepishly and told them he didn't think his girlfriend would like the idea. With that, he took the escalator up and walked out the door onto the curb. There were three cabs within thirty feet in either direction. All three were dropping passengers off. The drivers were not allowed to pick up passengers on the departure level. They were supposed to go back downstairs and line up with everybody else. Rapp waited for one of the cabbies to get back in his vehicle and then darted into the back seat. Before the cabbie could protest, Rapp shoved a fifty-dollar bill in his face. The money did the trick. The cabbie looked around to see if anybody had noticed and then put the car in drive.

«The Hyatt Regency in Bethesda, please.»

The man nodded and pushed the button to start the meter. Rapp turned sideways so he could glance out the back window to see if someone might be following. A few minutes later, they were on Interstate 95 headed south for Washington. The drive proved uneventful, at least as far as Rapp could tell. One never knew anymore, though. In this day of satellites and micro transmitters, eyes and ears could follow from hundreds of miles away, and you'd have no way of knowing.

When the cab pulled up to the Hyatt, Rapp gave the driver another fifty and then went through the revolving front door and into the lobby. After finding the payphones, he plugged in some change and dialed a number from memory. After six rings, an answering machine greeted him. Rapp took this as a good sign. The odds just went up that Marcus Dumond would be where he wanted him to be. Before leaving the lobby, Rapp grabbed a sweatshirt out of his backpack. It was a little cooler here than it had been in the Caribbean.

The coffee shop was six blocks away. It was the brain-child of Marcus Dumond. Mitch Rapp and his brother Steven had put up the money and were silent partners. The name of the place was Cafe Wired. It was one of the original Internet coffee shops, and Rapp was sure one of the only profitable ones. Rapp had met the incredibly unique Dumond while he was a graduate student at MIT with Rapp's brother. Dumond could be classified as one of those people who was smart in school and dumb on the bus.

Dumond was a twenty-seven-year-old computer genius and almost convicted felon. Rapp had brought Dumond into the fold at Langley three years earlier. The young cyber-genius had run into some trouble with the feds while he was earning his master's degree in computer science at MIT. He was alleged to have hacked into one of New York's largest banks and then transferred funds into several overseas accounts. The part that interested the CIA I was that Dumond wasn't caught because he left a trail; he was caught because he got drunk one night and bragged about his financial plunders to the wrong person.

At the time of the alleged crime, Dumond was living with Steven Rapp. When the older Rapp heard about Dumond's problems with the FBI, he called Irene Kennedy and told her the hacker was worth a look. Langley doesn't go like to admit the fact that they employ some of the world's best computer pirates, but these young cyber-geeks are encouraged to hack into any and every computer system they can. Most of these hacking raids are directed at foreign companies, banks, governments, and military computer systems. But just getting into a system isn't enough. The challenge is to hack in, get the information, and get out without leaving a trace that the system was ever compromised. Dumond was a natural at it, and his talents were put to good use in the Counterterrorism Center.

Rapp opened the door and stepped into a room filled with the aroma of fresh-ground coffee. There, sitting in the rear of the establishment, was Marcus Dumond, with his back to the door. Rapp frowned. Dumond's instincts were horrible. He would last about five minutes in the field. Rapp stopped at the counter and said hello to the young woman who was working. He was pleased to see that, unlike the last one, this employee didn't have any pierced body parts, at least none that he could see. Rapp tried to read the hodgepodge of flavors, blends, and specials scrawled across the grade-school chalkboard that hung on the wall above the espresso machines.

The number of choices was too great. «I'll just take a cup of your daily roast.»

«Small, medium, or large?»

«Large, please.»

Rapp continued to check the place out. There were fourteen customers at the moment. Most of them looked to be around twenty. The four computers on the back wall were all being used, one customer was reading a book, and two more were scribbling in spiral notebooks. Aspiring anarchists, Rapp thought to himself. The rest of the customers were working on their own laptops.

Dumond was sitting at a table with two women surfing die Web and chatting. Dumond had heard the familiar voice ask for a cup of coffee, and he fought the urge to turn around and look. It belonged to Mitch Rapp, a man he knew things about that he wasn't supposed to – that no one was supposed to. It wasn't unusual for Rapp to stop by the cafe, but he usually did it on Sundays with his girlfriend. Dumond stood and grabbed his half-finished cup of coffee. As he walked up to the counter, he unconsciously licked his suddenly parched lips.

Rapp paid for his coffee and thanked the woman. As he turned, he faced Dumond and nodded toward the back. The two men picked their way through the tables and chairs and sat down in a booth next to the bathrooms. Rapp took the side facing the front door.

«Nice afro, Marcus.» Dumond instinctively reached up and touched his black hair. «They're coming back, you know.»

«I'm sure Dr. J will be happy to hear that.»

«Who?»

Mitch shook his head and grinned. Marcus had to be the only twenty-eight-year-old African American in D.C. who didn't know who Dr. J was. «Never mind.»

«You look like you've been in the sun.»

«I've been traveling.»

«Business or pleasure?»

Rapp grabbed his cup of coffee with both hands and said, «Business.»

«How did it go?» asked Dumond a little tentatively.

«Not so good.» Rapp took a sip. «How have things been at the center?» He was referring to the Counterterrorism Center.

«Same old shit.»

«Nothing unusual in the last three days?»

«No.» Dumond frowned. «Nothing that came across my screen.»

«How about Irene? How's she been acting?»

«Same as always. She's Irene.»

«Nothing at all?»

«Mitch, the woman probably doesn't even moan when she has an orgasm. Hell, she's probably never even had an orgasm.»

Rapp frowned at Dumond, and before he could say anything, Dumond added, «I'm sorry. I like Irene, but you know what I mean. She's a cool customer. The building could be burning down, and she'd just keep on going like she always does.»

Rapp knew what he meant. «You haven't noticed anything?»

Dumond leaned back. «Well, shit, Mitch, there's always something. Maybe if you told me what your business was about, I might be able to tell you more.»

He thought about it for a moment. For now, he decided he would keep Dumond in the dark about Germany. «I assume you still have that case I gave you?»

«Yep. I haven't touched it just like you told me. «Well, in truth, he'd touched it, he'd sat on it, and he'd looked at it. He'd wondered over and over what was inside the cold metal case. His mind almost always settled on a combination of guns and money. Mitch Rapp was a bad dude, and he wouldn't waste his time asking people to keep a locked metal case of clothes.

Rapp turned his wrist up and checked the time. «It's still at the four-plex?»

«Yeah, just around the corner.»

«All right, let's go.»

Mario Lukas awoke on Tuesday morning at five. He was not a good sleeper, hadn't been for as long as he could remember. He figured it was just one more thing in a long list of liabilities associated with his profession. It's not always easy for a hired killer to relax. And at Mario's level, it's not the feds you worry about, it's the other shooters. You spend a lot of time looking over your shoulder wondering if someone is going to come after you for revenge, or if you might get double-crossed by someone you thought was a friend, or if an employer has decided you are too big of a liability to let live.

When Mario rolled out of bed in the predawn hours, this was what was on his mind. The person he knew as the Professor was not to be trusted. Mario had watched the man closely while they were in Colorado. Villaume had told him to do so, and Mario didn't like what he saw.

Operations like the one they had just done in Colorado were never good. Mario thought they were kind of like screwing a married woman. If you ended up getting seriously involved with her, you shouldn't be surprised if you woke up one day and found out she was doing the same thing to you that she did to her first, second, or third husband. In essence, the Professor had hired the couple in Colorado to do a job, and then he had them killed. He had also hired Mario, Villaume, and Juarez to do a job, and now what was there to prevent him from hiring another set of killers to take them out? This was why he couldn't sleep.

Mario swung his feet onto the wood floor of his Spartan one-bedroom apartment. He sat there for a minute scratching himself and waiting for the lightheadedness to fade. Then standing, he started for the bathroom, his back and legs stiff. The tiny apartment came furnished with only the necessities, which was fine for Mario. He didn't like collecting things. He'd been living in apartments like this for thirty of his fifty-some years. Even Mario wasn't sure how old he was. He'd had so many aliases over the years and lived in so many different places, he'd forgotten if he was fifty-five or fifty-six. Everything he owned could be placed in the trunk of his car. With what he did for a living, it made no sense to accumulate too many things. On a moment's notice you might have to pick up and disappear. He couldn't help but think that this was one of those times.

When he was done in the bathroom, he walked to the door and got his newspaper. He grabbed a jug of orange juice from the refrigerator and a glass from the cupboard. As he started to read the paper, he thought of an old associate who had tried to talk him into buying a house one time. The man had tried to sell him on the idea that they could use the tax writeoff. Mario reminded him that since they were paid in cash, the writeoff would do them no good. That acquaintance had disappeared, never to be found again.

Villaume was the only true friend Mario had ever had and the first person he had met in the business whom he could unquestioningly trust with his life. Villaume had helped him look toward retirement. Mario had always kept his money in a series of safe deposit boxes. Villaume had taken that money and put it into offshore bank accounts where it was now handled by a money manager. The return was so good that he could retire today if he wanted. In light of the job in Colorado, he thought it might be a good idea at least to take a little time off.

At 6:25, he got ready for his walk to the neighborhood bakery. Having lived in France for more than twenty years, Mario hated American coffee. It had taken him more than a week to find a place that served good cappuccino, but he had prevailed. It was a little bakery six blocks away. Before leaving, he stuck a 9-mm pistol in the front of his pants. Leaving his dark shirt untucked. he put on his jacket and hat and left.

JEFF DUSER WAS on speed. Sitting in the driver's seat of the gray Dodge Durango, he tapped out a tune on the steering wheel as his eyes darted back and forth between the two side mirrors and the rearview mirror. He was wearing a dark brown suit and a tan trench coat. In the breast pocket of his suit were credentials that identified him as Steven Metzger, a federal agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Duser still kept his hair short-buzzed and flat on top but not skinned on the sides like he'd had it when he was in the Marine Corps. He had joined the Marines when he was eighteen. It was either Parris Island or jail. The local cops in Toledo, Ohio, had his number. The police chief had personally driven him to the recruiting station on his eighteenth birthday.

Duser thought he'd found a home in the Marine Corps. That was until the Corps got soft on him. If the politically correct politicians thought they were going to force him to let faggots serve in his unit, they had another thing coming. He had openly encouraged and participated in the hazing of suspected homosexuals. A particularly green private right out of boot camp had taken the platoon's first sergeant's words a little too seriously: After an evening of beer and prodding, the private went back to the barracks and beat a fellow Marine to death. The subsequent investigation exposed Duser's role and many of his other shortcomings. He was court-martialed and run out of the Corps. From there he'd found his way into private security and then contract killing.

Wally McBride sat in the front passenger seat, a silenced Steyr TMP submachine gun on his lap. Duser and his people had a crate of the weapons stashed at a warehouse in Richmond. They had gotten them in one of the shipments they had hijacked from a gun dealer who was importing them from Austria. The weapon was compact. Even with the sound suppressor attached, it was easily concealable. They had meticulously filed the serial numbers off the weapons and then swabbed them with acid. Duser didn't have many rules, but there was one he was adamant about. If you used a weapon to kill someone, it was dumped in the ocean as soon as possible.

Peter Cameron was in the back seat watching the two men fidget. He had seen them take the speed but said nothing. He knew why they did it, and he himself was wondering why he didn't take one when they'd offered it to him. He had been up all night with Duser planning what they were going to do, and in an effort to stay awake, he drank a few too many cups of coffee. Now he had to go to the bathroom but didn't dare leave the vehicle. It was getting light out, and their target would be along shortly:

Before leaving Colorado on Sunday, Cameron had stepped away from Villaume and his people and made a phone call. It was to Duser. Cameron hadn't been given the order to take out Villaume and his people yet, but he thought he would be proactive. Cameron told him where and when they would be landing and whom he wanted followed. When they'd touched down at the Montgomery County Airpark, Duser and his people had been waiting. They'd placed transponders on eight different suspected cars in the parking lot. When Villaume, Juarez, and Lukas left the airport, Duser and his men followed. They stayed a good way back and let the transponders do the work. Juarez parked her car on the street right in front of her apartment, very stupid on her part. Lukas parked his eight blocks away, and they'd lost him. On Monday, one of Duser's people reestablished contact with the massive man, and now they knew where he lived. Villaume had vanished into thin air. The car he had taken from the airport was still under surveillance, and they were canvassing the neighborhood where it was parked but had yet to come up with anything.

This didn't really bother Cameron. He didn't think much of Villaume. Without Mario Lukas, the man was a bear without claws. Cameron was convinced that Villaume would run scared as soon as he found out his old friend was dead.

Duser heard the call come in over his earpiece and glanced over at Wally McBride. McBride nodded and got out of the car. Mario Lukas was headed in their direction. Duser had three vehicles and six people in the area. If they were lucky, he was on his way to the same bakery he had gone to the morning before. The plan was to distract Lukas and take him from behind. The job of distracting Lukas fell on the shoulders of Sandra Hickock, a former stripper and vivacious beauty whom Duser had personally recruited and trained.

THE STREETS WERE empty for the most part. The streetlights were still on but weren't needed. The sun would be up in another fifteen minutes. Mario recognized a neighbor who was out taking her poodle for a walk. As they neared, he touched the brim of his hat and nodded. Mario had learned long ago that his size was very intimidating to people. Sometimes this was a good thing, and sometimes it wasn't. The woman smiled back as they passed. A block later, Mario took a right. He never walked the same route to the bakery each morning.

An early-morning jogger was running toward him on the opposite side of the street. Mario thought he looked vaguely familiar. He continued on, looking at the parked cars and checking over his shoulder every half block or so. He made one last turn, and the bakery was just ahead on his right. When he was midway down the block, a woman rounded the corner up ahead and started toward him. She had her arms folded across her chest, and her hands were stuck under her armpits. She looked cold despite the fact that it was a relatively mild morning. Mario noted her clothes and her obvious beauty, even at this distance. This was a woman he would have remembered seeing. As they drew closer, the woman looked up, brushed some of her long black hair from her face, and smiled.

The warning bells went off immediately in Mario's large, head. While looking quickly over his shoulder, he slid his right hand under his untucked shirt. There was a man rounding the comer behind him, and he was moving fast. Mario snapped his head back around, first checking if there was anything across the street and then looking back to the woman, who was still smiling. A blue U.S. Postal Service box was just up ahead. Mario picked up the pace and moved to his right while he drew the 9-mm Colt 2000. The smile on he woman's face vanished at the sight of the gun. She started to unfold her arms. Mario noticed a black object in her right hand, and before she could bring the weapon to bear, Mario had the Colt up and leveled. He squeezed the trigger once, the loud crack of the automatic pistol echoing off the of the brick apartment buildings.

The bullet struck the woman in the face. Mario went into a crouch and ducked between two parked cars. Before he could turn to search out the man, a hail of bullets sliced through the hood of the car just behind him. Keeping his head down, Mario lifted the gun up and fired three shots down the sidewalk. As he brought the gun back down, he heard an engine revving and tires squealing. Bullets continued to thump into the cars around him.

DUSER WAS PUSHING the gas pedal to the floor. He yelled into his lip mike, «Keep him pinned down, I'll be there in a second!» The Durango skidded around the corner. He rolled down the driver's side window and got ready to shoot. Up ahead on his left he could see glass flying as bullets smashed into the windshield of a parked car. Duser stuck his compact Steyr submachine gun out the window and started firing. As he neared the spot, he slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a stop. Dead in his sights, crouched down behind the trunk of the car, was Mario Lukas. Duser held the trigger down and emptied the remainder of the twenty-five-round magazine into the man's broad back. Lukas slumped over and fell facedown in the gutter.