The Third Option (14 page)
Senator Clark's limousine pulled into the Congressional Country Club and started up the drive. The golf course, originally designed by Devereaux Emmett and later redesigned by Donald Ross, Robert Trent Jones, and, more recently; Rees Jones, was one of the finest courses in the country. The limo veered to the right and passed the starters' shack. Four golfers dressed in sweaters and wind shirts stood on the first tee. Clark frowned. He'd have to see if he could clear his schedule this afternoon and sneak in eighteen. It looked as if it was going to be a beautiful day: The car continued around the circle drive and stopped in front of the classic Mediterranean-style clubhouse. The senator thanked his driver and told him he'd be no more than an hour.
Once inside, Clark headed downstairs to a private meeting room he'd reserved. He was flanked, as he wove his way through the maze of hallways, by black-and-white photographs laying out the history of the club – President Calvin Coolidge on opening day in 1923, U.S. Open and Kemper Open photos, and Clark's favorite, a shot of the course during World War II when it had been turned into a training camp for OSS spies.
Clark entered the windowless meeting room to find Congressman Rudin and Secretary of State Midleton in heated debate. Clark said hello and stopped at the side buffet to grab a bagel and a bowl of cereal. Before sitting down, he filled up a glass with cranberry juice and signed the ticket. Both Rudin and Midleton were members of the club, but in the twenty-some years that Clark had known them, he had yet to see either of them pick up the tab for anything. The two men were cheap in different ways. Rudin was a simple spendthrift, whereas Midleton was from Mayflower stock. He'd been raised in the way of the Daughters of the American Revolution. His family was royalty, and royalty didn't carry cash, nor did they pick up the tab. So once again, it fell on the shoulders of the boy who'd been raised by two alcoholics in a trailer.
Despite the huge social chasm that lay between them, Clark was by far the wealthiest of the three men. With a net worth in excess of one hundred million dollars, he was one of the top five wealthiest politicians in Washington. Midleton had his precious estate that had been passed down to him. It was worth eight million dollars, pitiable by today's new standards of wealth. Midleton was very proud of the fact that he'd never touched the principal in his inheritance. The money was handled by the same bank that had managed Midleton's great-great-grandfather's money; Clark had done some checking. The portfolio had shown a laughable return of eight percent over the last decade. It seemed the secretary of state invested his money the old-fashioned way; He paid huge fees to stodgy old bankers who put his money into tax-free municipal bonds and a few old stalwart utilities.
Congressman Rudin was somewhat better off. Having been in the House for thirty-four years, he could retire tomorrow at full pension and benefits, more than enough money to support his frugal lifestyle. He'd been squirreling his money away over the years. Two years ago, his IRA was worth almost eight hundred thousand dollars. That was when Clark had finally persuaded him to let his money managers take a whack at growing the account. It was like pulling teeth to get Rudin to turn over control. In just two years, Clark's people had turned the eight hundred thousand dollars into $1.7 million, and Rudin had yet to offer a thank you, let alone pick up a tab.
There had been a time when this would have bothered the senior senator from Arizona, but Clark had risen above his feelings. He pitied the way the two men nervously fretted every time a waiter delivered a check. It was truly pathetic. Today, as he sat at the table and spread cream cheese on his bagel, he tried to gauge just how far he could play these two before they figured out what he was up to.
Clark had no intention of asking the secretary of state why he had called this meeting. The senator knew why. His spies in the White House and over at Foggy Bottom had told him there had been an incident between the president and his top Cabinet member. An incident involving the German ambassador and one that had been extremely embarrassing to Secretary Midleton.
Rudin was perched over a bowl of Grape-nuts, shoveling the tiny rocks into his mouth. In between spoonfuls, he would lean even closer to Midleton and spew forth his own take on what was going on at the Central Intelligence Agency. When Clark appeared to be settled in, Rudin turned his attention away from the secretary of state.
«Hank, did you hear what happened at the White House yesterday?»
Clark played dumb and shook his head. For the next forty seconds, Rudin retold his inflamed version of what had taken place in the Oval Office. For Midleton's part, he sat there looking wounded in his gray suit and paisley bow tie. Clark was on tricky ground. As amateurish as Rudin and Midleton could seem at times, one could not forget the fact that they were two of the most influential and powerful politicians in town. They were Democrats, and he was the enemy. If they got even the slightest whiff that he was playing them, it would be over.
When Rudin was done rambling, Clark set his juice down and looked at the secretary of state. «I'm sorry you had to be embarrassed like that, Charles. It's inappropriate to take you to task in front of other Cabinet members. But it sounds like the president did have a point.»
Before Midleton could respond, Rudin was lurching forward. His weather-beaten face twisted in a grimace of disbelief. «What point could you be talking about? Did you listen to a thing I said?»
«AI, this Hagenmiller guy was consorting with the wrong people.»
«Wrong people. That's the CIA's side of the story, and we all know how much that's worth.»
«We've discussed this before, AI. We differ on the value of Langley.» Clark took a bite of his bagel and waited for the inevitable tirade.
«The wretched Central Intelligence Agency is the biggest waste of money this country has ever seen. The way they operate is unconstitutional, and they are a danger to the future of democracy not only in this country but around the world.»
Clark pushed himself back and folded his arms across his chest. «I didn't come here to be preached to about something that we will never agree on. Now, if there is something constructive you two would like to discuss, let's get to it. Otherwise, I have other things to attend to.»
Rudin shook his head in frustration. It drove him crazy that his friend from Arizona couldn't see the CIA for what it was.
Midleton, always the diplomat, stepped in. «Hank, what are you hearing about Thomas Stansfield's health?»
Clark stifled a grin. They had gone right where he wanted them to. «My sources tell me he could be gone in two weeks or two months but no longer than that.»
Midleton nodded thoughtfully, as if he were actually mourning Stansfield's approaching demise. «Are you concerned over who will succeed him as director?»
«Of course I am.»
«Have you heard any names?»
«No.» Clark shook his head. «You're in the administration, not me.»
«Well, as the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, you're going to have a lot of say in the matter.»
«In confirmation only. Your man is the one who gives us the name. All we do is ask a few questions and vote up or down.»
«You are being far too modest,» countered Midleton.
Rudin was busy shaking his head and trying to pick something from his teeth. «Surely you must have heard a few names thrown about?»
«No, not really.»
Rudin pulled a toothpick from his mouth and barked, «What about Irene Kennedy?»
«No, I haven't heard her name mentioned, but I think she would be a good nominee.»
«Oh my God! You can't be serious!» Rudin was back out over the table.
Calmly, Clark replied, «And what may I ask is wrong with Dr. Kennedy?»
«Where do you want me to start?» asked an incredulous Rudin.
«Wherever you'd like.»
«First off, she's an insider, and we sure as hell don't need another insider running that damn place. We need someone who will go in there and clean house. Someone who will pay the strictest attention to congressional oversight. Above and beyond that, she's not even qualified.»
«She's done a very good job with the Counterterrorism Center,» argued Clark.
«Bullshit, I don't believe a single briefing she gives my committee. That woman is a liar and a conniver, and I'll be damned if I'll allow her to take over as DCI.»
«From what you just said, it sounds like she's the perfect person to run an intelligence agency.» Clark couldn't help smiling just a little. This was going all too well.
«I'm glad you think this is funny, Hank. It's one thing to lie and connive when dealing with our enemies, but when they come before my committee, I want the truth, and the bottom line is that there is no way in hell that woman is going to give it to me.»
Clark pointed at Rudin. «Did you ever stop and think that she doesn't tell you things because she knows you would like to cut funding for her agency in half?»
«That isn't her prerogative. She is bound by law to report the facts to my committee, and she doesn't, and it pisses me off.»
«Then you should investigate her.» Clark had just put Rudin in check. He knew Rudin was the ultimate party man. To investigate Kennedy would mean bringing down the heat on President Hayes, a fellow Democrat. Rudin retreated and crossed his arms, conflicted between his loyalty to his party and his hatred of the CIA.
«Let's all just calm down a bit,» interjected Midleton. As unhappy as he was with the president at the moment, the last thing he wanted was Rudin going off on a witch-hunt. The Republicans would gain serious mileage out of a Democratic congressman going after a Democratic president, and as a member of that president's Cabinet, the last thing Midleton wanted to see were congressional hearings. They had a habit of expanding, and once the shooting started, no one knew who might get caught in the crossfire.
«I am calm.» Clark took his napkin and set it on the table»
«Good.» Midleton glanced over at Rudin as if to tell him to stay quiet for a few minutes. Looking back to Clark, he said, «Who would you like to see take over at Langley?»
This was far too easy. Clark cautioned himself not to overreach. He had his person and two more as backups, but now was far too early to throw a name out.» As I've already said, it's not my job to nominate. I only confirm.»
«But if you could pick someone?»
Clark shrugged his shoulders. «I have no idea. I haven't put any thought into it.» He added with a laugh, «Not that it would matter.»
«It might,» offered Midleton.
«What he's trying to say,» interjected Rudin, «is that we don't like the idea of Kennedy taking over. And from what you're telling us, she's the president's choice. I am prepared to go to the president and tell him that I oppose Kennedy's nomination, but considering how vocal I've been on the issue, it will be no big surprise to him. He and I have been around and around on this issue, and we cannot see eye to eye.»
«Why don't you threaten to cut funding?» It was a very subtle jibe. Clark knew Rudin didn't have the votes on his own committee to push such a policy.
«I'm a party man, and you know it, Hank.» Rudin said this as if it was the most honorable thing that could be said of a person. «I can't go against my president on this.»
«Well, I don't know what to tell you, gentlemen. If you don't like Kennedy as a nominee, then you'd better find a way to change Hayes's mind.» It was a high lob back to their side of the net.
Midleton fidgeted in his chair before speaking. «If you were to come up with a nominee who was more palatable than Kennedy, we would be willing to take that name to the president and plead your case.»
Clark tried to act surprised. «So you'd like me to play the bad guy.»
Midleton didn't like the term but nodded.
«Please tell me why I'd want to do this?»
«Because,» started Rudin, «there are a thousand people in this town alone who could do a better job of running that damn place.»
Clark nodded slowly. «I'll think about it.» Then, while checking his watch, he said, «I should get going. Is there anything else?»
Both men said no, and then Midleton added, «just please be open-minded about this. We can help each other.»
Clark said he would try and then left. As soon as he was gone, Rudin turned to Midleton and said, «He'll play ball I know how to handle Hank.»
«I hope you're right. I don't think our foreign policy could take much more of this cowboy mentality.»
«Don't worry, I am.»
Midleton wished he could feel more optimistic, but he was still smarting from his meeting the morning before. The president had turned into an absolute hawk. He needed someone to reel him in. Kennedy needed to be cut out of the inner circle. Midleton looked over at his fellow Democrat. «Maybe it would be a good idea to call Dr. Kennedy before your committee.»
Rudin scowled. «Why would I want to give the Republicans a chance to make political hay out of this?»
«Think of it as taking the wind out of their sails before they can make an issue out of it on their own.»
Rudin liked the idea. He'd love to take her to task and remind her whom she answered to. «I'll do it, but I don't want to hurt the president.»
«Don't worry, it won't. I don't think she would ever expose him to that type of scandal.»
While waiting for his limousine to pull around, Senator Clark could barely contain his glee over how the meeting I had gone. Things had not turned out in Germany the way he had planned, but now, with these two buffoons offering their assistance, the end result would be the same. His backers for the Oval Office would be very happy. Very happy indeed.
The warehouse was located near the National Arboretum off Blandensburg. When the gray Dodge Durango came skidding around the corner, one of Duser's men was waiting with the garage door open.
The truck disappeared into the old brick structure. The man standing watch looked up and down the street and then pulled the door down.
Duser stopped the vehicle but left it running. When he got out, a man was standing by with a trash bag. Duser dumped his submachine gun in the bag and went around to the rear of the Durango. Sandra Hickock was lying in back. The bullet had smashed her beautiful face. He looked down at her and shook his head. Part of him was glad she was dead. She'd started to get a little possessive. In the end, it was probably the best thing, but right now it was a pain in the ass. He stepped away from the tailgate and began shouting orders.
His men went to work immediately: New plates were put on the Durango while Hickock's lifeless body was stuffed into an oil drum. The drum was topped off with sand, sealed, and loaded onto the back of a flatbed with eight other drums just like it. In less than five minutes, the body and the guns were gone. As was the Durango, on its way to a chop shop.
Peter Cameron used the time to calm himself. He was an idiot for going along. This would be all over the news within the hour. Close to a hundred rounds had to have been fired. Almost all of them from silenced weapons, but that wouldn't matter much once the police and the media showed up. The two parked cars looked as if they'd been caught in the world's worst hailstorm, and the body of Mario Lukas was riddled with bullet holes. This was not the way he'd wanted things to go. Villaume had been right about Duser. The man was as subtle as a wrecking ball.
Duser approached Cameron with a new weapon in his hand. «Let's go get the girl.»
«No.» Cameron was appalled.
«Don't worry about the cops. They'll be busy enough with the first crime scene.»
«No. We're done for the day.» He rubbed his temples and muttered, «This is going to be all over the news.»
«Big deal. Reporters don't catch criminals, cops do, and we have nothing to worry about. Any evidence that might tie us to that hit just exited the other end of this warehouse.»
Cameron was tempted to ask where it was headed and then thought better of it. «Nope. We're done for the day.»
«What in the hell is wrong with you?» Duser took a step forward. «We have to keep moving while we've got surprise on our side.»
«No, we don't. For the last time… we're done for the day.»
Duser looked as if he wanted to choke someone. «Bullshit! We move now; and we keep moving. I'm telling you, man, we're going to have to deal with them sooner or later, and we're better off doing it right now.»
Cameron shook his head. He did not like the idea of further exposure. Duser sensed this might be the problem and said, «Listen, you stay here, and we'll take care of it. I want Villaume alone and on the run.»
He thought about it for a second and said, «No. Change of plans. I want Villaume, too, and the girl will lead us to him as soon as she finds out about Lukas. We keep Juarez under surveillance, and then we take both of them.»
Duser liked that idea. «Good plan. I'm sorry I got in your face. I'm just a little pumped up right now.»
It's probably all that speed you took, Cameron thought to himself. «That's all right, just make sure you don't lose Juarez. She's our only link to the Frog.»
A minute later, Cameron watched as Duser and McBride got into a Ford Taurus and left. Maybe he was having the wrong people killed. No, he thought to himself. Duser was unpolished and wild. but he could be controlled.
RAPP HAD SPENT the night on Marcus Dumond's couch with a 9-mm Beretta clutched firmly in his left hand. Any thoughts of keeping Dumond out of it were gone. Rapp had come to grips with the fact that he needed some help. One huge question remained. Did Irene Kennedy send the Hoffmans to kill him? All his instincts told him no. He'd known Irene for more than a decade, and she was the most trustworthy person in his life. But in this paranoid business, how well did you ever really know someone? Rapp wanted to believe that Kennedy had nothing to do with the mess, but it was a hard one to swallow. She was not only the most logical choice but really the only choice. She was the link between the Hoffmans and him.
The two men were sitting at Dumond's kitchen table. The apartment was a good-sized one-bedroom. The kitchen had a small breakfast nook, and the dining room had been converted into Dumond's office. An eight-foot solid oak door laid across stacked cinder blocks served as a desk. The surface was covered with three computer monitors, mouses, keyboards, scanners, and a few things Rapp had never seen. Framed posters of several X-Men Marvel comic book heroes adorned the walls. Rapp was only four years older than Dumond, but it was as if the two had been born in different centuries. Dumond was out there on the edge, riding the wild waves of cyberspace.
Dumond was shoveling Cap'n Crunch cereal into his mouth while Rapp gave him instructions. «Make sure you don't set off any alarms while you're digging around.»
Dumond looked up, a drop of milk running down his chin. «Relax, Mitch, it's what I do for a living.» Dumond's job was a fantasy come true. He was both sanctioned and paid by the United States government to spend his days hacking.
«Yeah, but this is different. This time you'll be hacking into files at Langley and the Pentagon.»
Dumond grinned, his mouth full of golden Cap'n Crunch. After he had enough of it swallowed, he said, «There ain't nothing different about that.»
Rapp eyed him for a moment. Dumond had a smart-ass streak in him a mile wide. «Don't jerk my chain, Marcus.»
«I'm not. I'm usually in the Pentagon's system at least once a day.»
«And Langley's?»
«I'm on the system.»
«But what about areas where you're not supposed to be.»
«Not every day, but I've been known to look around from time to time.»
«How often?»
«Every day.» Dumond shoved another spoonful in his mouth.
«Does Irene know that you do this?»
«No… not always.»
Rapp shook his head like a troubled father.» Marcus, I'm telling you for your own good, you'd better watch what you're doing. You open up the wrong person's file, and you might suddenly disappear.» Rapp snapped his fingers.
«How are they going to catch me when they don't even know I've been there? Hmm?»
«Marcus, I know you're good, but no one's perfect. You keep screwing around like this, and you're gonna get caught.» Dumond smiled and shook his head in disagreement. Rapp pointed his finger at the younger man and said, «Marcus, I'm not fucking around on this! You're playing a very dangerous game, and sooner or later someone is going to be on to you. And when that happens, you can kiss your ass goodbye, and I don't mean your job… I mean your life.» Rapp turned his finger on himself. «The CIA and the Pentagon, they have dozens of guys just like me. They don't know dick about computers, but they know a lot about killing people.»
Dumond heeded the warning. «All right… all right.» He got up and dumped the rest of his cereal down the garbage disposal. His appetite was suddenly gone.
A few minutes later, they left the four-plex, Dumond out the front and on his way to Langley, Rapp out the back and on his way to a storage shed in the sticks. Rapp walked eight blocks to Wisconsin Avenue and went underground, where he caught the Metro going north. He was wearing the same clothes from the night before – his baseball cap, a sweatshirt, his khakis, and blue tennis shoes. The outfit would be fine until he got to the storage locker. The train was relatively empty since most of the people were headed into the city to work, and he was headed out. Rapp's backpack was on the empty seat next to him, his arm resting on top of it. The train gently rocked as it rolled through the tunnel, and a short while later it was above ground, the bright sunlight spilling through the windows.
The only other person in the car pulled out a cell phone and started talking. Rapp's hand slid over to one of the outer pockets on the backpack and patted it. Dumond had given him a digitally encrypted phone. He told Rapp it was safe to use whenever he wanted and for as long as he wanted. But Rapp, always the skeptic, planned to use it sparingly and only for a few minutes at a time.
The desire to see Anna was overwhelming. He looked out the window as the train rolled north. He knew he shouldn't do it, but he had to. At the very least, he had to hear her voice. Rapp pulled out the phone and turned it on. He quickly punched in her work number and nervously counted the seconds. After three rings her voice mail picked up. Mitch listened to her voice and then, at the beep, he punched the end button on the phone. His spirits plummeted. It wasn't just about not finding Anna. For the first time in his life, Rapp was filled with doubt. Doubt over whether or not he should just walk away. Whether they would even let him walk away. He was so close to where he wanted to be. Why did he have to take that last mission? Why couldn't he just have called it quits? He took his baseball cap off and ran a hand over his short, bristly black hair. He knew the answer to all of those questions, but at this moment he didn't feel like admitting it. All he wanted was Anna. To put all of this behind him and live a normal life.
IRENE KENNEDY ENTERED the conference room on the seventh floor of the CIA's headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and set her notepad on the table. Lunch would have to wait. This meeting had been sprung on her. The rectangular room was adjacent to the director's office. Bland and functional, it contained a long mahogany table and a dozen leather chairs. The room was swept every morning by the Administration Directorate's Office of Security – the CIA's Gestapo, as it was affectionately referred to by some of the Agency's more than twenty thousand employees. Hidden behind the curtains were small devices that caused the windows to vibrate, making penetration by a parabolic microphone impossible. For obvious reasons, the CIA took its security seriously, and in very few places was it taken more seriously than the executive suite of the seventh floor.
There were five other individuals at the conference table, and none of them spoke to each other. Max Salmen, the oldest of the group, didn't care for the others, with the exception of Irene Kennedy. They were, to him, dangerous mongrels – each a mix of bureaucrat, politician, and lawyer and each nearly incapable of making the correct decision for the right reason. They headed three of the Agency's directorates, and Salmen headed the fourth. As deputy director of Operations, Salmen was in charge of the spies. It was his people who ran the black ops, recruited agents from both friend and foe, kept tabs on counterespionage, and tracked the terrorists. His people were the front-line troops, the case officers, the people out in the field getting their hands dirty and taking the real risks. Salmen had cut his teeth with Stansfield in Europe, and then, as Stansfield had risen through the ranks, the crusty Salmen had come with him. Salmen was Kennedy's immediate boss, although she often reported directly to Stansfield.
The other three people at the table were also deputy directors. Charles Workman ran Intelligence. His people were the bookworms, the Mensa geeks who pored over reams of information day in and day out. Rachel Mann ran Science and Technology, and Stephen Bauman was in charge of Administration.
Of the three, Salmen disliked Workman the most, but Bauman was a close second. To say that he hated Mann would be unfair. Under different circumstances, Bauman thought he would probably like her. She was very bright and for the most part tried to avoid the political backstabbing that Workman and Bauman thrived on, but in the end there was only so much money to go around, and everyone wanted to take it from Operations. If it wasn't for the recent spate of terrorism, Salmen knew his budget would be in serious trouble.
Salmen folded his nicotine-stained hands across his bulging belly and wondered how much longer he could hold on. His days were numbered. He'd been at the Agency since 1964, stationed first in Cambodia and then in Laos, doing things for his government that were still classified. After Vietnam, he moved on to Europe, where he worked in various embassies before becoming the station chief in Berlin. When Stansfield became director, he recalled Salmen and brought him into his inner circle. Now, with Stansfield on his deathbed, things looked bleak. The only reason Salmen put up with all of the bullshit was out of a sense of duty to the people in the field. He needed to protect them. He needed to keep these desk jockeys off their backs. And there was one oilier reason. Stansfield had asked him to stay and keep an eye on things, and, more explicitl, he had asked his old friend to watch Irene Kennedy's back.
The door to the director's office opened, and Jonathan Brown entered. The deputy director of Central Intelligence, or DDCI as he was known, was the second in charge at the Agency. In theory, the four deputy directors reported to hin1, and he reported to the director himself, but Salmen had never played that game. He went right to the director when there was a problem. Brown had shown some irritation with this, and Salmen knew the second Stansfield was gone, his ass was grass. Until then, he would try to keep the bureaucrat's attention focused on him and off Kennedy.
Brown sat at the head of the table and looked over the attendees with his usual dramatic flair. Because of the sensitivity of most of the things Kennedy worked on, she rarely reported to the DDCI. Kennedy did not have a problem with Brown. The man was more than talented enough to handle his job. Under different circumstances, he might even have made a good director of Central Intelligence. But in the end he was an outsider, a former federal prosecutor and judge. He owed his job at the CIA to a handful of politicians on the Hill who lobbied for him. His loyalty was to them and not to the Agency.
Kennedy was invited to these types of meetings more than she would have liked. Within the four directorates were thirty-plus offices or groups. Of those, Counterterrorism was the one that garnered the most attention. Kennedy had a pretty good idea why she had been yanked out of the CTC on such short notice to attend this meeting on high, and she wasn't happy about it. The CIA was supposed to be about compartmentalization, not openness. If Brown wanted to talk about Germany, he didn't need to bring Science and Technology and Administration in on the meeting.
