For the first time in Rapp's career in counterterrorism he was confronted with a very ugly side of his business, the possibility that he had become a liability. And in his world, liabilities had a tendency to be erased from the balance sheet. Rapp could think of nothing worse than being betrayed by either Stansfield or Kennedy. He trusted them more than anyone in the world. Fortunately, upon his return to America he discovered that his handlers had not betrayed him. There was another problem. A leak. Somewhere, somehow, someone had found out about him, and they had set him up. Stansfield and Kennedy discovered that a man named Peter Cameron had hired the Hoffmans to kill him. Rapp was just about to confront Cameron's neck when he discovered him dead in his office. In the weeks since Cameron's death they had learned some interesting things about the former employee of the CIA, but they had run into a dead end when it came to finding out who he had been working for. Kennedy had a special team within the Agency who were still poring over every detail of Cameron's life in hopes of finding out who had hired him and why, but Rapp knew not to expect much from them. Cameron had been killed by the man who had hired him. Rapp was sure of it.
Rapp wanted out. There would be no more targets, no more assassinations. He wanted to be done with death, and move on to creating some life of his own. He loved Anna more than anyone he had ever known. It was destiny that he'd saved her life and they'd fallen in love. The thought of losing her, of not spending the rest of his life with her, gave him a sickening feeling, and worse, it was affecting his instincts. He was losing his edge. Ironically, now that he was finally ready to walk away from the Orion Team, he couldn't. Right now, there were just too many unanswered questions.
He had to find out who in the hell had hired Peter Cameron and why. It was one thing to have to look over his shoulder when he traveled in the Middle East, but it was an entirely different matter to do it here in the U. S. It would be no way to raise a family, worrying every time he left the house that someone would harm his loved ones. No, Rapp knew he would have to see this thing through to the end. Most probably a bloody one.
By the time he arrived at the main gate of the CIA he was already five minutes late for his 10:00 a. m. meeting. As he approached the intimidating checkpoint he stayed to the left and got into one of the employee lanes. At the barrier he stopped his car and showed his fake credentials to a black-clad man from the CIA's Office of Security. The man had an MP-5 submachine gun slung across his chest and a bulky automatic in a nylon holster at his hip. A dozen more of his compatriots were out on post monitoring the gate, and there were even more standing behind the tinted bulletproof glass and brick of the blockhouse that was dressed up to look like a fancy highway weigh station. The unseen men and women inside carried even bigger guns plus a stash of LAW 80 shoulder-launched rockets just in case some heavy vehicle tried to crash its way onto the grounds. The CIA took its security very seriously. The man studied Rapp's credentials for a moment and then handed them back to him. "Have a nice day, sir."
Rapp nodded and drove ahead, passing through the bright yellow spring-loaded crash barricades. The heavy steel devices were designed to pop up at a moment's notice to bar any unauthorized entry and potential car bombers. He proceeded to the underground parking garage of the Old Headquarters Building where he had to again show his credentials. He parked in a spot reserved for visitors to the director's suite, and passed through an unmarked door into a small lobby. Another guard was waiting and gestured for him to enter the elevator. Rapp stepped in by himself and the doors closed. The elevator went straight from the underground garage to the director's suite on the seventh floor. When the door opened two stocky men in suits were waiting for him. The shorter of the two looked Rapp over from head to toe and gestured for him to enter the office of the director's administrative assistant.
Rapp did so without comment and stepped into the spacious office. The woman behind the desk stood and surprised him by saying, "Good morning, Mr. Rapp. Could I get you anything to drink before your meeting?"
"Coffee would be fine." He wondered how the woman knew his real name.
"Any cream or sugar?"
"No thanks. Just black." She pressed a button on one of three phones and said, "Dr. Kennedy, Mr. Rapp is here for your ten o'clock."
"Thank you, Dottie. Send him in."
Dottie got up from behind her desk and poured Rapp a mug of coffee in a blue Central Intelligence Agency mug. After handing the mug over to Rapp she showed him into Dr. Kennedy's office and closed the door.
Kennedy was at the far end of the long office amid a bevy of file boxes that were stacked on the conference table. Rapp had been in the office on only two previous occasions and glanced around to see what had changed since Stansfields death. It appeared not much. The old spook's photos and awards were still hanging on the walls. He wondered if this was an oversight, or a sign that Kennedy was having trouble letting go of her old boss and mentor.
Kennedy grabbed her jacket from the back of one of the conference table chairs and put it on. She was wearing a stylish gray European suit with flared notched lapels. The color was very similar to Rapp's suit. The uniform color scheme would have made a student of George Orwell smile knowingly.
"Sorry about the mess. They moved everything from my old office while I was at the funeral." Kennedy smiled sadly. "Orders from Thomas. Even from the grave he's still running the show." Kennedy held her arms out and offered her cheek to Rapp.
He held the coffee mug clear and wrapped his free hand around her waist. After kissing her cheek he said, "I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral, but things are a little--"
"No need to explain." Kennedy squeezed him tightly. "You're still not used to showing your face in public. Thomas more than anyone would have understood."
"Well, you know I always had a lot of respect for the old codger."
Kennedy released him, stepping back and motioning for Rapp to take a seat on the couch. "He had an immense amount of respect for you, Mitch." She sat in an overstuffed leather chair. "You know that, don't you?"
Rapp shrugged off the words, uncomfortable, as always, with praise.
"Well, he did. He told me once that in all the years he had been in this business he thought you might be the best." Kennedy sat back in the chair and watched Rapp struggle with the compliment for a moment. She desperately wanted him to come inside and work in the Counterterrorism Center. Rapp's understanding of the Middle East, its different terrorist cells and how they operated would be invaluable to the Center. She could not begrudge him his wish to cease field operations. No one stayed in his line of work forever. It was just too taxing, both physically and mentally. In fact, she had actually begun training Rapp's replacement four years earlier and the young man was coming along just fine. Now, however, with her new duties as director there was no way she could continue to run the Orion Team. She wasn't sure she could trust the team's delicate missions with anyone other than Rapp.
Beyond all of that, she needed someone inside the Agency to watch her back. The blown operation in Germany still loomed large. Someone out there knew things they were not supposed to. They either worked at the Agency or they had someone who did. Kennedy thought it was the latter, and so did Stansfield. Before his death, he had warned that Rapp was not the ultimate target in Germany. Yes someone wanted him dead, but not for the common motive of revenge. Rapp was meant to be found dead next to Count Heinrich Hagenmiller. The scandal was meant to embarrass the Agency, and in Stansfield's keen analysis, ultimately finish Irene Kennedy's career and maybe the President's. The prize, as Stansfield had put it, was the directorship of the CIA. Someone, for reasons unknown, didn't want Kennedy to take over as the head of the world's premier intelligence agency.