CHAPTER 8
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“WHERE in the hell is Mitch Rapp?”
The question was tossed out like a hand grenade lobbed at an enemy position. It rolled down the long, shiny mahogany conference table, striking fear in all. Eyes were averted, a few throats were cleared, and one man was actually smart enough to get up and head for the door. One by one, though, all eyes turned to the woman sitting at the opposite end of the table. As director of the CIA, she was responsible for Rapp.
Irene Kennedy looked down the length of the ridiculously long table at her questioner. He was a lawyer, of course. They were all lawyers these days; the FBI agents on her left, the Department of Justice people on her right – even the handful of people from State more than likely had law degrees. Kennedy had intentionally left her lawyers back at Langley for this early-morning meeting. Tactically speaking, this was a reconnaissance operation, and for that she’d brought along two men with plenty of experience. She eyed the antagonist at the far end of the table. Over the last two weeks she’d heard a steady stream of complaints about the man. Watching him operate for the first time, she wondered how two parents could have so thoroughly failed to equip their child with the most basic manners.
Wade Kline was the newly appointed chief privacy and civil liberties officer at the Department of Justice. He was a fairly attractive man, at least until he opened his mouth, at which point he became decidedly less so. His new position at Justice was created to appease the ACLU crowd on Capitol Hill, who felt that America had become a police state. Before taking the post, Kline had spent a decade as a prosecutor working for the New York State Attorney General’s Office.
“Well?” Kline asked with obvious impatience.
Kennedy’s face remained unimpressed. She had learned the espionage business at the arm of Thomas Stansfield, a Cold War legend. Like her mentor, she was widely known to be an unflappable player; respected by most, despised by a few and feared by more than she realized. All of that went with the job, of course. She was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and it was easy for people to imagine a hidden, sinister side to an otherwise classy and pleasant woman.
Kennedy eyed Kline and told herself to stay calm. At thirty-nine he was too young to be throwing his weight around, and old enough to know better. Kennedy had seen plenty of men and women like Kline come and go over the years. Five months ago the New Yorker would have had no chance at getting under her skin, but a lot had changed since then. There was no doubt about the source of her discontent. It could all be traced to a single traumatic event that had sent her careening down a road of doubt and pain, an event she tried every day to forget.
“This is not a difficult question,” Kline pressed. His suit coat was off, his tie loose, and his white shirtsleeves rolled up.
Kennedy’s brow furrowed as if she was studying a strange insect. “Mr. Rapp,” she said in an even tone, “is unavailable.”
“Unavailable.” Kline contemplated the word. “That’s pretty vague.”
“Not really.”
“I beg to differ.” Kline paused, scribbled a note to himself, looked directly at Kennedy, and asked, “Where is he?”
It was obvious to Kennedy that Kline had spent a fair amount of time strutting in front of juries. Surely he didn’t think she would simply announce the location of her top counterterrorism operative to the Justice Department’s newest politically appointed watchdog. Feeling a tinge of anger over the man’s arrogance, Kennedy said, “Where and what Mr. Rapp is doing is none of your business.”
“I couldn’t disagree more, Ms. Kennedy.”
Despite the warnings by her legal counsel, Kennedy was shocked by the man’s arrogance. She took off her reading glasses. “It’s Director Kennedy, Mr. Kline, or Dr. Kennedy, if you would prefer.”
A cocky, self-satisfied grin spread across Kline’s face. “Doctor, director,” he said in a more pleasant tone, “either one works for me.”
Kennedy did not flinch. She made no effort to respond in any way. Her thoughts headed down an unconventional path, exploring the man’s potential weaknesses, wondering how he would react to pain.
“Back to Rapp, if we could.” Kline tapped his pen on his yellow legal pad as if to refocus the conversation. “I’ve been asking to see the man for more than a month, and frankly, I’ve about run out of patience.”
“Mr. Rapp is very busy.”
“Aren’t we all, Madam Director.”
“Some more than others,” she said, a touch of impatience creeping into her voice.
Kline did not miss the change in tone. He nodded to Kennedy as if to say game on and then asked, “Where is he?”
“I know you’re relatively new to Washington, but surely you are aware that much of what my agency handles is classified.”
“So you won’t even tell me if he’s in the country?”
“Not unless I’m authorized by the president, or you can prove to me that you have somehow miraculously received a security clearance that is far above your pay grade.” The last part was a not-so-subtle reminder to Kline that in the power structure of the federal government, he was more than a few rungs beneath her.
Kline clicked his pen shut, stuffed it in his shirt pocket, and closed his leather briefing folder. “I can play hardball as good as anyone, Madam Director.” He stood and snatched his suit coat from the back of the chair. “This is my last warning. If Mitch Rapp isn’t standing in my office a week from today, I can promise you, I will make your life miserable.”
Kennedy felt her anger rushing to the surface. Part of her wanted to unleash it, wanted to teach this egocentric man a lesson, but there was another part of her that held back. Intuition warned her that no matter how satisfying it might feel, it would be a mistake. She watched him march to the door and then stop.
“One other thing,” Kline said as he flipped open his briefing folder and scanned his notes. “You have a man named Mike Nash who works for you.”
Kennedy returned his stare, wondering if he’d simply made a statement or was asking a question.
“I want him in my office Monday morning. If he isn’t there, I’ll send the FBI for him.” Kline closed his folder and was gone.
One by one the other people seated at the table turned to look at Kennedy. She ignored them, her gaze fixed on the open doorway. The man had just openly threatened the director of the most powerful spy organization in the world, which either meant he was insane or he had something on her. The fact that he had brought up Rapp was not all that surprising. People had been coming after him for years, but Nash was another story. Kennedy had taken great care to keep him under the radar. He was increasingly handling some of the agency’s most delicate operations.
One of the two men she’d brought along leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I just got a text from the office. We need to get you out of here.”
Kennedy shot him a concerned look.
Rob Ridley, the deputy director of the Clandestine Service, saw the alarm on her face and said, “It’s not that.” Ridley knew she was thinking an evacuation had been ordered. Since 9/11 it was not uncommon for high-ranking government officials to be taken out of the city at the first whisper of trouble. In recent years it had slowed down, but that was now balanced against fresh intel that pointed to something big. “That thing… it just started.”
“What thing?”
Ridley’s eyes darted around the room. “The thing over in Afghanistan.”
“Oh, that thing.”
“Yeah, that thing. I don’t think you want to have a conversation about it in this building.”
Kennedy looked around the Department of Justice conference room while she thought of Rapp and Nash. She checked her watch. The time would be about right. She knew what they were up to. She’d signed off on it herself. She motioned for Ridley to lead the way and politely ignored several of the other attendees who wanted to have a word with her.