"The money was fine, but I wanted to strike a blow for my country."
Rapp would have gladly debated him on the issue, but it would have been a waste of crucial time. Guys like Gazich didn't simply change their mind after a brief conversation. Rapp began closing the cargo door and said, "We'll be landing in an hour."
22.
BALTIMORE-WASHINGTON I INTERNATIONAL A AIRPORT.
The big plane touched down softly at 10:47 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. Rapp and Coleman joined the pilots in the cockpit as they taxied to the cargo portion of the airport. They half expected to be greeted by a welcoming committee of police cars, FBI sedans, and a gaggle of news vans. Fortunately, it appeared their cover story had held. It looked cold outside, which was a good thing. Customs officers were humans too. The cold weather would keep them huddled inside rather than out on the tarmac nosing around. Rapp took one final look out the window and then turned to Coleman who was now wearing the same uniform as the pilot and copilot: black pants, white shirt with black and silver epaulets, and a black tie. He was listed as Tom Jones, the plane's navigator on the official manifest. He had a full set of worn credentials to match. Coleman would clear customs with the two pilots and be off the airport property in thirty minutes or less.
Rapp stuck out his hand. "I'll see you in a few hours."
"Good luck with the handoff," Coleman replied.
"You sure you don't want to come along?"
"Yeah...right after I get my barium enema."
Rapp laughed at him and left the cockpit. He passed Stroble who was now wearing a soiled BWI ground crew uniform. "Don't drop the container."
"I won't, boss."
"And stop calling me boss."
"Sure thing, boss."
Brooks was waiting by the cargo door with her two bags.
"Are you all set?" Rapp asked.
"Yes."
"Good. Let's go."
The two of them proceeded into the storage area with Stroble following them. The big Russian had already been transferred into the container and placed bound and gagged on the floor next to Gazich. Like Gazich, he was also drugged. There was just enough room for Rapp and Brooks to sit at each end of the container. Once Rapp and Brooks were situated, Stroble closed and locked the doors.
The plane was guided to its spot on the tarmac, and the engines were shut down. Ten minutes later two trucks pulled up, one with a set of stairs, the other with an extending cargo box. The two pilots and Coleman came down the stairs, their black trench coats flapping in the wind. They held their hats with one hand and dragged their carry-on bags behind them as they made their way to the cargo terminal. The forward port cargo door opened from the inside, and the aluminum cargo container was pushed into the back of the truck's extended cargo area and secured. Stroble shut both the truck's and plane's cargo doors and walked back through the plane and down the stairs. When he hit the tarmac, two more trucks manned with BWI ground personnel pulled up and went to work emptying the cargo in the lower holds.
Stroble gave the guys a wave and a nod as he jumped in the front passenger seat of the truck he had just loaded. The man sitting behind the wheel was someone he had never met and didn't care to know. Someone who worked for Rapp at the CIA handled this end of the operation. The truck headed straight for the customs checkpoint. A customs officer left the warmth of his booth just long enough to grab the paperwork from the driver and then he retreated inside. Stroble assumed this guy was also on the payroll. Thirty seconds later the guy came back out with the paperwork and gave it back to the driver. They rolled through the gate and stopped at a truck yard no more than a quarter mile away. A truck of similar size, but without the ability to lift the cargo box vertically, was waiting with its rear door open. Stroble jumped out, opened the cargo door, and climbed in. The truck from the airport backed up until the two cargo areas were aligned with just a six-inch gap in between. The cargo container had ball bearings on the bottom so it could be easily maneuvered in tight spaces. Stroble unhooked two straps that had kept the container in place and then pushed the aluminum box from one truck into the back of the new one.
Once the truck from the airport left, Stroble jumped behind the wheel of the new vehicle and began driving toward an industrial park on the Patapsco River. Only four miles away, he took the quickest route, just like Rapp had told him. Five minutes later, he pulled into an old brick warehouse and closed the door. The entire trip took just under thirty minutes.
Two white vans were waiting side by side. Other than that the place was empty. Stroble let Rapp and Brooks out of the cargo container and they transferred Gazich into one van and the Russian into the other. Rapp put his bags and Brooks's bags in the van with the Russian and then walked Brooks over to the other van.
"Do you know where you're going?"
She nodded. "What if they won't let me in?" She held up a passport. "This isn't even real."
"I told you I'd call and make sure you're on the list. Candice Jones...just give them the passport, and they'll tell you where to go."
Brooks shook her head and frowned.
"What?" Rapp asked.
"They're going to be expecting you."
"Yes they are. But I'm not going."
"Why do I have to do this?"
"Because you're the one who thinks this will be good P.R. for the Agency."
"I do, but I don't see why you're dumping it all on me."
"Cindy, listen to me. I promise you this will not hurt your career. In fact, it will probably help it. Just hand Gazich over and leave. Don't hang around and let them start peppering you with questions. There's going to be an agent there who I know pretty well. He's a big guy. Late fifties. His name is Skip McMahon. Just tell him I'll call him."
"When?"
"Today...tomorrow...I don't know. You'd better tell him today. But whatever you do don't tell him how we got into the country. Are we clear on that?"
"Yes."
"Good. Follow us to the interstate and then once we hit the exit for Andrews you're on your own. Give them Gazich and get out of there. I'll call you in an hour. All right?"
"Yeah...I got it."
"Good. Let's roll."
Brooks climbed behind the wheel of the one van and Rapp got into the passenger seat of the other. Stroble pulled down on the gearshift and put the van in drive. They pulled out of the garage and headed toward Interstate 95.
Stroble looked over at Rapp and said, "They're going to shit their pants when they figure out you're not there."
"I know they are."
"So what's your master plan?"
"Sandbag them."
"Huh?"
"Sooner or later the media and the Clark Kents at the FBI and Justice are going to turn the spotlight on me and make this about my tactics."
"Yeah."
"I'm just making sure they do it sooner rather than later."
"And why is that a good idea?"
"I'm going to give them enough rope to hang themselves, and then I'm going to kick the chair out from under their legs."
"I'm still not sure I follow."
Rapp held up his Treo phone and played back the recording he'd made of the session he'd had with Gazich. "Don't worry," he said to Stroble. "By tomorrow evening they're all going to be diving for cover."
23.
DULLES I INTERNATIONAL A AIRPORT.
Ross had flown commercial with his Secret Service detail even though a private jet had been offered to him by one of the billionaire attendees at the conference. The offer was tempting, but Ross knew the media, the vicious bloggers, and the crazy talk radio folks would light him up. Taking a private jet home from a conservation summit smacked of elitism and hypocrisy. He could wait one more week until Air Force Two Air Force Two was at his disposal. was at his disposal.
Besides, the Air France flight wasn't bad. The stewardesses up in first class were extremely attractive and spared no effort in fawning over him. His fellow passengers wanted their photo taken with him. Ross was a man of the people. His not-so-pleasant conversation with Green in the wine cellar the night before had driven him to drink more wine than he should have, and he had boarded the plane with a head-splitting hangover. Everything after midnight was a slight blur. He remembered being in the kitchen with Speyer, and the lanky blond talking, though about what, he could not remember for the life of him. Music was playing, the blond started dancing, and the next thing Ross knew, he was pinned against the refrigerator; her ass pressed firmly against his groin. He had a glass of wine in his left hand; she had his right hand wrapped around her body and placed dangerously close to her left breast.
Ross would have had her right there in the kitchen if it hadn't been for Speyer and the lascivious look in his eye. The president of one of the world's most private banks, Speyer didn't so much keep secrets as he did collect and trade in them. A prince of Europe's unofficial gay mafia, the banker would have loved nothing more than to be able to hold such a salacious bit of information over Ross's head. The vice presidentelect had managed to extricate himself from the situation by playfully chastising Speyer and giving the leggy blond a kiss and a promise that he'd put her on his dance card for next year's conference.
The Secret Service had arranged to get Ross off the plane first and expedite him through customs. They'd also arranged to have his skis and bag picked up and delivered to his house. Ross walked through the terminal with a real sense of purpose and optimism. He'd miraculously banished from his mind all thought of Cy Green and the debt he owed him. His detail of agents were spread out around him, three in front, one on each side, and two more behind. The formation looked like a kickoff, which in turn reminded Ross that his New England Patriots had a playoff game this afternoon. Ross was born and raised outside Wilmington, Delaware, and had cheered for the Colts growing up. After graduating from Princeton, he worked at the CIA for a few years before getting a law degree from Yale and then moving on to Wall Street where he'd made his fortune. By thirty-five he and his wife had moved to the ultra-rich enclave of Greenwich, Connecticut, where they raised a boy and a girl, and where Ross eventually decided to jump on the Patriots' bandwagon.
Ross's son was out in Seattle trying to find himself. This bothered the politician more than he cared to admit, but he was too busy to obsess over the fact that his twenty-five-year-old son had gone to the nation's best schools and still couldn't figure out what the hell he wanted to do with his life. His daughter was a new mother and living in New York City. They were for the most part good kids. They burned through money at an alarming rate, but at least they stayed out of trouble. Their mother had done a relatively good job. Ross hadn't been around all that much. He was too busy making money and having fun. And it had all paid off. He was now only six days and one heartbeat away from the most powerful job in the world.
Just on the other side of the security checkpoint Ross saw his chief of staff, Jonathan Gordon, waiting for him. Ross smiled and gave him a little wave. Gordon was a good man. Very loyal. The Secret Service agents all knew Gordon and made just enough room for him to enter the inner protective circle. The scrum kept moving toward the exit without missing a stride.
"Jonathan, nice of you to come all the way out here on your day off."
"In this business there are no days off."
"Not even the Sabbath?" Ross was joking, knowing full well Gordon's agnostic views.
"Especially not the Sabbath." The group passed through the large sliding doors and out into the cold January day. "I assume you haven't bothered to turn your phone on?"
"No." Ross smiled and patted the left breast pocket of his jacket. "I forgot all about the damn thing."
"Well, I've left you a few messages, and I'm sure I'm not the only one."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. It's just a bit of breaking news."
They were midway between the door and the waiting limousine when a car came flying around the corner to their left; tires squealing and engine revving. Ross and Gordon looked toward the noise and slowed their step.
Agent Brown, who had stayed consistently one step behind Ross from the Jetway to the curb, placed his large hand in the middle of Ross's back and grabbed a handful of fabric. He did not slow for a second. He picked up his pace, driving Ross forward, leaving Gordon behind. The scrum picked up speed, coats were thrown open, hands reached for guns, some eyes turned toward the possible threat, others turned away to make sure it wasn't a diversion of some sort, and then it was over before it began.
The car, a black Lincoln Town Car, skidded to a halt at the end of the motorcade and the rear passenger door flew open. Agent Brown was one step away from tossing his protectee headfirst into the back of the limo, when he saw Stu Garret emerge from the back of the Town Car. Brown released Ross and straightened out his jacket before turning to find the agent who was in charge of the ground detail. The access to the upper ramp was supposed to be shut down until they had Ross out the door, buttoned up, and on his way.
Garret marched along the sidewalk, moving agents out of his way like a bowling ball through pins. He had on a puffy down jacket with a floppy fur-lined hood.
"Mark," Garret yelled.
Even Ross was a bit miffed. The speeding car and the way the agents had reacted had caused his heart to race. "Yes, Stu?"
"I need to talk to you."
It was classic Garret. No greetings. No niceties. No small talk, formality, or informality. The campaign manager, and head of the transition team, was forever in a rush.
"Great to see you too," Ross quipped. "Did you get a new jacket?"
"I'm fucking freezing my ass off. If there wasn't so much to do I'd get on a plane right now and fly back to California."
Ross looked at the sky. It was a gray overcast afternoon with little wind. The temperature was probably somewhere in the high thirties. Not really that bad.
"You need to toughen up."
Garret entered the inner circle and growled, "You need to pull your head out of your ass and turn on your damn cell phone."
The smile on Ross's face disappeared. "Excuse me?"
"Get in the limo." Garret grabbed Ross by the elbow and pointed at the open door. "Let's go."
Jonathan Gordon tried to follow, but Garret put out a hand and said, "Ride in one of the other cars. I need him alone."
Gordon was eye to eye with Garret. He had grown to detest this foul little man. Gordon had been with Ross since the beginning of his political career. It had been his job to temper Ross's narcissistic tendencies without crushing his fragile ego. He had been fiercely loyal, even during the campaign when Garret had been brought in to shake things up.
"Jonathan," Ross called out from inside the limo. "It's all right. We'll talk when we get to the house."
Garret climbed in closing the door behind him. He sat in the seat opposite Ross and craned his neck around to make sure the privacy screen was up. It was. Garret spun back around, threw open his coat, and rattled off a series of expletives.
Ross kicked out his feet and said, "I see the holidays haven't improved your mood."
"Holidays...that's a good one. Almost as good as you flying commercial."
The limo started moving. Ross looked out the window and said, "Considering the fact that I was at an environmental conference, I think it was a rather good idea."
"How was the conference?"
"It was nice. The skiing was great. The foot soldiers really appreciated me showing up."
Garret leaned forward placing his hands on his knees. "He was right. You're drunk on power."
"What are you talking about?" Ross asked with a frown.