"No!" he screamed. "No, please I have no idea."
"When did your boss start doing business with the Arabs?"
A look of real shock fell across Milinkavich's face. "Arabs?"
"Arabs...Islamic Radical Fundamentalist...terrorists."
"Mr. Gordievsky would never work with such people."
The look on his face was believable, but the words weren't. "Bullshit." Rapp stomped on his knee again.
Milinkavich screamed and then began sobbing. "I am serious. He is Eastern Orthodox. Very involved in the church. He thinks Islam is the invention of Satan. He would never do business with them."
All Rapp's senses told him Milinkavich was telling the truth, but it didn't add up with what he already knew. Rapp needed to be careful. If he began asking blind questions, he could end up weakening his position. The better thing to do at the moment was to leave and try to confirm what he'd just been told. Then if he found out the man was lying to him, he would come back and the interrogation would begin with renewed vigor.
"I'm going to call my friends in the KGB and find out if you're telling the truth. And you'd better hope they corroborate your story, or I'm going to come back in here and things are going to get real ugly. In fact when I come back, you are going to tell me from start to finish everything you know about Deckas. And I mean everything. When you first heard of him. How many jobs he's done for you. Everything. You do that, and I'll get you set up with painkillers. You decide to lie to me some more and I'll snap your other knee."
Rapp stepped over Milinkavich and closed and locked the heavy door. He climbed the steps up to the main floor and then walked past the break room and up to Coleman's office. When he entered Coleman was on the phone signaling for Rapp to stay quiet.
"Irene," Coleman said, "I have no idea where he is." He listened for a bit and said, "I'll have him call you as soon as I hear from him. I have to go now."
"What did she want?" asked Rapp. "She all pissed off about Gazich?"
"No. I asked her that. She said she's not worried. She knows he's the guy."
"Then what's the problem?"
"She says she has something she needs to show you."
"What?"
"She wouldn't say. All she said was it was very important that she see you as soon as possible."
"She didn't even tell you what it was about?" Rapp asked.
"All she said was that it might cause you to look at something in a different way."
Rapp took a second to guess what that might be.
"What are you going to do?" Coleman asked.
"I'll call her back."
"When? She was pretty adamant."
Rap looked at his watch. It was almost noon. "This afternoon. I need to call an old contact at the KGB, and then I want to see just how full of shit this Milinkavich is."
"What about Dr. Hornig?"
Rapp had already thought about getting her involved. She was a shrink the CIA used to interrogate high-value prisoners.
"This guy might be a pathological liar, Mitch."
"Yeah, I know." Pathological liars were the most difficult people to interrogate. Plus Rapp didn't have the stomach to keep kicking the crap out of the guy. "I'll talk to Irene about it this afternoon, and then I'll let you know."
38.
WASHINGTON, DC.
Mark Ross strolled down Peacock Alley, where Washingtonians and visitors went to see and be seen. The Willard Hotel had been a Washington landmark since before the Civil War. Ross basked in the recognition of the dozens of people who were enjoying afternoon tea. It was a walk that had been done by the likes of U.S. Grant, Mark Twain, and many other famous and infamous figures. Digital cameras snapped, people reached out just to touch him, and a few of the really brazen stopped him for a photo. The prize for sheer audacity, though, went to a woman in a blue dress with a ridiculous red hat topped with a white feather plume. She stepped in front of Ross, blocking his path and waving her cell phone. Her daughter was on the phone, and she was a huge fan of the soon-to-be vice president. Ross disguised his irritation and played along. His Secret Service detail looked on disapprovingly from fifteen feet away. Ross had been forced to give them another lecture after having already snapped at them earlier in the day. They needed to give him some freedom. No one was looking to assassinate a vice presidentelect.
The party's faithful were taking over the town. Planeloads, trainloads, and busloads were arriving by the hour. The first official function was tonight and then it was a whirlwind of breakfasts, lunches, and balls. The big affairs were reserved for Saturday night: eleven separate black-tie balls. There wasn't a hotel room in town that wasn't booked. It was really going to happen. He was going to be vice president of the United States of America. Ross could hardly believe it. He couldn't remember the first time he'd dreamt of rising to such political heights but he'd been young. Usually the dream focused on the top job, but he did remember a time when he was away at boarding school and he read a book about Teddy Roosevelt. There was a man of destiny. T.R. was one of the greats. He remembered a fellow democrat criticizing the old Bull Moose president for being a bully. Ross responded by telling him, "Bully or not, his face is on Mount Rushmore."
History favored the decisive. Those who weren't afraid to grab power and use it. Ross had decided long ago that he would create his own opportunities and when the time came he would seize the reins of power without hesitation. Like the great Teddy Roosevelt he would leave little to chance. He would use the press to shape his image and dispose of his enemies, and just maybe he'd get lucky like T.R. and get promoted early. Josh Alexander was young and healthy, but stranger things had happened.
The possibility brought a smile to Ross's face. He shook a few more hands and stopped briefly at the entrance to the Round Robin Bar, waving to the faithful who were well into happy hour. The crowd around the circular bar began whooping and hollering. Ross thought it would be fun to join them for a drink, but he needed to get upstairs for a meeting. He smiled and pumped his fist to the crowd and then retreated. Four agents joined him in the elevator. He'd cut Gordon loose to grab some downtime. It wasn't that he didn't trust him; it was simply that he didn't want the right hand to know what the left hand was doing.
An agent was posted outside the door to the Oval Suite. The party had secured the room for him to do interviews, hold meetings, and stay there if he wanted, although Ross owned a 4,200-square-foot condo that overlooked the Potomac. Alexander was in the opulent Abraham Lincoln Suite and his father-in-law was in the spacious Capitol Suite. Without being consulted Ross had been forced to settle for the hotel's third nicest suite. He was mildly irritated by the oversight, but there were more pressing issues at the moment.
Ross entered the suite and found Stu Garret sitting in the oval shaped living room with Tom Rich of the New York Times. New York Times. Just like the real Oval Office, two couches faced each other with a small table in between. Rich was of average height and slender with the exception of a small pouch around his midsection. He had a youthful head of brown hair that he liked to show off by avoiding regular visits to the barber. He looked close to forty but in truth he was actually fifty-one. National security was his beat and he had a reputation for being very critical of the CIA and the way they waged the war on terror. Just like the real Oval Office, two couches faced each other with a small table in between. Rich was of average height and slender with the exception of a small pouch around his midsection. He had a youthful head of brown hair that he liked to show off by avoiding regular visits to the barber. He looked close to forty but in truth he was actually fifty-one. National security was his beat and he had a reputation for being very critical of the CIA and the way they waged the war on terror.
Rich stood. Garret didn't. Ross extended his hand. "Tom, thank you for coming to see me."
"My pleasure, sir."
"Please, call me Mark when we're in an informal setting like this."
Rich nodded but kept his game face on. He was wearing a blue, button-down oxford, a gray and black tweed sport coat, a pair of jeans, and brown Timberland boots. He looked at Ross in his expensive blue suit and tie. "I apologize for my appearance. I was at home working on a story when Stu called. He told me to get down here right away. He said he had something that couldn't be discussed on the phone."
Ross nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid he's right. Before we get started, may I get you something to drink?"
"No, thank you."
"Well, have a seat." Ross unbuttoned his suit coat and sat on the couch across from Garret and Rich. "I assume you've been following the story about the arrest that was made in connection to the motorcade attack."
Rich nodded enthusiastically while reaching in to his sport coat and retrieving a notebook and pen. "I've got a piece running in the morning."
"What's your angle?"
"Angle?" Rich looked either surprised or offended.
"What's your story about?" Garret asked in his typical no-nonsense way.
Rich hesitated and then said, "I'm hearing rumors. Grumblings...really."
"About?" Ross asked.
"That the case against this guy isn't as strong as the FBI claims."
Ross and Garret shared a knowing look and then Ross said, "Off the record."
"Of course." Rich wrote the word Off Off across the top of the page. across the top of the page.
"What have you heard so far?"
"Basically that this guy was dumped in the FBI's lap with some very weak evidence."
Ross nodded. "Continue."
"There are some major problems with the case. The FBI and Justice are fighting, and neither of them is happy with the CIA. The Greek government is going to file an official complaint with the UN in the morning and supposedly no one knows where to find Mitch Rapp, who my sources tell me ran the team that grabbed this guy."
"You've got the broad brushstrokes down, but there's a lot more. Rapp not only ran the team, he was the one who identified, grabbed, and tortured the suspect."
"Did you say torture?" Rich looked up with wary eyes.
"What would you call shooting a man once in each knee and then in both hands?"
"He kneecapped him?"
"And shot him in both hands."
Rich kept his eyes on Ross while his right hand flew across the page. "Let me guess...he tortured a confession out of the guy?"
"No one knows."
"What does Rapp say?"
"No one knows because Rapp has been AWOL for three days now."
"AWOL?"
"Absent without leave. Rapp had his team bring this guy back from Cyprus and he has yet to report in. We literally have nothing on this guy other than Rapp's word. The Greek government is furious. The State Department is outraged. The Justice Department says they have no case against this guy and then here's the kicker. The guy volunteered to be polygraphed."
"And?"
"He passed with flying colors."
"So this might really be the wrong guy?"
"That's a distinct possibility, and even if he is the guy, Rapp screwed things up so bad by torturing him that I don't think there's any chance of convicting him."
Rich wrote frantically. This was going to be a huge scoop. The type of story that could win him his second Pulitzer. After a moment he gained control of his escalating euphoria and remembered that he was a journalist. He looked up at Ross and asked, "Why are you telling me this?"
Ross was prepared for this question. "When I was director of National Intelligence, I warned President Hayes that Mitch Rapp was a malcontent. I told him, 'Sir, sooner or later he's going to do something that will permanently damage America's international standing.'" Ross sat back and crossed his legs. "And now, here we are. President Hayes is on his way out, and we're on our way in. Well, I'm not going to allow this administration to pay for his poor leadership."
"I assume you mean President Hayes."
"Yes. And, Tom, I can't stress it enough. This is off the record. Way off the record."
"I know," Rich said, as he scribbled frantically. "So this is Hayes's fault?"
"I'm not willing to go that far on or off the record. You'll have to draw your own conclusions."
"So who do you blame besides Rapp?"
"His boss, for starters."
"Irene Kennedy?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to ask for an investigation?"
"I'm going to leave that up to the attorney general and my former colleagues on the Hill."
"Is it safe to say that your administration will be looking for a new person to run the CIA?"
Ross liked the ring of "your administration." He could get used to that. He looked at Rich with a very serious expression and said, "Director Kennedy and Mitch Rapp should make sure their resumes are up to date."
Rich smiled as he wrote down the exact quote. When he was done he pulled out his mobile phone and checked the time. It was 4:51 in the afternoon. Looking at Ross he said, "Excuse me for a second. I need to call my editor and tell her to hold a spot on the front page."
Ross nodded and kept his delight in check. The article would cause a feeding frenzy. He only wished that he could be there to see the expression on Kennedy's face when she read it.
39.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA.
Rapp was cruising down Georgetown Pike in a rented white van at five miles an hour over the posted speed. It was almost 7:00 in the evening, which meant he was late for his meeting with Kennedy. He wasn't crazy about getting together in her office, but she'd insisted. What she had to show him could not leave the building. That bit of information got Rapp's imagination working overtime. It also helped him make up his mind that he would transfer Milinkavich to Dr. Hornig.
After a long afternoon of Milinkavich changing his story over and over and sobbing like a child, Rapp decided that he didn't have it in him to interrogate the man properly. Coleman couldn't stand being in the presence of Hornig, so Rapp rented another van and drove the Belarusian himself. The drive from Baltimore to an off-budget CIA facility in Northern Virginia took longer than expected, and then Hornig wanted to talk. She wanted to know every intricate detail of the subject. Rapp told her what he had discovered and handed over audiotapes of the interrogations he'd already conducted, and left as quickly as he could.
He turned off the Pike and approached the main gate of the CIA. Normally a rental car would cause problems, but the security officers recognized Rapp and after a speedy check of the cargo area, he was waved through. Rapp parked in the visitors' lot near the main door and hustled up the steps and into the lobby. Straight ahead to the right were the security desk, metal detectors, and turnstiles. Rapp hung his badge around his neck and stayed to his left, walking past the undersized statue of Wild Bill Donovan, who was more or less the patron saint of the CIA. Just past the statue Rapp turned left into a small vestibule and then to his right up a couple steps to a small landing. Directly in front of him was the director's private elevator. Rapp grabbed his badge and held it in front of the scanner. A moment later the door opened and he was on his way to the seventh floor.
The outer office was empty of all support staff. Even Kennedy's bodyguards were nowhere to be seen. Rapp knocked on the heavy office door twice and then entered. Kennedy was behind her desk with the phone to her left ear and twirling her reading glasses in her right hand.
Kennedy gave Rapp a slight smile and said to the person on the other end of the line, "I have no idea what you're talking about. He's standing right in front of me."