Hayes smiled. "Well...if you change your mind and decide you need to get away from it all, just let me know."
"I will, Mr. President. Thank you." The presidentelect took a sip of coffee and then asked, "Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. President?"
"For me?" Hayes grinned and shook his head. "I'm looking forward to retirement. Although my dreams of becoming a master model plane builder have been dashed," Hayes held up an unsteady hand, "there's still a lot of other things I can do. My doctor, who happens to be my old college roommate, tells me the Parkinson's shouldn't affect my golf game at all, which really surprised me. His explanation was very interesting. He said I've never been able to putt and since it was impossible for my putting to get any worse, there was actually a chance it might improve."
Hayes laughed at his own humor and the others smiled.
"Can you believe that? One of my oldest friends. And I actually have to pay him to hear crap like that."
Everyone laughed. Alexander smiled briefly and then stared at the man whose job he was about to take. "Mr. President, your attitude amazes me."
Hayes shrugged and said, "What are you going to do? You've been dealt a bad hand. If you don't laugh about it, it'll eat you up."
"I don't think I've laughed...I mean really laughed in over two months."
Hayes cringed slightly. "You're situation is a little different from mine. I have a disease. A manageable disease," he added in a hopeful tone. "It's no joy, but I still have some good years ahead of me. Your situation is a little different. You were blindsided, and someone very important to you was taken away. Forever," he added with a force that surprised everyone. "It's hard to find any humor in that."
"No, just anger, shock, and sadness."
"Well...this might help." Hayes uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "As you know, after the attack on your motorcade, the FBI launched one of the biggest investigations in the history of the organization. Homeland Security, Defense, State, NSA, CIA...everyone got on board to help, but the FBI was the lead agency. This is where they excel...the forensics, the thousands of man-hours it takes to run down every lead. Director Roach tells me he has kept you fully briefed on the investigation."
"Yes."
"Good. Now here's the part you don't know." Hayes pointed to Stokes and Roach. "They don't know about it either. Homeland Security, National Intelligence, tearing down walls between the FBI and the CIA...that's all fine in theory, and in the wake of 9/11 it actually looked like it might happen for a brief period, but it's a pipe dream. It'll never really work. Not in this town. Not with all the gotcha politics, and the journalists who care first and foremost about making a name for themselves. The FBI must follow the law and tread very carefully everywhere it goes. Lots of rules. Now the CIA on the other hand...they deal with a different crowd. And when it comes to international things...they can move much faster and in circles where the FBI would find themselves in over their heads. Agree or disagree with some of their methods, the CIA is much more suited to go up against an enemy that does not play by the rules. An enemy that's willing to set off car bombs in Georgetown on a Saturday afternoon."
Alexander looked down at the floor and slowly nodded.
Hayes continued. "After the attack on your motorcade, I sat down in private with Director Kennedy and told her to pull out all the stops. To put her best people on this...and once again she did not disappoint me."
Alexander looked up, his eyes wide with hope. "Did you find out who was behind the attack?"
Hayes looked to his spy chief. "Irene."
Kennedy set her cup back on its saucer. She'd only realized a minute before what the president was up to. She covered her mouth with her fist, cleared her throat, and got down to business. "Do you recall hearing about the man in the red hat during any of your briefings with the FBI?"
"No." Alexander looked to Roach and Stokes to make sure he was remembering things accurately.
"The man in the red hat," Attorney General Stokes said, "is something that has never been proven. As with any chaotic event, like the attack on your motorcade, there was conflicting testimony among the eyewitnesses. Several recall seeing this man on the street just prior to the explosion, but most do not. We culled surveillance tapes from all the local businesses and nowhere does this individual show up. We believe that he is..."
Kennedy's gaze moved from Stokes to Roach. She was sure McMahon would have informed his boss of the meeting he'd had in Kennedy's office less than twenty-four hours ago. The one where Baker had dropped the bomb on them. The two FBI men had worked together for a long time. McMahon would have called him immediately. She doubted, though, that the FBI director would have bothered his boss on a Saturday afternoon. It was a potentially crucial, but small piece of the investigation. He would have figured telling the attorney general could wait until Monday morning.
Stokes was sitting closer to Alexander. Roach on the other side. Kennedy watched as Roach's face twisted into a frown and he leaned forward. Sticking his arm out to get his bosses' attention.
"In an investigation like this," Stokes was saying, "we have to be very careful..."
"Marty," Roach said, "I have to interject something. Yesterday afternoon I was informed by the special agent in charge of the investigation that the man in the red hat does in fact exist. I was planning on telling you about it in our staff meeting on Monday morning. I had no idea the CIA was already pursuing this matter." Roach's basset hound eyes settled on Kennedy and his expression seemed to say, thanks for blindsiding me. thanks for blindsiding me.
"As the president said," Kennedy reasserted herself, "we operate under a different set of rules than the FBI. A special team headed up by Mitch Rapp has been pursuing this individual for almost a month. Last night their hard work paid off, and they found him."
"Where?" Alexander asked eagerly.
"Cyprus. A town on the western end of the island called Limassol."
"Have we arrested him?"
Kennedy pursed her lips as she considered the word arrested. arrested. Rapp had not briefed her on the specifics of the operation, but she doubted he had asked permission from the local authorities. "Let's just say we have him in our possession." Rapp had not briefed her on the specifics of the operation, but she doubted he had asked permission from the local authorities. "Let's just say we have him in our possession."
"What is that supposed to mean?" asked Stokes.
The president laughed. "It means Mitch probably whacked him over the head and hog-tied him."
"Are we sure he's the right guy?" Stokes asked with great concern.
"Irene?" the president asked.
"Mitch says he's one hundred percent sure this is our guy."
"That's good enough for me." The president slapped his knee with finality.
"Are they still on the island?" Roach asked.
Kennedy shook her head. "No. They're in transit."
"Where?"
"They had a layover in Germany..." Kennedy glanced at her watch. "They're probably somewhere over the North Atlantic right now."
"I want this man put on trial," Alexander said with absolute conviction. "I want these terrorists to see that no matter how well they plan, no matter how far they run, we'll hunt them down and they will be brought to justice."
17.
41,000 FEET, NORTH A ATLANTIC.
R app's eyes fluttered and then opened. He checked out his surroundings, not sure where he was for a moment, and then things fell into place. He rubbed his face and then stretched his arms over his head. Behind the cockpit was a small cabin with seating for twelve. Old, gray, worn leather first class seats had been installed in two rows. Four seats on the port side, four in the middle, and four on the starboard side. No personal DVD players or entertainment of any kind. It was a bare-bones operation. What it lacked in ambiance it made up for in space. Plenty of legroom and the seats reclined to a comfortable napping position. app's eyes fluttered and then opened. He checked out his surroundings, not sure where he was for a moment, and then things fell into place. He rubbed his face and then stretched his arms over his head. Behind the cockpit was a small cabin with seating for twelve. Old, gray, worn leather first class seats had been installed in two rows. Four seats on the port side, four in the middle, and four on the starboard side. No personal DVD players or entertainment of any kind. It was a bare-bones operation. What it lacked in ambiance it made up for in space. Plenty of legroom and the seats reclined to a comfortable napping position.
Rapp sat in the back row on the port side. He checked his watch and for a second couldn't remember if he'd changed it before they'd left Germany. He must have. As was his custom, the arrow on the red and black dial on the outside of the submariner was pointed at 11:00. That was the time they were due to arrive in DC. A little more than two hours from now. The layover in Germany had lasted a little longer than intended. They'd stopped to take on a load of cargo so as to cover their tracks, and then the warning light for the portside cargo door wouldn't shut off even though a visual inspection showed the door to be seated properly. They sat on the tarmac for almost three hours while they waited for the faulty warning light to be switched out.
That was when the big Russian woke up. The only thing they'd gotten out of him so far was a fake name. Rapp knew it was fake, because Dumond had run it through Langley's database and come up with a dossier for Aleksandr Zukof. Everything was wrong. Age, height, weight, eye color. Everything except the black hair, and the fact that Zukof was a former employee of the KGB.
Rapp's instinct was to pummel the big idiot for lying to him, but caution got the best of him, and he decided he should at least wait until they were back in the air. Even with the broken jaw, the Russian tried to speak. Rapp was running out of energy and patience. Brooks sensed this so she shot the Russian up with another dose of Thorazine and sent him back to la-la land. By the time they were wheels up, and pointed west toward home, Rapp was too tired to do anything other than sleep. That was over three hours ago.
Rapp unbuckled his seat belt and stepped into the aisle. The years of pushing his body to the limit were catching up to him. His lower back, his knees, his hips; everything ached. He was hit with a flash of vertigo and grabbed the leather seatback in front of him to steady himself.
Brooks was sitting in the seat, working on a laptop. She felt her seat move and looked up. "May I help you?" she said with a bit of attitude.
Rapp knew he'd been unduly hard on her, but he hadn't decided yet if he was going to apologize. This was a hard business. The CIA in general was one thing. It was more like IBM than most people realized. But the Clandestine Service was a different thing all together. It was more like Wall Street. Timid artists and wilting flowers need not apply. If you needed a lot of positive reinforcement to motivate you to do your job, you were at the wrong place.
"Would you like some coffee?"
She stared at him for a long moment before she answered. "Sure."
There was a small galley at the front of the cabin. Next to it were two sleeping berths. Stroble was sleeping in one, Coleman the other. Blue privacy curtains were drawn across each. Rapp quietly opened one of the metal cupboards and grabbed a packet of coffee. He dropped it in the top of the machine and pressed the green button. Rapp stretched and cracked his neck while he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. When it was done he poured two cups and brought one back to Brooks.
Brooks set her laptop on the seat next to her and took the white mug. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." Rapp sat on the armrest of the seat directly across the aisle.
"You see, that wasn't so hard, was it?"
"What?" Rapp frowned.
"Manners...I say thank you...You say you're welcome."
He rolled his eyes and said, "You know, you didn't do a bad job over the last month."
"Whoa...slow down there, partner." She arched her brows in a show of mock surprise. "That's a hell of an endorsement. Is that how you're going to write it up in my file. 'Didn't do a bad job.'"
"Listen, you need to understand this is not an easy job. I don't..."
"Stop!" Brooks put her hand up cutting him off. "This isn't about me. That's what I finally realized. When I threw the wine in your face I was still thinking about me. I was frustrated with the way you had treated me. The way you ordered me around like a little kid. Like I was some brainless rookie."
"I did..."
"Let me finish. You're Mitch Rapp. The living legend...bla...bla...bla. I was really impressed for the first month. Intimidated beyond belief, and then something clicked when we were on Cyprus. It wasn't me. It was you."
"You're going to have to get a little more specific."
"I didn't do anything wrong other than the fact that I didn't stand up to you earlier."
"Listen...you have a lot to learn."
"I wouldn't disagree with you for a moment, but you need help."
"What?" Rapp didn't know if he should laugh or be offended.
"My dad was a little bit like you...well, no one is really quite like you, but he was similar in the sense that he was a horrible communicator. He was a fixer. He had to do everything himself. Never thought anyone could do as good of a job as he could."
"Sounds like my kind of guy."
"Yeah." Brooks stared off into space for a second. "You would have liked him."
"He's not around anymore?"
"No. We lost him five years ago. Massive heart attack."
"Sorry to hear that."
"Thanks. He was a good man. Very faithful to my mother and us kids. Just couldn't communicate for shit. What about your dad?"
"Died when I was little."
"Was he in the business?"
"No." Rapp shook his head. "He was a suit. Good man, though."
"You see, this is good."
"What?"
"Talking."
"Talking is overrated."
Brooks smiled and her eyes lit up. "You've got some issues, and you're not going to solve them by keeping things bottled up."
"We all have issues."
"You really have issues. Your wife died over a year ago, and I'll bet you haven't talked to a single counselor about it."
Rapp's face turned hard. "Watch your step. You never met my wife, and you don't know me well enough to talk about this."
"Fuck you."
Rapp cocked his head to the side as if he couldn't believe what he'd just heard.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. I learned it from you. No bullshit, speak the truth, and get the job done. That's you. You don't respect people who are incompetent, you don't respect people who waste your time, and you really don't respect people who are intimidated by you."
"And?"
"I'm speaking the truth and you know it. You just don't want to admit it. Big tough Mitch Rapp can't go see a shrink and talk about his problems because that would be a sign of weakness and the one thing you despise more than anything in others is weakness. So your solution is to repress. To bury the pain and all you're doing is making it worse."
Rapp dropped his head into his right hand and mumbled, "Oh...fuck. My head hurts." He'd had virtually the same conversation with Kennedy on Christmas Eve. "Why do you women always have to psychoanalyze me?"
"Because we all secretly want to be your mother or your lover."
Rapp lifted his face out of his hand. "Huh."
"I'm teasing...kind of. But let's not get off the subject. You need to talk to someone about what happened to your wife."
"You need to watch your step."