The Third Option Read online

  The sedan pulled up to a checkpoint manned by the Capitol Hill police. After a brief inspection, they were waved through. Kennedy was dropped off near the ground-floor entrance on the southeast side of the building. She stepped from the car and opened her umbrella. With her leather organizer in her other hand, she walked through the rain and entered the huge neoclassical building, where she lined up to go through the metal detectors. Most of the ground floor of the Capitol was occupied by committee rooms and offices and was not accessible to the general public without a pass. The areas that were accessible tended to be located in the middle of the building and included the Hall of Columns, the Old Supreme Court Chamber, and the Brumidi Corridors. The south wing of the building held the House of Representatives, and the north wing held the Senate. On the second floor were the chambers for both the House and the Senate, along with offices for leadership of both bodies. The Capitol’s most identifiable feature, its rotunda, was also on the second floor. The third floor had more committee rooms and offices and the galleries from which visitors could watch the House and the Senate in action. All three of these floors were immaculately maintained.

  Kennedy was headed to the fourth floor, which she often thought of as the neglected child of the Capitol. The offices there were far less glamorous, the paint was chipping in places, and water stains on the ceiling were not uncommon. Visitors rarely glimpsed the fourth floor, which was one of the reasons it was chosen as the location for the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence. Kennedy walked past Office H-405, which housed the committee’s staffers. She opened a door a little farther down and stepped into a tiny waiting area.

  There were two people in the room: a staffer sitting behind a reception desk and a Capitol Hill Police officer. The staffer greeted her and told her to take a seat. He picked up the phone and told someone on the other end that Dr. Kennedy had arrived. The man listened for a few seconds and then hung up. Looking at Kennedy, he said, “It’ll be a few minutes.”

  Kennedy nodded and thought to herself, I’m sure it will. Chairman Rudin was notorious for making CIA employees wait. Kennedy checked her watch. It was 8:56. They’d told her to be there by nine. She would be shocked if she was called in before a quarter past nine. She was right. At 9:24, she was summoned to the inner chamber. The committee room was the smallest in Washington. There was no gallery—no room for reporters to sit and listen. The sixteen members—eight Democrats, seven Republicans, and one independent—sat ten feet in front of the witness table in two rows. There were chairs for staffers be hind the top row, and on the wall were the thirteen seals of the government agencies that made up the intelligence community, or IC.

  Like the committee room for the Senate, this was also a room within a room. Highly secure, it was swept by technicians from the National Security Agency on a weekly and sometimes daily basis, depending on the business that was being conducted.

  Kennedy set her organizer on the table and looked up to see Michael O’Rourke coming toward her. The congressman from Minnesota was the lone independent on the committee. O’Rourke said hello and asked Kennedy how her son was doing. After their pleasantries were concluded, O’Rourke said, “Irene, I need you to be honest with me about something.”

  Kennedy studied the young congressman for a second and said, “I’ll try my best. What is it?”

  “Does the name Mitch Rapp mean anything to you?”

  Kennedy studied O’Rourke before answering. Looking over his shoulder at the other committee members, she said, “Maybe you should come out to Langley, and we can talk about this.” Kennedy was fully aware that Anna Rielly and Congressman O’Rourke’s wife were best friends. Rapp had kept her in the loop.

  “So you know him?”

  “I never said that.” Kennedy reached out and touched his arm. “Come see me at Langley, and we’ll talk about it.”

  O’Rourke nodded. “I’ll be out this afternoon, then.”

  “That’s fine. Call my office and see what time works best.”

  O’Rourke agreed and went back to his seat. One more thing to worry about, Kennedy thought to herself. She looked up and saw Chairman Rudin scowling at a piece of paper. From his perch, he looked down his beaklike nose at Kennedy and said, “You may be seated.”

  Congressman Zebarth, the ranking Republican on the committee who sat immediately to Rudin’s right, leaned forward and said, “Good morning, Dr. Kennedy. Thank you for coming to see us on such short notice.” Zebarth winked and leaned back in his chair. Zebarth was the only other member on the committee who had been in Washington as long as Rudin. Very few politicians, let alone Republicans, got along with Rudin, but Zebarth was a throwback to the old days when politicians could agree to disagree and then go have a Manhattan. Keenly aware of the rules of debate and decorum, the silver-tongued Virginian could slice an adversary to pieces without a single angry word. The Republican leadership had placed him on the Intelligence Committee because they thought he was the only man who could handle Rudin’s crotchety attitude.

  Rudin shuffled some papers around and cleared his throat a few times. When he was done, he took a drink of water and removed his glasses. Looking down at Kennedy, he said, “I have been hearing some very upsetting things about your organization lately.”

  Kennedy looked back impassively, waiting for Rudin to elaborate.

  The chairman continued to stare at her, but Kennedy’s composure was sending his blood pressure north. It infuriated him that these professional liars from Langley kept coming before his committee and trying to play him for a moron. “Ms. Kennedy, would you mind telling me just what in the hell happened in Germany last weekend?”

  Before Kennedy could answer, Congressman Zebarth said, “I am progressing in years, but if my memory serves me right, it’s Dr. Kennedy, not Ms. Kennedy.”

  Rudin mumbled something under his breath and then said, “Dr. Kennedy, what happened in Germany last weekend?”

  “Could you be more specific, Mr. Chairman?”

  “I could, but I won’t, because you know damn well what I’m talking about.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Chairman,” interjected Zebarth with a confused look on his face, “I don’t know whether or not the good doctor knows what you’re talking about, but I’m a tad bit embarrassed to admit that I certainly don’t. Not that I claim to understand you in the most esoteric sense of the word, but in regard to the CIA, I can usually extrapolate some type of a read on your position.”

  Rudin refused to look at Zebarth, who was sitting only four feet to his right. He hated the old windbag. Staring straight ahead, he said, “She knows what I’m talking about, and you will soon enough. Just conserve your oxygen for the next couple of minutes. It should help clear the fog.”

  Zebarth snickered. Imitation was the greatest form of flattery, and Rudin had just stolen a line right out of Zebarth’s play book.

  “Now, Dr. Kennedy, let’s get back to my question. What happened in Germany this past Saturday, and what was the involvement of your agency?”

  “Are you referring to the events surrounding Hagenmiller Engineering?”

  “I’m referring to the assassination of Count Hagenmiller,” replied a stern Rudin.

  “There isn’t much that I can add that you don’t already know, Mr. Chairman.”

  Rudin had his hands folded in front of him. He kept his eyes on Kennedy. “I don’t believe you.” A chorus of rumbles erupted from the Republican side of the committee. Rudin ignored them and pressed the point. “I want you to tell this committee, in detail, what role the CIA had in the assassination of Count Hagenmiller. And I would like to remind you, if you lie to my committee, you will be prosecuted.”

  This time, Democrats and Republicans alike turned around to look at the chairman. An accusation as blatant as this was a rare event in the tiny committee room.

  “Well, well, well…” interjected Zebarth. “Given the fact that Dr. Kennedy has been very cooperative with this body in the past, I am assuming that the exuber
ant chairman has some information that he would like to share with the rest of us before we continue down this possibly reckless line of inquiry.”

  Rudin snatched his wooden gavel and gave it several whacks. “Order. The chair has not yielded. When I have, I will let you know.” From the righthand side of the bench came a chorus of questions. Each time Rudin tried to get back to Kennedy, a Republican would ask loudly, “Will the chair yield, please? Point of order, Mr. Chairman.” This unruly behavior smacked of the antics displayed on the Judiciary Committee, but it was very unusual for the Intelligence Committee. Even the Democrats seemed a bit miffed by Rudin’s aggressiveness.

  Kennedy kept her mouth shut and watched. Rudin’s blunt question had her concerned, but she didn’t show it. The Orion Team didn’t exist, and she had nothing to do with the death of Hagenmiller. She would utter those falsities until she was dead. She could never admit any of it no matter how bad it got. The big question was whether or not Rudin was bluffing, or if he had been given some information. A week ago, she would have bet the farm that he was bluffing, but today, with the unknown leak lurking out there somewhere, she couldn’t be sure.

  With a red face, Rudin yelled over the din of protests, “Dr. Kennedy, answer my question! Did the CIA have anything to do with the assassination of Count Hagenmiller?”

  Kennedy calmly looked up at the angry chairman and said, “To the very best of my knowledge, the CIA had no involvement whatsoever in the death of Count Hagenmiller.” Kennedy did not blink; she did not waver. She had just committed a felony. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  The face looked familiar. It was hard to be sure because the subject’s eyes were closed, but it definitely resembled one of the men he’d seen in Colorado. Scott Coleman looked at the computer screen and squinted. It was mid-morning, and they were in Marcus Dumond’s apartment in Bethesda. With Kennedy’s approval, the reigning computer expert from the Counterterrorism Center had called in sick. His orders from Kennedy were to assist Rapp and make sure that whatever he did, he didn’t get caught.

  It was not unusual for a person to die a violent death in Washington, D.C. It happened all the time. What was unusual about the homicide was the number of bullets fired and the fact that most of them were from silenced weapons. Dumond had caught the story on the nightly news. The D.C. police were handling the homicide, and they had sent information to the CTC on the off chance that there might be a terrorist connection.

  Coleman leaned over Dumond’s shoulder. “Are there any other photos?”

  “Let me check.” Dumond maneuvered his mouse and clicked on an icon. With his high-speed connection, it took less than a second to download the second photograph. It was of the body lying on the street between two parked cars. “He looks like a pretty big guy.”

  “Yeah, this guy out in Colorado was a house.” Coleman squinted. “I think this is him. Do they have a vitals sheet on him?”

  “Let me check.” Dumond went to work. A short while later, he asked, “Will the autopsy report do?”

  “Very nicely.” Coleman read from the new screen. It listed the deceased’s name as Todd Sherman and said that he was six five and weighed two hundred eighty six pounds. “I think this is the guy.”

  Rapp came in from the kitchen. “You think who is the guy?”

  “This guy who was killed in College Park yesterday…I think he’s one of the people who was involved in the hit out in Colorado.”

  “Let me see.” Coleman moved out of the way, and Rapp bent over Dumond’s shoulder. “Todd Sherman. Can you show me what he looks like?”

  “Yep.”

  The screen changed, and Rapp looked at the second photo, the one of the victim lying in the street. “How about a face shot?” The screens changed, and the first photo appeared. Rapp tilted his head and studied the photo for a second. “Can you access the Seven Dwarves from here?” Rapp was referring to the seven Cray supercomputers in the basement at Langley.

  Dumond smiled. “I can access anything from anywhere.”

  “Great. Get me in there.”

  Dumond slid over to a second computer and began typing. Rapp turned to Coleman. “I think I might know this guy.”

  “From where?”

  “It was an operation we ran in France. I received some logistical support from a guy who used to work for the Agency. He had this big fella working for him…he was massive. Big huge hands and a head you wouldn’t believe. We called his boss the Frog.”

  “I’m in,” said Dumond. “Do you want me to look up Todd Sherman?”

  “Was that the name on the autopsy?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rapp thought about it for a second. “I doubt it’s his real name, but we might as well give it a try.”

  Dumond went to work. The computer came up with thirty-one Todd Shermans. “Do you want me to narrow the search?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dumond typed in a range for age and a brief physical description. The list was narrowed to eleven. Rapp and Coleman pulled up chairs, and Dumond began scrolling through the files. All but two of them had photographs attached, and the two that didn’t were for a man in his sixties and another in his seventies.

  “Try Kyle,” said Rapp. “That was one of his contact names.”

  “First or last name?”

  “I don’t know. Put it in as an alias, and let’s see what you come up with.”

  Dumond did as he was told and said, “You’re not going to like what we get back.” Surprisingly, the search came back with a matching request of 1,462 files.

  “Shit.” Rapp leaned back and clasped his hands behind his neck.

  “I bet there are more than a billion dossiers in this system.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “How can that be?” asked Coleman.

  “Easy. They have individuals from all over the globe in this thing, and it goes back at least a hundred years.”

  “Let’s work on the search criteria and see if we can narrow this thing down.” Rapp leaned in to study the screen and began telling Dumond what to type.

  THE EXPRESS CARPET cleaner van drove up Garfield and passed the Washington Cathedral. After crossing Massachusetts Avenue and then Wisconsin half a block later, it started down the hill. Four blocks later, it took a right onto New Mexico and stopped in front of a large brick apartment building. Two men got out, and the third stayed behind the wheel. They were wearing leather gloves and light blue coveralls with the company logo embroidered over the left breast. Both men also wore baseball hats, sunglasses, and fanny packs. The shorter man carried a clipboard.

  The two men stepped into the foyer of the apartment building, and the taller one picked up the security phone and began looking over the list of tenants. When he found the woman’s name, he punched in the number for her unit and counted the rings. He didn’t expect anyone to answer. The other man casually pulled a device from his pocket that looked like a cross between a gun and a fancy wine bottle opener. It was, in fact, a lock-pick gun. He put the pick into the lock and shielded his movements with the clipboard. In less than five seconds, he had the door open. The other man hung up the phone, and they entered the lobby. They walked past the elevators and took the stairs up to the fourth floor.

  Before leaving the stairwell, they cracked the door and looked down the hallway. The only thing that could stop them at this point was a nosy neighbor. They had no idea who had hired them. It had been handled by a simple phone call and some directions on where to pick up the package. It was a dead drop out at the Tyson’s Corner shopping mall. The manila envelope contained a brief bio of the target and a laundry list of things their unknown employer would like to know. It also contained ten thousand dollars in crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. Twice their normal rate, and considering who the target was, they felt they deserved every penny of it. They knew who the woman was. They had all seen her on TV. She was beautiful. In light of her job, they had decided someone with
deep pockets wasn’t too happy about a story she was working on and was probably looking for a little insurance policy. They had done this type of job before. Almost everyone had things they would like kept a secret.

  The chances of her coming home were slim, and if she did, there were people near the White House watching her who would alert them. They emerged from the stairwell and walked softly down the hall. When they reached her door, the short man went to work again. This time, it took him eight seconds to break in. Both men stepped into the apartment and closed the door. The tall one latched the security chain and looked through the peep hole to see if they had aroused anyone’s curiosity. After ten seconds, he gave up the vigil and went to work. Pulling out a small radio, he told the man down on the street that they were in. The driver moved the van to a parking spot, where he could watch the street and the entrance to the apartment building.

  Methodically, starting with the bedroom, the two men began an inventory of everything in the apartment. A journal was found on the bedside nightstand, and every page was photographed. Bugs were planted in each room, and their location was noted on a quick sketch. They were required to present their employer with a floor plan of the apartment marking the exact location of each device and the frequency.

  A small desk in the living room contained much of the information they needed: bills, correspondence, an appointment book, and, most importantly, her laptop computer. It took less than five minutes to get past the password and copy all of her files. Her e-mail accounts were noted, as well as the passwords. Every aspect of Anna Rielly’s life would be monitored, though to what end they would never know. They didn’t care, either. Their jobs, their lives really, depended on asking few questions. They would hand the information over and disappear. In less than an hour and a half, they had it all and were on their way out, leaving no sign that they had ever been in the apartment.