Mitch Rapp 05 - Memorial Day Page 28

  She had gotten the chairman of the DNC’s attention. Holmes set his fork down and wiped his mouth with his white linen napkin. “You’re going to have to give me specifics, Val.”

  “I could go on for hours, but for starters, you’re not going to believe what happened at the White House this morning. We’re sitting in a National Security Council meeting and out of nowhere he starts attacking Peggy.”

  “About what?”

  “He demands that we start torturing the American citizens that we arrested yesterday in connection with the terrorist plot.”

  Holmes was immediately suspicious of how Jones was relaying the facts. “Val, Mitch Rapp is a pretty serious guy. I doubt that he just out and out demanded that we torture American citizens.”

  “He pretty much did,” Stealey weighed in.

  “That’s not even the half of it.” Jones looked at Stealey. “Peggy, I was waiting to tell you this. Remember when the president, Kennedy, Rapp, and I left the meeting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we went into the Oval Office and things got really hot. The president told Rapp he would no longer tolerate any more of his outbursts and the abuse of his staff and do you know what Rapp said?”

  “I can’t wait to hear.”

  “He went on to tell the president that the only reason we found out about the impending attack was because he flew over to Afghanistan and lined up five al-Qaeda terrorists and started executing them one at a time until they talked.”

  Peggy Stealey’s blue eyes were bugged in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

  Holmes looked on with a furrowed brow.

  “He told the president that he put a gun to their heads and blew their brains out, and that he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt or shame about it. I kid you not. Now if that isn’t reckless…I don’t know what is.”

  “He admitted this in front of you?” Stealey asked in shock.

  “Yes, and the president and Kennedy.”

  “It’s not only reckless, it’s illegal. He’s a federal employee. He should be in jail.”

  “Well…that would be one way to get rid of him.”

  “Slow down, you two.” Holmes placed an elbow on the table and looked from Jones to Stealey and back again. “Are you both out of your minds? Do you two have any idea who you’re messing with? You’re talking about locking up an American hero.”

  “He’s an assassin in a suit,” snarled Jones.

  Holmes pointed at the president’s chief of staff. “There are people in this town…very powerful people…who will have your heads on a platter if you even think about attempting something so foolish.”

  “Pat, did you hear anything I said?” Jones was clearly irritated. “We’re not the ones running around breaking the law and risking the future of this administration.”

  Holmes looked at Jones in utter disbelief. He threw his napkin down on his half-eaten steak and said, “Investigating Mitch Rapp is one of the dumbest ideas I’ve ever heard.” He glanced at Stealey and then back at Jones. “You two need to take a step back and look at the big picture. Stop worrying about the party base and the Patriot Act and start thinking about just who in the hell you’re fucking with.”

  Jones started to speak, but Holmes cut her off with a harsh glare. “Don’t say another word. There are things you two don’t know…things you don’t want to know. People you don’t want to cross. Drop this nonsense right now, or our deal is off. In fact, drop this nonsense right now, or I’ll make sure you’re both out of a job by tomorrow morning, and I am dead serious.”

  VIRGINIA

  Mustafa al-Yamani looked forward to dying with each passing mile of road. There wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t hurt, and more and more his thoughts turned to giving up—to letting the others see it through to the end. He couldn’t quit, though. There was still too much to be done, and he could not trust this weak Pakistani scientist to light the fire. He would pee down his leg like a scared child at the first sign of trouble.

  Al-Yamani could ignore the pain for a little while longer. A few days of agony were nothing when compared to the struggle of his people. He was on a crusade, a continuation of the thousand-year-old battle between the Arab people and the infidels. Never at any time in history had so much been at stake. It was time to ignite a true global jihad and show the other believers that America could be brought to her knees.

  Al-Yamani could not do it alone. He barely had the strength left to walk, and his vision was getting worse by the hour. He hated to think what would have happened if he hadn’t met up with Hasan and Khaled. His fellow warriors were a great comfort to him. They had been through so much together. Their devotion was unflinching. They would do everything in their power to make sure this mission reached its glorious conclusion.

  Even Zubair, despite all of his worrying, had proven useful. Al-Yamani was not a man of science. He had no medical knowledge of how radiation affected the human body—only practical knowledge. He had watched as dozens of his devoted Muslim warriors fell victim to the unseen killer. They had dug for months in that barren wasteland at the north end of the Caspian in search of crumbs discarded by a careless Soviet giant. The cost had been great, but in the end it would all be worth it.

  Having seen firsthand what the unseen killer could do, al-Yamani listened to Zubair’s warnings. The Pakistani’s estimate that it would take two hours to shield the weapon had proven wrong. It had actually taken six hours, but al-Yamani saw the wisdom of their actions from more than just a health aspect. Washington, D.C., was ringed with sensors that detected radioactivity. Every bridge that went into the city and every major road was equipped with the sensors. If al-Yamani wanted to get the weapon to the point where it would do the most damage he would need to get past them, and to do that the weapon would have to be shielded. He had originally thought that traveling by water would prevent detection by the sensors, but Zubair had now made it clear that this bomb would never escape detection without proper shielding.

  Under the direction of Zubair, Hasan had tracked down a sizable amount of depleted uranium in the form of discarded elevator weights. The scrap yard where he found them was unfortunately on the other side of town. While Hasan went to pick up the depleted uranium, Khaled escorted Zubair to a medical supply store where the Pakistani scientist purchased four lead aprons, of the variety used by X-ray technicians, some heavy-duty chemist’s gloves, and a batch of dosimeters or film badges for measuring the doses of radiation they were receiving. As a further precaution an enclosed trailer was rented using Hasan’s pirated credit card.

  At a nearby Wal-Mart they purchased water, soap, new clothes, and a massive white fishing cooler. Back at the construction site the fishing cooler was lined with the elevator weights, and then Zubair used blocks of foam picked up at a packing store to create a nest for the nuclear material. From a safe distance the scientist watched as Hasan and Khaled transferred the nuclear material from the crate to the cooler, and then covered it with foam and more depleted uranium. Zubair repeatedly told them to work quickly but carefully. When they were done, the cooler was placed in the trailer and everything else was discarded, including their clothes. Zubair made the now naked Hasan and Khaled wash down behind the construction trailer with the water and soap they’d purchased. After they’d put on their stiff new clothes, they all left Atlanta.

  That had been nearly twelve hours ago. Now as the sun came up they were nearing their next destination. It was Friday morning, and they had a little less than a day and a half to get into position. They stopped for breakfast in Bracey, Virginia, and waited until 7:00 a.m. to make the call. Al-Yamani found a payphone and dialed the number from memory. A man whose voice he had not heard in years answered.

  Al-Yamani asked, “Is Frank there?”

  There was a moment of hesitation on the other end and then the voice said, “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.”

  Al-Yamani hung up the phone and walked out to the waiting truck. Zubair and Kh
aled were in the backseat and Hasan was in the driver’s seat. Al-Yamani climbed in and picked up a map. He pointed to a spot and said, “That is where we are to meet him. At noon. The Richmond National Battlefield Park.”

  Hasan nodded and put the truck in drive. “We’ll have no problem getting there early.”

  “Good.”

  Al-Yamani stared out the bug-spattered windshield, desperately wanting to get this last step over with. The man he had called was to have asked him what number he had dialed if he felt he was being watched. Fortunately, he had not uttered those words, for if he had, al-Yamani did not know what he would have done. If they could not link up with this man, all hope really would be lost. So much had been sacrificed, surely Allah would never let that happen.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Rapp sat in the conference room at the Joint Counterterrorism Center and listened halfheartedly to the briefing. Walking away from it all was starting to seem like a good idea. There was just too much bullshit, too many rules, and too many people who weren’t willing to do what it took to get the job done. Yes, he understood that this was America, and there were laws to be followed, but if there was ever a time to at least bend them—this was it.

  It wasn’t going to happen though, because that six-foot-tall blond ballbuster from the Justice Department had showed up with an army of lawyers to make sure everything was done by the book. In their minds, they were going to trial, and they sure as hell weren’t going to let some spook from the CIA, or a bunch of thick-necked special agents from the Bureau, screw things up. The entire thing had turned into a farce. It pained him to no end to listen to these people yammer on about obtaining search warrants and running down leads, when they should be kicking in doors and rounding up suspects by the vanload. Even his own boss had deserted him.

  Kennedy had passed down the order that they were to give the FBI everything they had regarding Rapp’s recent cross-border raid in Southwest Asia, and that included Ahmed Khalili, the young computer expert from Karachi. His cooperation had provided them with some good leads on the internet accounts and chat rooms that al-Qaeda had used to contact the U.S.-based cells.

  Waheed Ahmed Abdullah, whom Rapp had shot in the knee and tortured, was still in the CIA’s custody, but he was providing mostly dated intelligence of no great significance. Rapp and Dr. Khan had both come to the conclusion that Abdullah’s IQ was located somewhere near the lower end of the chart. It seemed his main function for al-Qaeda had been to raise funds from other wealthy Saudi families.

  They now had an artist’s sketch of al-Yamani based on the description provided by the British captain who had been fished out of the water by the Coast Guard. That sketch, and Imtaz Zubair’s passport photo, had been sent to nearly every law enforcement officer in the country. Right now Atlanta was the focus of much of the investigation. Zubair had been tracked there after his arrival in Los Angeles and a hotel employee at the Ritz in Buckhead had identified him. An army of agents had descended on the trucking company owned by one of the men picked up in Charleston, and they were going over every square inch of the place and contacting everyone they’d done business with.

  They’d also connected the dots on the man they’d found in the parking garage in Charleston. He was a Kuwaiti who was attending the University of Central Florida on a student visa. Interestingly, his e-mail address at school turned up on Khalili’s laptop, and the type of knife wound the Kuwaiti had died from was very similar to the one which the British captain had sustained.

  On another front, the Cubans had turned out to be predictably unhelpful. Both Kennedy and the secretary of state had put in calls to their Russian counterparts who were now leaning on the Cubans to hand over everything they had on al-Yamani. They expected to hear something within the hour, and they were sure it would involve Fidel asking for compensation of some sort—most probably American dollars.

  It was nearing noon, and Rapp was thinking about getting out of town early. He was to catch a 4:00 p.m. flight to Milwaukee and then rent a car for the drive up to his in-laws’ cabin for the Memorial Day weekend. Kennedy had asked him to stick around and help monitor what was going on, at least until his flight left. She was taking off early with her son and mother for a weekend getaway at the beach, her first vacation in more than a year.

  Rapp was not looking for medals or public accolades. He wanted to be listened to and taken seriously. In this regard, the president’s apology at least kept him in the game, but for how long he wasn’t sure. He was of no use in this current manhunt. Rapp did not operate well within the confines of large government bureaucracies. They moved too slowly, and again, there were too many rules. He was best left to apply his skills autonomously through a combination of stealth and brutal, efficient force, if needed.

  Maybe it really was time to get out and save himself the headache. He’d have to give it some serious consideration, but for now he should at least check into taking an earlier flight. He missed his wife dearly, and saw no point in wasting a minute more of his time on an investigation that he considered a monumental waste of time and resources.

  The big blonde from Justice announced that they’d take a quick thirty-minute break for lunch, and everyone got up to return phone calls, check e-mails, and stuff their faces with whatever they could find down in the lunch room. Rapp had been so well behaved and so resigned that this thing had grown beyond his control that he’d failed to notice Stealey’s desire to avoid any further tussles with him.

  After Valerie Jones had left dinner last night, Stealey had pressed Holmes to explain what he’d meant about Rapp. She made it clear that she knew very little about the man. Indeed, everything she had heard or read about his wild exploits she had chalked up to journalistic exaggeration. Holmes had responded that he didn’t know what she had heard or read, but he doubted that any of it was exaggerated. Yes, the media got many of the facts wrong, but in Rapp’s case they didn’t know the half of it. “In fact,” said Holmes, “if anything, they barely scratched the surface.”

  Holmes would give her no details. He told her only that there were a lot of very powerful people in Washington who supported what Rapp did. People whom presidents, Democrat and Republican alike, went to for advice. Holmes warned her that one of the quickest ways to ruin her career, and possibly her boss’s, would be to pursue this foolish course against Rapp. In addition, he told her to watch her step around Rapp’s boss, Dr. Kennedy. Despite her genteel ways, the director of the CIA wielded significant influence in circles where even he did not walk.

  Offering proof of Kennedy’s influence, Holmes told Stealey that someone very high up in the Hayes administration would not be around much longer, and the president himself didn’t even know it yet. Stealey tried to speculate, but Holmes wouldn’t entertain any guesses. “Trust me,” he told her. “Someone big, and I’m not talking about the vice president, will be gone by next fall and it will have been Kennedy’s doing.”

  Stealey, a skeptical person by nature and trade, decided to heed the chairman of the DNC’s warning, but only to an extent. There was something about Mitch Rapp that was infinitely appealing. A certain recklessness. He was like an animal who refused to be tamed. The audacity that he had shown in front of the president and his senior cabinet members was breathtaking.

  But she had brought men like Rapp to their knees before. They all had a singular weakness. So filled were they with testosterone that the slightest hint of a breast or the accidental stroke of a hand in the right place could send them down a path that had only one destination. Stokes had been like that at one point, but his mother and that little wife of his had culled it from him. They’d neutered what had once been an extremely attractive and aggressive man. Now he was nothing more than a full-grown eunuch in a suit.

  Even at his peak, though, Stokes didn’t hold a candle to Rapp. The CIA man’s rugged, handsome features combined with the knowledge that he’d killed other men made him an intoxicating, dangerous object of sexual desire. Stealey stood by th
e door and watched him, as people filed out of the conference room. He moved with a distinct athletic grace.

  At that moment, he caught her looking at him, but Stealey didn’t care. She kept her gaze fixed on him, her expression open and warm. She watched as he looked away and then came back to her a moment later. She’d noticed he did that often—kept his eyes moving. He was perpetually alert.

  As he drew near, Stealey reached out and gently took hold of his wrist, careful to place her forefinger on the palm of his hand—skin on skin. His reaction was instant, and if she hadn’t been studying him so intently, she might not have caught it. His head came around quickly, but not so quickly that he seemed alarmed. It was very smooth, as was the way he withdrew his hand and stepped to the side. His dark eyes turned on her and sized her up. She had never before seen eyes like this, and they caused her to momentarily forget what she was going to say.

  Rapp did not like being touched by pretty much anyone other than his wife. Proximity and physical contact was an occupational hazard and not something he associated with casual social or business encounters. He stared at the DOJ official guardedly, wondering what this woman could possibly have to say to him after what had transpired yesterday. He had come here today and kept his mouth shut. He had detached himself from the hunt and realized it was out of his hands. If she wanted another confrontation, though, he would not shy away.

  “I’d like to start over.” Stealey stepped back so Rapp could get out of the way of the other people who were still trying to leave. “It was unfortunate that things had to get so heated yesterday.” She held out her hand.

  Rapp shook it and nodded once while he continued to study her. She was the same height as him. Maybe even a bit taller with her heels on. He chose to say nothing.