Mitch Rapp 05 - Memorial Day Read online

  “How’s Tommy?” Rapp asked.

  “Great. Couldn’t be more excited. He’s running around down on the beach with the other kids looking for wood to build a bonfire.”

  Rapp could tell by her voice that she was relaxing. “Good. Make sure you tell him I said hello.”

  “I will. What’s up?” she asked.

  Rapp brought her up to speed on the manhunt, and told her about Reimer’s conversation with his Russian counterpart. Both pieces of news seemed to give her some comfort. They were the first bits of good news she’d received since finding out the CIA had helped Mohammed Ansari immigrate to the United States. Once that little tidbit was made public, she would be beaten over the head with it even though she’d only been a junior-level case officer at the time.

  Throughout the afternoon one thing had given Kennedy great concern. Tonight was the state dinner honoring the Big Three of WWII: America, Great Britain, and Russia. It would be the perfect time to launch an attack. The only thing that prevented her from calling the president was that he was already up at Camp David with the British prime minister playing golf. At that location they were not a target. She agreed with Rapp that it was best to stay out of the way of the FBI and the locals. As a precaution, though, she stayed in close contact with Jack Warch, the special agent in charge of the president’s Secret Service detail.

  She knew that now the president was at this moment returning to the White House aboard Marine One with the British prime minister. They were apparently running late for their own state dinner. None of this was a surprise to Warch, since the president had turned tardiness into a habit recently. The Russian president was also running late, having been delayed by some unusually strong headwinds on the way over. He had just made it to the Russian Embassy and wasn’t expected to arrive at the White House until nearly 9:00, an hour and a half late. Additionally, Kennedy had spoken directly to Reimer, and he guaranteed her that based on the material they found in Charleston, the sensors in and around the capital would have alerted them to any nuclear weapon being smuggled into the city.

  Rapp had just finished giving her the details of the manhunt when she asked, “What’s your gut telling you, Mitch?”

  “I think they’re holed up somewhere. We’re talking about five Middle Eastern–looking men in a part of the country where there’s a ton of retired military…if they’d stolen a vehicle we would’ve heard about it.”

  “That’s if someone saw them.”

  “That’s the other thing. You’ve been down there. It’s not far from the Farm.” Rapp was referring to Camp Perry where the CIA trained all of their new recruits. “There’s a lot of woods. A lot of dirt roads and trails where someone could disappear.”

  “And you still think the locals can handle this?” she asked.

  “They’re our best option right now, but if we find the vehicles abandoned in the woods I’d like to bring in the SEALs and track them.”

  “Well,” she said thinking about the repercussions, “you know how that’ll go over.”

  “I’ve already had one go around about it, but you and I know it’s not even close. HRT is really good in a controlled environment, but not that used to running patrols in the woods.”

  “I agree. We’ll cross that bridge when and if we have to. In the meantime keep me posted on any new developments.”

  “I will.”

  Kennedy disconnected the line and stood there in the kitchen staring out through the big double sliding-glass doors at the deck and the water beyond. Somewhere down on the beach she could hear the laughing and yelling of her son and her cousin’s children. She wished that just once she could get away from it all. Shut it off, and live like a normal person. The head of her security detail was standing in the hallway by the kitchen watching her.

  “Carl,” she said, “would you call Langley and tell them I need a helicopter put on standby.”

  “Sure.”

  Kennedy dialed the next number from memory and looked at her watch. It was almost 7:30. Special Agent Warch answered after the first ring. “Jack, it’s Irene. Are you back at the White House yet?”

  “Almost. I know it’s a real shock, but we’re running late.”

  “So you’re on Marine One right now?”

  “Yep.”

  Kennedy thought about it for a second and said, “Jack, I need you to do me a favor. It’s more of a precaution really.” Kennedy went on to explain what she wanted, and with a little bit of cajoling, the agent in charge of the presidential detail agreed.

  Peggy Stealey arrived at the dinner in a black stretch limousine with DNC Chairman Holmes. As she was helped from the backseat, the long slit of her evening gown parted to reveal a naked, toned leg that caught the attention of even the military Honor Guard arrayed on each side of the door. She took Holmes’s arm and elegantly strode up the steps under the North Portico of the White House. Flash bulbs erupted to catch the stunning blonde who looked like she would be more at home on the red carpet at an awards ceremony than a state dinner at the White House.

  The two entered the White House and were immediately offered a glass of champagne. Stealey took one, but Holmes declined. He’d already declared his intention to avoid the pond scum that they served at these types of things and stick to Belvedere vodka, which of course meant that he’d be tanked by ten. To Holmes any bottle of wine, sparkling or otherwise, was to be avoided unless its price tag had at least three digits prior to the decimal. For an evening like this, four would have been preferred, but Holmes hadn’t been consulted. If he had been, it probably would have meant he was expected to pay for it, or worse, provide a dozen cases from his private collection. That would never happen. The only sin worse than drinking a cheap bottle of wine was wasting a good one on people who couldn’t appreciate it.

  Holmes looked like a fullback blocking for a halfback as he pushed his way through the Cross Hall toward the East Room and the bar. Between them he and Peggy created quite the stir, half the men beseeching Holmes for a favor and the other half gawking at his date. Holmes refused every attempt to engage him in conversation.

  “You know the rule,” he said at least three times. “Not until I have a drink in my hand.” As chairman of the DNC he was in control of the party’s purse strings, and there was never enough money to go around.

  When they finally reached the bar Holmes went around the side and waved the bartender over. Two rows of people were neatly cued up and patiently waiting their turn. Holmes didn’t wait in lines, especially when he was thirsty. Several of the people muttered to each other over the break in decorum.

  The bartender came over and Holmes slapped a folded hundred-dollar bill in the man’s hand and whispered in his ear, “Belvedere on the rocks, double, and a tall vodka tonic, double.”

  The man glanced down at the crisp bill and said, “Sir, it’s an open bar.”

  “I know it is. That’s your tip.”

  “But I can’t…”

  “Yes, you can,” Holmes said impatiently. “Now hurry up. I’m thirsty.”

  The bartender left to make the drinks.

  Stealey turned her bare back to the people in line. “You’re getting some awfully dirty looks, Mr. Chairman.”

  Holmes glanced over her shoulder and plastered an ugly smile across his face. “They’re not looking at me. They’re all looking at you. They’re thinking you’re a movie star.”

  Stealey smiled warmly. “What a nice compliment, Pat.”

  “Yeah, either that or they think you’re a high-priced call girl.”

  The smile vanished and was replaced with a scowl.

  “You should be flattered. Have you ever seen how hot some of the call girls are in this town?” The scowl remained, so Holmes kept digging. “All I’m trying to say is that you are an extremely beautiful woman. You look fantastic tonight.”

  Stealey sighed and shook her head. “Patrick, there are nicer ways to say that than comparing me to a prostitute.”

  Thankfully the dri
nks arrived, because Holmes couldn’t see her point. He didn’t say prostitute, he said call girl, and in his mind, and in this town, there was a big difference.

  He took the drinks from the bartender and told him he’d be back in about ten minutes to reload. He handed Stealey her drink and with a British accent, said, “As I mentioned, you look raaavishing this evening.” He raised his glass in a toast. He looked handsome in his tux, and she looked stunning in her shimmering robin’s-egg blue evening gown. If all went well he’d finally get her into bed tonight. They both took a drink and smiled at each other. He knew she knew, and she knew he knew and round and round they went.

  Stealey set her champagne glass on the tray of a passing server and turned to take in the magnificence of the East Room. Weddings, wakes, and countless functions, some historical and some meaningless, had all been held in this, the grandest room of the People’s House. The ambiance was intoxicating. This was power. This was the closest thing modern-day America had to a King’s Court.

  A senator, whose name Stealey couldn’t recall, approached and extended his hand. Stealey returned the gesture and was surprised when the man took her hand in his and kissed it.

  “Pat,” the senator said to Holmes, while keeping his eyes locked on Stealey’s, “please introduce me to this lovely woman.”

  “She’s my fiancée, Harry, so take your mitts off her.” Holmes grabbed Stealey by the arm and led her away. “I’m not one to talk about morals, but that man is the scum of the earth.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Stealey asked, as she was whisked across part of the dance floor and between several tables.

  “I see our next vice president over here with his wife.”

  Stealey went rigid, but it was too late. Stokes and his wife, the mouse, were both waving at them. Holmes took a big gulp of vodka and then held up his drink. A split second later they were standing right in front of the attorney general and his wife, Stealey as stiff as a board and Holmes as gregarious as ever.

  “Libby, so good to see you.” Holmes was well over a foot taller than the woman. He bent over and gave her a warm kiss on the cheek.

  “Good to see you too, Pat.” She rubbed his arm warmly. “You look very handsome tonight, and…” She paused as she turned her big brown eyes on Stealey.

  Stealey stood there with her best fake smile plastered across her porcelain face. Here it comes, she thought. She’s going to kill me with kindness like she always does.

  “Look at this beautiful woman.” Elizabeth Stokes took a half step back and looked Stealey over from head to toe. “Peggy, I swear you’re the only woman I know who gets better looking each year.”

  “Elizabeth, you’re too kind.” The women exchanged air kisses so as to not disturb their makeup.

  “For the last time, Peggy, call me Libby.”

  Stealey nodded and kept the fake smile in place. It drove her nuts that here this woman was, close to fifty, and she still wanted to be called by her childhood nickname. “Libby.” She overannunciated the name like she was speaking to a child. “You look very nice also.”

  “Nice,” growled Holmes. “You look gorgeous.”

  “Why, thank you.” Libby did a miniature debutante twirl and batted her big brown eyes and lush eyelashes at Holmes.

  That was her best weapon, Stealey knew. She’d seen her do it before. The big bedroom eyes and those naturally thick eyelashes drove the boys crazy. Stealey wanted to tell her in the worst way that she had slept with her husband and finally be done with this insincerity, but she knew deep down where that would lead. Libby was the mother hen and she would do anything to protect her nest. Martin was too gutless to stand up to her. There was no way he would leave and she knew she didn’t really want him anymore anyway.

  “So,” Holmes said in a much quieter voice. Everyone leaned in a few inches. “Has your husband told you the big news?”

  Stokes looked almost instantly uncomfortable. “I think it’s a bit premature, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Holmes said with a big grin.

  “What big news?” Mrs. Stokes asked excitedly.

  Stokes took another sip and shook his head.

  “Oh, come on,” Holmes chided him. “Won’t you let me tell her?”

  Stokes finally smiled. “All right, go ahead, but, honey, I want you to know the only reason I didn’t tell you was that it’s not a hundred percent yet.”

  “It ain’t over until the fat lady sings, of course. But then again you’re here tonight and the vice president isn’t.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Stealey watched as Libby Stokes sidled up to her husband like a cat in heat.

  “Please let me tell her?” asked Holmes.

  Stokes nodded.

  “Good.” Holmes offered his arm. “Would you like to accompany me to the bar, Libby? I need to freshen my drink and along the way I will share with you the good news.”

  Libby shivered like an excited child and they were off. Stealey watched them with a mix of disgust and amusement. She hoped Holmes told her she looked as nice as a call girl. She felt her boss’s breath on her bare neck and slowly turned. He had that look in his eye. That look that he only got when his wife was not around.

  “You look fabulous,” he whispered, “and you smell great too.”

  If they were alone Stealey would have considered another blow to his groin, but this was obviously not the place for her to fully express the hate side of their love-hate relationship.

  “It’s too bad you brought your wife tonight.”

  Stokes stood there guardedly, knowing she was toying with him, but unable to help himself. “Why do you say that?”

  Stealey leaned forward, her lips almost touching his ear. “Because I was going to bring you back to my place tonight and tie you up.” Then leaning away from him she nonchalantly said, “Oh look, there’s Valerie. Well, maybe some other time.” And just like that she was gone, leaving her boss and former lover standing alone to sort out the mix of emotion and desire that was coursing through his brain and other parts.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  It was just after 9:00 when Reimer walked into CT Watch looking more than a little concerned. Rapp had just gotten off the phone with his wife for the second time today. He apologized again, and she said she understood, even though she didn’t sound like she did. He didn’t like disappointing her and promised he would catch the first flight out in the morning. She said she’d be waiting for him at the end of the dock in her bikini. He laughed, she didn’t. She was sick of sharing her husband, and he couldn’t argue with her.

  The Virginia State police, along with the various county and local authorities, had set up a series of checkpoints around the area where the vehicles had last been seen. Now that it was nightfall they were stopping every vehicle that was headed in and out of the area. If nothing turned up they were prepared to start going door-to-door come morning.

  Reimer opened the door to the bridge, and instead of entering, he motioned for Rapp and McMahon to follow him. He walked straight into McMahon’s office and didn’t bother taking a seat. When McMahon and Rapp had joined him he closed the door firmly and said, “I just got a call from one of my people, and you’re not going to like this.” Reimer looked extremely unhappy.

  “Apparently the CDC in Atlanta called some dipshit over at the Department of Energy this afternoon and reported a death at one of the local hospitals due to radiation poisoning.” The veins on Reimer’s neck were bulging. “This jackass paper pusher was more worried about getting out of town for the holiday weekend than national security, so instead of picking up the phone and calling me directly, he sent me an e-mail…One of seventy-eight that I received today, and the little idiot didn’t even bother to mark it urgent.”

  Other than the word radiation and the reference to the Centers for Disease Control, Rapp hadn’t a clue as to what any of this meant. “Paul, I’m not following.”

  “This guy died from ARS…Acute Radiati
on Syndrome. I just got off the phone with the hospital. The doctor who treated him thinks he was exposed to a minimum of twenty thousand rads.”

  “And what does that mean?” asked McMahon.

  “It means he was in contact with something very hot. Something you don’t just stumble across in everyday life.”

  “Is the guy Arab?” Rapp asked.

  “No. He’s a Mexican American from Laredo, Texas. Apparently he picked up a load in Mexico earlier in the week and drove it to Atlanta. He dropped off his load and then went to fill up on gas, and passed out at the pumps.”

  “Don’t tell me he brought it to the warehouse owned by the two guys we’ve got sitting out in Fairfax.”

  “Not that we know of, but I doubt it. If something this hot was in that warehouse, the WMD Teams would have picked up a whiff. We do know where the cab is, though, and the CDC has a team on the way to check it out.”

  “And the trailer he brought across the border?”

  “We’re trying to get someone on the phone from the trucking company, but their offices are closed for the weekend.”

  “But we know where the truck is, right?” asked McMahon.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he should have paperwork in the cab.” McMahon picked up the phone to call the Atlanta office. “I’m going to send some agents out there to look around. You got the address?”

  Reimer handed over a piece of paper with the information on it.

  Rapp asked him, “So are you trying to tell us that you think there’s a second bomb?”

  “I don’t know that for sure, but I sure as hell don’t like this coincidence.”

  “I thought your Russian counterpart was sure only one of the bombs was missing?”

  “He was sure that only one of the unexploded atomic demolition munitions was missing.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “There’s dozens of duds buried under the ground on that test range. Everything from demolition munitions to the big megaton weapons designed for intercontinental ballistic missiles.”