Executive Power (7 page)

“That's exactly what I'm saying,” replied an even-keeled Kennedy.

“That's one of the most ludicrous things I've ever heard.”

Kennedy resisted the urge to tell Jones that if she'd paid attention to her intelligence briefings she'd know that the idea was far from ludicrous. People in Washington had long memories and another thing Thomas Stansfield had taught her was to avoid making it personal. “Abu Sayyaf is not just some poor group of peasants. They receive millions in funding from various Muslim groups throughout the Middle East. Much of it comes from Saudi Arabia.”

The president did not want to get into that mess right now so he focused his gray eyes on General Flood and asked, “Was General Moro informed by us of any aspect of the rescue mission prior to it being launched?”

“No,” answered Flood. “For reasons that are all too apparent, the plan was to keep the Philippine army in the dark until we were on our way out with the Andersons.” Flood shrugged. “We didn't trust them enough to bring them in on it and if we didn't ask for permission, they couldn't say no.”

The chief of staff rolled her eyes and said, “I'd hate to think what the U.S. Army would do if a foreign country conducted a military operation on American soil without our permission.”

Rapp leaned forward, almost coming out of his chair entirely and looked angrily at Jones. “They wouldn't have to, because we'd never allow a group of terrorists to kidnap foreign citizens in the United States. We'd go kick the door down and solve the problem before you even had enough time to collect polling data.”

Jones stood and crossed her arms defiantly. “Mr. Rapp, we're all aware that you are predisposed to using violence to solve a problem, but I would like to ask you where that has gotten us?” Not giving him a chance to reply she continued, “Our list of allies is shrinking. These little operations that you are so fond of have alienated some of our strongest supporters. The Filipinos are going to make some serious hay out of this, our own State Department is going to be livid with us for spying on them, and not letting them do their jobs, and before this is over”—she angrily pointed at Rapp—“you mark my words, there will be a congressional investigation into whose bonehead idea this whole thing was.”

The blood rushed to Rapp's face, though he was too tan for it to be apparent to the others in the room. He stood to face Jones eye to eye. It took all his self-control to speak somewhat evenly. “Valerie, you have great political instincts, but you are an absolute moron when it comes to issues of national security. Your ideas are dangerous, your logic is flawed and nothing I've heard you say here today is based on sound moral judgment.”

“Moral judgment?” she asked snidely. “You're going to lecture me on morality?”

The implication was clear. Rapp was a killer and thus should forfeit his right to judge. He ignored her condescension and said, “Here are the facts, Valerie. A family of American citizens was on vacation and were kidnapped by a well-known terrorist group that is a self-admitted sworn enemy of the United States. We now know that the Philippine general in charge of freeing those hostages is taking bribes from the terrorists who hold them. We know that a decision was made to use U.S. Special Forces to free the hostages. That decision was completely legal and made by none other than the commander in chief.” Rapp pointed at the president. “Part of those operational orders were that neither our embassy in the Philippines nor the Philippine government were to be informed of the rescue operation. Two senior State Department officials willingly disregarded those orders and as a direct result a platoon of SEALs was ambushed on a beach two nights ago.”

With her arms folded defiantly across her chest, Jones asked, “Are you done?”

Rapp strained to keep from reaching out and slapping her. With a clenched jaw he replied, “No. This morning while you were yapping on your cell phone and picking up your triple mocha frappuccino, or whatever the hell it is that you drink, a cargo plane landed out in San Diego. Do you know what it was carrying?”

Jones glared at Rapp with unvarnished hatred. No one, not even the president, had ever spoken to her this way. “No.”

“Two flag-draped caskets, Valerie.” Rapp help up his fingers. “There were little kids, wives, and some grandparents there to meet those caskets. Their lives are turned upside down. The men they loved, the men they adored, the men they idolized are gone forever. They are feeling pain right now that you can't even begin to understand, and all because a couple of self-important bureaucrats over at the State Department couldn't keep their damn mouths shut!” Rapp's eyes were filled with rage. “If I had it my way, Valerie, I'd march Ambassador Cox and Assistant Secretary Petry out in front of a firing squad and have them shot.”

Jones flapped her arms and roared, “I can't believe I'm hearing this.” She looked around for someone to second her opinion, but no one backed her up. Dumbfounded, she looked back at Rapp and said, “I think you've lost it.”

“I lost it a long time ago, Valerie, and I could give a rat's ass what you think of me. I've been on that beach thousands of miles away. I've crawled out of the surf wondering if I'm going to catch a bullet right between the eyes.” Rapp marked the spot with his index finger. “I've seen a helicopter filled with young men blown from the sky because an arrogant senator couldn't keep his mouth shut.”

Jones's arms were again folded across her chest and in a disinterested tone she said, “I'm well aware of what you've done for a living.”

Rapp stood with his feet firmly planted, seething with anger. “I can take a lot of crap from people, Valerie, but one thing I can't stand is a lack of gratitude. I'm one of those guys on the beach getting shot at, trying to do the right thing, risking it all for love of country, duty and honor. Words that mean nothing to you. I've been there and you haven't.” He pointed at her. “No Starbucks coffee, no dinners at Morton's, no warm baths. Just a lot of bugs, salty MREs and the comforting thought that there are a lot of self-centered Americans who will never be able to appreciate the sacrifice you've made.

“So, yeah, I guess I've lost it a bit,” Rapp said in a calmer voice, “and that's why I'm not going to let you protect those arrogant assholes over at the State Department. The CIA had Ames, the FBI had Hanssen and now the State Department is going to have Cox and Petry. Things are going to get real uncomfortable for the ambassador and the undersecretary, and that piece of shit General Moro is going to get his, I can promise you that.”

Jones still stood defiantly and asked for a second time, “Are you done?”

Rapp's face actually broke into a smile. He looked at the president for a moment. Hayes was notorious for letting his aides battle it out. His motto was that he'd rather get it all out in the open than let it fester under the surface.

Looking at Jones, Rapp thought,
I can't believe I actually saved this woman's life.
Shaking his head, he said, “I've got one last thing to say. If it wasn't for me, Valerie, you'd be dead.” Rapp turned and started for the door. Over his shoulder he said, “So I'd appreciate a little more gratitude.” When Rapp reached the door he opened it and looked back at Jones. “Oh, and by the way, you'd better figure out how you're going to spin this when it breaks, because I'm not going to stay quiet.”

T
he room was located on the seventh floor of the hotel. David slid his passkey into the slot and when the light turned green he placed his forearm on the handle and opened the door. His meeting with General Hamza hadn't lasted long, and knowing what the future had in store for the Iraqi thug helped to make their encounter more bearable than usual. Fortunately, Hamza hadn't indulged in his usual hour of browbeating and self-aggrandizement. The general was very fond of reminding his contact of the Palestinian people's position in the Arab pecking order. In Hamza's exalted point of view, the Palestinians ranked just above camel dung.

When the general finished his drink and stood to leave, David knew what was causing him to cut short tonight's lecture. There was something in Hamza's room that the general wanted to get back to. It was for that reason that David was in a hurry. His spies had followed the general's men earlier in the day and had witnessed them once again kidnap a young girl.

He'd never left the hotel. After watching the general and his bodyguards leave, David waited a few minutes and then headed for the lobby. One of his people met him and took the cases. David then headed up to the room that he'd checked into three days earlier.

Grabbing a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, he went to work. In front of the bathroom mirror he peeled off the beard and wiped clean the gray dye from his hair and eyebrows. Both the beard and the damp washcloth were placed in a Ziploc bag. Next he took off the suit and shoes and grabbed a backpack from the closet. He put on a pair of black pants, black tennis shoes, dark shirt and coat and then rolled the other clothes up tightly and stuffed everything into the backpack. After going over the room one last time to make sure he wasn't leaving anything behind, David walked to the sliding glass door and yanked it open.

Before stepping onto the balcony he peered to his left and right to see if anyone was about. With the balconies on either side clear, David casually walked outside and continued his surveillance. From one of the rooms below he could hear loud music playing on a stereo. David's eyes burned with hatred at the thought of what might already be happening.

General Hamza was a vile, disgusting man in so many ways, but none more so than in his penchant for young girls. Prepubescent girls to be precise. David had discovered this perverse side of the general while he'd been watching him for the last several months. There had been at least two other occasions that David knew of where the general's bodyguards had snatched young Palestinian girls from the street and brought them back to the hotel so the general could have his fun with them. Using his contacts with the local Jordanian authorities, David dug around and found that the police had actually attempted to question the general about some of the girls who had been abducted. Several days later word had come down from the highest of places telling the police not to harass General Hamza. The Jordanians were not about to let the welfare of a handful of young Palestinian girls interfere with their relations with Iraq.

As David tied a climbing rope to the side of his balcony, he focused on the task at hand. This would not be the first time he'd killed and it certainly wouldn't be the last. He always operated with a calm precision that steered clear of either anger or pleasure. Tonight, however, he was finding it a bit difficult to suppress some of his feelings about the job at hand. The arrogance of General Hamza had gotten to him. The Iraqis had co-opted the Palestinian issue under the guise of Arab brotherhood for the simple goal of driving a wedge between the Arab states and America. If it was only that, David could live with it. He had a grudging respect for America and in the end felt they would do what was right. And if it was only the way the Iraqis lied with such vehemence, he could deal with it. Lying to other tribes was an accepted part of the culture of his people. What really boiled his blood, however, was the way the Iraqis treated Palestinians when the cameras weren't around. It was their arrogance and condescension, and on top of that the way they bullied their brothers in arms. When you fought your way through all the blustery dictums and rhetoric, the Iraqis were out for no one other than themselves.

There was one more thing about the Iraqi general that tested David's composure. It was his utter contempt of and downright hatred for women. Growing up in Jerusalem David was the only boy in his family. He had three older sisters. His father was Palestinian and his mother Jordanian. Both had been educated in Britain. His father was an attorney and his mother was a doctor. In a part of the world where equality between the sexes was still a long way off, David had grown up in a house where there was never a doubt that his mother and father were on the same footing. In fact, if pressed, David would probably admit that his mother was the more dominant of the two. All three of his sisters had gone to America and had become doctors. The two eldest remained in the States where they practiced medicine, and the youngest had come back to help her mother with her practice in Jerusalem. David held his sisters in the highest regard, and unlike many of his Arab brothers he did not adhere to the belief that women should be treated like property.

As David tied off the black climbing rope he muttered a curse and stopped fighting his anger. Nothing boiled his blood more than someone taking advantage of the weak. He pulled on a pair of leather gloves and splaying his fingers apart, worked the leather down firmly into one crook after another. After checking his weapons one last time he pulled a black balaclava over his head and adjusted it so only his dark eyes were visible. With everything in order, he swung one leg over the edge and then the other.

Loosening his grip ever so slightly, David slithered slowly down the rope until his foot touched the railing of the balcony beneath. Deftly he leapt from his perch and landed softly on the concrete surface of the balcony. What little noise he made was masked by the music coming from within the room. Cautiously, he leaned around the edge of the wall to see what was going on inside. The sheer curtain was drawn, but the heavy curtain was not. The room was lit with candles and David could make out a form hovering near what he knew to be the bed. David saw the form jerk in a forward motion and he thought he heard a muffled scream follow. Moving back quickly he took off his backpack and then placed his hand on the door. Slowly, he applied pressure and was not surprised to find that the door was locked.

Crouching, he reached into the backpack and extracted a thin piece of sheet metal with a notch in the end. David took the piece of metal and gently wedged it between the frame and heavy sliding glass door. Twisting it counterclockwise he waited until he had the right amount of tension and then lifted up. Not pausing to see if the general had heard the click, David slid the piece of sheet metal into his coat pocket with one hand and grabbed for his silenced 9mm gun with the other. With his eyes trained on the shadow on the other side of the large suite, he began opening the door. Moving the sheer curtain out of the way, he stepped into the room and was sickened by what he saw.

Standing naked over the girl, a sweaty General Hamza brought a riding crop high above his head and let loose with a wicked blow. The young girl was tied to the bed facedown, spread-eagle, with a gag in her mouth. Her entire body shuddered as the leather crop met her flesh. She tried to scream, but it only came out as another muffled cry. Her delicate skin had been breached in at least a dozen places.

David stared in horror at the long, bloody welts. Hamza, with his back to him, raised the crop above his head again, poised to unleash another blow. David suddenly wanted very badly to hurt him, not just kill him. Moving quickly, he reached Hamza just as the crop was about to strike the girl. His right hand came crashing down in a motion that mimicked Hamza's, but before the leather crop could strike the girl again, the black steel of David's pistol made contact with the base of the general's neck.

Hamza dropped the riding crop instantly, lurching forward and falling unsteadily to one knee. David hovered over him for a split second and then unleashed a second blow. This time the pistol grip landed on the top of Hamza's head. The general wavered for a moment like a tree that couldn't decide which way it would fall, and then before gravity could take hold David reached out and grabbed a handful of hair. Not wanting to alert the bodyguards in the next room, he carefully lowered the naked body of Hamza to the floor.

David grabbed a sheet and covered the young girl. As he looked down at Hamza with disgust and hatred a battle was raging within him. All of his instincts told him to finish off the general and then take care of the bodyguards. That would be the professional way to proceed. The vengeful voice in his head, though, wanted the general to suffer, and it was winning.

David moved for the door that connected the general's room to that of his bodyguards. Without a moment of hesitation he grabbed the handle and yanked it open. He knew the layout of the room, and his silenced pistol was up and already sweeping the area where he'd most likely find the two thugs, while he stayed in the doorway, hugging the frame to reduce his silhouette on the off chance one of the men might get off a shot.

Neither of them did. They were watching TV and looked up expecting to see their boss, but instead found a man wearing a black mask and pointing a gun at them. The weapon was fired twice in less than half a second. At a distance of just eighteen feet David never doubted his accuracy. Both 9mm, subsonic hollow-tipped rounds found their mark, hitting the bodyguards dead center between the eyes. The two Iraqis died instantly.

David closed and locked the door and then after another brief internal battle he decided on a course of action. From an assassin's point of view it wasn't the smart thing to do, but it was definitely the right thing to do. He would have to deviate from his well-planned script, but he wasn't about to leave this poor young girl behind in the hotel room to face further pain and humiliation when the police arrived. No, she would be coming with him. He was getting ahead of himself, though. First he had to think of an appropriate way to kill the naked Iraqi pig who was lying on the floor before him. David began cutting the young girl's bonds and with each slice of the knife the proper death sentence became more clear to him.