Separation of Power (4 page)

There were days when Rapp wondered if he had really made a difference. After all, the crazies were still out there threatening to bring Armageddon to America. In his rare moments of self-pity, he thought it was all for naught. He knew deep down inside, though, that he’d made a huge difference. He had never bothered to count each and every person he’d killed. The obvious reason was that he preferred not
to know, and the more practical one was that there was no way he could ascertain the actual number. Machine guns and explosives, the indiscriminate weapons of war, made the tally impossible, but the number was large. Rapp knew it was well over fifty and possibly one hundred, and those were only by his hand alone. If he counted the times he’d helped lead Special Forces units on takedowns, or the times he painted a target so U.S. jets could drop laser-guided bombs, the number was easily double if not triple.

Those days were behind him, or at least he hoped they were. It was not going to be easy to walk away from the action after all these years. He was extremely good at what he did. And what he did when you stripped everything away was kill. Yes, he had great intelligence. He spoke Arabic, French and Italian fluently. He had keen analytical abilities and organizational skills, but when you stripped it all away he was an assassin. He was America’s assassin, though. He was the very tip of the U.S. spear, the man on the ground getting things done, taking the battle to the very enemy who had sworn to bring a reign of terror and death to the people of the United States. Mitch Rapp was
the
front line soldier in the most singular sense of the word. In this era of laser-guided bombs, cruise missiles and surgical strikes, he was a neurosurgeon, operating in countries like Iran and Iraq for months at a time with virtually no aid from his handlers in Washington. He stalked his prey carefully, got in close and then when the time was right, he eliminated them. Despite all of his success, only a handful of
people knew of his existence. The Orion Team and its members were one of the closest held secrets in Washington, and fewer than ten people even knew the name of the organization.

Rapp knew there were those in Washington who would absolutely lose their minds if they found out what he had been up to for the last decade. Part of him was sensitive to the problem. God knows he had seen some abuses of power during his tenure, but not by himself or Kennedy. There was a definite need for congressional oversight, but there was also a need for black operations. Politicians were politicians after all, and throughout the history of governments they had proven themselves incapable of keeping secrets. By virtue of their need to talk, raise money and peddle influence, all but a few were simply unable to keep their mouths shut. This was the standard feeling among the intelligence and military types in Washington, while on the other side of the issue the politicians looked at the people at the CIA and the Pentagon as a bunch of crazy cowboys who needed to be kept on a short leash lest they shoot themselves in the foot.

In a way Rapp agreed with both of them. There was enough blame to go around on both sides. The Agency had certainly launched some harebrained schemes with almost no chance of success, schemes that flew in the face of congressional oversight and more importantly to Rapp, common sense. There were also those on the Hill who had intentionally leaked classified information to the media to embarrass political enemies. This was how Washington worked, and had worked for years.

Americans had grown soft with all of their rights and personal freedom. They had no idea how harsh the rest of the world was. On the surface most Americans would be shocked by the things he had done. But they would be shocked from the comfort of their homes, having no idea what things were like in the Middle East. Women would judge him the harshest, and they would do so without thinking how they would be treated by the men he killed. Women in these fundamentalist Islamic communities weren’t even treated as second-class citizens. They were property owned by their fathers, and then by their husbands once a marriage was arranged. No, America didn’t have the stomach to be confronted with what he had done. That was why secrecy was essential.

Rapp stood and looked out the window of his small Cape Cod-style home. Down below, the water of the Chesapeake Bay looked cold. All of the leaves were off the trees and the cold gray skies of November had settled in. Standing in only his boxers, Rapp shivered briefly and then headed downstairs. There wasn’t much enthusiasm in his step as he descended. He had a ten o’clock meeting at Langley that he had some serious reservations about. When he reached the first floor his new best friend Shirley the mutt was waiting for him. The dog was incredibly smart and obedient. Rapp patted her on the head and said hello. He had picked her up at the Humane Society one night several weeks earlier. Rapp had needed the canine to give him a little cover for some lurking that he had to do. Due to his normal unreliable
schedule owning a pet was out of the question, but things were about to change. His days of globe- trotting were over. Or at least he hoped.

Rapp entered the kitchen to find the love of his life sitting at the table eating a bowl of cereal and reading the
Post.
He walked over and kissed Anna on the forehead. Without saying anything he went straight for the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. No sugar, no cream, just straight black coffee.

Anna Rielly swallowed a mouthful of cereal and looked up at Rapp with sparkling green eyes. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Like shit.” He moved his shoulder around in an effort to loosen it.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m getting old. That’s what’s wrong.” Rapp took his first sip of the hot black liquid.

Rielly grinned. “What are you talking about? You’re only thirty-two.”

“I might as well be sixty-three with the life I’ve lived.”

Rielly studied her man for a second. They had met under the strangest of circumstances, and at the time she didn’t realize how ruggedly handsome he was. But she’d had ample time to notice since. She looked at Mitch’s olive-skinned body. There wasn’t an inch of fat on the man. He was one lean muscle from his broad shoulders to his sleek calves. There were some flaws, although Rielly never thought of them that way. Mitch liked to refer to these flaws as the chinks in his armor. Rapp had three visible bullet holes: one on his leg and two more on his stomach.
There was a fourth, she knew, but that one was covered up by a thick scar on his shoulder where the doctors had torn him open to get at the bullet, pull out the bone fragments and reconstruct his shoulder socket. Besides that there was a scar left by a knife that had skewered his right side. And there was one more scar that he was particularly proud of. It was a constant reminder of the man he had sworn he would kill when he started on his crazy journey ten years ago. It ran along the left side of his face, from his ear down to his jawline. The plastic surgeons had done a great job minimizing the mark to a thin line, but more important to Rapp, the man who had given him the scar was now dead.

Rielly smiled at Rapp and stuck out her arms. “I think you look great.”

“I still feel like shit.” Rapp stayed where he was, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“My, you’re in a sour mood this morning.” Rielly let her arms drop. She studied Mitch briefly and then it dawned on her what was bothering him. “You don’t want to go see Irene today, do you?” Rapp mumbled into his coffee cup and Rielly said, “I knew it.”

“It’s not Irene. I don’t mind Irene . . . I look forward to seeing Irene.”

“Then it’s going to Langley?”

“Yeah . . . I don’t know . . . I suppose.”

Rielly had worried about this, but had kept it to herself. Rielly was a reporter and her job was to observe things . . . people, really. From what she observed as NBC’s White House correspondent, she had serious doubts as to whether Mitch could make
the transition from undercover operative to bureaucratic employee. He was too used to calling the shots and working on his own. At Langley he would have to be part of a team, and he would have to take orders. But worst of all, Rielly knew, was that he would have to watch what he said. Washington was a town where people often wanted to hear anything but the truth.

Rielly stood and went over to him, kissing him on the cheek. “Whatever you decide to do, honey, I will support you. If you want to stay at home and raise the kids I would think that’s just great.”

Rapp set his mug down and held up his hands, forming a “T” like a basketball referee. “Technical foul. No overt discussion of marriage, weddings or children until you have a ring on your finger.”

Rielly scoffed at him. “That’s your stupid rule, not mine. You know we’re going to get married, and I know we’re going to get married.” She pinched his waist and with a playful smile said, “So let’s get the show on the road.”

Rapp grabbed her by the shoulders. “I’ve been just a little busy lately.” He glanced over at a spot on the other side of the kitchen where just two weeks earlier he’d shot and killed a man. “I’d like to get some things straightened out before we take the big step.”

Rielly waved off his caution saying, “Yeah . . . yeah, there’s always something.” She turned to leave. “I have to get to the White House. I’ll call you later.”

Rapp followed her to the front door. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“No,” Rielly said in a light voice. “I really do have to get to work, and you,” she grabbed him by the chin, “have to get ready for your meeting.” He rolled his eyes, and she kissed him on the lips. “It won’t be that bad. Try to go into it with an open mind. Now I really have to get going. Call me and let me know how it goes.”

“Unless you have access to the president’s secure phone I think we’ll have to wait until tonight to discuss my job offer.”

“Oh, that’s right. I always forget how paranoid you people are.” Rielly opened the door.

“Hey, what do I always tell you? Just because you’re paranoid—”

Rielly was halfway across the porch. Without turning around she yelled, “I know . . . I know . . . just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t following you.”

Rapp smiled as he watched Anna open her car door. Shirley followed her and did a quick lap around the car. “I love you,” he yelled.

Rielly stopped, and with a genuine smile, she looked at Mitch in his white boxer briefs and said, “I love you, too. Now get back in the house and put some clothes on before the neighbors see you.”

T
he sun shone brightly through the colonnade windows of the West Wing’s Cabinet Room. The gray morning skies had cleared a bit. It was a classic Washington photo op. The president’s handlers had set it up, and the commander in chief had gone along without endorsement or complaint. It was a part of the job and he had learned to tolerate it. The cameras were like a bad back; they were always around and there wasn’t much you could do about them. President Robert Xavier Hayes was seated in his leather chair at the middle of the long table, his back to the windows. His chair was taller than all the others, just in case anyone forgot who the most important person in the room was.

On the president’s right was Senator Moeller, a Democrat and the ranking minority member of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. To his right was chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Flood. On the president’s left were Senator Clark, the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and the president’s national security advisor, Michael Haik. Aides and staffers filled the remaining seats. Photos were snapped almost continually by two photographers from the White House press pool while a
cameraman from one of the networks shot video of the meeting. Two reporters waited dutifully for the signal from the White House press secretary to give them the nod to start asking questions. They had been briefed on the purpose of the meeting and were told what would be permitted and what was out of bounds.

President Hayes, a moderate Democrat from Columbus, Ohio, knew both men on either side of him well, from his years in the Senate. He conversed freely with them and even cracked a few jokes while the cameras snapped away. It was what was called in Washington a staged love-fest: the two parties coming together, putting aside their differences and doing the right thing. President Hayes was handsome in a clean-cut way. A shade over six feet, he had thin brown hair that was turning grayer by the month. Hayes stayed thin by putting in thirty minutes on his treadmill or bike four or five days a week. He almost always worked out first thing in the morning, knowing it was usually the only time when someone wasn’t trying to get a piece of him.

Hayes checked his watch and then nodded to the press secretary, signaling that it was time to start the questions.

Because space was often limited, it was not possible for the entire White House press corps to attend every event. Instead, there was a pool out of which reporters and photographers would take turns covering events, and then share the material they collected. It was Anna Rielly’s lucky morning to unearth the obvious. The White House correspondent for NBC
hit the record button on her Dictaphone and smiled at Hayes.

“Good morning, Mr. President. Will there be a memorial service here in Washington to honor Director Stansfield?”

“No. Director Stansfield was adamant before he died that he wanted a simple private burial in South Dakota. The CIA is planning on erecting some type of monument to his service out at Langley, and I’m looking into placing a permanent marker at Arlington honoring his service during World War Two.”

“Have you come to any decisions on who will succeed him at the CIA?”

“As a matter of fact we have.” Hayes looked to both of his former colleagues. “We have stumbled across one of those increasingly rare moments of mutual agreement.” Hayes laughed and the others joined in. “With very little difficulty we have decided on the one person who is best suited to take over as the new director of Central Intelligence.” The president looked to his left and said, “Hank, why don’t you do the honors.”