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 HagenmiIIer Engineering?»
«I'm referring to the assassination of Count HagenmiIIer,» replied a stem 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 HagenmilIer. 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 exuberant 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 I 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 I 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.
CAMERON BACKED HIS shiny Lexus SC400 out of the narrow garage down the street from his Georgetown apartment. The car was Cameron's treat to himself. It had a 4.0- liter, 290-horsepower, four-cam, thirty-two-valve V8 engine and could fly like the wind. It came with leather interior, genuine bird's eye maple trim and a seven-speaker, 215-watt stereo that would make a sixteen-rear-old heavy metal fan wet his pants. All of it, plus a couple of free racing mats, had cost him fifty thousand dollars. The price didn't bother Cameron. He was finally making good money.
The Professor was in no hurry this morning. He had to teach a class at eleven, but other than that, he had no official duties. Cameron hadn't slept well. He had been too excited after his meeting with Senator Clark. The man was amazing; the way he cultivated loyalty, it was easy to see why he had done so well in life. The sky was the limit. Cameron had hitched his wagon to a rising star, and he was going right to the top. Hank Clark was going to be the next president of the United States, and Cameron was going to help make sure it happened. The senator hadn't filled him in on all of the specifics, but he had once again promised that there would be a place for someone as talented as Peter Cameron.
For Cameron this was all new. At Langley no one had appreciated his skills. Occasionally, a superior would have a nice thing to say during a review, but that was about it. The place was known for turning out acolytes, not handing out accolades. And to make matters worse, the pay was substandard. Cameron had busted his ass for years, giving service to his country, and he had little to show for it. Hank Clark changed all of that. He had shown Cameron the light. How to work half as hard and make five times the money. And not simply five times the normal money but the bulk of it in wire transfers into an extremely discreet bank in the Bahamas. Money that would never be taxed.
Cameron was living the life he had dreamed of for years. He was helping manipulate the outcome of events by using his trade craft, and he was getting compensated properly. His life had never been so exciting. Mario Lukas was dead, Gus Villaume was on the run, and Mitch Rapp was about to walk right into his cross hairs. The thrill of it all caused him to smile broadly as his car maneuvered through the mid-morning Georgetown traffic.
The last year had been a great learning experience for Cameron. Away from the constraints of Langley, his skills had expanded exponentially. Watching Clark had taught him to keep his enemies close and keep them off-balance. Cameron grabbed his phone from the center console. That's what this call would be about. Cameron was confident that the death of Lukas would have Villaume scared. The trick now was to keep him guessing – to make him think that someone else was after him. That Cameron had no involvement in the hit on Lukas. And if he was really lucky, get Villaume to trust him enough to meet.
There was one thing about the previous evening's meeting that Cameron was unhappy about. It was the way Clark had second-guessed him on his direct involvement with the hit on Lukas. The senator had a good point in theory, but in practicality Cameron disagreed. You needed to be in the field to really see what was going on. Cameron felt the freelancers, with their lack of loyalty, were prone to understate their screw-ups and overstate their accomplishments. They needed to be watched. The senator could criticize all he wanted from the comfort of his study, but Cameron knew better. He was going to have to see this thing through up close and personal. There was too much riding on it.
As Cameron rounded Washington Circle, he punched in the number and listened to the rings.
«Hello.» The voice was Villaume's, and it betrayed no emotion.
«What in the hell happened?» asked an eager Cameron. There was a pause. «You need to be a little more specific.»
«Don't jerk me around, Gus. You know exactly what I'm talking about. I watch the news. What in the hell have you two gotten yourselves into?»
Gus Villaume was sitting in a Starbucks just off Dupont Circle, a cup of French roast in one hand and his mobile phone in the other. He had left Baltimore as a precaution. He doubted this fool on the other end of the phone could track him, but he had found Mario Lukas, so until he knew more, he would stay away from his apartment. Villaume had little doubt that the Professor knew exactly why Lukas was dead. He didn't buy into his feigned outrage for a second. «I assume you're talking about Mario.»
«You're damn right I am.»
Villaume watched a cop walk in front of the window. «How much did you pay Duser to kill him?» It was a shot in the dark but a well-aimed one.
The response was instantaneous. «What are you talking about? I didn't pay anyone to kill Mario.»
«That's not what I've heard.» Villaume counted the seconds, waiting for the reaction from the Professor.
«I swear to you, I didn't have anything to do with Mario's death.»
The Professor actually sounded sincere, but Villaume had drawn his conclusions in the predawn hours and wasn't about to be swayed. «Listen to me, Professor, Villaume drew the name out with disdain. «I don't know what your real name is, but my guess is you're ex-CIA or NSA. You're too soft to have been in the military. I shouldn't have too much difficulty in finding out who you really are.» Villaume was overstating his contacts, but he doubted the Professor knew that.
Cameron laughed. It sounded a little forced. «Don't bother wasting your time. I'm a black hole.»
«No one is a black hole. You have a history just like everyone else. And more importantly, you have to be working for someone… you're not smart enough to be on your own.»
The comment offended Cameron. «Keep talking like this, Gus, and I will put a price on your head. I'm trying to help you. I don't like the fact that someone killed Mario. It makes me very nervous when business associates of mine start dying.»