that; it was different.
This was more like a warning that if he didn’t do something, he would be stuck on a certain path for the rest of his life. A barren path marked by loneliness.
Before leaving on the most recent mission, he had talked to Kennedy about it. His parents were both gone, and although he still had friends outside of work and a brother in New York with whom he was very close, it wasn’t as if he could pick up the phone and talk about his day at the office.
He could talk about his computer-consulting business all he wanted, but Langley was off limits. Officially, Rapp didn’t even work for the CIA.
He was what they liked to refer to in the business as a private contractor. Rapp lived a life completely separate from the Agency. With the help of Langley, he ran a computer-consulting business on the side that just happened to do a fair amount of international business, which of course gave him the cover to travel. His only passion in life, outside of work, was competing in the annual Ironman competition in Hawaii-an event that the former all-American lacrosse player from Syracuse University had actually won once.
During these dark, brooding moments, Rapp had wondered how screwed-up his life was or, worse, how screwed-up it might get. He would continually ask himself if it was normal to want with such determination to kill another human being.
He knew this was the crux of his problem and had once joked with Kennedy by saying, “Most people have lists of things they want to do before they get to a certain age, like go skydiving, travel to China, have a kid… not me. At the top of my list of things to do before I turn forty is kill Fara Harut and Rafique Aziz. How healthy do you think that is?”
Laughing and making jokes were all part of therapy for Rapp; without humor, he would never make it. In his job he needed to stay loose or, like a watch wound too tight, he would explode. Rapp had studied it from every angle, and he believed that his position was both moral and just.
The problem, however, lay in the fact that Rapp knew the hunt was destroying him. He was increasingly losing touch with that segment of society that was labeled normal. His friends from college were all married and having children, and for him there wasn’t the hope of either on the horizon. He knew that to have a normal life he would have to finish what he had set out to do. He could not have a family and continue to work for the CIA. The two would not mix.
Rapp thought back to how nice his life had been just ten years earlier and to the weird twist of fate that had led him to this point in life, to this dreary military base in Germany.
“No one ever said life would be easy,” his father used to say. Rapp laughed at the thought of his father telling him to
“Suck it up,” as he had done countless times throughout Rapp’s youth. It had gotten to the point where Rapp’s father would say the three short words with a smile on his face. The short phrase had grown from words of criticism into words of encouragement.
The roar of a jet sounded in the distance, and Rapp stepped away from the plane to search it out. Looking down the long runway, he saw a lone F-16 racing in the opposite direction, its single engine on afterburner, glowing bright orange. The agile jet lifted into the air, above the mirage of dancing runway heat, and instantly retracted its landing gear.
As the plane climbed, Rapp watched it gain speed. He followed it for a minute or more until it was a speck in the expansive gray morning sky. A second jet pulled onto the runway and screamed into the air, chasing after the first.
Rapp gazed at the second jet and knew he was a possessed man. He would pursue Rafique Aziz wherever he went, even if it led to his own destruction. The trick would be to catch Aziz before he himself reached the point of no return, and Rapp could sense that point nearing, hovering just over the horizon.
Rapp watched the airman detach the fuel hose and climb into the truck.
As the tanker pulled away from the Learjet, the plane’s twin engines began turning. Rapp took one last look at the dreary scenery and climbed into the jet. As he pulled the door up and secured it, he smiled and whispered to himself his father’s words of encouragement.
THE TAN, WELL-KEPT man was shown into the oakpaneled office of the chairman of the Democratic National Committee. The rotund and jovial Russ Piper stood from behind his desk and walked over to greet his wealthy visitor.
Extending his hand. Piper said, “Prince Kalib, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Rafique Aziz extended his hand with the proper amount of aloofness and took Piper’s hand in a light grip.
“How was your flight?” asked Piper.
Aziz looked around the room, gazing at the framed photos hanging on the paneled walls.
“Fine.” Aziz planned to keep conversation to a minimum. The real Prince Kalib was a recluse, and the characteristic fit his needs perfectly.
“I understand you’re enroute to the Mayo Clinic to visit your father.”
“That is correct.” Aziz nodded.
“How is the sultan doing?”
“He is fine.” Aziz extracted a gold cigarette case from his jacket pocket.
“The doctors at the Mayo Clinic are the best in the world.” Aziz lit the cigarette with a matching gold lighter, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and walked over to the window.
Piper watched his guest light up with his mouth slightly agape, words of admonishment ready to spill forth. The chairman almost informed his royal guest that smoking was not allowed in the building, but after a brief moment he thought better of it. Piper ran his hand down his tie and checked to make sure it was straight.
“Yes, we’ve treated many of our own presidents there,” added Piper, getting back to the conversation.
Aziz continued to look out the window at the large rotunda of the Capitol. Then turning slowly, he said, “I assume you had no difficulty in arranging our meeting?”
“No difficulty whatsoever,” Piper said proudly.
“The president and I are very close.”
“Good.” While holding his cigarette with one hand, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a long blue check.
“As per your instructions, I had this written to your party through one of my American corporations.”
Piper grabbed the check with both hands and looked at the all-important box on the right side. The chairman of the Democratic National Committee smiled at the large number.
“This is greatly appreciated’ Your Highness.”
Aziz nodded benevolently.
“I can promise you that I will do everything within my power to help your country obtain the proper defensive weapons that you seek.”
“Kingdom,” corrected Aziz.
“Yes, kingdom.” Piper nervously rubbed his hands together.
“My apologies.” Looking at his watch, he said, “Well, we should probably get going. I have a limousine waiting downstairs to take us to the White House. We don’t want to be late to see the president.”
“No, we don’t.” Aziz grinned.
“I’ve been looking forward to this day for a long time.”
PRESIDENT HAYES SAT behind his desk in the Oval Office. His suit coat was draped over the back of his high backed leather chair, and in front of him was a photocopy of his daily schedule. The schedule was typed, but his nine a.m.meeting had been crossed out and his chief of staff had written something in the margin. The president squinted at the handwriting and tried to make out the small cursive letters. Hayes picked up the paper and decided it wasn’t his eyes that needed help; it was his chief of staff’s handwriting.
