awash in a sea of shock. For a decade he had followed, more closely than any other individual, the actions of Rafique Aziz. There had been the kidnappings in Beirut, Istanbul, and Paris; the bombings in Spain, Italy, France, Lebanon, and Israel; and the event that had led Rapp into his unusual occupation, the downing of Pan Am Flight 103.
Despite Kennedy’s insistence that Aziz was, in fact, in control of the White House, it took several minutes for the sheer scope and gravity of the situation to sink in with Rapp. As more of the morning’s events were relayed, the fog hanging over Rapp’s mind began to dissipate. Instead, Rapp saw before him, in this turmoil and tragedy, an opportunity to bring the destructive chase to an end. He was sick of showing up to count the bodies and look at the evidence. He was sick of chasing Rafique Aziz, always missing him, sometimes by months and days, or even seconds.
As the plane descended toward Andrews Air Force Base, Rapp looked out the window at the rolling Maryland countryside with a clear and precise plan in his mind of what he needed to do. In Paris he had hesitated because of a single innocent bystander. At the time, he did not know it, but he had traded the lives of all the people who had died this morning for the life of that one woman. The logic was irrefutable. If he had pulled the trigger in Paris, none of this would have happened.
Never again, he told himself. This would be the end of the road for one of them.
The Learjet set down gently and taxied to a portion of the base the CIA leased from the Air Force. As the plane approached a brown hangar, the large doors were opened, inviting the jet out of the sunlight and away from prying eyes.
Once inside, the doors were closed and the pilots shut down the engines.
Rapp peered out the small window and saw a group of a half dozen people waiting in the hangar’s glass office. He immediately recognized Irene Kennedy and Director Stansfield. Rapp grabbed his backpack and started for the door while Jane Hornig appeared from the bedroom. Rapp lowered the door and took one large step to the ground. Out of habit he turned and offered his hand to Hornig. The two of them walked across the spotless concrete floor to the fluorescent-lit office. Rapp opened the glass door, and the loosely hung Venetian blind swung away and then back, clanking several times.
Director Stansfield stood in the sparsely furnished military office, the handset of a secure mobile phone held firmly against his ear. His SPOOR security protection officer, was standing next to him holding the rest of the unit, which was roughly the size of a camera case. Stansfield looked up at Rapp and said into the receiver, “He’s standing right in front of me.” The directors gray eyes then looked to the ground, and he nodded several times.
“I was planning on it. We should be there in about twenty minutes.”
Stansfield handed the phone to his SPO and said, “Would everybody excuse us for a minute?” The four other people who had been waiting in the office with Kennedy and Stansfield filed out of the room, leaving the director and Kennedy alone to talk with Hornig and Rapp.
Irene Kennedy grabbed a garment bag from the back of one of the chairs and handed it to Rapp.
“You need to get changed. We have a meeting at the Pentagon in twenty minutes.”
Rapp took the bag and looked to Stansfield. He didn’t like the idea of showing his face to a roomful of politicians and bureaucrats.
“Who was that on the phone?”
“General Flood. He wanted to make sure I was bringing you to the meeting.”
“Why?” asked Rapp as he started to take off his holster.
“He didn’t say.”
Rapp looked at Stansfield with some concern.
“Am I giving a briefing?”
Kennedy fielded the question by pulling a leather wallet out of her purse.
“Your credentials? Same cover as always.
Mitch Kruse, Middle Eastern analyst on my counterterrorism team. You have been with the CIA for five years, etcetera, etcetera…” Kennedy handed him the wallet.
“You know the routine. We want you there if the need arises. We would, of course, prefer it if you kept a low profile.”
Rapp took the wallet and set it on the desk next to his holstered 9-mm Beretta. He quickly stripped down to his boxers while Kennedy and Stansfield began to question Hornig. A small pinkish scar was visible just above his left hip, about the size of a quarter, the mark left by the bullet of an overzealous and confused FBI agent. On his tanned lower back was a scar left by the knife of the surgeon who had removed the bullet.
“Have you got an exact number out of him yet?” asked Kennedy of Jane Hornig. “Yes”-Hornig shrugged her shoulders-“at least we think so.
Remember that everything we get out of him is what he thinks to be the truth. As far as Harut knows, there are twelve of them, counting Aziz.”
Hornig folded her arms across her chest and assumed a wider stance.
“What type of weapons?”
“Besides your standard firearms”-Hornig looked to Rapp, who was pulling on his dress pants-“a lot of plastique explosives. Mitch?”
Rapp grabbed a white T-shirt and said, “More than enough to blow the whole place to kingdom come.” Stansfield shook his head and asked, “What about his demands?”
“I haven’t had the chance to get around to that yet, but I’ll start as soon as we get him moved.”
Stansfield nodded.
“We have arranged to transfer you to one of the safe houses in Virginia.
You are to talk to no one other than Irene, Mitch, and me. Very few people outside of our immediate circle know we have Harut, and we would like to keep it that way. I need you to focus your questioning in the area of demands. We need to know what Aziz is going to ask for, before he asks for it.”
Hornig accepted her orders with a nod and cautioned, “If he knows what the demands are, I will find out.”
“And,” started Kennedy, “it would help if we got as complete a list as possible of the men Aziz brought with him.”
Hornig made another mental note. She was prepared to extract every last piece of information from Harut, and if they had a shopping list, she was more than willing to oblige.
“Mitch, can you think of anything else?” asked Kennedy.
Rapp shoved the tails of his white dress shirt into his pants and buttoned them.
“Yeah. I’d like to know how long he plans on hanging around, and how in the hell he plans on getting out of there. If I know aziz, he has a timetable, and he’s planned this entire thing down to the last minute.”
Stansfield nodded in agreement and said to Hornig, “You know how to get ahold of us. We’ll try to stay out of your way, but I want to be updated the moment you find anything of consequence.”
“I’ll get to work immediately.” Dr. Hornig pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose and nodded.
“Good. Mitch, let’s go. You can finish in the helicopter.”
Stansfield started for the door with Kennedy and Hornig on his heels.
Rapp grabbed the garment bag and the rest of his stuff and followed. As he stepped out of the office, he saw a gurney being wheeled across the smooth floor toward an ambulance. Harut was strapped to the top under a gray blanket.
A small outer door to the hangar was opened, and a stream of bright sunshine shot across the floor. Rapp could now hear the spinning rotors of a helicopter waiting on the tarmac. He paused for a second and watched as the gurney was shoved into the ambulance. Jane Hornig and her two assistants climbed in, and the doors were closed. Rapp was now frozen in thought as he looked at the ambulance pulling away.
Irene Kennedy appeared in the small door with her sunglasses on and her hair blowing in the wind. “Come on, Mitch.
We’re going to be late.”
Rapp, his concentration broken, turned to his boss and blinked several times. Kennedy waved for him to hurry, and Rapp jogged to the door, still wondering what it was that he was missing.
