Act of Treason

  No one answered. In fact Kennedy was the only one who looked at him.

  Ross’s fiery eyes settled on her. “I’m under direct orders from President–Elect Alexander to get to the bottom of this and put it behind us as quickly as possible. Please tell me this reporter has got it all wrong. That there is a simple explanation for why Mitch Rapp shot this man four times.”

  Kennedy’s antennae were up. There was spying, there was subterfuge, and then there was espionage. Real old-fashioned espionage where it wasn’t enough to simply steal the enemies’ secrets, one had to launch double, triple, and quadruple feints and get them to turn on themselves. Misdirection layered upon misdirection until the enemy couldn’t trust their best friend. During the Cold War the Russians had been masterful at sowing distrust among CIA officers. They even went so far as to send real intelligence assets over as defectors. These men and women were so good they were impossible to tell from the real defectors. The damage they did was incalculable.

  Kennedy couldn’t help getting the feeling that Ross was up to something. The man did not like her. He did not care for the greater good of the Agency. He cared for himself first and last. Kennedy had guessed some time ago that he was a borderline obsessive compulsive with narcissistic tendencies. In everyday parlance that meant he was a backstabbing control freak. Just simply winning for these types wasn’t enough. It was boring. They needed the thrill, the drama of the fight. Winning through subterfuge was nirvana. It helped validate the narcissistic ego. It proved that they were smarter than everyone else.

  Kennedy could have easily taken the memory stick from her safe and showed Ross the mountain of evidence that they had against the man Rapp had arrested, but she decided to keep it from him. There was still too much to learn, and her instincts told her Ross could not be trusted.

  “Sir,” Kennedy said, “the entire matter is under investigation, and I think it would be a disservice to comment on it before all the facts are in.”

  “That sounds like damn lawyer speak,” Ross snarled.

  Kennedy remained calm. “If you had called, sir, and informed me that you were coming, I might have been able to put together a preliminary report, but I’m not sure what you expect out of me on such short notice?”

  Ross’s nostrils flared in anger. He hesitated for a split second before answering and then said, “I expect you to do your job, and I expect you to follow the law. Get this mess sorted out and do it fast, or you’re all going to be looking for new jobs. And that comes straight from Alexander himself.” Ross turned and marched out of the office.

  Kennedy had studied his every move. The man could have been a stage actor. The way he turned his emotions on and off at a moment’s notice. She’d made the calculated decision to push his button and find out if he would drop the savior act and he had. He had displayed genuine anger that she had dared to defy him.

  Kennedy pushed her chair away from the table and stood. “That’s all for this morning.”

  “We’re done?” a surprised Billings asked.

  “Yes. We’ll reconvene right here at one.”

  All three men grabbed their stuff and got up to leave. Kennedy looked at Juarez bringing up the rear and said, “Jose, I’m leaving for the White House in twenty minutes. I want you to come with me.”

  “Do I need to bring anything?”

  “No.” Kennedy followed the men across the room and closed the door behind them. Once behind her desk, she picked up her secure phone and punched in a local number. Rapp answered on the second ring.

  “Are you going to meet Rivera?”

  “Yes.”

  “Expand your search to Ross. See if she can get you the Secret Service logs from his detail, and ask Marcus if he thinks he can do a workup on him without raising too much suspicion.”

  “I’ll take care of it. When is your press conference?”

  “I’m leaving to see the president shortly. I’ll call you and let you know how it goes.” Kennedy put the handset back in the cradle and considered the enemy she was about to make. She had never trusted Ross completely, even during his brief tenure as director of National Intelligence, but she had never let on. Once she held the press conference with President Hayes, Ross would know she had withheld information from him and any pretext of a cordial working relationship would be gone. Kennedy looked out the large picture window at the brightening day. She felt a sense of relief that she had chosen her course.

  43

  WASHINGTON, DC

  S pecial Agent Rivera sat at her desk and flipped through the Yellow Pages. She found Karate, and underneath it said see Martial Arts. She flipped through the pages to the M’s and found it. There were six full pages of listings in the DC area. She shook her head and began searching for one between the office and her apartment. When she’d arrived at the dojo this morning, she found the contents of her locker waiting for her in a brown grocery bag by the front door. Her sensei was in the middle of teaching a class, and he didn’t bother to come out and talk to her, or for that matter make eye contact. She was being thrown out after only five weeks, and she didn’t need to ask why.

  Rivera stopped reading the listings and closed her eyes. What in the hell am I doing? she asked herself. She felt as if her whole life was falling apart around her. For three straight months she’d been in denial. She knew her career was over, but she was hanging on in hopes that they would give her a second chance. One of her bosses had actually told her yesterday that he was recommending grief counseling. The bastard, she thought.

  She’d asked him if he thought she needed the counseling to deal with the loss of her fellow agents who had died in the attack or for her career which was now dead. He looked at her stone-faced and told her no one blamed her for what had gone wrong. He was probably right about that, but it didn’t change the fact that no one wanted her around. She was a living, breathing reminder of one of the Service’s worst days since Dallas in 1963. Another colleague told her to get out of Washington. Take an assignment in Miami or L.A. Work counterfeit and fraud. It was challenging and gratifying work, and if she didn’t want to do that, she could at least apply for the Joint Counterterrorism Center. Do anything just so long as it didn’t involve working Personal Protection.

  Rivera closed the Yellow Pages and dropped the book on the floor. Why was she bothering looking for a new dojo? Her days in DC were numbered. Everyone knew it. She just needed to come to grips with it. Life was cruel, she decided. She’d been so close to the top. The one job that every agent covets. The SAC of a Presidential Detail. She was on track, and it would have been hers.

  Tears welled and she fought them back. The hell if she was going to break down in front of them. That was what they were waiting for. They’d ship her off for another round of evaluation, and she wasn’t going to do that. She had more than a month of vacation and personal time banked. It was time to take it. Head out west again and hit the slopes. Maybe she’d stop by and see her family. They’d been worried about her when she’d gone home for Christmas, but after two days she couldn’t take the nagging and left early to go meet some friends in Tahoe. She’d hit the bumps hard for three straight days until her back hurt so bad she couldn’t take it anymore.

  Rivera grabbed a tissue and wiped the corners of her eyes. She threw it in the garbage and decided she’d put in for vacation. She was about to send her boss an e-mail when her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number on the screen but answered it nonetheless.

  “Special Agent Rivera speaking.”

  “Meet me on the street.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Your sparring partner. Get your ass downstairs. We need to talk.”

  “Oh…it’s you. Nice article in the Times. Sounds like you really made a mess of it.”

  Rapp laughed. “You should know better than most not to believe what you read in the paper.”

  Rivera looked over the top of her cube and said, “Based on my current situation, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to b
e seen with you.”

  “Listen…I’m a busy guy. I have something you are going to want to see. Trust me. I’m parked at the curb. Silver Audi A8.”

  The line went dead. Rivera held the handset for a second and then slowly put it back in the cradle. She looked around her empty desk for a moment and considered her empty career and quickly came to the conclusion that she had nothing to lose. She grabbed her purse and started for the elevator. Two and a half minutes later she was climbing into the front passenger seat of Rapp’s car.

  “This better be good.” She put her sunglasses on and looked over at Rapp.

  Rapp grabbed the gear shift and pulled it back into drive. “Put on your seatbelt.” He hit the gas and darted out into traffic.

  “Where are we going?” Rivera fumbled with her seatbelt.

  “Nowhere.”

  She gestured with her right hand at the passing scenery. “We’re obviously going somewhere.”

  “Nowhere in particular. I didn’t want to sit in front of your building.”

  “Fine. What did you want to show me?”

  “I have a few questions for you first.” Rapp hit his blinker and turned onto 19th Street and headed south toward the National Mall.

  “I don’t like games. I’m not in the mood today. Just show me what you have.”

  Rapp lowered his sunglasses a bit and looked over the top at his passenger. “You don’t like games? What in the hell would you call what you did to me in your dojo the other morning?”

  She ignored the question and said, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, or if you care, but my career is basically over. Thirteen years right down the toilet.”

  Rapp stopped for a red light and said, “I haven’t noticed, and no, I don’t care. I want answers, and I need them fast.”

  She shook her head and looked out her window.

  “At least I’m honest.”

  “Good for you. An honest spy. You must be real unique.”

  Rapp wasn’t a spy, but he wasn’t about to waste his time trying to correct her. “The day of the attack you said you didn’t shuffle the limos.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When you left the conference, right before the explosion, you told me everyone loaded up. You got in the first limo with Ross and Alexander and Alexander’s wife got in the second limo.”

  “That’s right.”

  The light turned green and Rapp took his foot off the brake. “And the limos were never shuffled. They stayed in that order until the explosion?”

  “Yeah. I already told you this.”

  “I’m just trying to make sure. Who decides who rides in which limo?”

  Rivera frowned. Her thin dark eyebrows arching above her sunglasses. “I was the SAC. Typically, I do, but a lot of the times we work on the fly with the protectees and their staff.”

  “I read in the preliminary report last night that Alexander and his wife arrived in the same limousine, but left in separate vehicles.”

  “You have a copy of the preliminary report?” Rivera asked, her surprise obvious.

  “Yes, and don’t worry. You come out of it unscathed.” Rapp wasn’t being entirely honest, but he didn’t need her getting all worked up. “Now is that right? Alexander and his wife arrived in the same car and left in separate cars?”

  “Yes.”

  “And in the report it says you assigned Special Agent Cash to ride with Alexander’s wife in the second limo?”

  “Yes.” Rivera grew a bit tentative. “Where are you going with all of this?”

  “Bear with me for a little bit longer, and I’ll tell you. The decision to put Alexander’s wife in the second limo, was that a staff decision, or was it your decision?” Rapp took a left onto Constitution Avenue, the Washington Monument looming large up ahead on the right.

  “By staff I assume you mean campaign.”

  “Yes. Was it you, or the campaign?”

  “It was the campaign.”

  Rapp’s fingers flexed on the leather steering wheel and then gripped it tight. He was homing in on the truth and he could feel it. “When were you informed of the change?”

  “Probably fifteen minutes or so before we were going to leave for the vice president’s residence. Don’t hold me to that, though. Changes like this happen all the time. Even more so during a campaign.”

  Rapp nodded. “I won’t. I assume if the campaign wants to make a change they need to inform you personally.”

  “Usually, but I’m not always on.”

  “When you’re on.”

  “Usually, but not always. Sometimes they’ll grab the closest agent and have them tell me, but I made it clear that I wanted all changes to go through me directly.”

  Rapp nodded as he drove. So far so good. It was how he had envisioned it. “So on the day of the attack, who informed you there was going to be a change in terms of who would be riding in which car?”

  “Stu Garret.”

  Rapp felt his chest tighten a bit as he began to experience a spike in adrenalin. “Stu Garret.” Rapp turned his head to the right, cracking his neck.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Only by reputation.”

  “He’s extremely rude, to put it kindly.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Rapp got in the right lane and prepared to turn onto 14th Street. “Was Agent Cash already assigned to the second limo or was that a last-minute change?”

  “What is your interest in Agent Cash?”

  Rapp took a right turn and sighed. “Nothing in particular. Just some inconsistencies we’ve found.”

  “I don’t know if this will help, but we got in a fight that afternoon when I told him he needed to take Jillian back to her hotel.”

  “So that was a last-minute change?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why did you decide to pick him over all the other agents?”

  “I didn’t. She requested him.”

  Rapp looked surprised. “You’re sure about that? Did she tell you personally, or did one of her aides tell you.”

  Rivera thought about it for a moment and then said, “Actually, it was Garret who told me she’d requested him.”

  Rapp took a hard left turn onto Jefferson Drive. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “And this was normal.”

  “Yes. He was the campaign manager. He was always running around barking at people making last minute changes.”

  “Was it normal for Jillian to request Agent Cash?”

  “Actually it was. We used to tease him about it.” Rivera smiled as she remembered her friend. “Some of the agents even joked that she had a thing for him.”

  Rapp laughed uncomfortably. They drove another block in silence and then Rapp pulled over in front of the National Air and Space Museum. He had to make a decision. Kennedy wouldn’t like it, but he was going to go with his instincts. He put the car in park and turned toward Rivera. “I need you to do something for me.”

  Rivera was caught off guard by both his sincerity and intensity. She looked at him warily and asked, “What?”

  “You know Jack Warch?”

  “Of course.”

  “In about an hour and a half I’m going to have the president call him. The president is going to tell Jack that he wants you to look through all of the logs the Secret Service has on Ross and Alexander going back to this past September. I especially want you to look at the two weeks prior to the attack. I want to know if they had any foreign visitors, and I want you to keep an eye out for any mention of Stu Garret.”

  Rivera took off her sunglasses and studied Rapp’s rugged features. “Why did you laugh like that when I told you some of the agents used to tease Cash that Jillian had a thing for him?”

  “Laugh like what?”

  “Like they were probably right and they didn’t even know it.”

  Rapp looked out the front window and said, “Did you really not know that they were having an affair?”

  ??
?Excuse me?” Rivera answered more than a bit shocked.

  “You truly didn’t know?” Rapp asked in a disbelieving tone.

  “I knew Matt Cash for a long time. He was a good father and a devoted husband. There is no way he was cheating on his family.”

  “Really.” Rapp reached in his pocket and pulled out a color copy of one of the shots taken down in Palm Beach. Rapp tossed the photo onto Rivera’s lap and said, “If that’s not Agent Cash having sex with Jillian Rautbort then would you mind telling me who it is?”

  Rivera stared at the photo in shock, unable to speak.

  44

  T he lobby at the Willard was coming to life. It was 11:28 a.m. and no one was checking out. There were only arrivals and guests moving about to find food and shop. Garret was actually trying to get work done, and if one more person came up and congratulated him, he swore he was going to bash them over the head with his BlackBerry. Garret sat in an oversized mohair chair facing the door. He assumed the man he was meeting for lunch knew what he looked like because he hadn’t the faintest idea what the guy looked like.

  Garret focused on the small screen of his BlackBerry with the aid of a pair of bifocals. His thumb spun the black wheel on the side of the device and clicked on the weather icon. The five-day forecast popped up after a few seconds. For months he’d been dreading the inauguration. Every time he thought about it he imagined himself sitting on the West Capitol steps freezing his ass off. A warm front was moving in. The afternoon’s high was supposed to be fifty-two degrees and they were forecasting a balmy fifty-eight for the big event on Saturday. Garret smiled. Fucking weather idiots, he thought to himself. They had no idea what they were doing. Only two days ago they’d been forecasting low thirties for the weekend.