"So we'd have to let a lot of people in on our secret?"
"No, not necessarily. We are constantly working these units up to conduct just this type of operation. We could wait until almost the last minute to hand down the target for the sortie of F-111's."
"How much time do you need?"
The general hesitated for only a second. "If we're up against the wall, we could get an attack under way in less than twenty-four hours, but I'd prefer to give my people a week to make sure all of our intelligence is up to date, and brief the air crews on a full list of targets." The President looked to Kennedy. "What do you think?" Kennedy thought about the two options and said, "I think we should use Deep Throat."
"What if Saddam gets wind that we're getting ready to hit him?" Kennedy shrugged her shoulders. "He expects us to hit him. Once a year we go in and clean out his SAM sites and a few industrial targets. Knowing Saddam, if he gets wind that we're preparing to attack, he'll slap himself on the back over how smart he was to hide his bombs under a hospital." Kennedy shook her head. "He won't move those bombs. He thinks they're safe right where they are."
"All right." The President looked at his watch and then stood. The general's four aides leapt out of their chairs, but before anyone else could get up Hayes told them to sit. "I have to run to another meeting." Hayes looked at General Flood. "I want both of these options on the table, and anything else you can think of. I want to be able to react quickly if we need to, so do whatever it takes to get these assets into position." Looking to Kennedy, he said, "I want your people to get together with General Flood's. Show them all of those photos, and try to give me a more definite answer as to whether or not we need to use Deep Throat." Hayes turned to leave and then stopped at the door. "One more thing. No one is to mention this hospital as the target until I say so. If there are any leaks, heads will roll." Tel Aviv, Wednesday afternoon hat to do with Donatella? The director general of Mossad sat amid a cloud of smoke in his office and wrestled with the question. She had been a great recruit, one of his best. Ben Freidman was not a disloyal man, but he, like almost everyone else, had his price, and $500,000 was a lot of money. It would be a welcome addition to his personal pension plan. Freidman saw nothing wrong with taking money, as long as what he was asked to do didn't go against the interests of Israel. He wasn't so pure as to not take financial advantage of the significant power that he wielded.
On the flight back from America, he had struggled with the dilemma of killing Donatella. Senator Clark wanted her dead, and he was willing to pay a lot of money. Besides, Freidman had to admit that the specter of Mitch Rapp finding out that he was involved with the good senator from Arizona made his skin crawl. Having Rapp mad at you was not a good thing. Freidman did not relish what he must do, but there was no doubt that the right thing to do was wipe out the trail.
Donatella had been very loyal to him over the years, and more important, she had been one of his best kidons, an assassin of the first order. A dark-haired beauty, Donatella had lured almost a dozen men to their death, all of them enemies of Israel. After a number of very productive years Freidman had released her from her official commitment to the Mossad. The files in the basement stated that she wanted out, but the truth was that Freidman had urged her to enter into a partnership with him. It was all part of the colonel's plan to set up a network for which there was no political oversight. The dark side of global economics was that there was always a billionaire or two who needed some dirty work done: A former employee who had gone to a competitor with valuable information, or worse, gone to the authorities or the press. A wealthy father who didn't like the way his son-in-law treated his little princess. Accidents were arranged and these people ceased to be problems. The real global captains of enterprise acted no differently than their predecessors had for centuries. There wasn't a problem that the right amount of money couldn't solve. Freidman had made a tidy fortune brokering Donatella's talents to this elite group. But now that would all come to an end.
Freidman stabbed his cigarette out in an ashtray that two hours ago was clean, but was now brimming with stubby butts. He lit another and inhaled. Looking down at the photo of Donatella, he sadly shook his head. She really was a gorgeous woman. One of the most beautiful he had ever laid eyes on. And that was just on the surface. To watch the woman in action was almost indescribable. She exuded a sexuality that was truly intoxicating. She had even managed to seduce the great Mitch Rapp, although Freidman had wondered on more than one occasion who had actually seduced whom. Yes, she and Rapp had been lovers. Freidman had never even admitted it to himself, but he had been jealous. Rapp had acted where he had not. Freidman had been forced to restrain himself on many occasions. He desperately wanted to experience Donatella's full range of passion, but he knew it would be a monumental mistake. He always knew that someday he might have to kill her, and he could not allow that decision to be clouded by love. Freidman reached down and touched the photograph. He admired her stunning mane of black curly hair, her sultry dark eyes and her high cheekbones. The woman was a goddess. Even knowing better, Freidman regretted more than ever that he had not acted on his feelings and taken her to bed. It was a shame to have missed such an opportunity.
The intercom on the desk buzzed and a woman's voice announced, "Mr. Rosenthal is here to see you."
Without taking his eyes off the photograph, Freidman reached out and pressed the intercom button. "Send him in." The head of Mossad looked down at the image and sadly shook his head. What a waste, but it had to be done. Mitch Rapp could not be allowed to find out that he'd been involved in any of this.
Marc Rosenthal was one of Freidmans most trusted kidons. At thirty-two he had been with the Mossad for almost fifteen years. He had always been small and even now could pass for someone in his early twenties. When he had joined the Mossad at nineteen he could have passed for a twelve-year-old, and that was exactly what he did. Freidman used the teenager to run sensitive information in and out of the occupied territories and to scout out areas before raids were launched. By the time he reached his twenty-first birthday Rosenthal was garroting terrorists in the back alleys of Hebron and Gaza.
Freidman had only a handful of people he could trust with this operation and Rosenthal was one of them. There were two others who Freidman could think of, but both of them had worked with Don at ella and he did not want her powers of persuasion to get in the way. Thus he was left with little Marc Rosenthal. He was a Mossad man through and through, and more important, he had been recruited and trained by Freidman himself. He would do as he was told and would ask few questions. And if things went wrong, he would keep his mouth shut.
"Marc, I have something very delicate and important that I need you to take care of." Freidman stabbed out his cigarette and closed the file. Picking it up, he handed it to Rosenthal and said, "Her name is Don at ella Rahn. She used to work for us." Freidman lit another cigarette and exhaled a billowing cloud of smoke. "She's good very good. Unfortunately, she's been doing some things that could be very embarrassing to us."
Rosenthal nodded. Nothing more needed to be said. The boyish looking man began looking through the file. "When do you want it taken care of?"
"As soon as possible."
"Do you want me to do it solo or bring my team?"
Freidman let loose an ominous laugh as he thought of Marcus trying to take Donatella down all by himself. It was possible, but not wise. "Bring your team, Marcus. This woman is very dangerous. She's killed more men than both you and I combined." The comment elicited an arched eyebrow but nothing else. "What about the body?"
"Use your judgment. If you can, I'd like you to dispose of it yourselves. If things get hairy, leave the body and get out." Having worked in the field for years, and detesting interference from HQ, Freidman tried whenever possible to give his people the freedom to make decisions themselves.
While still looking at the file, Rosenthal said, "I can be in place by tomorrow morning."
"Good." Freidman pointed
the tip of his glowing cigarette at Rosenthal. "Use only your best people, and take care of it as quickly as possible." The colonel leaned back in his chair, took a drag off his cigarette and then added, "And of course don't get caught."
CHAPTER TWELVE.
Capitol Hill, Wednesday morning.
Senator Clark sat behind his massive desk in the Hart Senate Office Building. It was cold and windy in the nation's capital. He stared out the window, studying the weather, putting off for at least another moment a more pressing problem. The last vestiges of fall hung stubbornly from the burly oak trees on the grounds across the way. Only a few dark sodden leaves were left. Winter was on the nations doorstep, and the thought of it brought a sense of dread. Clark did not do well in cold climates. A native of the southwest, he thought that DC. winters were anything but mild. To Clark, if it snowed for even a day the city was too cold. Looking out the window at the gray sky, he decided he would get out of town for the upcoming weekend: either Phoenix for golf or down to the island for a little fishing. Wife number three had something planned in New York, so he didn't have to worry about trying to convince her. He would be on his own, which at present was what he preferred. Number three was becoming increasingly confrontational and demanding.
This was something he couldn't understand. He had come into the marriage knowing exactly what he wanted, and he had made his intentions very clear. For Christ's sake, he was sleeping with number three while he was still married to number two. What did the woman expect, that after all these years he was going to change just for her? Well, he wasn't going to change. Things would have to be managed. Another divorce at this juncture was out of the question. It would torpedo his chances at running for President. He would have to strike a deal with her at some point. He had, of course, made her sign an ironclad prenuptial. Under that agreement she would get a million-dollar lump sum payment and another $250,000 a year until she remarried. If things got ugly he could put some more money on the table and get her to play nice for a few more years. That would be a last resort, though. The real jewel to entice her with would be the White House. Being First Lady, after all, wasn't a bad deal.
A voice from the recesses of Clark 's constantly plotting mind came up with another option. Have her killed. No, he told himself, she's not that bad, at least not yet. The morbid idea gained a little more weight with him as he thought of the potential advantages. The grieving spouse role might really help him connect with the soccer moms. The more he thought about the idea the more potential he saw. Wife number three was an extremely attractive and polished woman. They looked very good together. At least they did when she was happy, but she had a bitchy streak in her that was impossible to hide. When she was mad at him, she liked to make it a point to tell others. That could become a real liability during a long campaign. The press sooner or later would pick up on it and pile on. Clark doubted number three had the mental toughness to withstand such a barrage. No, he would have to decide on a course of action long before it came to that.
Clark returned his focus to a file on his desk and decided the problems of wife number three would have to wait for now. At present, he had a more pressing issue that needed his attention. Mark Ellis and the other money men from California could not be put off indefinitely. They expected a return on their investment, and they had their sights set on the CIA and its treasure chest of valuable industrial secrets. The problem for Clark was not a new one. He needed to effect the outcome of an event without anyone knowing that he'd had a hand in it. He'd built his entire political career on this simple concept. He had gained the President's confidence by professing his support for Kennedy, and now it was time to get someone to do the dirty work. Someone was going to have to take Kennedy down, and Congressman Albert Rudin was just the man. Clark had planted the seed in Rudin's head during their last meeting. His own party was wronging him. His years of loyalty had been casually tossed aside by the party's leaders, and for what? For the nominee to a post that any one of a thousand people could fill. Clark sensed that Rudin was ready to take the gamble of his political life. He was ready to go against the party in order to save the party. At least that was the self-righteous reasoning that Rudin would use. All the congressman from Connecticut needed was one good push. No, Clark thought. He didn't need a push; he needed a trail of crumbs. Clark looked down at the file on his desk and grinned. The information in the file would become that trail.
Clark closed the file and pressed the intercom button on his phone. "Mary, would you please send in my next appointment." The senator stood and buttoned his suit coat. When the door opened, Clark walked around his desk to meet his visitor. Extending his hand he said, "Good to see you, Jonathan."
The deputy director of the CIA shook the hand of his patron. "Good to see you also, Hank. You look nice and tanned."
"I was down at the island last weekend." Clark was distracted for a split second as he thought of his meeting with Ellis. "I'll have to have you down sometime. You love it. Do you like to fish or sail?"
"Both"
"Good, then. If all goes well in the next few weeks we'll have to fly down and celebrate our victory." Clark gestured to a wing chair. "Have a seat. May I get you anything to drink?"
"No, thank you." Brown sat in the chair and watched as Clark walked around the coffee table and sat down on the large brown leather sofa.
Clark unbuttoned his jacket and laid his arms out casually across the back of the couch. "This is the part where it gets tricky, Jonathan."
With a laugh that was more nervous than humorous Brown said, "I thought we were already in the tricky part."
Clark chose to ignore what he took as a sign of weakness and pushed on. "Rudin is ready to jump, or almost ready. All he needs is a little push from us, and he'll bring Kennedy's confirmation to a screeching halt."
Brown knew Clark didn't call him to his office to simply fill him in. "Where do I come in?"
"I'm meeting with someone tomorrow. Former FBI. His name is Norb Steveken." Clark winked. "Very trustworthy."
The former federal judge wasn't impressed that the man had worked for the FBI. There were times on the bench when he thought the FBI was every bit as ruthless and corrupt as the people they were after. "What does he do now?"
"He's an investigator."
"For whom?"
"For whoever happens to be paying him."
Brown accepted the senator's answer. He'd learned long ago that Clark had acquaintances from virtually every walk of life. "Who's paying right now?"
Clark batted away Brown's concerns with a wave of his hand. "You don't need to concern yourself with that. The important thing is that when you talk to him you need to seem very reluctant to give him what he needs, at least at first."
"And what does he need?"
"He needs information that Congressman Rudin can use to launch hearings."
Brown knew it would come to this eventually but it didn't lessen his discomfort. Used to keeping his cool on the bench, he pressed forward. "What information?"
Clark casually crossed his legs and said, "Give him the goods on the Orion Team."
Not quite sure he'd heard right. Brown asked, "You want me to tell a former FBI agent about the Orion Team?"
"Don't worry," Clark cautioned. "I've convinced Congressman Rudin to meet with Mr. Steveken. I've told Albert that I don't want to get involved in this, and I don't intend to get you dragged into it, either."
"Then why are you asking me to meet with this Steveken fellow?"
"Steveken will do what I tell him, and I'm going to tell him if you give him anything it will be off the record, and it's to stay that way."
"What about sending the info to Rudin anonymously?" Brown was desperate to come up with an alternative.
Clark shook his head. "It won't work. Albert is already in deep shit with his party. If we're going to get him to put his nuts on the line, he needs to hear this from a real person who can tell him they heard it straight from the mouth of someone at Langley
." Brown licked his apprehension through pursed lips. "I don't know. It's one thing to pass information on to you, Hank, but talking to a former Fed about the Orion Team doesn't sound like such a good idea." The potbellied Brown squirmed in his seat. "People who get caught locking horns with this group tend to disappear."
"Peter Cameron was too cocky. You don't have that problem."
"I don't know," said Brown with obvious reservation.
Clark kept his voice reasonable. "Jonathan, you know the plan. I promise you this is the last big step. Once Albert starts his investigation there will be no turning back. The press will be all over this thing, and you and I both know Kennedy doesn't stand a chance at surviving that type of scrutiny." Clark pointed to his friend. "And then I will make sure you become the next director of the CIA, and a very wealthy one, I might add."
Brown was looking to cash in after years of public service. Besides, America was a nation of laws, and Kennedy needed to be held accountable. "All right. How do you want me to do it?" With a smile Clark asked, "Do you still walk that dog of yours every night?"
"Yes."
"Good. You can expect Steveken to approach you in the park by your house. Probably tomorrow night."
"And what do you want me to tell him?"
Clark thought about it for a moment. "I want you to act real nervous at first. Tell him you don't want to talk to him. Try to walk away. Don't worry, he'll follow. He's a very persistent fellow."