Anna's heart leapt. "Mitch?"
"No." The man casually looked around the restaurant. "Dr. Kennedy." Extending his hand he said, "My name is Tino Nanne. I work at the consulate here in Milan."
"The U. S. consulate."
"That's correct."
Rielly lowered her voice. "Is everything all right with Mitch?"
"I wouldn't know, Ms. Rielly. I've only been told to give you a message"
Eagerly, Anna asked, "And what is that?"
"Dr. Kennedy thinks you should return to the U. S."
Anna was instantly taken aback. "What do you mean?"
"I know next to nothing. I've simply been told to give you a message. Dr. Kennedy, for reasons unknown to me, thinks you should return to the U. S. immediately."
"You work for the CIA?"
The man winced at the acronym and looked around. "I work for the State Department, and please be careful about what you say."
Rielly, always the reporter, was used to asking what she wanted whenever she wanted. "I think you know more than you're telling me."
"I know a lot of things, young lady." The man stood. "But as far as you are concerned, and why you're supposed to return to the States, I know nothing." He reached inside the breast pocket of his suit coat and grabbed a business card. "If you need anything, call me." He placed the card on the table and left the restaurant.
Tel Aviv, Friday evening
Ben Freidman was busy pecking away at his computer. The younger people at Mossad called it surfing the Web; he called it doing research. Freidman did not look natural in front of a keyboard. His bald head, broad shoulders and thick forearms were more suited for heavy labor. His stubby index fingers pounded away at the keys. It was slow going but it worked. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a curved hunk of gray ash ready to break free at any second. At the last second Freidman snatched the cigarette from his mouth and deposited the spent vice in an ashtray. He grabbed his small four-ounce coffee cup in his meaty hands and gulped down the remaining few ounces of thick black coffee.
"Adriana!" He yelled his assistant's name without taking his eyes off the screen. "More coffee, please." Freidman was worried. It had been a full day since the hit was to have taken place. Rosenthal was to have e-mailed him the results of the operation, and as of yet there was nothing. He was now checking the online version of Milan 's newspaper, looking for what would undoubtedly be a big story. So far he'd come up with nothing.
It was possible that Rosenthal had killed her and disposed of her body without anyone knowing. That was what Freidman had asked him to do. Maybe Rosenthal had run into a few problems and it was taking longer to get out of Italy and back to Israel. Anything was still possible, but with each passing hour of silence, the chances that things had gone according to plan diminished. At this stage Freidman had no choice but to try to stay calm, despite the fact that his gut told him Donatella had not gone down without a fight.
He'd trained her. He should have known better. It was the damn money Senator Clark waved in his face. He should have firmly told him not to worry. That he knew Donatella, and she would keep her mouth shut. Freidman had to be honest with himself, though. It was more than just the money. Donatella was a bit of a loose cannon and sooner or later, he figured he'd have to deal with her. She knew too many of his secrets, and with her temper there was no telling when she would explode and take him down with her.
No, Freidman decided. It hadn't been a mistake to go after her. It had been a mistake to not send more people. Freidman needed to start working on a cover story. Rosenthal couldn't go missing for too many more days without some people starting to ask where he was. Why had he sent Rosenthal to Italy? That would be the first hurdle to overcome. He felt confident that he could come up with a pretty good lie to handle that problem, but if Donatella was still alive, and she started making waves, he could be in big trouble. Freidman grabbed his phone and punched in an extension. A moment later a woman answered and he said, "I need you in my office right now." He hung up and wondered how much he'd have to tell this one. Not much, he decided. She could go to Milan and start digging around. Hopefully, Rosenthal would contact him and report that the mission was a success, before she even got there. Freidman knew the chances of that happening were between slim and none."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.
Capitol Hill, Friday afternoon
The motorcade of two government sedans and a limousine pulled up to the loading dock of the Hart Senate Office Building. Normally they would have used the front of the building, but today it was swarming with media. Dr. Irene Kennedy emerged from the limo. Her detail quickly escorted her into the building and brought her to the second floor. One of the staffers from the Senate Intelligence Committee was waiting for them. The man showed Kennedy into one of the private witness rooms at the rear of room 216 and then left her alone. Her detail also stayed outside. Kennedy wanted a few minutes of solitude before the confirmation circus started.
She used the room's private bathroom to wash her hands and check her makeup. She'd applied an unusually heavy amount today knowing that she'd be on TV. She touched up her lips a bit and put some more powder on her nose and forehead. Looking into the mirror she told herself, No matter what happens stay calm, and don't be afraid to say, I don't know.
Kennedy left the bathroom and took a seat at the small conference table. She knew all of the men on the committee. She'd sat in front of them countless times before and answered their questions. The only thing that was different about today was the media. Kennedy had just gotten settled in when there was a knock on the door. Senator Clark entered with a warm grin on his face. "Irene, how are you?" Clark closed the door.
Kennedy stood. "Just fine, Mr. Chairman."
"Irene, how many times do I have to tell you, it's Hank when we're alone like this." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "I could never get your boss. God rest his soul, to call me by my first name, but he was twenty years my senior so I cut him a little slack." Clark winked at Kennedy. "You don't have that excuse, so from now on it's Hank when we're alone. All right?" Kennedy nodded. "All right, Hank."
"Good. Now, are you nervous at all? Is there anything I can get you before we go out there?"
"No, I'm fine, thank you."
Clark looked down at the diminutive Kennedy and felt a pang of sorrow for her. He really did like her. It was too bad that she was going to have to go through this. "I don't expect things to get rough. Most of the men out there like you, and with the President and myself backing you, the votes are already there. You might get a few tough questions from Schuman, but don't sweat it. That's just him grandstanding in front of the cameras."
"I know. I've seen him do it plenty of times."
"I'll do my best to keep him in line along with any others who might get a little unruly, but ultimately it's up to you to handle them."
"I know. I've done this before, Hank."
"But you've never done it in front of all these cameras and reporters." There was no smile on his face. "Be very careful what you say in front of this crowd. One slipup and they'll pile on."
Kennedy showed no fear. "I know."
"Well, you're the only show this afternoon, so when you're ready, we'll go." Clark pointed toward the door with his thumb.
"I'm ready"
Clark gave her another warm smile and then wrapped his arms around her for a hug. "Good luck out there." He released her and said, "Let's go make history."
Kennedy followed him out of the room. The hallway was crowded with people. Every single one of them stopped talking when Clark and Kennedy appeared. The senator towered above everyone, even the men from Kennedy's security detail. He continued through another door and Kennedy followed him out onto the side of the dais located at the front of the hearing room. Clark gestured for Kennedy to head out to the witness table and he continued up to take his place at the center of the long U-shaped bench with the other senators.
The gallery was filled with reporters and TV crews. Today was an histor
ic moment. The first woman ever nominated to run the CIA was about to begin her confirmation hearing. The hearing was not scheduled to be aired live by any of the networks or major cable outlets other than C-SPAN, but every network was there to get a clip for what would be the lead story on the nightly news.
As Kennedy approached the witness table she was nearly blinded by camera flashes. She'd left an entire entourage back at Langley. The people from legal and public relations had wanted to sit at the table with her, or at the very least in the first row. They wanted to be there to help manage a situation in case one arose. Kennedy had declined all requests. It was a point of pride that she go through this alone. No photo ops of men whispering in her ear, as if she couldn't answer a question on her own. Kennedy had looked forward to this day for a long time. She wasn't always sure it would happen, but that didn't stop her from dreaming. As the political climate changed in Washington over the last two decades she began to realize that within her lifetime it was likely that a woman would head the CIA. It was inevitable. The old boy network that had run the Agency during its first fifty years wouldn't like it one bit. Kennedy's potential to men like Alien Dulles and William Casey would have been to get them a cup of coffee and maybe type a few letters. They were different men from a different generation.
Kennedy looked up at the senators seated in their high back leather chairs. They were her judges. Sixteen men in total, not a single woman among the group and all but one of them a millionaire. This didn't bother Kennedy in the least. She was in good standing with almost all of them, and the few that she didn't know well, were not the type to cause problems. One or two of them might try to grandstand, but she could handle them. For the most part they respected her, and she respected them. None of it was personal. That's what she kept telling herself. This was the business of government.
The photographers sitting on the floor between the witness table and the dais continued snapping photos. As Senator Clark looked down from on high, Kennedy returned his smile and nodded that she was ready. It was comforting to have an ally chairing the committee. For some unknown reason, at that exact moment she felt a nagging fear creep up on her. She was finally here, literally days away from taking over as the director the most powerful espionage agency in the world, and she couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to trip her up. She had two very serious issues to deal with right now) and she certainly couldn't let the committee know about either of them. They would know soon enough about the problem with Iraq, but the President had been adamant that everyone act as if it were business as usual. There would be no request for a delay in the hearings so she could deal with these monstrous problems. She would have to sit here for the remainder of the day and answer an unending stream of questions, the vast majority of them mundane or self-serving.
Senator Clark gaveled the room to order and greeted Kennedy by lowering his mouth to the microphone. After taking care of a few housekeeping matters he asked the relatively young director designate to rise, raise her hand and repeat after him. Kennedy did so, and as she raised her right hand, the flashes once again erupted. These were seasoned photographers, and Kennedy knew why they wanted that shot. They needed it in case she was ever caught lying. If that happened they needed the photo to run under the headline, CIA Director Lied to Congress. Kennedy recited the pledge and told herself to be very careful. There were so many lies, so many places where she could be tripped up.
Wolf Trap Park, Virginia, Friday evening
Steve Ken WAS freezing his ass off. If he'd been thinking, he would have worn his long underwear; but he hadn't been, of course. It was the first really cold night of the season and he'd been caught off guard. Without gloves he kept his hands shoved into the pockets of his trench coat. At least he'd zipped the winter liner into the jacket the day before. The temperature was already down into the thirties and was supposed to get below freezing. It was really dark out, much darker than the night before. Steveken had been at the park for almost thirty minutes, not so patiently waiting for the judge to arrive. Since his meeting with Brown the night before, he'd done some digging, and it wasn't into Irene Kennedy's career. It was into the judges.
Some of his old friends at the Bureau were more than willing to talk. Not wanting to lie, Steveken told his contacts that Brown was being considered for a job and the prospective employer wanted a simple background check done. A picture formed pretty early in his calls, and it wasn't far from what he remembered hearing about Brown. He was not well liked by the FBI. He was considered a very liberal judge who'd been known to throw entire cases out on minor technicalities. Steveken had even been turned on to one former federal prosecutor who said Judge Brown was the most self-righteous and pontificating judge he'd ever tried a case in front of. There hadn't been a lot of positive things said about the man, but Steveken had to admit his sample was biased with people from law enforcement, the exact type of people you would expect to hate a liberal judge. There was one person though, of the nine people he'd talked to, who had surprised him-a retired judge who had worked with Brown on the court of appeals, a judge who had a reputation for being every bit the liberal. The man had told Steveken that Brown would sell his soul to advance his career.
Steveken had yet to decide what to do with that information. If Senator Clark asked he would probably give it to him, but he doubted he would pass it on to Rudin. The congressman from Connecticut was one of the least likable people he'd ever met.
Conversely, he'd watched a little bit of Kennedy's testimony on C-SPAN and he'd been impressed. She seemed very likable, and had handled herself well. It was also obvious that no one had tested her. Steveken figured that was due to Senator Clark keeping everyone in line. He'd given his word to the President, and there would be no wild accusations thrown at Kennedy without some proof to back them up.
Steveken wasn't quite sure what to make of the things Rudin had told him about Stansfield and Kennedy. The crass old man didn't have a shred of proof, but at the same time, Steveken fully believed the CIA was capable of every single accusation that Rudin had leveled. The truth was the CIA had to deal with a lot of shitty people. The types of people, who under normal circumstances you'd never even consider entering into a partnership with. But the problem was, the CIA wasn't asked to deal with normal situations. They were asked to associate with drug dealers, arms dealers, dictators, despots, terrorists and thugs, just to name a few. And when you do business with people like that you're going to get your hands dirty sometimes.
Thanks to Rudin's irritating personality, Steveken found himself in the awkward position of feeling empathy for Kennedy and the CIA. Part of him hoped Brown wouldn't show up tonight. Part of him hoped that he'd be able to meet the old prick for lunch, tell him he came up empty, and then stick him with the tab. Steveken laughed to himself in the cold darkness as he imagined the sour look on Rudin's face.
Something caught Steveken's eye. He looked off into, the distance and saw a red orb glow bright and then disappear. A moment later it was back, like a firefly picking its way through the darkness. It kept getting closer. Steveken heard the tapping of a dog's feet on the asphalt right about the time he smelled tobacco. It was a pipe, he realized. Brown had been smoking a pipe the night before.
Brown stopped several feet away, and in the glow of his pipe, Steveken thought he noticed a hint of smugness on the mans face. "Good evening, Judge."
"How are you tonight, Mr. Steveken?"
Cold. You running late tonight."
"I had to gather some things for you."
Steveken resisted the urge to put his hand out. "So what do you have?"
Brown hesitated for a moment and then said, "Let me give you some advice." He reached into his jacket and extracted a large manila envelope. "Don't open this. Just hand it to Congressman Rudin, and tell him you have no idea what's in it." Brown gave the envelope to Steveken and added with emphasis, "Under no circumstances are you to tell him where you got this." Brown looked him hard in the eye. "The ma
n who gave me this information just up and disappeared two weeks ago. I'm assuming he's dead."
Brown didn't give Steveken a chance to reply. He started back down the path and said, "Do yourself a favor and get rid of that package as quickly as possible. Congressman Rudin will know what to do with it."
With his mouth slightly agape, the normally talkative Steveken found himself at a loss for words. He just stood there with the envelope in hand watching as Brown disappeared into the darkness. When the judge was too far away to hear, Steveken mumbled, "Thanks for nothing." He had the distinct feeling that he was being played, but he owed Clark too much to do anything about it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.
The White House, Friday evening
As night fell on Washington the limousine approached the White House. Rapp didn't like coming here, too many cameras, too many reporters, and too many people who liked to talk. Besides, in his present state he looked like someone who would like to assault the President, not meet with him. He hadn't accepted the mission yet, but he knew which way he was leaning. It would be a quick insertion, and because of that he couldn't shave, at least not until he knew what his cover would be. If he had to go in across the desert and play the role of a nomad, he would need a scruffy beard to pull it off. After missing several days with the razor it was already thick. He was wearing his black leather jacket, and in an attempt to fit in a bit he was wearing a blue U.S. Secret Service baseball hat.
As the limousine pulled up to the southwest gate of the White House Kennedy leaned over to Rapp and said, "Have you ever noticed the President paces when he's upset?"
Rapp had to think about it for a second. He seemed to remember that the President was prone to standing in meetings, but not the pacing part. "I've noticed he stands a lot."
"He stands because his back bothers him," she said in her clinical tone. "That doesn't mean he's mad. When he starts pacing, that means he's mad." Kennedy was a frequent visitor to the White House, and the limo was allowed through the heavy gate without inspecting the passengers. Before the vehicle came to a stop Rapp asked, "So, do you think he's going to do some pacing?"