The waitress dropped off Rudin's orange juice and coffee. "Your food'll be up in a minute."
When the waitress left, Steveken got up and grabbed his paper. Rudin looked at him and asked, "Where are you going?"
"I'm a busy man, Albert," he pointed at his own eyes and then at Rudin, "but I'm going to have my eye on you." He started to walk away.
Rudin called after him, "Hey, you forgot to leave some money." Steveken smiled and said to himself, "No, I didn't."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.
Tel Aviv, Saturday afternoon
Surly was probably the best word to describe Ben Freidman's mood. He'd just left his wife and was on his way into the office. He'd sent a katsa to Milan to look into the disappearance of Rosenthal and his people, and that trusted agent was back. Unfortunately, it sounded like she had little to report. As the armor-plated Mercedes raced through the suburb oframataviv, Freidman looked out the window at the ocean and wondered how in God's name three highly trained agents just disappear. The problem, Freidman knew, was that they didn't just disappear. There was only one logical explanation after this long: Donatella had killed them. This presented a challenging problem for the head of Mossad. Three kidons can only go missing for so long, and then people start asking questions.
The Mercedes turned away from the ocean and rocketed up a steep hill toward a bland six-story concrete building with antennae bristling from the roof. The driver had radioed ahead and the pop up barrier at the gate was down. The car raced through the entrance leaving the Uzi toting security personnel in a cloud of dust.
When Freidman reached his office he found the katsa that he'd sent to Milan waiting in his outer office by herself. Freidman rushed past her like a tank racing toward the front lines. Without a word, he waved for her to follow. When she entered his inner sanctum he closed the door and sat behind his desk. The katsa did not sit. She stood practically at attention in front of his desk. Freidman yanked open his top drawer and retrieved a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
He puffed on the cigarette and offered the pack up to the woman. She declined with a shake of her head. "So, tell me' Tanya. What did you discover for me?"
The woman's posture and demeanor spoke of military training. She was small with dark features and wore no makeup."I found some things at the safe flat, but other than that, there was no sign of them." "And the woman I told you to check on?" Freidman ran one of his meaty hands along the top of his bald head.
"I called her office and they said she was out, so I took the opportunity to stop by in person. I pretended that we were old friends and that I was just passing through Milan for the day. I put on a big show about how disappointed I was and asked if I could leave a note. While I was leaving the note I asked where she was off to this time. They told me they didn't know. She called in abruptly on Friday to say she needed to take some personal time."
Freidman puffed on his cigarette and tried to piece things together. Friday would have been the day after Rosenthal was supposed to have hit her. She was on the run and Rosenthal, Yanta and Sunberg were all dead. Damn, she was good. Freidman chided himself for not sending more people, or better yet, doing it himself. Donatella would have trusted him. He could have got her to let her guard down and then taken her. The problem was he had rushed into it and now the mess was compounded.
"Did you check her flat?"
"Yeah. It was spotless. Nothing unusual or out of the ordinary."
Freidman thought for a while longer and finally said, "All right. Thank you for looking into this for me."
"No problem, sir. Am I excused?"
"Yes, but I want you to keep quiet about this entire matter."
"Yes, sir." The woman turned and left the office.
Freidman spun his chair around and looked out at the blue water of the Mediterranean. There would be an official investigation, one way or another, and it would look much better if he were the one to launch it. He would have to make Donatella out to be a psychotic who had betrayed Israel by free-lancing. He could even go the CIA and apologize for Donatella killing Peter Cameron. He could say that she had broken away and was doing free-lance work. Yes, he told himself, that was the path to take. Always mix fact with fiction for the most believable story.
Congressional Country Club, D. C.
Saturday morning
If HE WAS in town, and it was Saturday, he was doing one of two things: either playing golf or getting a massage. Since the temperature was still below freezing he had opted for the massage. When he pulled up the long drive of the club in his Jaguar XK8 coupe shortly after nine, he spotted three brave souls standing on the first tee. Huddled in stocking caps, they were a testament to golf's addictive nature.
Hank Clark had two overriding principles or philosophies in life. The first was to never allow any single thing or person to control him, and the second was to succeed at any cost. He could have adopted a puritan lifestyle and banned all vices from his life, but that would have been too easy. Clark had seen alcohol destroy his mother. He knew what it could do to a person, to a family, but instead of running from it, he was determined to conquer it. Clark 's competitive nature could not stand boredom, and it detested simplicity and complacency. Life was to be lived, not wasted cowering in a corner avoiding every vice as if it might jump up and drag you down into hell.
Clark took things on, but always in a well thought out way. He'd been an all-conference pitcher for the asu Sun Devils. That was when he learned to control his emotions and outthink an opponent. Where a football player is taught to get pumped up and attack the ball carrier, Clark learned to think clearly, get his competitor to expect one thing and then deliver something else. He was a master at blind-siding people without them ever knowing he had a hand in their demise.
As he lay facedown on the massage table, he was trying to figure out how to take these last few steps. He was so close, but this was where it would get tricky. The important thing to keep in mind was to let things happen. Not to force anything. The wheels were set in motion, the game was rigged and the odds were in his favor. All he needed was for Albert Rudin to make one last-ditch effort to derail the Kennedy nomination, and based on the conversation he'd had with Deputy Director Brown. Clark would know shortly. The package had been delivered last night and Clark knew that Steveken wouldn't disappoint him. By now Rudin had his grubby little hands on the info and he was probably close to having a coronary. With that satisfying thought Clark began to doze off. The waterfall music played softly in the background and Lou the masseur was kneading away at his legs. Life was good.
the DOOR flew open, thudded against the wall, and bounced back. Albert Rudin stood silhouetted in the light of the men's locker room staring into the relative darkness of massage room number two. "Hank! Are you in there?"
Clark, startled by the interruption, pulled from a deep sleep in the wink of a second, bolted up onto his elbows and growled, "What the fuck!"
"Hank, I need to talk to you immediately!" He stepped into the room.
Through unfocused, sleepy eyes Clark said, "Albert, what in the hell are you doing?"
"I need to talk to you alone! I have something very important to show you."
"I'm in the middle of a massage," snarled Clark, still not quite awake.
"I don't care." Rudin stepped forward, thrusting the manila envelope in front of his face.
"Albert, whatever you have can wait until I have some clothes on. Now get the hell out of here!"
Rudin had never heard Clark so upset. Reluctantly, he retreated from the room and closed the door. He looked down at the envelope in his hand. He desperately wanted to show the contents to someone, and Hank Clark was the obvious choice. He'd been looking for him for the past two hours. He'd called his house, his office and his cell phone. No one at the house answered, no one at the office knew where he was, and he didn't answer his cell phone. The club was a lucky guess. Rudin saw the senator's gleaming Jaguar in the parking lot and practically ran into the building. The l
ocker room manager told him Clark was getting a massage. Without putting any further thought into it, Rudin had raced off through the maze of lockers like a rat in search of a piece of cheese.
Standing alone in the bright lights of the locker room Rudin now saw the error of his ways. He checked his watch. It was 9:55. Clark wouldn't be that much longer. Rudin began walking. He'd waited this long to destroy Irene Kennedy, he could wait a few more minutes.
there WAS A small lounge in the men's locker room; two couches, several chairs, a television and two phones. This was where Rudin had decided to wait. It was a good thirty minutes before Clark showed. His salt and pepper hair was slicked back and he was wearing a pair of dress corduroy pants, a button-down shirt and a cashmere sweater. Rudin popped out of his chair looking slightly low-rent in his wrinkled khakis, faded flannel shirt and overstuffed down coat.
Clark had decided to act as if the intrusion into his hypnotic massage had not happened. There was no sense in revisiting the issue. After all these years Rudin wasn't about to change. Clark did not greet the congressman. He simply said, "Let's grab a cup of coffee."
Rudin shook his head emphatically. "Let's talk outside. In your car." He looked around the small lounge like the walls had ears.
Clark understood Rudin's paranoia. He was the one who had encouraged it. "All right."
They left the club and went to the parking lot without speaking. Rudin took every step like he was on point during a patrol behind enemy lines, Clark played along and kept his mouth shut. He'd anticipated Rudin's behavior. From thirty feet away, he pressed the button on his keyless remote. The headlights flashed once. Clark climbed in behind the wheel and Rudin got in on the passenger side.
From the folds of his down coat Rudin extracted the envelope and said, "You're not going to believe what is in here." He offered the envelope to Clark.
Clark didn't take it. He instead asked, "What's in it?"
"The information I've been looking for," replied Rudin with glee.
Impassively, Clark nodded for him to elaborate.
"Have you ever heard of an organization called the Orion Team?"
Clark just shook his head no.
"It's a secret organization that was started by that bastard Thomas Stansfield, and headed by Irene Kennedy," Rudin spoke their names with great hatred. "They've been running covert ops in the Middle East for over a decade, and they haven't said shit to us." Rudin stabbed his finger into his own chest. and I've got the proof Right here! Look!" Rudin pulled some papers from the envelope. "I have a list of people they've killed. There's account numbers where legitimate money has been diverted to fund these operations. There's even mention of Special Forces units being used to support these fucking antics."
"This is absolutely shocking." "I told you she was no good. Just like her old boss Stansfield."
"I can't believe it," said Clark. "Where did you get this?"
"From your guy," said Rudin defensively. "That Steveken fellow."
"And where did he get it?" "That's the best part," said Rudin excitedly. "He got it from Jonathan Brown Judge Fucking Brown. Can you believe it?"
That was not the answer Clark was expecting. "Have you talked to anybody else about this?"
"No! You're the first person."
"Well, do yourself and Brown a favor and don't mention his name to anyone." Clark was trying to figure out how in the hell Rudin had got Brown's name.
"Why?"
"Because the second you mention his name they'll destroy his reputation." Clark was thinking quickly, trying to come up with a logical reason. "Think of his name as your ace in the hole. The longer you wait to show it, the more valuable it'll be."
"Or the longer you wait to play it." Rudin tried to pass the envelope to Clark.
"No. I believe you. When you get a chance make copies for me and send me the whole thing." Clark wasn't about to put his fingerprints on classified documents.
Rudin was a little disappointed, but pleased to hear that Clark trusted him enough to take his word. "So what are you going to do on Monday?"
The senator placed a hand on his chin and looked out the front windshield. Quietly, he said, "I'm not sure."
Rudin was sure. It's all he'd been thinking about for the past three hours. Kennedy's confirmation hearing was going to turn into an inquisition. "Hank, what do you mean you're not sure? You're going to get her under oath, and you're going to nail her ass to the wall!"
"Oh, don't worry, if this information is as damaging as you say, that'll happen," he said reassuringly. "I'm just trying to make sure we have all of our bases covered first." Clark looked at Rudin and asked, "Are you still scheduled to appear on Meet the Press tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
Clark paused briefly and said, "All right, here's what we're going to do."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.
Maryland, Saturday evening
A steady drizzle fell from the night's black sky, and the cab's headlights cut a perfect but limited swath through the darkness. In the backseat Anna Rielly sat feeling her determination wilt away. She wasn't sure what she wanted to happen, but she knew she had to meet him face-to-face. She couldn't run. She loved him too much; she'd poured too much of her heart into the relationship. There were too many things that needed to be said. And besides, as a matter of practicality she had to get her car.
The trip back from Milan had been a long one. Thankfully, the American Airlines ticket agent had been kind enough to honor Rielly's first class ticket without charging her for changing the return date. It probably helped that she recognized Rielly as the NBC White House correspondent. What made the flight so miserable was that she was seated next to a forty-some-year-old man from Baltimore who spent the majority of the flight trying to put the moves on her. She heard his life story at least once, and several chapters that he deemed extra important were repeated. The experience did nothing for her resolve. Like most people with any sense, she didn't like dating. If this was what life held for her, maybe she was better off spending a few fitful nights waiting for Mitch to come home. She knew that wasn't true, but in the midst of the excruciating flight the thought occurred more than once. With a few days to cool off, Anna had settled in on her main problem with Mitch. How well did she really know him? The question of course could be asked, how much did one really know anybody, but she didn't buy into that esoteric philosophy. She knew her family and her friends very well, and she thought she knew Mitch well, but she would have never thought him capable of doing what he did in Milan.
Rielly knew why they went to Italy. They went there to get engaged. Mitch had a little business to take care of first, and then they were off to start the rest of their lives together. The big problem was, his business involved meeting with an ex-lover. She tried to put the shoe on the other foot. What would Mitch have done if she'd gone off to meet secretly with an ex while they were on vacation together? It didn't take Rielly long to come up with an answer. He'd blow his top.
Then why should she be so understanding? She kept coming back to the same question and the same answer. Mitch lived a different life. Secrets were part of his existence, and what made this worse was that Anna was a reporter. She had an overwhelming need to find things out, to dig, to uncover the hidden, the forgotten, and the neglected. She wanted to know things, while Mitch was content with just being there. One of his favorite lines was that talking is overrated. She'd asked him about his previous lovers one night, and he had steadfastly avoided the discussion. She had finally said, "Don't you want to know about the men I've dated?" and Rapp had claimed that he didn't. This only served to arouse her curiosity more. There was no past with the man. It was an aspect of Mitch that drew her in and drove her nuts. He only wanted to talk about the present, and the future.
As the cab neared his house, the house that just a few days earlier she'd thought of as theirs, she felt butterflies in her stomach that rivaled the ones she'd had on her first live remote. Out of nervousness she hoped he wasn't home, and o
ut of hope she wished he were. The coward in her wanted to grab her stuff and leave. Not give him the satisfaction of showing that she cared enough to talk about it. She could sneak in, grab her stuff and avoid any confrontation whatsoever. There was another voice from within, though not quite as strong as the first, that was telling her she had overreacted. Telling her that she could trust Mitch, and that whatever had happened in Milan could be explained.
When the cab pulled into the driveway, Rielly spotted her car parked next to the garage and noticed that the front light was on as well as one upstairs. She paid the cabbie and stood in the rain as he got her bag from the trunk. After a moment of indecision she wheeled her bag over to her car and hefted it into the trunk. Then standing under the narrow eave in front of the garage she peered through the small square window. Mitch's car wasn't there. Her heart fell and after a moment of melancholy thoughts she decided to go inside and see if there was a note.
Anna unlocked the front door and punched in the code for the alarm. The first thing she saw was Mitch's large Travel Pro black wheeled suitcase. The same one he'd taken to Milan. It was on the floor and open. He was home, or at least he'd been home. She closed the front door and went into the kitchen. The breakfast bar was bare and again she felt her heart shrink a little. This was the spot where he would have left a note. There was none. Next she checked the answering machine. All she got for her trouble was a red zero telling her she'd again come up empty. She felt a brief sense of panic.