There were five other individuals at the conference table, and none of them spoke to each other. Max Salmen, the oldest of the group, didn’t care for the others, with the exception of Irene Kennedy. They were, to him, dangerous mongrels—each a mix of bureaucrat, politician, and lawyer and each nearly incapable of making the correct decision for the right reason. They headed three of the Agency’s directorates, and Salmen headed the fourth. As deputy director of Operations, Salmen was in charge of the spies. It was his people who ran the black ops, recruited agents from both friend and foe, kept tabs on counterespionage, and tracked the terrorists. His people were the front-line troops, the case officers, the people out in the field getting their hands dirty and taking the real risks. Salmen had cut his teeth with Stansfield in Europe, and then, as Stansfield had risen through the ranks, the crusty Salmen had come with him. Salmen was Kennedy’s immediate boss, although she often reported directly to Stansfield.
The other three people at the table were also deputy directors. Charles Workman ran Intelligence. His people were the bookworms, the Mensa geeks who pored over reams of information day in and day out. Rachel Mann ran Science and Technology, and Stephen Bauman was in charge of Administration.
Of the three, Salmen disliked Workman the most, but Bauman was a close second. To say that he hated Mann would be unfair. Under different circumstances, Bauman thought he would probably like her. She was very bright and for the most part tried to avoid the political backstabbing that Workman and Bauman thrived on, but in the end there was only so much money to go around, and everyone wanted to take it from Operations. If it wasn’t for the recent spate of terrorism, Salmen knew his budget would be in serious trouble.
Salmen folded his nicotine-stained hands across his bulging belly and wondered how much longer he could hold on. His days were numbered. He’d been at the Agency since 1964, stationed first in Cambodia and then in Laos, doing things for his government that were still classified. After Vietnam, he moved on to Europe, where he worked in various embassies before becoming the station chief in Berlin. When Stansfield became director, he recalled Salmen and brought him into his inner circle. Now, with Stansfield on his deathbed, things looked bleak. The only reason Salmen put up with all of the bullshit was out of a sense of duty to the people in the field. He needed to protect them. He needed to keep these desk jockeys off their backs. And there was one other reason. Stansfield had asked him to stay and keep an eye on things, and, more explicitly, he had asked his old friend to watch Irene Kennedy’s back.
The door to the director’s office opened, and Jonathan Brown entered. The deputy director of Central Intelligence, or DDCI as he was known, was the second in charge at the Agency. In theory, the four deputy directors reported to him, and he reported to the director himself, but Salmen had never played that game. He went right to the director when there was a problem. Brown had shown some irritation with this, and Salmen knew the second Stansfield was gone, his ass was grass. Until then, he would try to keep the bureaucrat’s attention focused on him and off Kennedy.
Brown sat at the head of the table and looked over the attendees with his usual dramatic flair. Because of the sensitivity of most of the things Kennedy worked on, she rarely reported to the DDCI. Kennedy did not have a problem with Brown. The man was more than talented enough to handle his job. Under different circumstances, he might even have made a good director of Central Intelligence. But in the end he was an outsider, a former federal prosecutor and judge. He owed his job at the CIA to a handful of politicians on the Hill who lobbied for him. His loyalty was to them and not to the Agency.
Kennedy was invited to these types of meetings more than she would have liked. Within the four directorates were thirty-plus offices or groups. Of those, Counterterrorism was the one that garnered the most attention. Kennedy had a pretty good idea why she had been yanked out of the CTC on such short notice to attend this meeting on high, and she wasn’t happy about it. The CIA was supposed to be about compartmentalization, not openness. If Brown wanted to talk about Germany, he didn’t need to bring Science and Technology and Administration in on the meeting.
Brown cleared his throat and appeared to be choosing his words carefully. “I just received a call from Chairman Rudin.” Brown looked genuinely troubled. “He wants everything we have on what transpired in Germany this past weekend.”
The assassination of Count Heinrich Hagenmiller had taken on mythic proportions in just a few days. Even within the secretive bubble of Langley, it was being discussed by almost everyone. The three top suspects were the United States, Israel, and Iraq. But as of yesterday, the British, the French, and even the Germans were added to the list. The British were added because they were the British, and they’d been doing just this type of thing better and longer than anyone else. The French were added to the list because it was said Hagenmiller had cut them out of the deal. And the Germans, it was being said, killed the count because he was an embarrassment. Kennedy didn’t mind any of this. The more speculation, the better. This was, after all, the intent of the operation, to send a message to all who dealt with Saddam. The more governments to be suspicious of, the better.
Brown looked in the direction of Kennedy and said, “And he would like to see you in front of his committee first thing in the morning, Irene.”
Salmen let out a moan, and Kennedy said, “All right. Would he like anything specific?”
“He didn’t say. He just asked me to remind you that you’d be under oath.” Brown said this with all of the reverence of a former federal judge.
Salmen scoffed at the comment and said, “What a joke!”
Brown did not like dissension. “Is there a problem, Max?”
“Yeah. Rudin is the problem.”
“Pardon me?” Brown seemed to be in an even more serious mood than normal.
“Chairman Rudin is a frustrated little man who’s had a bug up his ass since day one about this Agency.”
Deputy Director Brown did not think the comment was funny, and two of the other deputy directors were forced to stifle their reactions to Salmen’s candid and accurate analysis. Kennedy, as always, kept a neutral expression on her face.
“I would appreciate it if you’d show the congressman from Connecticut a little more respect.”
This caused Salmen to laugh out loud. “The congressman and I have had a hate-hate relationship for years. If I started to respect him at this stage of the game, he’d be very upset.”
Brown decided to move on. Looking to Charles Workman, the deputy director of Intelligence, he said, “I want a report on my desk by five. Anything and everything you have on what went down in Germany.” Workman dutifully replied that he would personally take care of it. Brown turned back to Salmen. “Is it true that we had Hagenmiller under surveillance?”
Salmen stuffed his hands under his armpits and shrugged. “That’s on a strictly need-to-know basis.”
Brown’s face became flushed over Salmen’s blatant disrespect. “I am in the need to know, and I expect a report from you on my desk by five.”
Salmen remained defiant. “I will give you no such report until Director Stansfield tells me to do so.”
“Listen, Max, I have done nothing to deserve this from you. I am the DDI, and for all intents and purposes the acting DCI. When I tell you I want something on my desk by five, I mean it.”
Salmen appeared to back off just a touch. “Jonathan, I mean no disrespect, but I’ve been doing this a hell of a lot longer than you. The bedrock of this agency is the philosophy of ‘need to know.’ When Director Stansfield tells me you need to know, I’ll tell you.”
“Max, Director Stansfield isn’t going to be around to protect you forever. And when he’s gone, I’m going to relish putting you out to pasture.”
Salmen stood. “Yeah, well, until then, Your Honor…you can kiss my big white ass.” The deputy director of Operations turned and left the conference room with a broad smile across his face.
After a pe
riod of uncomfortable silence, Kennedy looked to the DDI and said, “Sir, I would like to apologize for Max. He has been under a lot of stress lately. As you know, he and Director Stansfield are very close. I don’t think Max is taking his poor health very well.”
“You don’t need to apologize for him.” Brown appreciated Kennedy’s comments. She was one of the most competent and professional people he had ever worked with. It was too bad she was going to end up being a casualty of this whole mess.
“I know I don’t, sir, but please don’t take it personally. Max is just very cranky, and on top of that, he doesn’t care much for Congressman Rudin.”
“Yes, I know. I can assure you that the congressman feels the same way about Max.” Brown looked at his notes for a second and then said, “I want you to be completely forthright when you go before the committee tomorrow. The last thing we want is to have Director Stansfield’s career end in disgrace.”
Kennedy nodded in agreement, but internally she was deciphering Brown’s real intent. Stansfield had let it leak that he would last six months to a year. Kennedy knew he’d be lucky to last a month. Brown’s concern had nothing to do with Thomas Stansfield’s reputation. It had everything to do with his own career. Scandals in Washington were a media and political feast to be savored, death by a thousand cuts to be drawn out over a period of years not months. Brown, not Stansfield, would be the one in the hot seat if a congressional investigation were launched. And it was extremely rare for someone’s career to survive such a bloodletting.
Rapp drove west on Georgetown Pike in a black 1994 Volkswagen Jetta. It was dark out, and rush-hour traffic was starting to dwindle. The car was registered under the name of Charlie Smith. Rapp had a Maryland driver’s license in his pocket with the same name. The CIA had taught Rapp many things over the years, but two of the most important were to be thorough and paranoid. A shrink had once told him to use the word cautious because of the negative connotations associated with the word paranoid, but Rapp had only laughed. He had always been cautious, it was second nature to him, but paranoid described his current mental state perfectly. When you were on your own, up against the world’s largest and best funded intelligence agency, there was no more appropriate word.
Rapp had an advantage over most, though. He was an insider. He knew how the Agency operated, and despite all of their technological advancements, they were still limited. If a person was proactive and paranoid enough, disappearing was easy. And Rapp was both. That was why three years ago, he had set up the Charlie Smith alias and paid eight-thousand dollars cash for the Jetta. That was why he kept it in a storage yard up in Rockville along with a few other items that might come in handy. Rapp had been the hunter long enough to understand that someday he might become the hunted. And when that happened, it was best not to waste time trying to buy weapons and steal vehicles.
As they passed under Interstate 495, Shirley let out a yawn. Rapp looked over his shoulder to see how she was doing. She looked back at him with her big brown eyes and licked her lips. Rapp had picked her up at 7319 Georgia Avenue NW. For a mutt, she was a good looker. The people at the Washington Humane Society had been very helpful. He’d asked for a medium-sized dog that was mellow and, if possible, didn’t bark too much. They had brought him back to the kennels and showed him Shirley. She was part collie, part Labrador, and part something else. She’d been with them for three weeks, and no one had claimed her, which surprised the woman who was showing Rapp around. It appeared Shirley had been very well trained. When Rapp asked the woman how they had come up with the dog’s name, she told him they went down a list of names until she responded to one. “It could be Curly, Burley, Hurly, or anything that sounds like Shirley, but I picked Shirley. She looks like a Shirley.” Rapp didn’t argue. Shirley was fine with him. After picking her up, he stopped at a pet store and got a leash, some dog food, and a few treats to help woo her.
At Linganore Drive, he took a right off the pike and then took his first left onto Linganore Court. Rapp drove the car to the end of the street, turned it around, and parked. He grabbed Shirley from the back seat and went over to the walking path. It ran between two houses and into the Scotts Run Nature Preserve. The preserve consisted of three hundred eighty-four acres of wooded land overlooking the Potomac River in McLean, Virginia. The hiking trails were well used during the day and especially the weekends, but on a Tuesday night they would be empty. Rapp and Shirley disappeared into the darkness and broke into a jog.
IRENE KENNEDY ARRIVED at 7:20. She had left Langley at six and stopped at home just long enough to make Tommy a bowl of macaroni and cheese and eat a salad for herself. After spending exactly forty-three minutes with her son, she handed him off to Heather, the teenager who lived next door. There was no need to brief Heather on the rules and numbers to call if anything scared her. They had run through the routine at least a dozen times. Kennedy set the security system and left, getting in back of the government sedan with her protector behind the wheel. The ride to Stansfield’s house was filled with guilt and doubt. More and more, Kennedy was feeling like a bad mom. When she wasn’t at Langley working, she was at home working. Tommy was spending a frightening amount of time glued to the TV.
The demands put on her time were growing with fewer respites between the flare-ups. The life of a single parent was hard enough, but with her job, it was nearly impossible. She didn’t blame her ex, though. It was better that they had parted when Tommy was little. The man was out west and out of their lives. At least he would never get close enough to disappoint his son the way he had disappointed her.
Kennedy felt torn between her obligation to her son and her obligation to a very serious job. A job that saved lives. But something was going to have to give. She couldn’t go on like this. Her work would suffer, and so would her relationship with her son. As they turned into Stansfield’s driveway, Kennedy forced the thoughts from her mind. She needed to focus. The last thing her mentor needed right now was to worry about her.
The car stopped in front of the garage, and Kennedy got out. She walked up to the front door, where she was met by one of Stansfield’s bodyguards. Kennedy went down the hall and entered the study, where she found Thomas Stansfield sitting in his leather chair, his feet up on the ottoman and an afghan on his lap. She walked over and kissed him on the forehead. All things considered, he looked good.
Leaving her hand on his shoulder, she asked, “How are you feeling today?”
“Just fine, thank you. Would you like anything to drink?”
Kennedy knew he wasn’t fine. He couldn’t be. The doctors had told her the cancer was very painful. But that was Thomas Stansfield. He wasn’t about to feel sorry for himself, and he didn’t want anyone else to, either. Kennedy declined the offer of a beverage and sat on the sofa across from her mentor. “Congressman Rudin wants me on the Hill first thing in the morning.”
“I’ve heard.”
Kennedy didn’t bother to ask how. She’d stopped wondering years ago how the man got his information. “What else have you heard?”
“He wants to know if we were in Germany and, if so, if we had a hand in the Hagenmiller business.”
“And how would you advise me to answer that question?”
“Very carefully,” replied the older man.
“At the very least, I was planning on doing that.”
“I’m sure you were.” Stansfield thought about Rudin for a second and then said, “If he is so bold as to hold the committee in open session, you should answer nothing and politely refer him to me.” Stansfield frowned. “As much as he hates us, I don’t think he would be so brash.”
“Neither do I.”
Stansfield pondered the question further and finally said, “You have to tell him that we had the count and his corporation under surveillance. Lay out the same case that the president did to the German ambassador yesterday. Despite Rudin’s deep hatred of us, we have enough allies on the committee to block him. Once they find out what Hagenmiller was u
p to, any interest in pursuing the matter further will die.”
Kennedy wasn’t so sure. “Maybe we could have the president call him? Rudin is a party man through and through. He’ll do whatever President Hayes asks of him.”
Stansfield shook his head. “No. I want the president kept out of this. It’s become far too murky. We can handle it on our own.”
Kennedy reluctantly agreed and then said, “We’re missing something here.”
“In regard to Rudin?”
“In regard to the whole thing.” Kennedy stared out the window. “I don’t know…there are leaks we haven’t identified. Someone is out there working against us, and for what reason I still haven’t figured out.”
“I’m working on that.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“It’s all a question of motive, Irene.”
“Motive for what?”
“Did you know that Rudin and Midleton met with Senator Clark at Congressional Country Club this morning?”
“No.” Once again, he amazed her with his network of informants.
“They had breakfast together.”
“What did they discuss?”
“I don’t know, but I do know their motives. Rudin despises me personally and would like nothing more than to see me take my last breath. Midleton and I are cordial, but he would like to have more of a say in what the CIA is up to.”
“What about Clark?”
Stansfield adjusted the afghan on his lap and thought about the question. “I’m not sure about Senator Clark. For the most part, he has always been good to us, but I sense no loyalty in the man. In the end, I think he is looking to serve only himself.”
“What are they after?”
Stansfield looked at Kennedy and decided it was time. “We need to discuss something.”