CAMERON BACKED HIS shiny Lexus 400 out of the narrow garage down the street from his Georgetown apartment. The car was Cameron’s treat to himself. It had a 4.0-liter, 290-horsepower, four-cam, thirty-two-valve V8 engine and could fly like the wind. It came with leather interior, genuine bird’s eye maple trim and a seven-speaker, 215-watt stereo that would make a sixteen-year-old heavy metal fan wet his pants. All of it, plus a couple of free racing mats, had cost him fifty thousand dollars. The price didn’t bother Cameron. He was finally making good money.
The Professor was in no hurry this morning. He had to teach a class at eleven, but other than that, he had no official duties. Cameron hadn’t slept well. He had been too excited after his meeting with Senator Clark. The man was amazing; the way he cultivated loyalty, it was easy to see why he had done so well in life. The sky was the limit. Cameron had hitched his wagon to a rising star, and he was going right to the top. Hank Clark was going to be the next president of the United States, and Cameron was going to help make sure it happened. The senator hadn’t filled him in on all of the specifics, but he had once again promised that there would be a place for someone as talented as Peter Cameron.
For Cameron this was all new. At Langley no one had appreciated his skills. Occasionally, a superior would have a nice thing to say during a review, but that was about it. The place was known for turning out acolytes, not handing out accolades. And to make matters worse, the pay was substandard. Cameron had busted his ass for years, giving service to his country, and he had little to show for it. Hank Clark changed all of that. He had shown Cameron the light. How to work half as hard and make five times the money. And not simply five times the normal money but the bulk of it in wire transfers into an extremely discreet bank in the Bahamas. Money that would never be taxed.
Cameron was living the life he had dreamed of for years. He was helping manipulate the outcome of events by using his trade craft, and he was getting compensated properly. His life had never been so exciting. Mario Lukas was dead, Gus Villaume was on the run, and Mitch Rapp was about to walk right into his cross hairs. The thrill of it all caused him to smile broadly as his car maneuvered through the midmorning Georgetown traffic.
The last year had been a great learning experience for Cameron. Away from the constraints of Langley, his skills had expanded exponentially. Watching Clark had taught him to keep his enemies close and keep them off-balance. Cameron grabbed his phone from the center console. That’s what this call would be about. Cameron was confident that the death of Lukas would have Villaume scared. The trick now was to keep him guessing—to make him think that someone else was after him. That Cameron had no involvement in the hit on Lukas. And if he was really lucky, get Villaume to trust him enough to meet.
There was one thing about the previous evening’s meeting that Cameron was unhappy about. It was the way Clark had second-guessed him on his direct involvement with the hit on Lukas. The senator had a good point in theory, but in practicality Cameron disagreed. You needed to be in the field to really see what was going on. Cameron felt the freelancers, with their lack of loyalty, were prone to understate their screw-ups and overstate their accomplishments. They needed to be watched. The senator could criticize all he wanted from the comfort of his study, but Cameron knew better. He was going to have to see this thing through up close and personal. There was too much riding on it.
As Cameron rounded Washington Circle, he punched in the numberand listened to the rings.
“Hello.” The voice was Villaume’s, and it betrayed no emotion.
“What in the hell happened?” asked an eager Cameron.
There was a pause. “You need to be a little more specific.”
“Don’t jerk me around, Gus. You know exactly what I’m talking about. I watch the news. What in the hell have you two gotten yourselves into?”
Gus Villaume was sitting in a Starbucks just off Dupont Circle, a cup of French roast in one hand and his mobile phone in the other. He had left Baltimore as a precaution. He doubted this fool on the other end of the phone could track him, but he had found Mario Lukas, so until he knew more, he would stay away from his apartment. Villaume had little doubt that the Professor knew exactly why Lukas was dead. He didn’t buy into his feigned outrage for a second. “I assume you’re talking about Mario.”
“You’re damn right I am.”
Villaume watched a cop walk in front of the window. “How much did you pay Duser to kill him?” It was a shot in the dark but a well aimed one.
The response was instantaneous. “What are you talking about? I didn’t pay anyone to kill Mario.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard.” Villaume counted the seconds, waiting for the reaction from the Professor.
“I swear to you, I didn’t have anything to do with Mario’s death.”
The Professor actually sounded sincere, but Villaume had drawn his conclusions in the predawn hours and wasn’t about to be swayed. “Listen to me, Professor.” Villaume drew the name out with disdain. “I don’t know what your real name is, but my guess is you’re ex-CIA or NSA. You’re too soft to have been in the military. I shouldn’t have too much difficulty in finding out who you really are.” Villaume was overstating his contacts, but he doubted the Professor knew that.
Cameron laughed. It sounded a little forced. “Don’t bother wasting-your time. I’m a black hole.”
“No one is a black hole. You have a history just like everyone else. And more importantly, you have to be working for someone…you’re not smart enough to be on your own.”
The comment offended Cameron. “Keep talking like this, Gus, and I will put a price on your head. I’m trying to help you. I don’t like the fact that someone killed Mario. It makes me very nervous when business associates of mine start dying.”
“You must think I’m really stupid. I know who killed Mario, and I know who gave the order.”
Cameron’s hands were sweaty. “Gus, I think you should take a few days to calm down, and then we can talk. I want to know who killed Mario as much as you do. I have to go now.” He ended the call just before he pulled into the parking ramp at George Washington University. Cameron hadn’t expected the call to be cordial, but he definitely didn’t think Villaume would be so aggressive. Cameron concluded that he may have underestimated him. He would have to put a call in to Duser and take his leash off. Villaume could not be allowed to go digging around. Cameron could not afford to have the attention of his former employer brought to bear on his recent dealings.
The Ritz-Carlton on Massachusetts Avenue NW was one of the nicest hotels in Washington. Foreign dignitaries from almost every country had stayed there, as had many of America’s greatest industrialists. Mitch Rapp and Scott Coleman were parked across the street in a loading zone. Rapp was in the passenger seat of Coleman’s Ford Explorer, eyeing the front entrance to the hotel. He was looking for Michael Gould, the hotel’s concierge. They had found his name in Gus Villaume’s file. Gould was the contact Villaume used to talk to his employers. Rapp had done his homework on Gould. He was French and had dual citizenship. He was fluent in four languages, which helped greatly with his job. The CIA’s file on the man said that he had no official affiliation with any intelligence services, but Rapp was skeptical. He had dealt with these types often. They were sellers of information. They respected money, and they feared brute force. If enough money was waved in front of their faces, there was little they wouldn’t tell. Rapp hadn’t yet decided if he would use money or his fists to get the information he needed.
He had spoken to Gould more than an hour ago. His message to the Frenchman was simple: “I need to speak to Monsieur Villaume, and I need to speak to him immediately.” Rapp had given Gould the number to his mobile phone, and he and Coleman had driven to the hotel on the off chance that Villaume might show his face. That was, if he was still alive. With Mario Lukas dead, it wasn’t hard to imagine the same fate befalling Villaume. Rapp desperately wanted Villaume breathing. He was the only li
nk to the person who had ordered the hit in Colorado and, Rapp assumed, the same person who had ordered the hit on him in Germany. If Villaume was dead, Rapp was skeptical that he would ever find out who was behind it all.
Neither Rapp nor Coleman was big on conversation, so the stakeout had proceeded in near silence. The rain had subsided just after lunch, but the sky was still gray. Rapp had decided they would wait, keep an eye on the hotel for another hour, and after that they would go take a look at Gould’s apartment. At a bare minimum, the man had to have a way to contact Villaume and a way to receive payments. The longer Rapp waited to hear back from Gould, the more he was leaning toward getting the information out of the little Frenchman through less than pleasant means.
It was almost two in the afternoon when Rapp’s phone finally rang. Rapp pressed the talk button.
“Hello.”
“Is this the Man of Iron?”
“It is. Is this the Frog?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
Rapp wasn’t sure how to play it. He had worked with Villaume and Lukas on three separate occasions, all of them in France, and he had been impressed by both men. They were proficient and dependable. They had helped Rapp hunt Rafique Aziz, a Palestinian terrorist who was one of the men responsible for the downing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. Villaume and Lukas had been there on a night when Rapp had come within inches of losing his life. In fact, if Lukas hadn’t arrived when he had, Rapp probably would be dead.
“I’m sorry to hear about Mario. He was a good man.”
“I appreciate that.” There was a pause. “Mario liked you. He believed you were honest.”
“He was, too. Very dependable.”
Slightly overcome with emotion at the loss of his old friend, Villaume said nothing for a while. “I hope you will forgive me, but in light of Mario’s incident the other day, I’m a little skittish.”
“I don’t blame you, but we need to talk.”
“In person?”
“That would help.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
Villaume’s position did not surprise Rapp. He would do the same. “That’s too bad, but I understand.”
The NSA captured literally every cellular and digital call made in the metro area. The cellular calls were analyzed almost instantly. The digital calls took more time because they had to be deciphered. The massive computers out at Fort Meade sifted through them searching for key words such as gun, bomb, assassinate, and thousands more. If the computers came across a word that was flagged, they would kick the call up to the next level of programmed analysis. If a call contained enough flagged words, it eventually garnered the attention of a real person. Conversations that took place in Arabic, Chinese, or Russian received extra attention. The easiest way to defeat the system was to talk like a normal businessperson.
Rapp formulated his next sentence carefully. “I think we might have a common problem.”
“What would that be?”
“I was across the pond on business last week, with your friends from Colorado. Do you know the ones I’m talking about?”
“I think so.”
“They screwed me on a deal.”
“How do you mean?”
“They were supposed to be working with me, and they ended up working for someone else.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
Rapp’s voice took on an angry tone. “They double-crossed me and tried to send me into permanent retirement.”
“Oh…I see. Were they following company orders?”
“I can assure you they were not. I went to the top to find out, and they were in the dark as much as me.”
“I’m not sure where I fit into all of this.”
“Someone hired you to make that trip to Colorado. I have a pretty strong idea that same person interfered with my business deal across the pond.” Rapp waited for a second and added, “I would also bet that same person had something to do with Mario’s accident the other day.”
There was a long pause, and then Villaume asked, “How did you know I had business in Colorado?”
Rapp looked at Coleman. “There were some people there watching you.”
“Were they with the company?”
“No…but they were sent by the company.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
Rapp switched the phone from his left ear to his right. “Listen, I know you’re in a tough spot. I was there just a few days ago myself. If you can’t meet, I understand. But I need to know who hired you.” Rapp sat there and waited for a response. He knew how Villaume felt. He could trust no one. After five seconds of tense silence, Rapp added, “Mario saved my life. I owe him. Give me the goods on whoever hired you, and I’ll make sure the guy pays for what he did to Mario.”
Villaume was tempted. Iron Man would be a powerful ally. The Professor would shit his pants if someone like Iron Man was onto him. It would be the easiest form of revenge he could dream up. Maybe too easy. The timing was a little too convenient. Villaume needed to think about it.
“We’ve been on the line too long. Let me think about this and get back to you.”
“Hey…I understand your reluctance. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t want to meet, either. All I need is for you to point me in the right direction.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Rapp started to speak, but the line went dead. Looking over at Coleman, he said, “Fuck! I sure hope he stays alive long enough to tell us what he knows.”
KENNEDY WAS ALONE in her office, thinking about Rapp and the traitor in their midst who had almost gotten him killed. Marcus Dumond was keeping her informed on the progress he was making with Rapp and Coleman. The deputy director of Central Intelligence had stopped by to pepper her with questions about her testimony to the House Intelligence Committee. It was surprisingly easy to lie to Jonathan Brown, despite the fact that he was a former federal judge. Stansfield had taught her well. Once you learned to control your emotions, it was nearly impossible for an adversary to discern if you were telling the truth. As with a great poker player, the name of the game was to keep a straight face whether you were holding a royal flush or a pair of twos. Under Stansfield’s tutelage, Kennedy had mastered the skill. The only person in the world who could consistently get a reaction out of her was her son, Tommy. Not even her ex-husband had been able to do it. He sure as hell had tried, but he had failed miserably. Kennedy didn’t harbor any ill will toward him. When she looked back on the marriage, it was easy to see it was destined for failure from the moment she took the job as the director of the Counterterrorism Center. There weren’t enough hours left over after running the CTC to be both a good mother and a good wife.
The phone on her desk emitted a soft tone, and then a voice came over the intercom. “Irene, Congressman O’Rourke is here to see you.”
Without looking up, Kennedy said, “Show him in, please.”
O’Rourke entered Kennedy’s office with a slightly troubled look on his face.
“Hello, Irene.” O’Rourke sat down in one of two chairs across from Kennedy’s desk. He was wearing a three-button brown suit with a white shirt and tie.
“Good afternoon, Michael.”
Never one to waste time or words, O’Rourke said, “I’m sorry about this morning. Chairman Rudin is a real ass.”
“I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t expand on that.”
“No…I understand.” O’Rourke crossed and then uncrossed his legs. “About that name I brought up this morning?”
Kennedy wasn’t going to make this easy. She stared back at O’Rourke with her brown eyes, waiting for him to expand.
“You do remember the name I mentioned?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what can you tell me about him?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
O’Rourke leaned forward. “Come on, Irene. I deserve an answer.” Kennedy continued to sit calmly behind her desk. “Can you at
least tell me if you know him?”
Kennedy had thought this through thoroughly. “Michael, let me ask you something. If someone, let’s say one of your colleagues, were to come to me and ask if I knew your grandfather, how would you want me to answer them?”
O’Rourke began fidgeting with his wedding ring. He knew Kennedy would bring this up, and that was why he had dreaded coming here. He had hoped to get a quick answer from her while they were on his home turf, but he should have known better. The story was long, twisted, and bloody. When O’Rourke left the Marine Corps, he went to work for Senator Erik Olson. His best friend, roommate, and fellow staffer during those wild years had been Mark Coleman, the younger brother of Scott Coleman. Mark had been tragically killed just two blocks from the Capitol one night on his way home from work. His assailant was a strung-out crack addict who had been released from the D.C. jail because of overcrowding. The effect it had on O’Rourke was devastating. It was during this time of grieving that O’Rourke had learned of a cover-up involving a prominent senator and a blown covert operation that had cost a dozen SEALs their lives. The commander of those SEALs was none other than Scott Coleman, the older brother of Mark. Michael had labored over telling Coleman that it was Senator Fitzgerald who had blown his operation in northern Libya. It was O’Rourke’s grandfather Seamus who had convinced him he should tell Coleman. The reasoning was simple: if Michael were still in the Corps, and it was his men who had been killed, he would want to know.