O’Rourke rated his decision to tell Coleman the identity of his betrayer as one of the worst in his life. Roughly a year after telling him about Senator Fitzgerald’s role in the disaster, O’Rourke awoke to the startling news that Fitzgerald had been assassinated along with two other prominent Washington politicians. In the bloodbath that played itself out over the next week, more people were killed, including Senator Olson and the president’s national security advisor. The most damaging piece of information was that O’Rourke’s grandfather had been directly involved with Coleman and his team of disgruntled former Navy SEALs. He had funded their mini-revolution and helped them plan it.
Congressman O’Rourke had been assured by Director Stansfield that the involvement of Scott Coleman and Seamus O’Rourke would never be made public. Not even President Hayes or his predecessor, President Stevens, knew the whole story.
O’Rourke decided that the best way to handle Kennedy’s question was to ignore it and try a different approach. “Do you know who Anna Rielly is?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know that she dates Mitch Rapp?”
“If you say so.”
“Come on, Irene. Don’t play these games with me. I need an answer.”
“I’m not playing games with you, Michael. You refused to answer my question.”
“What question?” asked O’Rourke with a frown.
Calmly, Kennedy asked it again. “If someone came to me and asked if I knew your grandfather, how would you want me to answer them?”
“I don’t see what Mitch Rapp has to do with my grandfather.”
Kennedy looked him straight in the eye and replied, “Yes, you do. I know you are fully capable of grasping the principle at hand. It’s a very important one in this line of work, in fact it is our cornerstone. It’s called secrecy.”
“Yeah…yeah…I know. I’ve heard it all before, but this is different. You can trust me.”
“Can I?” asked Kennedy with a raised eyebrow.
“You know you can. You have a gun to my head. If you wanted to, you could end my career tomorrow.”
“Something tells me you wouldn’t mind that, Michael.”
“Yeah, well, you might be right, but you’re still the one holding the gun. Maybe you should put me out of my misery. It’d give me a good excuse to get out of this town.”
“Don’t say that. I have no desire to cause you any harm. We need more people like you on the Hill.”
O’Rourke ignored the compliment, not sure if it was sincere or self-serving. “Here’s my problem, Irene. My wife’s best friend is Anna Rielly. They went to the University of Michigan together. Anna is in head over heels with this Mitch Rapp fellow. My wife tells me they are going to get married. I like the guy. We spend a fair amount of time with them going out to dinner, taking in an occasional ball game, stuff like that. We’ve even been to his house on the bay. I’ve noticed some things about him.” O’Rourke stopped to get a read from Kennedy, but she gave him nothing. “I’d swear the guy has had some military training at some point. You can see it in the way he carries himself, except he’s a little more refined, not…” O’Rourke searched for the right word. “Not as mechanical. I could give you a list a mile long on little stuff that I’ve noticed. Last Saturday, my wife gets an e-mail from this guy. He wants us to do him a favor. Go out to his house and pick up Anna. In the e-mail he assures us that he is all right but that he wants us to take care of Anna until he tells us things have settled down.” O’Rourke paused a little, still unnerved by the next piece of information. “At the end of the note, he wrote, I know all about Seamus, Michael and Scott C. Now, as far as I’m concerned, that entitles me to know just who in the hell this Mitch Rapp is.” O’Rourke sat back and folded his arms across his chest, waiting for a reply.
Kennedy was surprised, but she didn’t show it. Rapp had said nothing about sending Liz O’Rourke an e-mail, but it was obvious by the congressman’s tone that he wasn’t making it up. Even with this new information, Kennedy was not inclined to tell O’Rourke anything about Rapp. As far as she was concerned, Rapp, his identity, and what he had done for the CIA were the Holy Grail of secrets.
“Michael, all I can tell you is that your secret is safe with me.”
“The hell it is,” replied O’Rourke with a bit of an edge to his voice. “How did Mitch Rapp find out about it, then?”
“I can look into that if you’d like.”
“Come on, Irene.” O’Rourke was mad. “You can do better than that, and if you can’t, you’re not going to like my next move.”
“And what would that be?”
“I’ll call my contacts at the FBI, the NSA, and the Pentagon, and I’ll have them do a little digging. I’ll call your deputy director of Admin and have him rattle some cages. Hell, I might even call a very unconventional asset in Israel and ask him to see what he can come up with.”
Kennedy didn’t like the sound of any of this. The last thing she needed right now was to draw an ounce more attention to Rapp and possibly herself. She carefully considered how much to reveal and then said, “The only thing I can tell you about the person in question is that he is extremely good at what he does, and he’s on our side.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to have to be.”
“No, it isn’t.” O’Rourke leaned forward. “I want to know how in the hell he knows about Seamus, Scott, and myself.”
Kennedy eyed him coolly, and after a long moment of thoughtful calculation, she told him the truth. “I told him.”
It took Gus Villaume less than two hours to decide on a course of action. Despite Mario’s death, he felt almost himself again. There was a chance that Iron Man was working for the Professor, but Villaume doubted it. The assassin he had seen operate in Paris could not tolerate a man as amateurish as the Professor. No, Villaume had decided, Iron Man wanted the Professor as much or even more than he did.
And what sweet justice it would be to point Iron Man in the direction of that phony, smug double-crosser. If the man was as connected as he liked to claim, he would wet himself when he found out that Iron Man was onto him.
Villaume caught the city bus on New York Avenue and 11th Street near the convention center and found a seat near the back. He counted seven other riders. Rush hour wouldn’t start for another hour. When the bus started moving, Villaume punched in the number. After three rings, a deep voice said hello.
“Iron Man?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have something to write with?”
“Yes.”
Villaume hunched over and spoke in a soft tone. “The man’s called the Professor. He’s about five eleven, and I’d guess he weighs around two thirty. Hazel eyes, black hair and beard…probably around fifty, give or take a couple of years. I’d guess from his accent that he grew up around D.C. Probably on the Virginia side but definitely not as far south as Richmond.”
“What else?”
“I’ve got a number.” Villaume gave Rapp the number he used to contact the Professor.
“Anything else?”
Villaume thought about it for a second. “Up until Colorado, I would have guessed that he had never got his hands dirty before, but he insisted on taking them out himself.”
There was a moment of hesitation on the other end. “From how far?”
“About two hundred meters. He had a really unique piece of hardware.”
“What was it?”
Villaume looked up. No one was paying any attention to him. “A Stoner SR-25.”
“Anything else?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Come on. You can do better than this!”
“I’m sorry, but it’s all I’ve got for you. Believe me, I wish I knew more.”
“How am I going to get hold of you?”
“You aren’t going to.”
“Come on, Gus, I need your help.”
“I’m sorry, but I need to disappear f
or a while.”
“You can trust me. We both want the same thing now.” Rapp was pleading.
“That’s the problem with this job, my friend. Everybody tells you to trust them right up to the moment they put a bullet in your head.”
There was a long period of silence while Rapp thought of the position Villaume was in. He knew if he were in his shoes, he would run. He would trust no one, and he would live to fight another day. Finally, he said, “Gus, I understand. You take care of yourself, and call me if you think of anything else.”
“I will. And good luck. I hope you get him.” Villaume turned off his phone and closed it. As he looked out the window, the bus rumbled over a decaying bridge, the National Arboretum off to the right. He felt like a coward, but he knew he was doing the right thing. If Iron Man was sincere, Villaume had no doubt the Professor would be joining Mario in the afterlife in the not so distant future.
THE OTHER TWO men watched Rapp and waited for him to speak. He left his phone on and set it in the charger stand, then handed Scott Coleman the notepad with the information Villaume had given him. After a second, Rapp looked at Marcus Dumond, who was sitting in front of his desk. The surface was covered with mouses, keyboards, and three computer screens.
“Can you track him the next time he calls?”
“Villaume?”
“Yeah.”
Dumond grimaced. “I don’t think so. I can maybe get you in the right area of the city, but that’s about it.” Dumond paused and thought of something. “How cautious do you think he is?”
“Right now, I’d say very.”
“Do you think you could keep him on the line for ten minutes?”
Rapp tried to think what in the world he could say to get Villaume to take such a risk. “No way. I’d be lucky to get him to stay on for five.”
“Then I can’t track him.”
“Can you at least get me the number he’s calling from?”
“That’s going to be tough. I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not going to make any promises.”
Coleman handed the notepad back to Rapp and said, “It sounds like the guy I saw out in Colorado. What else did Villaume tell you?”
Rapp gave a brief summary of the discussion, making special mention of the fact that the Professor was the man who had taken the shot in Evergreen. While he did so, Dumond looked over the notes and began typing away at one of his keyboards. “This Professor has to have a past,” started Rapp. “You don’t just fall into this line of work. He either works in the intelligence community or used to. Marcus, can you take that description and see how many matches you get for current and former Agency people?”
“Yeah, but I’m afraid it’s going to be a big number.”
“That’s fine. Just pull all the photos so Scott can see if he recognizes anybody. If we come up blank at the Agency, we’ll move on to the NSA and from there to the DIA.” While Dumond worked, Rapp thought of something Villaume had said. “If we could get a voice print on this guy, would it help?”
“It might. The NSA keeps some pretty intense files on that stuff.”
Rapp pointed to the number he had written down. “What about getting a line on that?”
Dumond slid his chair over to a second computer and accessed a reverse listing service. He punched in the phone number, and the computer went to work. Five seconds later, it came back with bad news. The number was not in the system.
“What does that mean?” asked Rapp. “Is it a bogus number?”
“No. Not necessarily. The directory is constantly changing. It’s impossible to keep up with.”
“So what do we do?”
Dumond leaned back in his chair and chewed on the end of a Bic pen. “It’s got to be a mobile number, right?”
“I’d be shocked if it wasn’t.” Rapp looked at Coleman. “Scott?”
“Yeah. It has to be.”
Dumond continued chewing. “If we call this number, I can figure out who the provider is, and I might be able to get you pretty close to him.”
Rapp and Coleman looked at each other. “How?” asked Rapp.
“Once I find out who his carrier is, I can get into their records and track his tower usage.”
“What do you mean, tower usage?”
“The call has to be relayed by a tower. We track the towers that his phone is using.”
“How close can you get us?”
“Usually within a zip code or two.”
“Can you do any better than that?” asked Coleman.
“Yeah, but I’d need to get one of the special vans from the Agency, and you’d have to keep him on the phone.”
“For how long?” asked Rapp.
“If we got lucky and were close when he took our call, we could have it narrowed down to the right structure within a minute or two. If not, it might take several calls.”
“What if he’s on the move?”
Dumond shook his head. “Not good for us.”
“Why can’t you do this with Villaume?”
“I’d have to get his number first. He calls us, and it’s blocked, and then he only stays on for a minute or two. That’s not enough time to crack it.”
“But you might be able to with the Professor?”
“Might be able to.”
Rapp rubbed his chin for a second while he thought about makingthe call. “So what do you suggest we do?”
“I think we should call this number and see what we can find out.” Dumond looked eager.
“Any chance it can be traced back here from the other end?”
Dumond scoffed at such an idea. “Not with my gear. I’ll have this baby bounced off six different satellites and twice as many ground stations before I’m done with it.”
“What about the NSA picking it up?”
“Big Brother.” Dumond shrugged. “It’s hard to say. Sometimes I think they are all-knowing, and other times I think they know nothing. I always recommend keeping it short and staying away from details.”
Rapp and Coleman both nodded. They had lived by the exact same philosophy for years. Rapp glanced over at the former SEAL. “What do you think?”
Coleman looked down at the notepad, and he thought about the man he’d seen in Colorado. The man they now knew as the Professor. He didn’t strike him as a killer. He also didn’t strike him as a leader. He was working for someone, and if Coleman had to guess, that someone was a big hitter.
Coleman tossed the notepad back on the desk and said, “We need some backup. In fact, I’d recommend we move this whole operation to a safe house.”
“Marcus says this place is fine. What’s bothering you?”
“This Professor is working for someone. And whoever that person is, he or she has the type of pull that put them in the know about that little op you were running over in Germany.” Coleman raised an eyebrow. “That worries me.”
Rapp hadn’t spent a lot of time dwelling on this obvious fact. He was leaving that up to Kennedy and Stansfield. He could tell by the look on Coleman’s face that he suspected someone at the NSA. He could very well be right, but the last thing they could afford right now was to become incapacitated by fear. “I trust Marcus on this one. If he says they can’t trace us, I believe him.”
Coleman looked over at Dumond. “This is no time to be cocky. Give me the straight poop. Can Big Brother track this call or not?”
Dumond thought for a moment. Finally, he answered, “I don’t think they can trace it, but just to be safe, we should keep it under two minutes.”
“You’re sure?”
“At two minutes or less, I’m positive.”
“Are you satisfied?” asked Rapp of Coleman.
Coleman nodded slowly. “Yes, but I think it would be a good idea if we brought some more people to the party.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
“A couple of my men. You’ve worked with them before.”
“All right.”
“What are you two talking about?” asked
Dumond.
“We’re going to get a few more guns over here just in case,” answered Rapp.
Dumond’s expression soured in an effort to show he didn’t like the idea.
“Take it easy, Marcus. It’s for your own good.” Rapp pointed to the computers. “Do you have everything ready to make this call?”
“Give me a minute.”
“All right.” Rapp turned to Coleman. “What’s bothering you?”
“I don’t know if I like letting him know we’re onto him just yet. I’d like to get some more info.”
“I’d like to spook him into doing something stupid. Besides, there’s a chance I might know this guy. Get a hold of your guys and make the arrangements. Then we’ll make the call.”
Peter Cameron was in his small office at George Washington University reading a paper one of his students had written. Cameron taught a special topics course on the CIA for GW’s Elliot School of International Affairs. The course was nothing earth-shattering, rather a mundane look at how the bureaucracy of the CIA functioned with its counterparts in the intelligence community. One section met on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays at eleven in the morning for one hour, and the second class met at six in the evening for two hours on Mondays and Thursdays. The day class was made up of fourteen professional students who thought they were smarter than everyone, including their professor. The evening class, however, was far more interesting. At least half of his students were military officers or other intelligence types who had a little better grasp of reality and the practical side of the business. The professional students in his night class tended to listen more and pontificate less, which he rather enjoyed.
Cameron’s mind tended to wander when he was reading, and right now he was wondering why he hadn’t gotten into teaching earlier. He worked an average of about ten hours a week, had ample vacation time, and was paid forty thousand dollars a year. The job was a complete boondoggle. The respect he was given when introduced as a professor at GW was amazing. And he could actually talk about this job. When he was at Langley, about all he could say was that he worked there. Cameron had decided he could easily teach into his seventies. It might be the perfect position to have when President Clark called on him to help out with his new administration.