The study was also empty. It was not unexpected that Cameron was gone, but it was still disappointing. Rapp had just started to look at the desk when Dumond started chirping in his ear. “Is that beeping noise coming from a security system?”
“Yes,” replied Rapp.
“You’d better hurry up and tell me which service it is, or we’re going to have some unwanted company.”
Rapp walked quickly back to the living room and approached the keypad next to the door. Rapp flipped open the panel and read the tiny writing. “It’s Omega Security. Can you stop it?”
“No problem. Give me two minutes.”
Rapp turned around and grabbed his phone. Coleman, always thorough, was busy checking the closets. A second later, Rapp had Kennedy on the line. “He’s not here. We set off his security alarm, but Marcus is going into the firm’s system to deal with it.”
“Do you want me to send a team over?”
“Yeah, but be careful who you pick.”
“I will. Anything else?”
Rapp thought about the suitcase in the bedroom. “We might want to think about alerting the airports. I think he’s getting ready to run.”
“That could be tricky.”
“I know, but it’s better than letting him get away.”
The George Washington University garage was located on the corner of H and 22nd. Like most parking garages, it was a large, blocky, nondescript mass of concrete. As Cameron pulled into the structure, he was busy thinking about how he would make it to the island. The easiest way would be to catch a flight to Miami and then, under an assumed name, fly into Nassau or Grand Bahama. From either place, he would have to catch a puddle jumper to the island. The last leg was a part of the journey he did not look forward to. He could also take a day and drive down to Florida. The time alone in the car might do him some good. It would help him to sort things out.
Cameron found a spot on the sixth floor and parked. As he got out of the car, he decided against driving to Florida. Too many things could go wrong. It was best to get out of the country. He had pushed it far enough. He could take all the time he wanted on the island to decided upon a course of action. Rapp would have to be dealt with sooner or later, and although he didn’t know everything about Senator Clark, he doubted the man had the connections to do it himself. That was Cameron’s job. That was why he had been hired.
The Professor took the elevator down to the ground floor and headed west on H Street. Something bothered him about the senator this morning. He seemed to take the news about Rapp awfully well. Almost too well. There was more to Clark than he would ever have the time to figure out. The man seemed very simple and straightforward on the surface, but as Cameron had seen first-hand, he was a very cunning individual. Cameron admired people who were capable of taking decisive action and who were not afraid to use power to get what they wanted.
If they had succeeded in Germany, none of this would be happening. If only Rapp had just died. His body found dead next to Count Hagenmiller’s would have been perfect. The outrage would have torn the CIA asunder and allowed Clark to take the high road. Hearings would have been launched by both the House and the Senate. Rudin would have come off looking like a rabid dog, and in the Senate, Clark would have played the perfect role of wise statesman. His stature would have increased tenfold.
Rapp had refused to cooperate, however. Cameron didn’t like to admit it, but the man was a worthy adversary. He had misjudged him, and now he would have to retreat to fight another day. Next time, there would be no elaborate plans. Nothing but a simple, well-aimed shot from his Stoner. Rapp would never know what hit him.
RAPP AND COLEMAN were back down in the van. Dumond had accessed the George Washington University Web site and was showing Rapp and Coleman a map of the campus. He had tracked down Cameron’s office. It was on the fifth floor of Funger Hall on the corner of G and 23rd.
Rapp keyed his radio and said, “Guys, bring the Explorer around.” Looking at Coleman, Rapp said, “You and I will go check out the office while Kevin and Dan keep an eye on the apartment.”
Hackett and Stroble were there in seconds. They got out of the Explorer and climbed into the van. Coleman got behind the wheel of his SUV, and he and Rapp were off. They took a right on 28th and headed down the steep hill toward M Street and the Potomac. Rapp called Kennedy and told her they were on their way over to the university. When they reached M, Coleman cut all the way across and turned left onto Pennsylvania.
Rapp checked the face of every pedestrian. Three blocks later, they hit Washington Circle and shot to the right. At the southern end of the traffic circle, they turned onto 23rd and entered the beginning of the George Washington campus. Coleman slowed; the sidewalks were crowded with students walking to class and workers heading into the GW Medical Center. Funger Hall was up on the left across the street from St. Mary’s Episcopal Church, a Washington landmark. There were no spots on the street, so they took a right down a narrow alley next to the church and found a spot in back.
Before getting out of the car, Rapp looked at Coleman and said, “I want this guy alive, but if things get tight, I don’t want you to hesitate.” Rapp tapped himself on the forehead. “Put a bullet right in the center of his head.”
DONATELLA CIRCLED THE building once, looking for any signs of surveillance, and then entered the lobby of Funger Hall. She was slightly surprised to see the lobby teeming with students, most standing in groups talking and others heading off in earnest. Then Donatella remembered that there was a class due to start in five minutes. She approached the bulletin board and acted as if she were searching for something. It was a good excuse to stop and see if anyone was watching her. The night before, after she had scouted out Cameron’s apartment, she had walked to the university. She timed everything, checked out every alley and walkway. She had thoroughly checked Funger Hall, noting all of the exits and memorizing where the security cameras were. On her way back to the hotel, she picked up a schedule at the Foggy Bottom Metro stop. The underground station was only two blocks from Cameron’s office. If something went wrong, that would be her best bet.
As the crowd of students started to thin, she walked to the south staircase. Funger Hall had six stories above ground. Cameron’s office was on the fifth floor. Donatella went up to the second floor and exited the staircase. She walked casually down the hall, passing two students who paid her no attention. When she reached the north staircase, she paused and looked down and up, checking for anyone who didn’t fit in. There were five students coming up the stairs. They left the stairwell on the second floor and Donatella continued up. She knew from her visit the night before that the fifth and sixth floors were occupied chiefly by offices. Donatella hoped that would mean fewer people.
She stopped on both the third and fourth floors and checked the hallways. She saw nothing unusual and continued to the fifth floor. Donatella was not nervous. Compared to many of her assignments, this was easy. Whether or not it remained that way would be learned in the next few minutes.
RAPP AND COLEMAN ran across 23rd Street, drawing the finger and a horn from an irate cab driver. They ignored the man and continued into Funger Hall, where they walked right past a security guard who was more concerned with his cup of coffee and newspaper than he was with the two highly trained killers who had just passed within feet of his post.
“Stairs or elevator?” Coleman asked.
“Elevator. Cameron doesn’t look like he uses the stairs.”
They continued across the lobby to the elevators and waited. Coleman looked around and said, “It would have been nice if we could have brought Kevin and Dan to keep an eye on the exits.”
Rapp was also taking in the surroundings. “Yeah, I know, but I’m not comfortable leaving Marcus alone to watch the apartment.”
“Yeah, you’re right. We need more people.”
A moment later, the elevator arrived, and they stepped in with six backpack-toting students.
BEFORE LEAVING THE stai
rwell, Donatella checked the items in her purse to make sure they were exactly where she wanted them. Her pistol with its silencer attached was in the right spot, but she was hoping she wouldn’t need it. Her teacher, Colonel Freidman, had made sure that Donatella was schooled in the most subtle of assassination techniques. Freidman had always said that anyone could use a gun to kill, even a child. She had instead been trained to use everything from a shoelace to a pencil. Donatella knew all of the vulnerable points of the human body. Given the right tools, she could kill someone and barely leave a mark. And, more important, she could do it quietly and quickly.
She checked the position of two other weapons in her bag and then entered the long hallway. Donatella immediately noticed two people at the far end. Her right hand slid into her purse to touch the cold steel of her pistol. She watched the man and woman carefully. Both fit the profile of an academic type. The man had a beard and was wearing jeans with a plaid shirt and loosely knotted tie. The woman was in a dress and a pair of Birkenstock sandals. She relaxed a touch and continued down the hall.
Cameron’s door was closed. Donatella approached and listened for a second. She heard the squeaking of a chair and decided to knock. There was no answer at first, so she knocked again and said, “Professor Cameron, my name is Amy Vertine. Dean Malavich sent me over to get a signature so I can register for one of your grad school classes next semester.”
“I’m in the middle of something right now. Could you come back later?”
“Actually, I can’t.” Donatella placed a hand on the knob while she continued to talk. “I’m on my way to work. I really want to take this class.” The door was locked. “I’ve heard you’re a great teacher. It’ll only take a second, I promise.” Donatella looked down the hall and was relieved to see that the two teachers were no longer there. She began weighing the risk of shooting through the lock, and then the door opened.
Peter Cameron waved her in and closed the door. “I’m sorry, I have to keep this door closed or another one of my students will drop in, and I’ll never get out of here.”
Donatella stuck out her right hand. “My name is Amy. It’s nice to meet you, Professor Cameron.”
Cameron smiled at the pretty woman and took her hand. “Please call me Peter.”
Donatella returned the smile and turned her head to the left, knowing full well that her target would do the same. Pointing at a plaque on the wall, she asked, “Is that from the CIA?”
Cameron turned to look at the award he had been given by some friends at the Agency. It commemorated his twenty-four years of service. As he proudly began to answer the question, Donatella’s right hand slid into a pocket in her purse. Her hand wrapped around the rubber handle of a four-inch steel pick that had been sharpened to a fine point. She slowly slid the weapon out, keeping it close to her body. Pointing to a photograph next to the plaque, she asked, “Who is that?”
As Cameron’s head started to turn, Donatella brought the pick up and moved with lightning speed. Her aim was perfect as she jammed the sharp, thin object into Cameron’s left ear. Before he could scream, Donatella was on him, clamping her left hand down on his mouth and twisting the pick with amazing force. His body began to crumble as the four inches of steel slashed through his brain. Donatella lowered him to the floor and twisted the pick around one more time to make sure he was dead. Then she slowly extracted the weapon, and, lifting Cameron’s arm, she wiped the pick against the fabric of the armpit to remove what little blood there was on it. Donatella put the pick back in her purse, and then, as if nothing had happened, she opened the office door, locked it, and closed it behind her.
THE ELEVATOR DOORS opened, and Rapp and Coleman stepped out. Coleman looked to the left, Rapp to the right. Both men had their hands in close proximity to their guns. There was one person in the hallway. A woman with blond hair was walking away from them toward the far end of the hall. Rapp studied her for a second. There was something strangely familiar about the way she moved. When she reached the door to the stairwell, she turned and looked in their direction for a brief second. Rapp got only a glimpse of her, and then she was gone. He tilted his head to the side and squinted in thought. There was something about her, something he couldn’t put his finger on.
Coleman tapped him on the shoulder and looked down the hall. They began to walk quietly toward the office. When they reached the right door, they stood one on each side and listened. Rapp placed one hand on the doorknob and his other on the hilt of his Beretta. Coleman kept an eye on the hall. When the doorknob didn’t turn, Rapp stepped back and motioned for Coleman to knock on the door. Coleman tried three times and then pulled out his lock-pick gun. He placed the proper bit in the tip of the gun, and then, as quietly as possible, he threaded it into the lock and pulled the trigger.
Rapp pulled his silenced Beretta out of its holster but kept it under his jacket. When Coleman finally turned the knob, he stepped back and out of Rapp’s way as he pushed the door in. Rapp hugged the metal door frame, shielding all but a fraction of his body from harm. His left arm shot out, the silenced Beretta swept the room. He saw the body on the floor immediately but continued past it to complete the search of the small office. Rapp stepped into the room, and Coleman followed him, closing and locking the door.
Both men knelt over the body. “Is it him?” Rapp asked.
“I think so.”
Rapp reached out and touched his neck. The skin was still warm—very warm. They did a quick search of the body for a cause of death. It was Rapp who found the puncture wound inside the man’s left ear. Rapp looked toward the door. He thought of the woman he saw in the hall. He looked back at Cameron, at the mark of death in his ear. Rapp knew someone who had killed like this before. He knew her very well. Rapp stood and for a moment thought of running after her. She was long gone, though. Besides, he knew where he could find her.
As Rapp looked down at the dead body of Cameron, he was not saddened in the least. The man’s death was inevitable; it just would have been nice if he could have talked to him first. Rapp swore as he pulled out his phone and punched in the number. When Kennedy answered, he said, “We found him.”
“Where?”
“In his office. He’s dead.”
“Did you do it?”
“No, we found him.”
“Any idea who did do it?”
“No,” Rapp lied.
There was a long pause, and then Kennedy said, “I’ll send a team over to get the body.”
“We’ll wait for them.” Rapp closed his phone and looked at Coleman. “Why do I get the feeling this trail is going to stop right here?” he said, pointing down at the lifeless body of Peter Cameron.
President Hayes studied Thomas Stansfield from across the smooth conference table of the White House Situation Room. The director of the Central Intelligence Agency was literally a shadow of his former self. He was rail thin, his face completely emaciated from the ravages of cancer. Neither of them had called this meeting. Someone else had. Someone who shared their secrets. Someone who sounded very concerned. While they waited for him to arrive, Stansfield took the opportunity to discuss a few things with the president. It was seven in the evening on Thursday, and it had been a very long day for the director. Since finding out that Peter Cameron was dead, Stansfield had struggled to find a link beyond the deceased man to the person or people who had employed him. Stansfield filled the president in on what had happened earlier in the day. He told him that Kennedy, Rapp, and several others were working feverishly to find out who the power was behind Cameron.
Stansfield had his enemies, certainly not the ones in Washington, but he had them. The ones he knew he did not fear. It was the ones he did not know who worried him. They all, though, had one thing in common. They wanted to succeed, and not just in small ways but by obtaining real power, the type of power wielded by the elite of Washington. For politicians, it meant chairing one of the more powerful committees or being the next secretary of state or defense, or even the pr
esidency—the ultimate exclusive club. For bureaucrats, it was a job as an undersecretary in one of the big departments or a senior aide to the president—maybe even chief of staff. For the military officers, it could range from any one of a dozen prestigious commands, to being placed in charge of one of the branches of the armed forces, to taking the top spot of chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
These men and women roamed the back passages of Washington, and most of them were no more dangerous than their peers in corporate America. They were what he would call fairly harmless plotters, groups of people working together to further their careers. Experience had taught Stansfield, though, that there were always a few willing to use extraordinary measures to achieve their goals, a few who were willing to kill if need be.
One of these groups was obviously on the move, and their target appeared to be the CIA. Stansfield had yet to share these thoughts with anyone. He would wait to hear what their visitor had to say before he would draw any further conclusions. It was disheartening for him to have worked so tirelessly to ensure the neutrality and stability of his beloved Agency and then now, when he barely had the strength to fight, to find out that he was under an assault by a group that he could not identify. He could not allow the CIA to fall into the hands of someone who might use its vast resources for political or personal gain. He had to make sure that Irene Kennedy succeeded him and that she was armed with the knowledge to defend herself.