Executive Power

  The details had been scarce at first, but slowly the picture of an international terror network funded by a spurned Saudi billionaire began to emerge. The group was being blamed for the assassinations of the Palestinian ambassador in New York, the Saudi ambassador in Washington and the increased suicide bombings in Israel and the West Bank, all in an effort to manipulate the UN and gain international sympathy for their cause.

  The spokespeople for the Saudi royal family had been quick to disassociate Crown Prince Faisal from his estranged half brother Prince Omar. It was said that the two had not talked to each other in years, and that the Machiavellian Prince Omar had been all but banned from the royal court. He spent almost all of his time sailing the Mediterranean aboard his yacht, gambling and running his various enterprises. He was carefully profiled as a man without a country, and a man with little or no alliance to Saudi Arabia.

  How Prince Omar had ended up dead was the cause of much speculation. One theory had it that Omar had gone back on a deal he’d made with the Palestinian terrorists, and had paid for it with his life. This leak was designed to send a message to wealthy Arabs who liked to dabble in bankrolling various terrorist groups. There was also the inevitable rumor that Omar had been eliminated by either the Israelis, the French or the Americans, for his hand in trying to manipulate the UN.

  The truth about what had happened was slightly different. The French DST had arrested Ambassador Joussard only after President Hayes had made the French president a very gracious offer. Either the French could arrest their own ambassador, and save some face, or the Americans would expel the ambassador and denounce him on the floor of the UN for accepting a bribe. For the French this was a no-brainer. President Hayes also suggested that in order to make amends for the upheaval at the United Nations it might be a good idea for the French to host a peace conference.

  After the French agreed to host the conference it was fairly simple for President Hayes to get the other parties to show up. The Palestinians and Saudis were shamed into participating because of their unwitting role in recent events, and the Israelis were told they could either attend or face some very hard questions about what actually happened in Hebron. In the end, all the parties agreed it was mutually beneficial to at least sit down and talk.

  Neither Rapp nor Kennedy were bothered that the credit for their hard work had been given to others. It was the way they preferred it. They had the gratitude of their president, and the personal knowledge that they had helped to avert an international crisis. Now they were about to ingratiate themselves to the crown prince of Saudi Arabia, and further cement the alliance between their two countries.

  Rapp, Kennedy and the director’s personal security detail were brought into the Plaza Athenée through a back door and escorted to a service elevator. From there they were taken to the top floor and met by a phalanx of bodyguards. Only Rapp and Kennedy were allowed to pass, but first Rapp had to hand his weapon over to one of the CIA security guys.

  Rapp felt naked without his gun, but there was no choice in the matter. Even unarmed, the crown prince’s bodyguards were less than thrilled about granting him an audience. They were escorted to a room where Rapp was simultaneously frisked by two men while a third stood guard with his pistol drawn. Kennedy stood off to one side, slightly amused by the stir that Rapp had caused. When the bodyguards were finally satisfied the two Americans were allowed admittance into a plush suite and left alone.

  Neither bothered to sit, nor did they speak. Kennedy had asked for permission to have a team of technicians sweep the room, but the Saudis had declined. This either meant they were confident that their own people were up to the job, or they intended on recording the meeting for their own purposes. In reality it was probably both, which was why they would say as little as possible. Their mere presence, and the large manila envelope that Kennedy held to her chest, would say it all.

  The envelope held a videotape, several audiotapes, and a thick file of financial transactions and phone records. The originals were all kept in a safe back at Langley. These were copies. The videotape had been lifted from Omar’s yacht and contained the graphic footage of David being strangled, as well as Omar’s personal thoughts on his brother’s lack of manhood and intelligence. The audiotapes contained Omar’s conversations with the crown prince leading up to and immediately following the assassination of their cousin. They revealed Omar’s continued plea for an oil embargo, and finally, his confession in the back of the limousine before he was put out of his misery. All of it unassailable proof that Omar was in fact much closer to his brother than the press was led to believe.

  There had been a debate as to whether or not they should erase Rapp’s voice from the last tape. Surprisingly, Rapp had argued that it should remain. He was not ashamed of what he’d done, nor was he afraid of any reprisal from the House of Saud. He recognized that he had done the crown prince a great favor by ridding him of his errant brother. He had saved him the trouble of having to do it himself and risk a potential schism in the royal family. This way Crown Prince Faisal got exactly what he wanted and his hands and conscience were clean. He would be indebted to the man from the CIA.

  They were not forced to wait long. An aide wearing a white keffiyeh and black robe entered the room through a side door and gestured for them to follow. Contrary to Arab custom Rapp allowed Kennedy to go ahead of him. If they had been in Saudi Arabia he may have reconsidered, but they were in Paris, and despite what Omar had thought, his brother was no fool. Crown Prince Faisal had been educated in America and this was a private meeting. There was no worry about offending someone’s sensibilities or embarrassing the crown.

  Crown Prince Faisal was sitting in a high-backed wing chair at the far end of the luxurious suite. He was dressed in traditional Arab garb as were the two large men who flanked him. He wore a white keffiyeh topped with a gold braid and a black robe trimmed in gold. The crown prince made no effort to rise and meet his guests nor did Rapp or Kennedy expect him to.

  The representatives of the American government stopped next to the two chairs that had been placed approximately ten feet from Faisal. They both bowed and then waited to be told to sit. To Rapp, Faisal looked apprehensive and tired, as if he expected some trap to be sprung on him. His black mustache and beard accentuated the dark circles under his tired eyes. From all outward appearances the crown prince of Saudi Arabia had not been sleeping well.

  Almost imperceptibly, Faisal gestured for them to sit. They both did so, but neither settled in. Kennedy started by saying, “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us, Your Highness.” Leaning forward, she set the envelope on the coffee table that sat midway between them. “President Hayes asked me to deliver this to you in private.”

  Faisal stared at the package, but didn’t bother to pick it up or ask what was in it.

  Motioning to the envelope with an open hand the director of the CIA said, “He wishes to keep this between our two countries.”

  To this, Faisal nodded his understanding. He had spoken to the American president on many occasions, and would be talking with him in the morning. The very fact that he had sent two of his top intelligence people to deliver this package spoke volumes.

  “Your Highness,” Rapp said, “I must warn you that you may find the contents of this envelope very disturbing. It is in no way our intent to upset you. We just thought it was best for you to know the truth.”

  This time the crown prince nodded more deeply, signaling that he clearly understood it would not be pleasant. He then looked directly into Rapp’s eyes for a long uncomfortable moment. He stared at the man from the CIA as if he knew much more than he was letting on … maybe even who had killed his brother.

  Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, Faisal said, “Thank you.” The crown prince then turned to his aide and nodded.

  The man stepped forward, an unassuming smile on his face, and motioned for Rapp and Kennedy to follow. The meeting was over that quickly. They were escorted back through the
suites and into the hallway without a further word. Kennedy’s security detail was where they’d left them, by the service elevator. Rapp wasted no time retrieving his gun. He inspected the Heckler & Koch 9mm to make sure it was exactly as he’d left it and stowed it in the belt holster at the small of his back. He then buttoned his suit coat and everyone stepped into the elevator.

  The group proceeded back to the hotel in a three-car caravan. Rapp and Kennedy made the short trip in silence. When they arrived at the Bristol they were taken to President Hayes’s suite. Hayes was waiting for them in formal attire. He was scheduled to attend a dinner at the Elysée Palace, the official residence of the French president.

  “How did it go?” asked Hayes.

  Kennedy gave a noncommittal shrug while Rapp said, “I don’t think you’re going to be threatened with any oil embargoes for a while.”

  The president smiled in satisfaction and reached for a bottle of champagne that was chilling in a sterling silver bucket. He plucked it from the icy water and dried it with a nearby white towel. “I think a toast is in order,” he announced as he began twisting the wire from atop the cork. When the wire was off, he draped the towel over the bottle and began gingerly working the cork free.

  He completed the task without spilling a drop and then poured three flutes. When Hayes was done he handed a glass each to Kennedy and Rapp and then held up his own. “To a job well done, and a crisis avoided.”

  They all drank and then the president added, “These are truly momentous times, and the two of you have played a major role in getting these parties to sit down. Who knows,” he added with a hopeful glint in his eye, “by the end of the week we could finally have peace in the Middle East.” The president noticed Rapp’s doubtful expression and asked, “You don’t think that’s possible?”

  Rapp hesitated, and then said, “Sir, I think by the end of the week you’ll probably have a document that says there’s going to be peace in the Middle East, but I’m a skeptic as to whether or not that peace will ever become a reality.”

  The president frowned. He did not want his good mood spoiled. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because there’s an element within the Arab world that will settle for nothing short of the total destruction of Israel.”

  “That element hasn’t been invited to the table. Israel and Palestine must coexist side by side. There is no other choice.”

  “I agree, sir, but that element doesn’t want to be invited to the peace table. That’s the problem. They only want the destruction of Israel.”

  “So what would you advise me to do?” asked a cautious Hayes.

  “Exactly what you’re doing, sir. Just make sure you hold no illusions about what it will take to really make peace. Those groups that don’t want peace need to be dealt with, and there’s only one thing they understand.”

  “What’s that?”

  Rapp reached behind his back with his left hand and drew his gun. He wanted to make his point with the president, bring him back down from the clouds. This part of the peace process was easy, with civilized men and women gathering in a magnificent city like Paris, talking about noble causes while the world press lauded them with accolades. At night they all went to bed secretly dreaming that one day soon they would win the Nobel Peace Prize, while several thousand miles away young Palestinian boys and girls were being trained to blow themselves up in the name of their god. Those so-called martyrs cared little about documents signed in fancy rooms by fancy men. It was not possible to reason with unreasonable people.

  Rapp held his gun up in the palm of his hand for the president to see, and said, “This is the only thing the zealots understand, sir. If you want peace in the Middle East they need to be dealt with. Only then will Israelis and Palestinians be able to live side by side.”

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  Pursuit of Honor

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  Pursuit of Honor . . .

  1

  NEW YORK CITY

  It was nearing ten o’clock in the evening when Mitch Rapp decided it was time to move. He stepped from the sedan into the April night, popped his umbrella, clutched the collar of his black trench coat, and set out across a rain-soaked East 20th Street. He navigated the puddles and swollen gutter without complaint. The weather was a blessing. Not only did it clear the streets of potential witnesses, it also gave him a reasonable excuse to hide his face from the city’s ever-increasing array of security cameras.

  Rapp had traveled to New York City to decide the fate of a man. He had debated the wisdom of handling it himself. In addition to the inherent risk of getting caught, there was another, more pressing problem. Just six days earlier a series of explosions had torn through Washington, D.C., killing 185 and wounding hundreds. Three of the terrorists were still at large, and Rapp had been unofficially ordered to find them by any means necessary. So far, however, the investigation had been painfully complicated and had yet to yield a single solid lead. The three men had up and disappeared, which suggested a level of sophistication that few of them thought the enemy capable of. The last thing Rapp expected, though, was that he would still be dealing with this other issue. In light of the attacks in Washington, he thought the fool would have come to his senses.

  Beyond the significance of deciding if the man should live or die, there was the aftermath to consider. Killing him had the very real potential of causing more problems than it would solve. If the guy failed to show up for work there would be a lot of questions, and the majority of them would be directed at Rapp and his boss, Irene Kennedy, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. One tiny misstep, and the shit storm of all shit storms would be brought down on them.

  The man in charge of the surveillance team had tried to talk him out of it, but Rapp wasn’t the kind of man who was going to start pulling the trigger from a climate-controlled office a couple hundred miles away. He needed to see with his own eyes if they were missing something—if there wasn’t some unseen or unpredictable event that had caused the bureaucrat to jump the tracks. Rapp was keenly aware of the universal disdain for the man he had followed to New York. There were plenty of people on the clandestine side of the business who had cause to wish the prick dead, and that was another reason Rapp needed to be absolutely certain he was guilty of what they suspected. His dislike for the man would make it all that much easier to pull the trigger, and Rapp knew he had to fight the urge. He needed to give this idiot every last chance to save himself before they did something that could never be undone.

  It would be a mistake to read too deeply into Rapp’s cautious attitude, though. If he found the proof he was looking for, there would be no hand-wringing or queasiness. He’d killed too many people to begin acting like an amateur now, and although the man was a fellow American, he was also very likely a traitor. And not some low-level, paper-pushing traitor. This guy had one of the highest security clearances in the federal government and his hypocrisy had likely gotten one of Rapp’s agents killed.

  Rapp moved down the sidewalk toward Park Avenue South at a casual pace. He was dressed in a fashion similar to the thousand-plus executive car drivers who were shuffling their clients around the city on this rain-soaked evening—black shoes, black suit, white shirt, black tie, and a black trench coat. To anyone who happened to notice him, he would look like just another driver out stretching his legs, trying to kill a little time before his client finished his meal and was ready to head someplace else or call it a night.

  As Rapp took up a position across the street and one door down from Gramercy Tavern, he reached into his pocket and fished out a pack of Marlboros. Standing in the rain in New York City doing nothing might get you noticed, but throw in a cigarette and you looked like all the other addicts battling the elements to get their fix. Rapp turned away from the street and faced the blank façade of the building behind him. He tilted the
umbrella so it looked like he was trying to block the wind and flicked his lighter. He was not worried about the wind, but he was worried about one of the other drivers catching a glimpse of his face in the glow of the flame.

  After a deep pull off the cigarette, Rapp casually looked out from under the rain soaked umbrella and across the street. The target was sitting in one of the restaurant’s big windows sharing a meal, a lot of booze and too much conversation with a man Rapp had never met, and hoped to keep that way. The other man was a concern to be sure, but Rapp was not in the habit of killing private citizens simply because they were witness to the ramblings of a bitter man who was past his prime.

  Despite every effort to find a different solution to this problem, Rapp’s mood was decidedly fatalistic. The surveillance team had the restaurant wired for sound, and for the last two hours he had been sitting in a parked Lincoln Town Car, listening to his coworker trash talk the Agency. As Rapp watched his target take a sip of wine, he wasn’t sure what bothered him more, the man’s self-serving criticisms or his reckless behavior. One would think that anyone who worked at the CIA would be a little more careful about when and where they decided to commit treason.

  So far his associate had done little more than espouse his political and philosophical views. Bad form to be sure, but nothing that had risen to the level of outright sedition. Rapp, however, could sense that it was coming. The man had been drinking heavily. He’d downed two gin martinis and four glasses of red wine, and that wasn’t counting the bump or two he’d probably had on the flight up from D.C. and possibly the hotel bar. Rapp had ordered his surveillance people to steer clear of the airports. There were too many cameras and trained law enforcement types who would eventually be interviewed by the FBI. If the night went the way it was looking to go, every moment of this guy’s life would be rewound and scrutinized, and they’d start with that US Airways commuter flight he’d taken out of Reagan National up to LaGuardia earlier in the day.