During Gould’s one year with the spy agency, he worked almost exclusively on industrial espionage and had absolutely nothing to do with terrorism. It was during his year with the DGSE that he realized two important things—freelancers got paid far better than government employees, and they had to put up with a fraction of the bullshit. And Gould was sick of putting up with bullshit. As romantic as the French Foreign Legion may have been portrayed in the old movies it was anything but. The pay was atrocious, the facilities were run-down, and the duty was often grueling. What made it all bearable was the esprit de corps, the brotherhood, and the pride that went along with training at such a high level. After one complete tour, however, Gould was done. He wanted something that he had grown accustomed to in his youth, and that was money. Too prideful to ever go back to his father, he saw the DGSE as a way to make double what he was making in the Legion and still stay in the action. He knew from the day he took the job, though, that it was merely a stepping stone.
Gould knew fellow Legionnaires who were making big bucks working corporate security. While the money sounded great, he knew the job would bore him to death. He needed something that would both pay well and test his skill. He found it one day when they discovered that one of their DGSE informants was playing both sides of the fence. Due to this informant’s duplicity a fellow DGSE agent had been picked up by the Syrian secret police and had gone missing. There was little doubt within DGSE headquarters that the agent was sitting in a Syrian jail getting beaten with rubber hoses. Gould wanted to kill the informer himself, but his superior, who also happened to be a former paratrooper, told him that was not how they handled things.
What he saw next opened his eyes to a whole new world. His boss called a contract agent and in less than two minutes arranged to have the informant disposed of. Gould’s job was to deliver the cash to the contract agent. On his way to the dead drop he pulled over and counted the money. The attaché was filled with twenty thousand francs, more than half of what he earned in a single year. All for killing some worthless, self-serving asshole.
Looking back on it now, the decision had been relatively easy. He drove straight past the dead drop and called his boss’s office. It was past eight in the evening and Gould knew he would not be there. He left him a message, telling him he was changing careers, and that he’d fax him his resignation. His first stop was a bar where the informant liked to hang out. Gould walked in, the bar was crowded, but he found the man with little difficulty. They had met face-to-face a dozen times, usually in this smoky dive. Gould made eye contact and nodded for the man to follow him.
They met near the back door and Gould said, “They are onto you. I need to get you out of here now.” Gould stepped into the narrow, dark alley and the idiot followed him without hesitation. After walking only a few steps, Gould put an arm out like he was going to usher the man along and then in a flash he grabbed the man by the back of the neck with his right and brought his left hand up with blinding speed. The four-inch blade of his knife plunged into the man’s chest and the two men stood clutching each other, eye to eye, for what seemed like a minute. Gould felt no shame, even as the man began to release his grip and slide to the dirty ground. He wanted him to die, he wanted him to feel the pain and see the look of hatred in his killer’s eyes.
Gould looked back on it now and shook his head in embarrassment. What he had done that night was very stupid—very impulsive. Things could have gone awry at any moment. There could have been surveillance, someone could have recognized him, or worst of all, the man could have shot him in the back as they entered the alley. It seemed like it was all ages ago, and in terms of his skill level, it was. Back then he wouldn’t have had a prayer against a man like Mitch Rapp, but now their skills were more even, and with surprise on Gould’s side, the deck was stacked in his favor.
THE CAB PULLED underneath the car park in front of the Hyatt in downtown Montreal and Gould got out. It was 9:36 in the morning. He subtly began to inventory the surrounding area while the driver handed the bellman his suitcase. Gould paid the driver, tipped the bellman, and then casually followed him into the lobby. The attractive woman behind the reception desk informed him that she would have a room ready for him in thirty minutes. She directed him to the restaurant. Gould picked a table with a nice view of the lobby and asked the waitress if she could get him a copy of the Washington Post. They did not carry the Post, but they did have the New York Times. He told her that would be fine.
She returned a few minutes later with a pot of coffee and the paper. Gould ordered an omelet with a side of fruit and started in on the paper. From time to time he looked up to see who was coming through the door. He also noted the other patrons in the restaurant and those in the lobby. No one stood out. They all fit the profile of countless business travelers going through their morning rituals the world over. Eat, read, and get ready for whatever the day might bring.
Gould was on his second cup of coffee when the omelet arrived. Not long after that the receptionist came over and handed him a small envelope containing his room number and cardkey. She informed him that his luggage would be sent up momentarily. Gould thanked her and she went back behind the reception desk. Midway through the meal he moved onto the sports page. He quickly found out that Washington was at home this weekend. Gould wondered if Rapp was a Redskins fan. If he was, it might present an opportunity. He’d finished the omelet and was picking at his fruit when the FedEx man entered the lobby with a two-wheeler. Gould immediately recognized his box sitting on the bottom with a stack of smaller boxes and air letters balanced on top of it. This was all a good sign. The box was to be delivered by 10:00 a.m. With such a tight schedule there was very little time for customs to screen the package and set up any type of a sting. The more likely scenario was that they would have seized the box at the airport.
The FedEx man stopped at the concierge desk and wiggled the two-wheeler out from underneath the stack. The concierge signed for packages and the FedEx man left in a hurry. Everything appeared to be business as usual. Gould kept his eyes on the concierge as he pecked away at a keyboard behind his station. The waitress brought his bill and he signed for his breakfast. Gould continued to appear as if he was reading the paper when in fact he was keeping an eye on the front of the hotel watching for any unusual activity.
Satisfied thus far, he proceeded to the next phase and retrieved a mobile phone from his pocket. He’d purchased it this morning with a dummy credit card upon landing in Montreal. The phone was disposable and had 250 minutes of air time. He punched in the number for the hotel and held the folded newspaper in front of his face. A woman answered in French and then English and asked how to direct the call.
In English, Gould said, “I’m going to be checking into the hotel this morning, and I want to make sure a package has arrived for me.”
“Just one moment, sir. I will transfer you to the concierge.”
Gould peeked over the top of the newspaper and listened as the line began ringing. He watched the concierge reach for the phone and heard him say, “Good morning. How may I help you?”
“Hello,” Gould said with an American accent. “I’m checking into the hotel this morning and I’m expecting an important FedEx package to be delivered. Could you tell me if it has arrived?”
“Certainly, sir. What is the name?”
“Johnson…Mike Johnson. It should be a big cardboard box.”
“One moment.”
Gould watched him set the phone down and lift the other boxes off the large one on the bottom. The man bent over to read the air bill and then returned to the phone. “I have it right here, sir.”
“Wonderful. Would you please have that sent up to my room, and give yourself a ten-dollar tip. Put it on my bill.”
“Absolutely, sir…thank you. I’ll have it taken care of right away.”
“Thanks.” Gould pressed the end button on the phone and watched the concierge walk over to the reception desk. From where he was sitting he could on
ly hear pieces of the conversation. He heard the woman say something about not having checked in yet, then she went to work checking her computer. After a few seconds she gave the concierge a room number. He wrote it down on a sheet of paper and went back to his station.
Gould put his newspaper back in order and stood. He strode casually across the lobby and approached the concierge. In French he said, “Excuse me. Do you have a forecast for the rest of the week?”
“Absolutely, sir.” The concierge grabbed his computer mouse and clicked it several times. The whir of a printer was heard somewhere beneath his station. As he reached under the work surface to grab the freshly printed sheet, Gould looked down and noted the room number written on the sheet of paper.
The concierge handed him the sheet. “Here you are, sir.”
“Thank you.” Gould turned for the elevator bank and heard the concierge call for a bellman. He took the elevator to the sixth floor and noted Mr. Johnson’s room as he walked past it to reach his. What may have seemed like luck, actually wasn’t. Early check-ins at hotels were dictated by what rooms were cleaned first, and since the staff usually cleaned in teams, one entire floor was usually cleaned before they moved on to the next.
Gould entered his room. His suitcase was waiting for him at the foot of the king-size bed. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a Palm Pilot, a short ribbon cable, and a magnetic card. He pieced the three together and waited by the door to hear the bellman come and go. He heard the man enter and then leave only a few seconds later. Gould opened his room door and watched the hotel employee walk down the hall and turn for the elevators. When he heard the chime of the elevator arriving he darted across the hall and down a few doors. He slid the magnetized card into its slot and waited a second for the light to turn green. He grabbed the box and brought it back to his room.
With his pen pressed down hard, he ran it across the seam on the packing tape. He yanked the top open and reached into the sea of packing peanuts until he found the duffel bag. As he pulled it out, quite a few of the peanuts spilled onto the floor. Gould unzipped the duffel bag and gave it a quick check to make sure everything was in order. He then grabbed a garbage bag from his suitcase and put all the Styrofoam peanuts in it. After that he broke down the box, tore off the air bill, and brought both the box and the garbage bag down to the service room and placed them where the other bags of garbage were.
Back in his room, Gould took a shower, shaved, and laid everything out on the bed. His old identity was on the left, his new identity was on the right, and twenty-five thousand dollars in cash was in the middle. He double checked to make sure he’d accounted for everything that said he was Moliere and placed it all in a brown bag. His first order of business was to burn the bag before he reached the border. Gould methodically repacked his belongings and put everything by the door. After messing the bed up to make it look like it had been slept in, he left his room key on the dresser and left the hotel through the side door. Unless he ran into some unforeseen problem, he would be in America by mid-afternoon.
24
WASHINGTON, DC
T he offices for the director of National Intelligence were temporary for a variety of reasons. Like any new department in Washington, it was evolving. Which in Beltway speak meant it was growing. The original plan called for a staff of approximately twenty-five to help support the new director. The idea was that the organization would act as a clearinghouse. A filter between the various intelligence assets and the president, designed to both coordinate and streamline the process. Within six months the organization doubled in size, then tripled, and then doubled again. At last count it had shot past the two-hundred-person mark, and had no sign of slowing. It was a fledgling little bureaucracy, growing in size and scope and each day becoming a little less efficient. It was quickly becoming exactly what its detractors had feared.
Until the new organization was on its feet the Secret Service had been given the job of protecting the director. This was good for Rapp. He had friends at the Secret Service who were more than willing to do him a favor. Rapp called Jack Warch, the Special Agent in Charge of the Presidential Protective Detail, and asked him if he knew the guy running Ross’s detail. Warch did. The Secret Service was a tight group. Rapp told Warch what he needed, and the man in charge of guarding the president’s life knew Rapp well enough to not ask any questions.
Rapp had to park on a ramp a half block away and across the street. The place was only a stone’s throw from the White House. Rapp entered the main door of the building and flashed his credentials to the uniformed Secret Service officer manning the desk. He asked for Agent Travis Small and then walked over to the corner of the lobby to wait. He stood near a large potted plant with his back to the wall, hoping to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He didn’t want Ross to know he was in the building. He wanted to return last week’s favor.
Rapp didn’t have to wait long. Travis Small was anything but. He looked like a power forward for the Washington Wizards. Rapp liked the team better when they were named the Bullets. It was more honest that way. More representative of the murder capital of America.
Small half-walked, half-shuffled across the terrazzo floor of the sunny lobby. He was six foot six and had to go at least 250. He had probably played basketball or football or both. His knees were undoubtedly less than perfect. He had short black hair and skin the shade of burnished walnut. Rapp guessed he was in his early forties. His eyes swept the lobby as he approached. He was an imposing man. All business. You’d have to be one spectacular badass to want to take this guy on. Either that, or crazy. Small was just the type of guy the Secret Service liked. Surround the president with a half dozen guys like Travis Small and he’d be pretty damn safe.
The big man drew close and extended his hand.
“Mitch…Travis Small. Real honor to meet you.”
Rapp took his hand. It was dwarfed by Small’s. “Likewise, Travis.”
“No.” Small flashed a perfect set of teeth and a surprisingly warm smile. “I mean it. I was on the president’s detail back when they hit the White House. I was on the evening shift, so I wasn’t there when it went down.”
Small was referring to a terrorist attack on the White House. The president had narrowly escaped capture, and would have probably died if it hadn’t been for Rapp.
“Sorry about that,” said Rapp. “You must have lost some close friends.”
“Yeah.” Small got quiet for a second. “But I would have lost more friends that day if you hadn’t put your ass on the line like that.”
Rapp wasn’t real good at stuff like this, so he just nodded his head a few times and looked around. He felt like a midget standing next to this mountain of a man.
“So how do you like working for Ross?”
Small eyed Rapp and carefully considered his answer. “I try not to have opinions about the people I’m charged with protecting.”
Rapp grinned. “Bullshit.”
Small shifted his girth from one foot to the other. “He’s probably a little on the high-maintenance side.”
“I bet. He strikes me as the type of guy who might not be so nice to the hired help.”
“No…it’s not that really. He’s nice enough. Remembers all of our names. Asks about our kids and stuff, but he’s a politician.” This was one man who carried a gun talking to another man who carried a gun. There were certain things they could communicate without speaking.
“He asks the questions, but doesn’t listen to the answers.”
“Yeah. He’s on the move. Bigger and better things to tackle. The way I see it, he was a senator who wanted to be president. Senators don’t become presidents. It’s rare. The road to the Oval Office goes through the state governorships or the vice presidency. So Ross knew he needed to either go run for governor back in New Jersey, or get on the president’s cabinet and starting angling for a VP slot. Senators don’t like going home and running for governor. It’s more work, less national notoriety…unless you’re
talking New York or California. Definitely not New Jersey. So he takes the appointment from the president, and before he’s a year into this job he’ll be looking to move on to State or Defense. His résumé will be spectacular at that point and he’ll be a shoo-in for the VP slot on his party’s next ticket. Hell…he might even run for president.”
Made sense to Rapp. “What about the little guy who works for him?”
“Jonathan Gordon.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s a sharp one. He kind of balances the director out. Ross has a bit of a temper, but he keeps it real close. He blows up around Gordon and that’s about it. Gordon is real good at taking it, and then pointing out why it might be a bad idea to do whatever it is that the director wants him to do.”
“So Ross has a temper?”
Small nodded. “Real bad. Never loses it in public, though. Always behind closed doors.”
“Where is he now?”
“Up in his office with Gordon.”
“All right. Let’s go.”
The two men walked across the lobby. Small gestured for Rapp to pass through the metal detector first. Both of them set off the alarm, and they both ignored it. They stepped into the elevator and started up.
Rapp looked up at Small and said, “You want a little career advice?”
“Sure.”
“Ross is not going to like the fact that I just walked in here like this unannounced.”
“I’ve thought about that.”
“Tell him the truth. Tell him Warch called you, and said I had something important to discuss with the director. I wanted to keep it real quiet. If Ross flips his lid, he can call Jack. Jack and the president are tight. He’ll be fine, and let’s just say if Ross wants to take it all the way to the president, I’ll be happy to lock horns with him.”