Act of Treason

42

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

K ennedy was late for the senior staff meeting, which was very unlike her. Even more unusual was the fact that she’d slept in. She needed to catch up after a long, restless night. She had gone to bed watching Letterman and worrying about the possibility that this thing could go all the way to Josh Alexander. She fell asleep before the first guest, woke up some time around 3:00 in the morning, and then tossed and turned for two plus hours trying to figure out just how damaging the entire thing could be. If the second limousine was the target, and it was done to both eliminate a problem for the candidates and drum up sympathy, an election had not simply been stolen. It had been manipulated, which added another layer of concern to an already horrible problem.

Innocent lives had been taken, but Kennedy was being paid to worry about an even bigger picture. Chiefly, the safeguarding of the country and its institutions from foreign attack and subversion. What worried her the most was the possibility that the Belarusian mafia may have had a hand in the affair. Russia and Belarus were very close. The communication between their intelligence agencies was good. It didn’t always flow both ways, but in the end Mother Russia got what it wanted. The separation between their intelligence services and organized crime was at times nonexistent. If the Belarusian mafia helped plan the attack on the motorcade, it was an almost certainty that the KGB knew about it. With that type of information in their possession the KGB would be in a perfect position to subvert the next administration.
She’d fallen back asleep sometime around five and was woken up by her son at 8:15. He was late for school and she was late for work. Normally this would have created a panic, but when Kennedy took a look at the front page of the New York Times, she decided she’d take her time. Langley would be rife with recrimination this morning. Longtime coworkers, some of them friends, would be weighing their options. Many of them would come to the conclusion that it was time to distance themselves from Kennedy. Her tardiness would only add to the rumors and unease, but that couldn’t be helped.
After dropping Tommy off at school, she unfolded her copy of the Times and read the article while her driver brought her straight to Langley. She read it twice and both times she smiled. Rapp had been right about two things. The first was that Rich definitely thought he was going to win a Pulitzer for the story, and the second was that this was going to be fun.
When she stepped off the elevator just outside her office, her administrative assistants were both on the phone. Pink call messages as thick as a deck of playing cards were waiting for her. Sheila, with the overdone makeup and the red hair, gave her a look that said Help. Kennedy smiled, said good morning, and walked into her office. Three men were waiting for her at the far end of the room. They were seated at the conference table. Kennedy set her briefcase behind her desk, closed the office door, and then hung her black cashmere overcoat in her closet. She tugged on the sleeves of her white blouse and unbuttoned the jacket of her blue pinstriped pantsuit. She’d picked the outfit with the press conference in mind.
Sitting at the table were Deputy Director of Intelligence Charles Workman, Deputy Director of Operations Jose Juarez, and Deputy Director Roger Billings. All three men sat in silence with their hands resting on the polished wood surface of the long table. They were obviously waiting for her to speak first. Kennedy walked to the far end where a singed American flag was framed. It had been pulled from the rubble of the Word Trade Center.
Kennedy pulled a chair out and said, “Sorry for being late this morning.” She was about to sit when she noticed a copy of the Times underneath her briefing folder. Kennedy slid her leather bound briefing book to the side and said, “May I get any of you something to drink before we get started?”
All three men declined by shaking their heads. Kennedy eased into her chair and set her reading glasses atop the leather briefing folder. “So what do you have for me this morning?”
Juarez was sitting on her left. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced this morning. She was sure Tom Rich had probably called him for a comment last night, and she was also certain he had said nothing. As for the two men on her right, Kennedy couldn’t be sure. They were good men, but they did not have the screw-you attitude of a Clandestine Service officer. Juarez had survived some very nasty stuff in the field. He would not be spooked by an investigation and the possibility of a new director. Workman and Billings, though, were desk jockeys. They’d spent the vast majority of their careers right here in Washington. They were ensconced in their nice suburban homes, Workman with three kids and Billings with four. The older ones were in college, which added financial pressure, and the younger ones were thinking about college, which added even more. They were both nearing fifty, and they were both in a position to succeed Kennedy if she got the boot. Which, from their vantage point this morning, looked like a certainty. Juarez, on the other hand, knew he would never get the top job. He was more spit than polish and had the irritating habit of speaking truth to power.
To become the director of the CIA you needed to be nominated by the president and confirmed by the Senate. There’d been many presidents in tune to the fact that they needed people like Juarez around to balance out all the ass kissers who were so enamored of the office. The Senate was a different story, though. Especially the older senators who’d been around for three terms or more. They had a sense of entitlement, and often perceived disagreement as a sign of disrespect. Juarez did not get along with these men, and he made no effort to disguise his dislike of them. Workman and Billings, on the other hand, worked very hard to curry favor from this crucial block of senators.
Billings was Kennedy’s number two. He’d grown up in Vermont and attended Dartmouth. He was as steady as they came, and he did not like change. A worrier, it showed in his wispy brown hair that he parted to the side from left to right.
Billings gave Kennedy an uneasy look and asked, “Have you read the Times this morning?”
Kennedy looked at the newspaper in front of her, her name in large letters underneath the banner. It meant nothing to her. She’d gotten over seeing her name in print years ago. She hadn’t put a lot of thought into how she would handle this. She had a 10:30 meeting with the president, and until then she wanted to keep the information on Gazich as quiet as possible.
“I have read the article.”
“And?” Billings asked.
She studied the two men on her right, and saw two worried civil servants who had devoted their entire adult lives to what they thought was an honorable and worthy cause. They did not want to see their Agency embroiled in another scandal.
“It’s interesting.”
“Interesting,” Billings repeated. He did not attempt to hide his disbelief. “You’re about to be burned at the stake, and interesting is all you have to say.”
The right corner of Kennedy’s mouth turned upwards showing the slightest hint of a smile. “I don’t think anyone is going to be burned at the stake over this.”
“Four senators have already called me this morning,” Billings said.
“And I’ve talked to two,” added Workman.
Kennedy looked to Juarez.
“I stopped counting.”
“And what have you told them?” Kennedy asked all three. None of them decided to answer. Kennedy turned her gaze on Workman who was usually the most vocal. “Chuck, what did you tell them?”
He fidgeted in his chair and said, “I told them the truth.”
“The truth, I’ve found, can be very subjective around here.”
“Not on this one, Irene.”
“Then let’s hear it. Tell me what I need to know.”
“I know you and Mitch are close, but I’ve been warning you for I don’t know how long that sooner or later he’s going to get us all into a lot of hot water.”
Juarez leaned back in his chair and scowled at his counterpart from the intel side of the business. “I’m sure you’ll find some way to save your own ass, Chuck.”
“Don’t defend him, Jose. Do you know how many times I’ve sat here and heard you complain about him?”
“There’s a big difference between keeping our disagreements within the family and shooting your mouth off to some reporter.”
“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You run the intel side, Chuck. You don’t need some knuckle dragger like me to explain things to you.”
“Are you implying that I spoke with this reporter from the Times?”
Jose grabbed his copy of the Times and read, “According to an anonymous senior CIA official, Mitch Rapp’s methods and lack of control have been a growing concern for some time.” Juarez slammed the paper on the table and said, “It sounds like you wrote it yourself.”
Workman’s pale complexion turned bright red and he snapped, “How dare you accuse me of having anything to do with this.”
Kennedy watched with a critical eye as Juarez and Workman bandied back and forth. She had also wondered who the senior CIA official might be. She was about to intercede and end the argument when her office door opened unexpectedly. Juarez and Workman continued shouting across the table, completely oblivious that an interloper had just entered the Agency’s inner sanctum. Kennedy’s face revealed nothing, but inside she was fuming that this man had yet again barged in on her office without so much as a phone call or a knock.
Vice President–elect Ross strode across the room and stopped at the far end of the conference table. He was in a charcoal gray wool suit with a white shirt and a silver-and-blue tie. In his manicured right hand he held a copy of the Times. He threw it down on the conference table, unbuttoned his suit coat, and placed a hand on each hip.
“I have great appreciation for how difficult this business is, but this can’t continue. I’m trying to save your jobs right now.” Ross pointed to each of the four. “I’ve explained to Josh that we have a good team at Langley. I don’t agree with everything you do, but I’ve told him you are competent people. Now, this morning I wake up to this, and I’ve got the next president of the United States asking me if I’ve lost my mind.”
Ross paused. He looked at Kennedy. There she sat at the head of the table with her damn unreadable expression. “I explained to him that this is a business where batting a thousand is not possible. Even if these accusations are true, they need to be tempered against Rapp’s past successes. His response was that if even half of what was printed in the article is true he wants me to come out here and clean house.” Ross waved his hand above them as if in one fell swoop they could all be dispatched. He leaned over and stabbed his index finger on top of the newspaper. “You know what really boils my blood about this article? This quote in here from a senior CIA official. You people think this is Hollywood, where you settle your disputes by calling up a reporter and stabbing one of your colleagues in the back?”
No one answered. In fact Kennedy was the only one who looked at him.
Ross’s fiery eyes settled on her. “I’m under direct orders from President–Elect Alexander to get to the bottom of this and put it behind us as quickly as possible. Please tell me this reporter has got it all wrong. That there is a simple explanation for why Mitch Rapp shot this man four times.”
Kennedy’s antennae were up. There was spying, there was subterfuge, and then there was espionage. Real old-fashioned espionage where it wasn’t enough to simply steal the enemies’ secrets, one had to launch double, triple, and quadruple feints and get them to turn on themselves. Misdirection layered upon misdirection until the enemy couldn’t trust their best friend. During the Cold War the Russians had been masterful at sowing distrust among CIA officers. They even went so far as to send real intelligence assets over as defectors. These men and women were so good they were impossible to tell from the real defectors. The damage they did was incalculable.
Kennedy couldn’t help getting the feeling that Ross was up to something. The man did not like her. He did not care for the greater good of the Agency. He cared for himself first and last. Kennedy had guessed some time ago that he was a borderline obsessive compulsive with narcissistic tendencies. In everyday parlance that meant he was a backstabbing control freak. Just simply winning for these types wasn’t enough. It was boring. They needed the thrill, the drama of the fight. Winning through subterfuge was nirvana. It helped validate the narcissistic ego. It proved that they were smarter than everyone else.
Kennedy could have easily taken the memory stick from her safe and showed Ross the mountain of evidence that they had against the man Rapp had arrested, but she decided to keep it from him. There was still too much to learn, and her instincts told her Ross could not be trusted.
“Sir,” Kennedy said, “the entire matter is under investigation, and I think it would be a disservice to comment on it before all the facts are in.”
“That sounds like damn lawyer speak,” Ross snarled.
Kennedy remained calm. “If you had called, sir, and informed me that you were coming, I might have been able to put together a preliminary report, but I’m not sure what you expect out of me on such short notice?”
Ross’s nostrils flared in anger. He hesitated for a split second before answering and then said, “I expect you to do your job, and I expect you to follow the law. Get this mess sorted out and do it fast, or you’re all going to be looking for new jobs. And that comes straight from Alexander himself.” Ross turned and marched out of the office.
Kennedy had studied his every move. The man could have been a stage actor. The way he turned his emotions on and off at a moment’s notice. She’d made the calculated decision to push his button and find out if he would drop the savior act and he had. He had displayed genuine anger that she had dared to defy him.
Kennedy pushed her chair away from the table and stood. “That’s all for this morning.”
“We’re done?” a surprised Billings asked.
“Yes. We’ll reconvene right here at one.”
All three men grabbed their stuff and got up to leave. Kennedy looked at Juarez bringing up the rear and said, “Jose, I’m leaving for the White House in twenty minutes. I want you to come with me.”
“Do I need to bring anything?”
“No.” Kennedy followed the men across the room and closed the door behind them. Once behind her desk, she picked up her secure phone and punched in a local number. Rapp answered on the second ring.
“Are you going to meet Rivera?”
“Yes.”
“Expand your search to Ross. See if she can get you the Secret Service logs from his detail, and ask Marcus if he thinks he can do a workup on him without raising too much suspicion.”
“I’ll take care of it. When is your press conference?”
“I’m leaving to see the president shortly. I’ll call you and let you know how it goes.” Kennedy put the handset back in the cradle and considered the enemy she was about to make. She had never trusted Ross completely, even during his brief tenure as director of National Intelligence, but she had never let on. Once she held the press conference with President Hayes, Ross would know she had withheld information from him and any pretext of a cordial working relationship would be gone. Kennedy looked out the large picture window at the brightening day. She felt a sense of relief that she had chosen her course.