“There’s something I need to talk to you about. But not over the phone.”
“Do you want to schedule a meeting for later this morning?”
“Honestly, it’s not a conversation I want to be seen having, either.”
Rapp was intrigued but also a little guarded. He’d been in this business a long time and the president had never called him personally to set up a completely black meeting. He tended to use Irene Kennedy as an intermediary. Best not to be seen with a man whose job description no one ever spoke about but everyone understood.
“It seems like we’re both awake, sir. How about now? With no traffic I can be there in less than an hour.”
“I don’t want to take you away from anything,” he said, although it was clear that it was exactly what he wanted.
“Not a problem.”
“Thank you, Mitch.”
Rapp disconnected the call and slipped into the bedroom to find some clothes. When he came out of the closet and started for the hallway, Claudia called after him. “Mitch? Who was that?”
“Work. I’ve got to run out.”
“When are you going to be back?”
“A few hours,” he said, wincing a bit.
“Oh,” she responded, sounding like she’d thought he was going to say a few months. “There’s a sticky on the refrigerator. Could you pick up the things on it? Anna doesn’t have anything for breakfast.”
“Sure.”
And then she was asleep again.
That was it? His late wife would have been wide-awake, cross--examining him about where he was going, who he was meeting, and why it couldn’t wait until after sunrise.
Some of the tension he’d felt over the past few hours started to dissipate. Maybe this could actually work.
CHAPTER 16
The White House
Washington, D.C.
U.S.A.
RAPP pulled Claudia’s Q5 up to the White House gate, rolling down the window as a guard approached.
“Morning, Charlie.”
The man studied Rapp for a moment and then checked his clipboard. “I don’t see you on the list, Mitch.”
It was a long-standing joke between them. His name was never on the list.
“Just open the damn gate and go back to your coffee.”
He grinned, as he always did, and let Rapp through.
President Alexander hadn’t been kidding when he said he wanted to keep this meeting quiet. No security was in evidence, and the lights indicating power to the surveillance cameras were conspicuously dark.
He walked through the semidarkness to the Oval Office’s partially open door. The president was at his desk, scanning a document through metal-rimmed reading glasses.
“Sir?”
“Come on in,” Alexander said. “Close the door behind you.”
Rapp did as instructed and then took a seat in front of the man’s desk.
“Can I get you anything, Mitch?”
“I’m fine.”
The relaxed fa?ade that Alexander normally kept between him and the world was showing cracks. Not that this was unusual during their meetings. If Rapp was at the White House, something had gone very wrong. On this particular morning, though, the cracks seemed dangerously deep.
“I assume you’re aware of what happened in Morocco with Prince bin Musaid?”
“I’m sorry about that. With Scott out of action, we’re spread pretty thin.”
He nodded. “And you’re aware of my meeting with Aali Nassar?”
“Irene mentioned it.”
“And how did she characterize that meeting?”
“As less than ideal.”
“So she didn’t tell you that he unzipped his fly and told America to get on its knees?”
Actually, in her own sterile way, she had.
“Nassar isn’t a diplomat. He—”
“Don’t start. I already got that speech from your boss.”
Alexander began pacing around the room, forcing Rapp to scoot his chair around to keep eyes on him.
“I assume you’re also aware of the deal that was made with the Saudi government after 9/11.”
Rapp nodded. In fact, he was far more aware than Alexander was. While the administration at the time had ordered the CIA to drop the matter, the director had interpreted those orders loosely. The Agency had quietly continued to gather intel, which was now squirreled away on an encrypted drive accessible only by Irene Kennedy. The specific names, dates, and bank account numbers in that file were no longer of much practical use—the players were largely dead or headed for the nursing home. What was still relevant was the portrait of a country playing both sides hard, counting on oil reserves and radical Islam to keep it intact.
“I know something about it,” Rapp replied.
“So do you think bin Musaid’s a lone wolf? An anomaly that got by the king?”
“I don’t have enough information to make that call.”
“Then speculate.”
Rapp thought about it for a moment. “I’d be surprised if Faisal was involved. He just wants to keep the shit from hitting the fan until after he’s dead. As far as the prince is concerned, he’s a useless prick who thinks he’s being unfairly passed over by the family. This could just be a tantrum.”
Alexander continued to pace, considering what he’d just heard. “I thought the same thing. But what if it’s not? My concern is that bin Musaid isn’t smart enough to do something like this on his own. How did he make these contacts? How did he set up the meeting? Neither thing is rocket science, but it would take a certain amount of persistence and initiative that he’s never demonstrated.”
The president’s anger seemed to be on an unstoppable upward trajectory. Rapp had heard rumors about Alexander’s temper but had never known anyone who’d experienced it firsthand.
“That deal was one of the biggest mistakes this country ever made,” the president said, spinning toward Rapp. “Those royal motherfuckers don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves. They’d destroy their own country, America, the world, and anything else they can get their hands on for another gold-plated Rolls-Royce.”
The volume of his voice had risen to the point that Rapp glanced over at the door to make sure he’d pulled it all the way closed.
“What if this is just the tip of the iceberg, Mitch? Faisal’s going to be dead inside of two years and his successor is going to have the power to decide who he’s going to back. The radicals or us.”
“More likely they’ll just try to keep limping along, playing it down the middle.”
“Unacceptable!” the president yelled.
“Sir, I think you should call—”
“I am not going to be the man who ushered in another decade of those pricks sitting around London nightclubs while our guys bleed in the sand defending them. They’re either with us or they’re against us. And if they choose the second one, I’m going to squash them like fucking bugs.”
Rapp rarely found himself in the position of being the voice of reason, but things were getting out of hand. “This is something you should sit down and talk to Irene about. She can—”
“You think I’ve lost my mind, don’t you?” Alexander said.
“No, sir. But I’m not sure why I’m here.”
“Then let me tell you. You’re here because it’s time for us to put the fear of Allah into these sons of bitches.”