Separation of Power

chapter THIRTY-ONE
Milan, Friday evening

She'd returned to the hotel after midnight, relieved to find that Mitch and the bitch from hell were gone. Rielly was in no mood for confrontation. The feeling of relief was short lived, however. It lasted as long as it took to take one lap through the suite. Mitch's bag was gone, and there was no note. No letter saying he was sorry. No letter saying he blew it and that he loved her dearly, that he would do whatever it took to make it up to her.

Rielly had collapsed on the bed in a huff of tears. She couldn't understand what had happened. How two people with so much attraction and genuine love for each other could part so quickly. The tears turned to anger, as she placed all the blame squarely on Rapp's shoulders. She did blame herself for one thing, however. Allowing herself to fall in love with a man who would just walk out on her was the dumbest thing she'd ever done.

Rielly was well aware of the fact that she'd told him to get out of her life, but if he truly loved her, he would have ignored her request and proved his love. He hadn't, though. He'd left with the little Italian slut, and he hadn't even bothered to leave a note. A simple sorry would have gone a long way.

When Rielly awoke the next morning she was still in her clothes from the night before. A hangover gnawed at her, the result of the three vodka tonics and the three glasses of wine she'd downed at a bar after she'd stormed out of the hotel. Her eyes were puffy from all the crying and in general she felt like shit, both emotionally and physically. Before entering the shower the thought occurred to her to go home, to just pack up and get the hell out of Italy.

By the time she got out of the shower she was resolved to stay. She would not simply run home. None of this was her fault. She had six days of vacation left and she was going to enjoy it. Rielly dressed with a determination to make the best of the trip. To enjoy her day in Milan and then head south for warmer weather and a few days in the sun.

The day had turned out to be a real roller coaster of emotions. There were tears and determination, longing and anger, second-guessing and righteous indignation. Anna Rielly was, in short, miserable. She'd explored the Duomo, the magnificent cathedral of Milan that had taken over 400 years to complete. The awe-inspiring beauty of the church could move even the most emotionally stable person. In Rielly's fragile condition the tears flowed frequently, and she found herself asking God why. Why had he allowed her to fall in love with Mitch Rapp? Of all the men in the world, why him?

God didn't answer her question. After spending the entire morning at the Duomo she moved on to shopping. That helped for a while, but all too frequently she found herself looking at clothes and wondering if Mitch would like them. All in all the day had proved one thing to her. That she loved Mitch Rapp more than she had ever realized.

Her last act of bravado was to go out for dinner. Anna Rielly was nothing if not stubborn, and she'd be damned if she was going to sit in her room and pout. The concierge at the hotel got her a reservation at Leo, a nice restaurant within walking distance of the hotel. The place was known for great fresh fish and an unpretentious atmosphere. Rielly dressed conservatively for the evening. She didn't want to sit in her room and hide, but she had no desire to attract the attention of any male company.

Upon arriving at the restaurant she was seated at a table for two by the front window. She ordered a glass of foradori Pinot Noir and began perusing the menu. She was there for all of five minutes when a man approached her table. He asked Rielly if he could join her, and she politely declined. For dinner she ordered pen the with prawns and grilled razor riams and a second el ass of wine. It was delicious. Midway through her meal a second man approached her table and sat. He was dressed nicely in a dark suit and tie. He looked to be around fifty. Rielly was immediately irritated, and was about to tell him to get lost when something unusual happened.

"Good evening, Ms. Rielly. I apologize for intruding like this, but a mutual acquaintance asked me to give you a message."

Anna's heart leapt. "Mitch?"

"No." The man casually looked around the restaurant. "Dr. Kennedy." Extending his hand he said, "My name is Tino Nanne. I work at the consulate here in Milan."

"The U. S. consulate."

"That's correct."

Rielly lowered her voice. "Is everything all right with Mitch?"

"I wouldn't know, Ms. Rielly. I've only been told to give you a message"

Eagerly, Anna asked, "And what is that?"

"Dr. Kennedy thinks you should return to the U. S."

Anna was instantly taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"I know next to nothing. I've simply been told to give you a message. Dr. Kennedy, for reasons unknown to me, thinks you should return to the U. S. immediately."

"You work for the CIA?"

The man winced at the acronym and looked around. "I work for the State Department, and please be careful about what you say."

Rielly, always the reporter, was used to asking what she wanted whenever she wanted. "I think you know more than you're telling me."

"I know a lot of things, young lady." The man stood. "But as far as you are concerned, and why you're supposed to return to the States, I know nothing." He reached inside the breast pocket of his suit coat and grabbed a business card. "If you need anything, call me." He placed the card on the table and left the restaurant.

Tel Aviv, Friday evening

Ben Freidman was busy pecking away at his computer. The younger people at Mossad called it surfing the Web; he called it doing research. Freidman did not look natural in front of a keyboard. His bald head, broad shoulders and thick forearms were more suited for heavy labor. His stubby index fingers pounded away at the keys. It was slow going but it worked. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a curved hunk of gray ash ready to break free at any second. At the last second Freidman snatched the cigarette from his mouth and deposited the spent vice in an ashtray. He grabbed his small four-ounce coffee cup in his meaty hands and gulped down the remaining few ounces of thick black coffee.

"Adriana!" He yelled his assistant's name without taking his eyes off the screen. "More coffee, please." Freidman was worried. It had been a full day since the hit was to have taken place. Rosenthal was to have e-mailed him the results of the operation, and as of yet there was nothing. He was now checking the online version of Milan's newspaper, looking for what would undoubtedly be a big story. So far he'd come up with nothing.

It was possible that Rosenthal had killed her and disposed of her body without anyone knowing. That was what Freidman had asked him to do. Maybe Rosenthal had run into a few problems and it was taking longer to get out of Italy and back to Israel. Anything was still possible, but with each passing hour of silence, the chances that things had gone according to plan diminished. At this stage Freidman had no choice but to try to stay calm, despite the fact that his gut told him Donatella had not gone down without a fight.

He'd trained her. He should have known better. It was the damn money Senator Clark waved in his face. He should have firmly told him not to worry. That he knew Donatella, and she would keep her mouth shut. Freidman had to be honest with himself, though. It was more than just the money. Donatella was a bit of a loose cannon and sooner or later, he figured he'd have to deal with her. She knew too many of his secrets, and with her temper there was no telling when she would explode and take him down with her.

No, Freidman decided. It hadn't been a mistake to go after her. It had been a mistake to not send more people. Freidman needed to start working on a cover story. Rosenthal couldn't go missing for too many more days without some people starting to ask where he was. Why had he sent Rosenthal to Italy? That would be the first hurdle to overcome. He felt confident that he could come up with a pretty good lie to handle that problem, but if Donatella was still alive, and she started making waves, he could be in big trouble. Freidman grabbed his phone and punched in an extension. A moment later a woman answered and he said, "I need you in my office right now." He hung up and wondered how much he'd have to tell this one. Not much, he decided. She could go to Milan and start digging around. Hopefully, Rosenthal would contact him and report that the mission was a success, before she even got there. Freidman knew the chances of that happening were between slim and none."