The Third Option

chapter 22
Just outside the main entrance to the West Wing, an almost nightly occurrence was taking place. Reporters from all the major networks and cable news stations were positioned in front of their cameras, loaded up with makeup and hair spray. They were waiting to tell the people in the mountains and on the West Coast what they had already said to the people in the eastern and central time zones an hour earlier. Anna Rielly was in her usual spot or, as her smart-ass cameraman Pete liked to remind her, "NBC's spot." Pete kept things interesting; he was a little immature, but in a good way. Rarely serious, Pete loved to give people a hard time. Normally, Rielly was more than willing to play along, but today she hadn't been. The last several nights of sleep hadn't gone so well. She was worried sick about Mitch. He wasn't okay, she was convinced of that. If he were okay, he'd pick up the phone and call her. She had spent every spare minute of the day looking at the newswire, paying particular attention to the Middle East. That was where Mitch was trained to operate. Since the Israeli prime minister was in town for meetings with President Hayes, she had a tailor-made excuse for her interest in the region.

During lunch she broke down, and she'd been cursing herself ever since. She couldn't believe she had cried in front of two other reporters and a producer from CBS. Over a mediocre Caesar salad, Pete started razzing her about Mitch. He began with his usual, "Where's Don Juan? I haven't seen him in a while." This led to more questions by the others, which gave Pete more material and an audience to entertain. Rielly tried to smile and roll with the punches, but it proved too difficult. The vision of Mitch lying dead in some faraway city was too much, and the tears came. They were there before she knew it. Embarrassed, she got up and abruptly left the restaurant. Pete showed up a short while later in Rielly's closet-sized office in the basement of the West Wing and apologized. Rielly tried her best to act as if it was no big deal, but it didn't work. Pete could see something serious was bothering her, but after already stepping all over it, he dared not delve into the matter.

Pete's camera was set up on a tripod, and he was standing behind it with his hands in his pockets. Underneath his headset was an Atlanta Braves baseball hat. Pete was chewing gum and in general looked very bored. He was still uncomfortable over having made Rielly cry at lunch. The control room in New York called out the time to Brokaw's intro, and Pete held up his left hand with two fingers extended. "Two minutes to Marble Mouth."

Rielly smiled under the bright lights and nodded. She took this as a good sign. "Marble Mouth" was Pete's nickname for the network's top anchor. Rielly knew Pete felt bad and was about to tell him once again not to worry about it when she felt her cell phone vibrate. She checked the caller ID, but the number came up as unavailable. Her thumb sat poised over the talk button. Normally, this close to the broadcast she'd let it roll into her voice mail, but she decided to answer it with the hope that it was her significant other.

She pressed the button and held the phone to her ear. "Anna Rielly here."

Rapp's heart melted at the sound of her voice. "Honey, it's me. Are you all right?"

Rielly was speechless for a second, and then she managed to say, "Mitchell."

"Honey, it's me, but I can't talk long. Are you okay?"

Rielly turned her back to the camera. "No, I'm not okay. I've been worried sick for the last four days."

"I'm sorry about that, but it couldn't be helped. You're fine, though... right? I mean, other than being worried."

"I think I'm the one who should be concerned about you."

"I'm fine." Rapp sounded rushed." Are you staying with our friends?"

"Yes. Where are you?"

"I can't answer that. Have you noticed anyone following you?"

"No. When can I see you?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe a few days, maybe a week."

Rielly didn't like his answer. "Mitchell, I don't care what kind of errands you're running for you know who, I want you home immediately."

"I can't. Not for a few days."

"You said you were going to quit, and right now seems like a very good time to me."

"I am going to quit, but I have to tie up a few loose ends first."

"Mitch, honey, please. I can't take this anymore. Just please come home."

"Honey, I'm safe... I'm here in town, and when I finish what I'm doing, I'm going to quit and we are going to spend the rest of our lives together. But you have to trust me on this. I have to take care of a few things before I can do that." Rapp paused. "I love you, Anna. Will you please just trust me?"

"Yes, but..."

Rapp cut her off, "No buts, honey. You have to believe me."

All right, but please be careful and hurry up."

"I will, but I have one more question for you. Has our mend talked to Scott C., or have you seen him?"

Anna had to think for a moment. "I don't think he's talked to Scott, and no, I haven't seen him. What is his involvement in all of this?"

"Nothing. I have to go now. Keep staying where you have been until I tell you different, okay?"

Rielly hesitated briefly. "All right."

"I love you, Anna."

"I love you, too." Rielly listened for a second, and then the line went dead.

RAPP TURNED OFF his phone, relieved that Anna w safe. Now it was time to get some answers. With Shirley in tow, he headed back to the small shed. Rapp had to do some guessing. He knew that Stansfield liked to keep a low profile. Hence no fence or gated driveway. No guards patrolling the grounds with dogs to provide good perimeter deterrence and early detection. Rapp could recite a long list of Stansfield's counterparts in Europe and the Middle East, intelligence chiefs from state-run and terrorist groups, who had five times the protection Stansfield did. In America it was a different story.

The director's only security would be his house itself. At first glance, it looked like any other dwelling on the quiet street, but Rapp suspected it was anything but. Just kicking the door in wasn't going to work. He would have to get them to open the door, and that was where Shirley would come in. Somewhere inside the house was a man from the Agency's Office of Security. The man was bored stiff, probably reading a novel, or, if Stansfield allowed it, he might even be watching TV. He was at, or near, a console that monitored the home's security through a web of cameras, laser tripwires, and probably a few more high-tech gadgets.

Rapp had an idea that might work. If it didn't, he was reasonably confident that he could abort without Stansfield or Kennedy ever knowing that he had been there. He checked the windows again and tried to get a feel for how many individuals might be in the house and where. There were at least five: Stansfield, Kennedy, Coleman, the housekeeper, and one bodyguard. There was a chance there might be two bodyguards, but Rapp doubted it. Congress liked to count every penny in the CIA's budget. They would pay close attention to how much money the director was spending for his own protection.

Rapp grabbed the bag of dog treats from his pocket and held it in front of Shirley, who got excited at the sight and smell of the large rolled-up tubes of faux bacon. Still holding on to her leash, Rapp took out one of the pieces, made that Shirley saw it, and then tossed it into Stansfield's backyard. The piece landed midway between where they were hiding and the door by the kitchen. Shirley tried to go after it, but Rapp held on to the leash. She whimpered a little bit until Rapp pulled out another piece. He tossed this one a little farther, and again Shirley tried to bolt. Rapp continued Until he had launched five of the treats onto the property, the last one coming to rest a few feet from the back door. The dog kept looking toward the treats and then back at Rapp. Each time, she would strain a little harder on the leash. Rapp grabbed her collar and took off the leash.

Releasing her, he stepped back and watched her fly across the yard. As expected, she skidded to a stop at the first treat and snapped it up in her mouth. At the same time, several powerful floodlights came on and lit up the backyard. Rapp retrieved his Beretta from his shoulder holster and screwed a silencer onto the end. He didn't bother to check if there was a round in the chamber. He knew there was, and there were fifteen more in the magazine. With the silencer, the gun was too long to put back in the holster, so he shoved it into the back of his pants and let his jacket fall down over it.

Shirley moved from one treat to the next, working her way closer and closer to the door. Rapp patiently waited behind the shed for his opportunity. A moment later, he saw a man appear at the back door. He looked out the door at Shirley. Rapp prepared to move. If the man was smart, if he was really good, he'd stay behind the locked door. Rapp was banking on the fact that, like bodyguards all over the world, the man would be bored and let his guard down. A dulling of one's senses and enthusiasm was inevitable in the job. That was why organizations like the Secret Service hammered procedure into their agents, but it didn't always work.

When the door started to open, Rapp forced himself to wait for another second. He watched the man poke his head outside and look around the backyard. It appeared he was less concerned with Shirley than with who her owner might be. Rapp was tempted to move but told himself to wait just a second longer. Finally, when the man stepped onto the patio, Rapp moved casually from behind the shed. He didn't walk directly at the house. He walked parallel to it and yelled, "Here, Nimitz! Here, Nimitz!" Rapp intentionally used the name of the dog he'd had as a boy, hoping that Shirley would stay where she was. He continued walking casually along the back edge of Stansfield's yard with Shirley's leash in his right hand.

"Is this your dog, Mister?"

Rapp stopped and turned toward the house. "Oh, I'm sorry. Is that you up there, Nimitz?" He started walking toward the house. "Leave that man alone, and get over here," he added in a lighthearted voice. "I'm sorry about this. She's usually pretty good." He continued to close in on the man, hoping that Shirley would stay right where she was. The dog finally looked up, and the bodyguard appeared as if he was about to retreat, so Rapp blurted out, "Hi, my name is Dave. My wife and I just moved in over on Linganore Court." Smiling, he stuck out his hand and said, "She must have smelled food. I apologize." The bodyguard was standing with his right side turned away from Rapp, and his hand was hanging loosely at his side instead of up at his hip where it should be. Hell, Rapp thought to himself, he shouldn't be out here. The guy looked very young. Rapp guessed he was still in his twenties.

Then the guard actually extended his hand. "Hi, I'm Trevor."

Rapp smiled and took it, thinking to himself, You stupid son of a bitch. "Nice to meet you." Rapp pumped the bodyguard's hand and pointed to Shirley with his free hand. As soon as Trevor looked at the dog, Rapp unleashed a vicious left hook that caught the bodyguard square on the jaw. The man's knees crumpled, and he began to sink. Rapp caught him before he could hit the ground and carried him straight back into the house, where he deposited him on the floor of the mud room. Moving quickly, he closed the door, leaving Shirley outside, and pulled out a pair of plastic flex cuffs. He bound the man's wrists behind his back and checked his body for any backup weapons. There were none. Rapp took the man's gun from his holster and stuck it in his coat pocket, just as he began to show signs of corning to. Rapp quickly undid the bodyguard's pants and started to stand him up. The dress slacks fell to Trevor's knees. With his Beretta drawn, Rapp grabbed the bodyguard by the hair and began pushing him down the hall toward Stansfield's study.

Rapp's right hand had a firm grip of the hair on the back of the bodyguard's head, and his silenced pistol was pressed into the center of his back. The man shuffled as Rapp pushed him forward, his pants now down around his knees. They were at the study door in seconds. Rapp didn't know if it was locked, so he knocked just in case and heard Stansfield say "Enter" a moment later. He kept the gun pressed against the bodyguard's back and let go of his hair. Reaching around his prisoner, Rapp turned the knob and thrust the door open. Taking half a step back, he placed his boot on the man's butt and pushed. The man tumbled into the room, falling to the floor with his pants around his ankles.

Rapp followed right behind him, searching for Coleman with his gun leveled. Stansfield and Kennedy weren't a threat. He found Coleman sitting on the couch next to Kennedy. Rapp shut the door with his free hand. Coleman started to move, but Rapp was quicker. He fired one shot as he crossed the room. Coleman stopped, frozen in complete shock, his eyes fixed on the bullet hole in the cushion of the couch he was sitting on.

In a flat voice, Rapp said, "The next one goes in your knee cap. Sit on your hands, Scott, and don't move."

Coleman looked back down at the bullet hole. It was less than two inches from his groin. As calmly as possible, he slid his hands under his butt and nodded to Rapp, letting him know that he had the upper hand.