The Third Option

chapter 32
He'd taken his last shot of morphine somewhere between five and six P.M. Now, some three hours later, the pain was hitting him in waves  -  deep, stabbing discomfort in the pit of his stomach. Thomas Stansfield wanted to be lucid for this meeting. It was probably the last time he would see the president. He did not want to be remembered as a glassy-eyed morphine addict, and, more importantly, he needed to have a firm grip on his faculties.

Many would think Stansfield's way of thinking was antiquated, but it had served him well during his years in Washington. His duty was to his country and then his president, in that order. Not all of those presidents had been good, and Stansfield had worked hard to limit the damage the bad ones could do to his beloved Agency through their whimsical or ill-conceived proposals. President Hayes was different in this regard. The man was about as whimsical as a CPA. Hayes was not the brightest president to occupy the Oval Office, but in Stansfield's mind he was one of the best. Unlike some of his predecessors, Hayes disdained polls. He instead chose to surround himself with talented individuals. He would heed their counsel, and when the time was right, he would act decisively:

Stansfield allowed his bodyguard to help him from the back of the limo. It would take all of the strength he could muster to make it to the Situation Room under his own power. He was, as always, in a suit and tie. He had never gone to the White House in anything other than business or formal attire. There were no casual days for Thomas Stansfield.

It was approaching nine P.M., and the West Wing of the White House was relatively calm. The president was still on-site, working late in the Oval Office and waiting for his guest to arrive. That meant the Secret Service was there in full force, but most of the support staff was gone. Stansfield used a cane for balance as he walked to the door. The man looked as if he had aged ten years in the last month. They entered the building through the ground-floor entrance on West Executive Avenue, and Stansfield was escorted to the secure conference room within the Situation Room.

Stansfield was a little surprised to find President Hayes waiting for him. Hayes was sitting in his usual spot at the head of the table reading a report. His suit coat was draped over the back of the chair, and his tie was loosened several inches.

Hayes stood and snatched his reading glasses from his face. The first thing he noticed about Stansfield was how thin he looked. The president took his hand and said, "Thank you for coming, Thomas. I wish you would have let me come to you."

"Nonsense, sir. I needed to get out of the house. Besides, it is I who serve you."

Hayes laughed softly. "Sometimes I'm not so sure about that." The president pulled out a chair for Stansfield. "Here, Thomas. Have a seat." Stansfield sank into the plush leather chair, and the president asked, "Can I get you anything?"

"No thank you, sir."

As the president took his seat, Stansfield's bodyguard retreated and closed the door. In the still silence of the room, the president studied Stansfield, and after a long reflective moment, he asked, "How are you doing?"

"Between you and me?" Stansfield asked. The president nodded. "It won't be long now."

"What are the doctors telling you?"

"Not much. I've stopped talking to them."

Hayes looked confused. "Why?"

"I'm eighty years old, sir. I have lived a very full life. I see no sense in torturing myself for another six months of questionable living."

The president had tried to get Stansfield to call him by his first name when they were alone, but the director of the CIA had resisted. "Do you miss your wife?" Mrs. Stansfield had passed away just a few years before.

"Every day, sir."

The president smiled sadly and said, "I respect your decision, Thomas. You have lived an incredible life and have given immeasurable service to this country."

"That is kind of you to say, sir."

President Hayes brought his hands together and said, "I heard Irene had some trouble on the Hill this morning."

"Where did you hear that?" Stansfield always wanted to know where people got their information before responding.

"I received a call from one of the committee members."

"Chairman Rudin?"

"No."The president laughed slightly. "Chairman Rudin and I aren't exactly on speaking terms."

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, why can't you get the party leadership to reel him in?"

President Hayes thought about the question for a moment and said, "Chairman Rudin is a strange duck. Between you and me, I've never liked the man. He is filled with irrational hatred which tends to cloud his judgment. He has his place in the party, however." Hayes shook his head. "Unfortunately for you and me, the party put him where they thought he could do the least damage. I suppose I could make a few calls, but it might only serve to enrage him further."

"Well, do what you think is best. I might be able to do some things to help, but my real concern is where he's getting his information."

"He could just be guessing." The president looked at Stansfield for a response.

"He could, but given the fact that Mitch's mission was \ compromised, I'm inclined to believe we have a leak."

President Hayes didn't like hearing this. He exhaled a slow, painful breath. "What in the hell have I gotten myself into, Thomas?" The president put his elbows on the table and cupped his face with his hands.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"If it gets out that I ordered the assassination of one of Germany's leading citizens, it will be devastating."

"Sir, in your position, you have. three options to deal with this growing threat. The first, diplomacy, has had very poor results; the second, military action, is ill suited to combat the small force we are up against; and the third option, sir, the one you have chosen, is the best option. We take the battle to them with small covert units. You made the right decision, sir."

"If this thing blows up in my face, it will not have been the right decision."

"I will not let that happen, sir."

"How?"The president sounded skeptical.

"We are making some progress in finding the leak."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"What have you found?"

"We think it might be someone at the State Department."

"How high up?"

Instead of answering the question, Stansfield said, "Irene told me about the meeting you had the other day with the German ambassador."

Hayes leaned back in his chair. "And?"

"How have things been between you and Secretary Midleton?"

After thinking about it for a moment, the president replied, "I don't think he ever got it in his head that I'm the boss."

"He thinks you're both still colleagues back in the Senate."

"Yes. You've seen it before?"

"Many times. It's strange that it always seems to be that position more than the others."

"Secretary of state?"

"Yes. For some reason they tend to think of themselves as the most important person in each administration."

"I should have known better. Charles has always fancied himself as American royalty. When I won the election, I owed him. He had raised a lot of money for the campaign, and I knew he would be an easy confirmation. He was my first nominee, and I wanted to get it right."

"You're not the first, sir."

"And I'm sure I won't be the last."

"No, you won't."

"What have you found out?" asked the president. Stansfield had thought this next part through and was determined to get his way. He had the gift of all great tacticians. He could focus on the smallest detail and never lose sight of the overall picture. Over the last few days, he had seen a pattern developing. Like reconnaissance photos before a battle, he was beginning to see what the enemies' objectives were.

"Sir, I have decided that for your own good, I am going to keep you in the dark about what I know so far and what I think is going to happen over the next week or so."

President Hayes looked miffed. "I'm not so sure I like that idea."

"I knew you wouldn't, sir, but it's for your own good. If things go wrong, I want you to have complete deniability."

"I'm afraid that will be impossible."

"No it won't, sir. You will be able to blame me whole thing on me. I will have me documents prepared, and I will leave them in Irene's care."

President Hayes was more man surprised. After staring at Stansfield for a while, he asked, "Why would you do that?"

"I am about to die, sir. It was I who counseled you to use me third option, and it is I who will take the blame if things don't work out."

"I'm not so sure about this, Thomas."

"I am, sir. I think things are going to get very ugly."

"How ugly?"

Stansfield thought about his answer for a second." Mitch has made some progress in finding who it was mat set him up in Germany."

"And?"

"And I've given him orders to follow that trail as high as it goes."

The president cleared his throat. "What are his orders once he finds them?"

"Deniability, Mr. President. You don't want me to answer that."

Hayes leaned forward and in a whisper said, "Thomas, if this thing ends up at the feet of Charles Midleton, you can't just simply have Rapp kill him."

"Sir, it is my sincere hope that this trail does not go that far."

NINE BLOCKS AWAY from me White House, a taxi pulled into me drive of me Four Seasons Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue and 28th Street. A doorman dressed in black from head to toe opened me back door of me cab and extended a gloved white hand for the passenger. A woman with shimmering auburn hair emerged from the cab, and heads turned. It was difficult for Donatella Rahn to hide her beauty. She was wearing a simple black Armani pants suit. Nothing fancy, nothing too sexy; it was perfect for thirteen and a half hours of transatlantic travel. Donatella had left Milan shortly after noon. The eight-hour flight to New York's JFK landed at 2:34 in the afternoon, local time. It took about an hour to clear customs and then another hour to get into the city. Donatella stopped in Manhattan just long enough to say hello to a few of her fashion contacts and grab some things, and then it was off to Grand Central Station. It was 8:30 in the evening by the time her train pulled into Union Station just two long blocks north of the United States Capitol.

Donatella was tired, but she could handle it. She'd been through a hell of a lot in her life. She didn't let simple things like fatigue get to her. She walked casually across the expansive lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel and ignored the looks she was receiving from men and women alike. She had stopped noticing them years ago. She approached the front desk, where an Asian woman was standing ready to punch the new arrival's information into the hotel's computer.

"Hello." Donatella spoke perfect English.

"Good evening, ma'am. Are you checking in?"

"Yes. The name is Mary Jones." Donatella extracted a credit card from her purse and slid it across the counter. She also had a California driver's license with the same name. She had picked them up in Manhattan at a safe deposit box she kept.

"You'll be with us for four nights, Ms. Jones."

"That's right." Donatella signed the charge slip with her own pen and took the room key. The woman pointed to the elevators and informed the guest that a bellhop would be up with her luggage in a moment. Donatella thanked the woman and took the elevator to the fifth floor. Once in her room, she grabbed a sunglasses case from her purse and opened it. Inside was a small countermeasure device designed to detect RF transmitters, tape recorders, and AC line carrier transmitters. Donatella swept the entire room. She didn't bother checking the phone, though. She would not be using it.

When the bellhop arrived, she gave him a five-dollar bill and then locked and chained the door. The clock next to the king-size bed told her it was 9:41, which meant it was almost three in the morning in Milan. Sleep would have to wait. Donatella took off her Armani suit and hung it in the closet. From her suitcase, she grabbed a pair of jeans, brown boots, and a large wool sweater. She dressed quickly and put a faded red Eddie Bauer baseball hat on her head, pulling her ponytail out the back. From her purse, she grabbed a pair of small binoculars, her StarTAC Trimode phone, and her Heckler amp; Koch HK4 pistol. The compact gun carried eight. 32-caliber rounds and was easily concealable under her bulky sweater.

Donatella left the hotel, heading west on M Street for several blocks and then taking a right onto 30th Street. The evening air was chilly but pleasant. It felt great after spending most of the day on a plane and a train. On the flight over from Milan, she had carefully studied the dossier of her target. The choice of the Four Seasons Hotel was an easy one. It was centrally located between the man's home and office. Donatella took her time walking up the steep hill. She was canvassing the neighborhood as she had been taught by the Mossad.

Donatella Rahn was not a very conflicted woman, at least not when compared to the person she had been in her twenties. At thirty-eight, she had learned to let certain things go. The Mossad, however, was a different story. They had turned her into something she had never been and in all likelihood would never have become. The vaunted Israeli intelligence service had turned her into a spy and an assassin, and it had not been of her free will.

As Donatella's modeling career had taken off, so had her drug use. By the age of twenty-one, she was a full-fledged coke fiend. On a modeling job in Tel Aviv, she had been busted trying to bring an ounce of coke into the country. She was in a jail cell, strung-out and freaking out, when a man named Ben Freidman came to her and offered her a way to avoid going to prison. The man told her he would help her kick her drug habit, and after a period of time she could return to Milan. He also assured her that her release had nothing to do with sex.

Not exactly being of sound mind and desperately wanting to avoid jail, Donatella agreed. The next day, she found herself strapped to a bed in a medical facility shaking and sweating from withdrawal. By the time the first week was over, they had helped her shake the habit. It would not be the last time they would do so. They indoctrinated her slowly at first, teaching her information-gathering techniques and then self-defense. She was sent away after that first month feeling grateful and, for the first time in her life, as if she had a real purpose. They had helped her understand her Jewish roots, helped her understand the plight of her people and their need to defend themselves against those who had sworn to rid all Jews from the face of the earth.

This was just the beginning. At first, her assignments were simple, nothing more than observing a certain individual or passing on information as she jetted around the world, but as the years passed, things got more serious. She had four more relapses into drug use, and with each one they drew her in a little more. The training changed. At first, it was done under the guise of self-defense, but it slowly became apparent that something else was going on.

Colonel Ben Freidman of the feared Mossad had become her teacher and her protector. He was one of the two men she had ever met in her life whom she could trust completely. The other hurt too much to think about.

Donatella had to be honest with herself, though. From the beginning, she had enjoyed it immensely: The thrill of stalking another human being and killing them was like nothing she had ever experienced. It was better than any I drug, even better than sex. Donatella Rahn had an addictive personality, and she couldn't stop. She enjoyed her work, and she was paid extremely well.

As Donatella hiked up the heaved cobblestone sidewalk, she did so knowing who she was. She knew it might seem like a small thing to most people but not to her. She had spent her entire life confused, searching for a father she never knew, and eventually hoping she would never find him. And now, she had finally figured out who she was and where she was headed. To her, that was a very big thing.

THE CROWN VICTORIA rocked gently as it rolled down the old county road in rural Maryland. The familiar landmarks gave Rielly some comfort. They had just spent more than an hour driving all around the city. At one point, Rielly thought she might get carsick. She didn't know her way around the city that well and had been lost five minutes after they'd picked her up. There were a couple of times where she thought things looked familiar, but she couldn't be sure. The experience was very disorienting, and after a while she found it best to sit back, crack her window, and close her eyes.

The two agents seemed competent enough. Special Agent Pelachuk had told her when they got into the car that they were going to have to take some standard precautions to make sure they weren't being followed. Special Agent Salem, the blond one, was doing the driving. He didn't say much. Early on. she had asked them where they were taking her. She was happy to find out that they were going to Mitch's house. Rielly asked if Mitch was already there, and Pelachuk told her he didn't know.

Rielly grew eager with anticipation as they turned off the country road and onto the street that would take them to Mitch's. There were no streetlights this far from the city. The communities around the Chesapeake Bay had a tendency to want things to stay as they were a hundred years ago. Building permits had to be paraded past one inspector after another, and variances were rarely granted. Something as modern as a street lamp would be a blight on the landscape. Rielly knew this was one of the reasons Mitch had moved this far out. He loved his alone time, and out here he could get it. As Rielly looked out the window, the only things she could make out were the lights of several farmhouses off in the distance.

A few minutes later, the car slowed to ten miles an hour, and the two agents stuck their chins over the dashboard in an effort to find the right address.

From the back seat, Rielly said, "It's the third one on the left." As they got a little closer, she added, "That one right there by the white mailbox."

The car turned and started down the long driveway. Rielly immediately noticed that all the lights were off in the house, and her heart sank. Mitch wasn't there yet. Salem turned the car around, driving on the lawn in the process, and parked in front of the garage facing the street.

Neither agent made an effort to get out of the car, so Rielly asked, "What are we doing?"

"We're waiting," answered Pelachuk.

"For what?"

As innocently as possible, he said, "I don't have a key."

"Well, I do."

Pelachuk looked at his partner. "What do you think?"

"How long are we going to be waiting?"

"I don't know. An hour... maybe two."

"I say we wait inside if she has a key."

Pelachuk looked back at Rielly. "Would you like to go I inside?"

"Yes." Rielly reached for the door handle.

"Hold on a minute. Let me go check things out first, I and then we'll go in." Turning back to his partner, he said, "Anything funny happens, get her out of here and don't worry about me."

Special Agent Pelachuk got out of the sedan and closed the door. Standing next to the car, in plain view of Rielly, he drew his weapon and disappeared around the side of the house. When he reached the deck in back, he looked down at the dock briefly and then put his gun away. The man knew no one was there. They'd had the house under surveillance since Monday. Grabbing his digital phone, he punched in a number and held the tiny encrypted phone to his ear.

After three rings, a voice said, "Hello."

"We have the girl, and we're at the rendezvous point."

"Does she suspect anything?"

"No. She even offered to let us in. Just like you thought."

"Good. Don't touch anything when you get inside. We have no idea what kind of surprises he might have."

"All right. Anything else?"

"What are you doing about her phone?"

"We're jamming it from the mobile unit in the trunk."

"Good. Keep me informed if anything changes."

"All right." The man posing as a federal agent ended the call and put the phone away. After they took care of this reporter, and whoever her boyfriend was, he would have to convince the Professor to let him go after Gus Villaume again. Jeff Duser looked out at the blackness on the other side of the deck railing and thought about how profitable things had gotten since they started working for the Professor. He decided he would kill Villaume for free. It would be fun.