The Third Option

chapter 45
It was after nine when Rapp showed up. The streetlights were on, and there were plenty of open meters. He eased his black Volvo S80 into a spot on F Street. Before getting out of the car, he checked all of his mirrors. Then, when he stepped onto the asphalt, he casually scanned the street, first to the west and then the east. If the last week had taught him anything, it was that he needed to be paranoid, especially here in Washington. He had sensed that something wasn't right in Germany, and he'd been careless enough to ignore those instincts. It was a valuable lesson, one he hoped he'd never have to learn again.

Rapp started walking toward 17th Street and the looming Old Executive Office Building. He had to admit he lived a strange life. Here it was, a Friday night, he'd been sitting on the couch with Anna and their new dog Shirley, and he had gotten a call telling him that the president would like to see him. Rapp actually had the nerve to ask Kennedy if it could wait until the morning. Kennedy told him to get over to the White House and hung up. They were all tired and frustrated. Peter Cameron was turning into a dead end, and Rapp knew that it would only get worse with each passing day; He didn't know if he had it anymore  -  the energy to keep this frantic and dangerous lifestyle going. And there was the bigger question of Anna. She wouldn't tolerate it. She'd said so, and the recent week's events would only solidify her opinion.

It didn't bother Rapp in the least that he was wearing a pair of jeans and a black leather jacket. If the president couldn't wait until morning, this was what he'd get. As Rapp dragged his tired bones across 17th Street, he couldn't help but wonder what the president wanted from him at this hour. Rapp feared he knew the answer. It wasn't as if he were being called on to receive a commendation or medal. They didn't hand those out for what he did. Rapp was one of the dark weapons in the national security arsenal. People didn't even talk about what he did, let alone acknowledge it either privately or publicly. There was only one thing the president could want from Rapp, and he wasn't so sure he would accept it. He was an assassin, and he was sick of killing. It was time for them to find someone else. With more than 250 million people in the country, there was surely some other poor bastard whose life they could ruin.

Rapp walked up to the Secret Service checkpoint on the west side of the EOB. There were several men standing watch. "I'm here to see Jack Warch."

One of the men from the Secret Service's Uniformed Division eyed him suspiciously, while the other one called the special agent in charge of the presidential detail. "There's a man here to see you." The officer lowered the phone. "What's your name?"

"Mitch Kruse," Rapp threw out one of his aliases. The officer spoke into the phone. "Mitch Kruse... yep... okay." The officer hung up the phone and opened the gate. He pointed up a drive that led to a courtyard in the center of the building. "Head through there. Special Agent Warch will meet you in the courtyard."

Rapp said nothing and walked up the narrow drive. When he reached the courtyard, he saw Warch approaching from the other side. Warch had a big grin on his face as he saw Rapp. Warch owed his life to the man.

"Good to see you, Mitch." The agent stuck out his hand. "You look like shit."

"Thank you. I feel like shit." Rapp grabbed his hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

"How's Anna doing?"

"Good. Thank you for your help, by the way."

"Don't worry. I figure we owe you a lot more than that." Warch started walking and Rapp followed. "How have you been?"

"You want the long version or the short one?"

"I don't think I'm cleared for the long one. Hell, I'm probably not even cleared for the short one."

Rapp laughed as they entered the EOB. "Come on, Jack, you guys are the eunuchs of the twenty-first century." Warch placed a hand over his groin. "Tell me about it. Sometimes I feel like one."

The two continued to talk as they left the EOB and crossed over to the White House. They entered through the ground floor and continued straight down the hall and to the right. This was Rapp's first trip back to the White House since the terrorist attack had partially destroyed the building the previous spring. He was amazed at how quickly they had got the West Wing back up and running. It looked exactly as it had before the bombs had ripped her apart.

Warch knew what Rapp was thinking and said, "It's pretty amazing isn't it?"

Rapp looked down the hallway toward the White House mess. "Yeah, it really is."

"The building wasn't as bad as you might have thought. The fire department was here so fast they got the flames put out before they did too much damage;' "Yeah, but still. This is amazing."

The two men stopped in front of the door that led to the Situation Room. Warch asked, "Mitch, are you carrying?"

"What do you think?"

"I know you are, but I'm trying to be polite."

Rapp was tempted to make a smart-ass comment, but he knew this was a subject that the Secret Service found little humor in. "Would you like to hold on to my gun for me?"

"Very much so."

Rapp took his Beretta out of his shoulder holster and checked to make sure the manual safety catch was in the up position. Warch took the weapon and then punched a code into the cipher lock. The door clicked, and the Secret Service agent opened it. Immediately to the left was the door to the conference room. Warch knocked twice and then opened the door. Staying in the hallway, he ushered Rapp into the room and closed the door.

Rapp stood awkwardly for a moment, slightly surprised to see Kennedy and Director Stansfield. For some reason, Kennedy had given him the impression that he would be meeting alone with the president. President Hayes spun around in his large leather chair.

"Thank you for coming, Mitch. Could you please take a seat?"

Rapp said nothing as he took the first available chair, which was next to Stansfield. He sat and looked briefly at Kennedy, who was on the other side of the table.

"How is Anna?" asked the president. Rapp didn't answer at first. He looked at Hayes and wondered where to start. Anna was doing well in the sense that she was alive and apparently out of harm's way, but other than that, he wasn't sure she was doing all that well. Rapp decided it was best not to open up that can of worms in front of the president. "She's fine, sir. A little concerned, but essentially she's all right."

"She's a tough woman. I'm sorry she got caught up in this mess."

"It's not your fault, sir."

Hayes wasn't so sure. The president leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. "Mitch, it's been a very bad week."

"Yes, it has."

"Irene tells me you want out."

Rapp was completely caught off-guard. "I'm ready to move on with my life, sir."

The president looked at Rapp with an unwavering stare. "What if I told you your country couldn't afford to lose you?"

"I'd tell you I'd already given enough to my country."

The president grinned. There was no intimidating Mitch Rapp. "Yes, you have. No one would argue that... especially me. But I'd like you to consider staying on for a while longer."

Rapp felt he was getting sucked into a bad dream. "I'm sorry, sir, but I've already made up my mind. I want a normal life. I've found the right woman, and I'm not going to lose her over a career that I don't even want anymore."

"Are you sure about that?"

"About what?" Rapp wasn't sure whether the president was referring to the woman he'd found or the career he no longer wanted.

The president folded his hands. "Mitch, a man of your talents can't just turn it off and walk away."

"Maybe... maybe not, but I'm going to try."

"Well." The president had a big smile on his lips. "I think we may have found a nice middle ground." Hayes turned to the director of the CIA. "Thomas."

"Mitchell." Stansfield's voice was tired and slightly slurred. "I'd like to start by saying that I've been in this business for more than fifty years, and I don't know if I've seen anyone as talented and courageous as yourself."

Rapp looked at Stansfield and replied with a silent nod. The words from the dying legend were worth more than any medal his government could ever give him.

"I have known for some time that I'm dying, and I wanted to put certain things in order before that came to pass. One of those things, Mitchell, was that I wanted to give you your life back." Stansfield slid a large folder over to Rapp. "This is your official personnel file."

Rapp didn't like what he'd just heard. "I thought it was agreed at the beginning that there would never be any record of me."

"Yes, that was the plan, but things have changed. Some of your exploits over the last several years have been very hard to keep quiet." Stansfield looked at Rapp with his steely gray eyes. "This file is my gift to you and to Irene. I created it with the help of Max Salmen. As your file now reads, you have been an NOC with the Agency for the last ten years. Much of what you did is, of course, not contained in that file or is greatly edited. You are now legitimate, Mitchell."

Rapp was miffed. NOC was an acronym for the Agency's operatives who worked overseas and were not protected by the diplomatic cover of an American embassy or consulate. Rapp stared at the folder in his hands. "Why now? Why after all these years?"

"Because we want you to come inside."

"At Langley?" asked a disbelieving Rapp.

"Yes. We want you to head up the Middle East desk in the Counterterrorism Center."

Rapp looked across the table at Kennedy. He was stunned. It had never occurred to him that they would go to these lengths. It was highly unusual, to say the least, that they would risk bringing someone with his past inside Langley. Kennedy returned his look of disbelief with a rare smile. "Are you sure about this?" he asked.

"Yes," Kennedy answered. "You're too valuable and too young to retire."

Rapp looked back down at the heavy file and shook his head. He really didn't know where to start. The thought of staying connected to the battle was very intriguing, but going inside Langley to suffer the nine-to-five grind was something that he was not so sure he would like. The place was famous for its bureaucratic BS.

"Mitchell," started Stansfield, "there's something I think you need to know. I'm afraid you weren't the ultimate target in Germany."

In light of the fact that Rapp had two baseball-size bruises on his chest he found the statement to be slightly irritating. "No offense, Thomas, but I'm the only person in this room who's been shot this week."

"I didn't say someone didn't want you dead. I said you weren't the ultimate target. Your body was meant to be found next to Count Hagenmiller's. It was meant to embarrass the president, and I think, ultimately, it was meant to ruin Irene's career."

The president's demeanor changed instantly. This was the first he'd heard of this. "What are you trying to say, Thomas?"

"This was not started by the Iraqis or anyone else. This was initiated by someone here in Washington. Someone who doesn't want to see Irene become the next director of the CIA and someone who quite possibly would like to see your administration toppled, Mr. President."

"Do you have some information that you have yet to share with me?"

"No, I don't, Mr. President. Everything I know I have already told you. I have come to some conclusions over the last twenty-four hours that I think point to some big problems."

"Please explain."

"This was not a personal vendetta carried out against Mitchell by the Jansens or someone who hired them to kill him. If that was the case, they would have simply shot him while they were alone in the cabin and been done with him. Instead, they waited until Mitchell took care of the count, and then they made their move. The only conclusion that can be reached is that they wanted Mitchell's body found next to the count holding in his hand the gun that fired the bullet that killed the count."

"But we still had deniability," replied the president. "There is nothing that can officially link Mitch to the CIA or my administration. If Mitch's identity was discovered, Irene was prepared to spread the false rumors that Mitch was a gun for hire. That he'd been hired by the Iraqis to assassinate the count because Hagenmiller was screwing them over on their deal."

"That's all fine unless someone else is leaking Mitchell's real story. Let me ask you this, Mr. President. How many people do you think knew about the operation to take out the count?"

"I would hope very few."

"The four people in this room are the only people who were supposed to know the entire scope of the operation. There were roughly a dozen others who were involved in support roles but had no idea of the complete operation. Someone outside this room also knew what we had planned in Germany." Stansfield paused and took a moment to look at each of the other three. "I know all of you well enough to doubt that you would have been so careless as to talk to someone outside of this group. That means someone else knows about the Orion Team, and I don't mean the deceased Peter Cameron. He was used to get to the Jansens in Germany, but I doubt he was the one who found out what we were up to."

"Then who could it be?" asked the president. "You said yourself that the four of us were the only ones who knew exactly what was going to happen."

"Yes, we were the only ones who knew exactly what was going to happen, but there were others who knew the count was a repeat offender. Furthermore, there are people in this town who know about the Orion Team. They don't know what it is called, but they were in on the decision to found it. Senator Clark was smart enough to put two and two together and come to us with his suspicions. There are others who know me well enough to know that I would trust only two individuals to run such a team, Irene or Max Salmen. They also know that you, Mr. President, have decided to take the battle to the terrorists on every front, and beyond that, you throw Mitchell's notoriety over the last year into the picture, and I'm afraid we were caught going to the well one too many times. It should not be shocking to any of us that someone with a limited amount of information was able to figure out what we were up to in Germany."

"But how could they move that fast?" asked Rapp. "I only learned of the operation seventy-two hours in advance."

"That's what worries me the most. Whoever this person or group is, they have the ability to move very quickly and very quietly."

Rapp looked to Kennedy and watched her stare at Stansfield with her calculating eyes. After a long moment of silence, she said, "It's someone at Langley, isn't it?"

Stansfield nodded slowly. "Yes, I'm afraid so. There could be others outside the Agency, in fact I'm convinced there are, but all things point to a leak somewhere within Langley, and unfortunately I don't have the slightest clue to who it could be."

"Hold on a minute." The president did not like any of this. "What is the motive? Why would someone at Langley want to do this? I thought the one thing we were unified on in this town was the battle against terrorism."

"This has nothing to do with the battle against terrorism," said Stansfield. "It has to do with the battle over knowledge. The battle over who will succeed me as director of the CIA."

"Who will succeed you as director is my decision and no one else's."

"Let me paint a more clear picture for you, Mr. President. I have made a lot of enemies in this town because I have never allowed the brass at the Pentagon or the politicians on the Hill to influence my decisions as director. When they have come to me asking for information, I have always directed them to you or your predecessors. They don't like this. They want someone who will give them access to the Agency's secrets. They know that Irene will do as I have done, and they don't like that. They want someone they can control."

The president looked completely miffed. He wondered if Stansfield was being overly paranoid but was quickly reminded of the events of the last week. There was a foe out there, the only question was who. But still, he didn't want to buy into the scope or the purpose of the thing. "I'm sorry, Thomas, if I sound somewhat skeptical, but I find it a little hard to believe that someone would go to all of this trouble to try to block Irene's nomination."

Stansfield's body was withering away, but his mind was not. Like a grand master in chess, he still had the ability to calculate the ripple effect that could result from one move. "What if I told you the ultimate goal of this person or persons was to topple your administration?"

Hayes was silent for a while. Stansfield had his rapt attention. "How?"

"By exposing first Mitchell and then the full story of the Orion Team. By ultimately linking you to the assassination of Count Hagenmiller."

"You can't be serious. I thought we had the issue of deniability covered."

"We did, sir. That was before we found out there was a leak."

The president let out a moan as he shook his head. He felt things slipping away as he looked at Stansfield's frail body. "Thomas, please tell me you have a plan for dealing with this?"

Stansfield could sense the president's fear. The important thing now that he'd gotten him to recognize the problem was to calm him. "Sir, there is no shortage of people in Washington who would love to destroy me. The only thing that has kept them from doing so is the knowledge that I know their secrets. Those secrets will be passed on to Irene, and I will instruct her and Mitchell how to use them if the need should arise." Stansfield turned toward Rapp. "We need you." The director placed his hand on the newly created personnel file. "This will give you the freedom to live a relatively normal life. You will no longer have to lie to people about where you work. It is my greatest hope that you will take this job. Yes, you have already given enough, and I will never be able to express how grateful I am that you have made the sacrifices you have. When you are confronted with your dark past, Mitchell, you must take comfort in the fact that in the end, you saved far more lives than you took. You are still needed, and I'm not embarrassed in the slightest to ask for your further sacrifice. A man of your talents should not waste them in the corporate arena. You can still make a difference. And the place to make it is in the Counterterrorism Center. I need you there. I need you to watch Irene's back, and I need you to help find the mole." Stansfield paused and looked in admiration at the strong face of Rapp. "If you need some time to think about it, I understand, but please don't take too long." Stansfield smiled. "I'd like to go to my grave with the comfort that you are standing guard."

Rapp couldn't help but grin. It was the first time he'd ever seen the old spy smile. Reaching out, he grabbed Stansfield's chilled hand. Rapp didn't need any time to think it over. There was no way he could say no to Stansfield. He had far too much respect for the man even to consider turning down the offer. "Thomas, thank you for this." Rapp held up the file. "I will gladly accept your offer."

"Good." There was a knock on the door. A second later, the door opened. and Special Agent Warch entered the room with a troubled look on his face. The president spun around in his chair and looked up at the man who was in charge of his safety.

"What is it, Jack?"

"Mr. President, I'm afraid I have some bad news. I just received a call from the head of Secretary Midleton's detail." Warch hesitated for a moment, not sure how to continue. "The secretary was just found dead in his home. It appears it was a suicide, sir."

THE FIRE CRACKLED and popped as red-hot embers jumped from the logs. Hank Clark watched with a relaxed intensity from his favorite chair. All of the lights were off in the study. It was just the dancing flames of the fire, his large glass of expensive wine, and Caesar and Brutus, who lay one on each side of the leather chair. Clark was content. Things had not turned out exactly as he'd planned, but there was still time. He looked at it as just one battle in a very long war. As he took a sip of wine, he had to allow himself a smile over the fate of Charles Midleton.

When Clark had gone to Stansfield and the president, he did not think the end result would be the resignation of the secretary of state. Clark's mission was simply to throw them off in case they eventually made the connection between him and Peter Cameron. Clark's cover was already in place. Cameron was a paid consultant for both the House and the Senate Intelligence committees. Now, after Clark had offered his full support of Kennedy in her upcoming nomination, the president would think of him as a trusted ally.

It was a very pleasurable experience watching the Democrats cannibalize each other, especially since it was the Republicans who were usually busy eating their own. It had really been too easy to spin out of the potential disaster. AI Rudin had always been simple to manipulate, but now he was also seeing some weaknesses in President Hayes  -  weaknesses that had not always been there. Clark had heard rumors after the terrorist attack on the White House that the president had grown more edgy, less tolerant of dissension and petty party squabbling. Now he was seeing it firsthand. Secretary of State Midleton was everything the president said he was and then some, but to force him to resign over this seemed a bit much.

Clark had met with Rudin in one of the Committee's bug-proof briefing rooms earlier in the afternoon. Rudin had whined incessantly for an hour and at one point had attempted to find out if the president had found out about their meeting from Clark. Clark acted as if the accusation barely deserved a response and then launched into a lecture about how Rudin had been continually underestimating Thomas Stansfield for the better part of twenty years. Clark pushed Rudin's paranoia further by asking him, "Why do you think I insist on all of our conversations taking place here, in my own secure briefing room?" The ploy worked. By the time their meeting was over, Rudin was convinced that the CIA had him under surveillance. Clark knew that Stansfield was far too shrewd a man ever to do something so foolish as to put the chairman of the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence under surveillance, but it worked on Rudin. Again, the man continued to underestimate his enemies.

Clark had to allow himself a moment of self-congratulation. The way he had manipulated his way out of a potential disaster was brilliant. It was too bad he wouldn't be able to share his role in the secretary of state's resignation with his party's leadership. Someday he might be able to boast, but for now he needed to keep things quiet. He must lie in wait until this storm blew over.

Clark didn't fear many people, but he most definitely feared Thomas Stansfield. The man's intellect and ability to see through deception was amazing. Clark knew that he could not have pulled this off if it wasn't for Stansfield's decaying health. The director of the CIA would have seen right through what he was doing.

Clark would have to make a strong effort to cozy up to Dr. Kennedy and gain her confidence. She would need his help in the coming months. The political battle over her confirmation would be very draining, and she would need an ally on the Hill.

As for Mitch Rapp, Clark wasn't entirely sure. If there was a storm out there on the horizon, he was the lightning waiting to strike. If Cameron had only succeeded in Germany, none of this would be an issue. Rapp would be dead, and the town would be gearing up for one of the biggest investigations in the history of the Congress. The president would be suffering death by a thousand cuts, and Hank Clark would be in the perfect position to launch his bid for the Oval Office.

Instead, Rapp was alive, Cameron was dead, and there was no investigation. Clark would have to find a replacement for Cameron. There were several who came to mind, but he doubted any of them could handle Rapp. Clark took a sip of wine and looked into the fire, searching for a way to deal with Rapp. He'd been staring into the bright flames for minutes when Brutus let out a yawn. The golden retriever lifted his head and stared at his master with his big brown eyes. Clark smiled and held his glass up in a toast to Brutus Marcus Junius. Keep your enemies close, the senator told himself. Clark finished his glass of wine and then decided he would have to make arrangements to meet this Mitch Rapp.

The dogs grumbled at first, and then, when the doorbell rang, they let loose with the barks. Clark had them calmed down by the time his very important visitor was shown to into the study. Jonathan Brown, the deputy director of the he CIA, walked stiffly across the room. Clark deduced by the sour expression on the former judge's face that something was bothering him.

Brown, still in a suit and tie, sat on the couch across from Clark. Wringing his hands as if he were Macbeth himself, Brown studied Clark's face for a sign of guilt. He saw nothing, but that meant little. During his years as a federal prosecutor and judge, Brown had seen the guiltiest of people sit like angels through their trials, all the time maintaining was their innocence. Brown doubted that Clark would have all that much difficulty in masking his emotions.

Clark looked at his man and wondered what was wrong. It was Clark who had called this meeting. He did so in order to explain to Brown why he had agreed with the president to back Kennedy's nomination. If Brown had already learned of the deal, it might explain his sour mood. "What's bothering you, Jonathan?"

Brown was tempted to lay down a withering line of questions in search of the truth, but he knew Clark wouldn't tolerate more than two or three. After that, the senator was likely to remind him that if he'd like to leave with his balls still attached to his body, he'd better mind his manners. That had happened once before, and Brown was still smarting from it. "Have you talked to Secretary Midleton this evening?" Brown looked for the slightest sign of guilt. There was nothing.

"No, I haven't, but I heard about his meeting with the president this morning." Clark set his empty wine glass down. "Midleton is to announce his resignation in the morning."

"I don't think that's going to happen."

Clark took his feet off the foot stool and sat forward, a look of genuine concern on his face. "What do you mean, it's not going to happen?"

"You honestly don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

Brown couldn't decide if Clark's reaction thus far was real or fake. He decided he would probably never know for sure, so he said, "Secretary Midleton is dead."

"What?" asked a shocked Clark.

Brown kept his eyes on the man who owned him. "He's dead."

"How?"

"It appears to be a suicide, but one never really knows in this town, does one?" Brown sat back and crossed his legs. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you?"

The tone in Brown's voice was not lost on the senator. Clark studied Brown for a long moment and then said, "Charles Midleton was an inherently weak man. Everything he got in life was given to him. It doesn't surprise me that he would take his life rather than fight. As to your implication that I might have had something to do with his death, my answer is no, I held no ill will against the man. His career was officially ended this morning when the president asked for his resignation. There was no need for me to do something so risky."

"So you think it was a simple suicide?"

"That would be my guess, but as you've already said, one never knows in this town."

Brown relaxed a little. "Why did you want to see me?"

"We've suffered a bit of a setback, but I don't want you to get upset."

The brief respite of relaxation vanished. "What happened now?"

"I have been put into a position where I have been forced by Director Stansfield and the president to back Dr. Kennedy's nomination to become the next director of the CIA." Before Brown could get too upset, Clark cautioned, "But don't worry. She will never make it through the confirmation process."

"How can you be so sure?" Clark grinned. "I think between the two of us, we can prevent that from happening."

"What about me?"

"After Kennedy has been humiliated and torn apart by the committee and the press and quite possibly indicted, I will very quietly whisper in the right ears that you are the only man to clean up the mess. Your credentials as a judge are impeccable... you have already been at Langley for a year... you will be the natural choice to clean up the mess created by Stansfield and Kennedy."

"And if not?"

"If not, I will take care of you, as I have always said I would."

Brown wasn't so sure. He'd seen the dark side of Clark, and he never wanted to see it again. "Well, I can't say I'm thrilled about this."

"Neither am I, Jonathan, but you have to trust me on this. Once Stansfield is dead, we will be able to move a little more freely, but until then we need to watch our step." Clark rose from the chair. "I think we should have a celebratory drink." The senator ambled over to the bar and grabbed two glasses, filling them halfway with ice and vodka. With his back turned to Brown, Clark relinquished the control on his emotions and allowed a large smile to spread across his face. This was life; this was the ultimate game. The spoils to the victors, and to the weak, like Charles Midleton, it was death. Clark could feel himself growing stronger. Things had turned out far from perfect, but he had proven once again that he could maneuver undetected among the very people he was seeking to destroy. With a little more patience, all would be his.

Clark returned with the drinks and handed one to Brown. Holding his glass out, he said, "To your future, Jonathan."

The two men clinked their glasses, and Brown repeated the phrase to Clark. Whether he liked it or not, his success was linked to the senator's.

Clark sat back down in his comfortable leather chair and put his feet up. He took a sip of the cold vodka and said, "Now, tell me more about this Mitch Rapp fellow."