They then took the metro, zigzagging across the city until they arrived in the Montmartre neighborhood where they had met the German only a day earlier. Six blocks north of the famous Roman Byzantine Basilica of Sacré-Coeur they separated. Claudia stopped at a small café for an espresso while Louie started his sweep. After ten minutes of walking the narrow streets and making a single phone call, he deemed it safe to enter the apartment. The two-bedroom apartment was located on the top floor of a five-story Belle Epoque era building. Louie had purchased the apartment through an offshore corporation three years earlier. He skipped the elevator and used the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Once in the apartment he turned off the alarm and went straight to the kitchen. He placed a gloved hand on each side of the refrigerator and slid it away from the wall. White subway tile covered the wall down to the height of the countertop. Beneath that was plaster. Making a fist with his right hand, Louie hit the wall in just the right spot and the plaster section popped out about an inch on the left side. Louie grabbed the corner and swung open the hinged door. Inside were three eighteen-inch-deep shelves. A single black duffel bag sat on each wooden plank. Louie grabbed the top bag, closed the door, and pushed the refrigerator back up against the wall. Emblazoned on the side of the duffel bag was the name of Peugeot, the French car manufacturer.
Gould had a mind that was uniquely suited to breaking rules and not getting caught. He’d first noticed it during childhood. He had a friend who seemed to have a nose for trouble, both at home and at school. No matter how many times the boy was told not to do something, he did it. No matter how harsh the punishment, he persisted. The boy was oblivious to his surroundings, unlike Gould, who seemed to always know what was going on around him. Even at an early age he instinctively knew the key was to understand the rules first, and then find a way to avoid detection while breaking them.
There were a variety of ways to circumvent the ban against bringing weapons across international borders. Prior to the terrorist attacks against America in September 2001 everything was much easier. A man of Gould’s profession could even be brazen enough to carry the tools of the trade concealed beneath his own clothes or in a suitcase, but those days were long gone. That left two options. The first was to acquire the weapons once you arrived in the country where you would be operating. Again this had grown more difficult since 9/11, but it was still doable, especially in the old Eastern Bloc countries of Europe. He’d also done it once in America, but for this job, Gould wanted to be absolutely certain he minimized his exposure as much as possible. He had yet to decide how he would kill Rapp, but he would more than likely end up using either a silenced rifle or pistol. For that he wanted to use weapons that he himself had already field tested and zeroed in.
Each of the three bags concealed in the wall behind the refrigerator contained a TTR-700 tactical sniping rifle that was designed with a collapsible butt stock, bipod and quick release scope, silencer, and barrel. Each bag also contained a Glock 17 pistol with silencer, and a complete set of ID including passport, credit cards, driver’s license, and cash. Due to the new wave of screening machines that sniffed for explosives, the bags did not contain ammunition.
Gould left the apartment with one of the bags and called Claudia, telling her he was clearing the area. They would meet at a predetermined location in two hours. He hailed a taxi, and directed the driver to the Gare du Nord train station. From there he took the metro clear across town. He was being more careful than normal, but it would be criminal to have come so far and get caught right on the verge of the biggest job of his career. His next stop was at a packaging store where he purchased a three-by-three-foot cardboard box. He put a layer of Styrofoam packaging peanuts on the bottom, placed the black duffel bag in the box, and then filled the rest with the white peanuts. After taping the box shut, he walked two blocks to a FedEx office and filled out an international air bill. He showed the woman behind the counter a fake ID that matched the name on the air bill and explained that he was mailing sales samples to Canada for a convention he would be attending. It was a common practice, and the woman didn’t even bat an eye.
22
WASHINGTON, DC
T he old bar was on Pennsylvania Avenue just a few blocks from one of the world’s most well-known buildings—the United States Capitol. The neoclassical seat of democracy was bracketed to the south by Independence Avenue and to the north by Constitution Avenue. The House offices ran along Independence Avenue, and the Senate offices ran along Constitution Avenue. As a general rule, representatives quenched their thirst at establishments located south of East Capitol Street, and senators dined at more upscale restaurants to the north. Certain representatives were fond of migrating north in hopes of someday joining the infinitely more exclusive club of the U.S. Senate, but rarely did a senator travel south. It was simply beneath them.
None of this would have been known to Rapp, but then again he tried to spend as little time as possible thinking about politics and politicians. His source for tracking down this particular senator, however, was a political junkie who had found all these cultural tidbits extremely interesting. The source, who also happened to be his wife, couldn’t get over the fact that a senator would go to the Hawk and Dove in the middle of the afternoon to be by himself, but that’s what the senator’s chief of staff had told her. Always inquisitive, Anna wanted to know why it was so urgent that he track down this particular senator. He almost told her he couldn’t talk about it, but that would have likely ended in her refusing to help him. He was learning to trust her. She had an insatiable curiosity, but she had also proved to him that she could keep a secret when he demanded it. Rapp told her he didn’t want to talk about it on the phone, and that he’d fill her in over dinner.
So, for the second time in a week Rapp found himself plugging a meter in a part of town he rarely visited. Automatically, he did a quick search of the area, locked his car, and reached around to the small of his back to give his H&K P2000 a quick check. The air felt heavy and Rapp tilted his head skyward. It was overcast and it looked like it might rain at any moment. It matched his mood perfectly.
The bar was hard to miss. The Hawk and Dove was a Capitol Hill institution. Rapp had been there a few times during college, but hadn’t been back in years. He stepped into the tiny entry and looked down the length of the bar. The place had a patina about it that could only be attained through lots of spilled beer, deep fried food, and the residue left from a steady haze of cigarette smoke. The brick floor was chipped and uneven, and the once white grout was now as dark as asphalt. It was a real bar, not some cookie-cutter chain where the servers wore obnoxiously colorful outfits and sat down with you to take your order.
It was a few minutes before three in the afternoon and the place was nearly empty. At the far end of the bar, Rapp found his man. He was instantly recognizable by his ridiculous comb-over hairdo and oversized ears. Rapp was not surprised to see that he was sitting with his back to the door. Rapp walked the length of the old wood bar and nodded to the bartender who was watching him intently.
The senator was perched on the last stool reading a book. Rapp stopped and delivered the rickety stool a good kick.
Senator Hartsburg grabbed the bar to steady himself and turned with anger in his eyes and a french fry dangling from his mouth. “What in the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Not a bad idea, Rapp thought to himself. “We need to talk.”
Hartsburg’s perpetual scowl deepened. “Call my office and set up an appointment.” He turned his back to Rapp.
Rapp considered flicking one of the man’s large ears, but thought better of it. “That’s not going to happen. We need to talk now.” Rapp was not a patient man. That was why he had come all the way across town. Kennedy did not seem too excited about locking horns with her new boss, and Rapp had a feeling if they didn’t get the IRS off Coleman’s back pronto they might be camped out on his doorstep for the next year. It w
as time to get something back from his new associate.
The bartender showed up. “Is everything all right, Carl?”
Before Hartsburg could reply, Rapp said, “I’ll take a beer.”
The bartender checked with the senator to see if this was okay. Hartsburg mumbled something under his breath and returned to his book.
“A Guinness, please?” Rapp said with a forced smile.
The bartender hesitated for a second and then left to pour the beer. Rapp peered over Hartsburg’s shoulder and asked, “What’re you reading?”
“None of your business.”
Rapp glimpsed the title across the top of the page. “Nineteen Eighty-Four…George Orwell.” He couldn’t have been more surprised. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be,” growled Hartsburg. “I’m reading it again so I can better understand how your type thinks.”
Rapp laughed. “Well, when you’re done be sure to pick up Animal Farm, so you can better understand how your type thinks.”
The senator closed the book. “Would you mind? I’m here so I can eat, have a drink, and be alone. If you want to talk, call my office.”
Rapp grabbed the next stool. “Relax, Carl.” He figured if the bartender could call him by his first name, so could he. “Trust me…you don’t want me calling your office.” Rapp unclipped his BlackBerry, punched a series of buttons, and set it on the bar.
The device seemed to get the senator’s attention. Hartsburg pushed his plate away and said, “Why did you come here? I really don’t want to be seen with you in public, and how in the hell did you find me, anyway?”
Rapp lowered his chin. “You’re kidding me…right?” He wasn’t about to tell him it was his wife who had tracked him down. It was better to leave him thinking he’d employed the vast resources of the CIA to find him.
Hartsburg took a drink, and looked up at the TV. He was more uncomfortable with this encounter than Rapp had expected.
“Senator,” Rapp leaned in, “you’re the one who wanted to have our little off-the-record meeting. You’re the one who proposed this new agreement. If you’d like to back out, I’ll walk out of here right now, and believe me I’ll be a happy man if I never have to lay eyes on you again.”
An uncomfortable silence passed and then Hartsburg said, “Just please, not here. Don’t bother me when I’m here. This is where I come to get away from everything.”
There was something oddly melancholy in the senator’s tone. He began to nod slowly and said, “All right.”
The bartender showed up with the beer. “Put it on his tab,” Rapp said as he reached for his wallet. “Just kidding.” Rapp threw a twenty on the bar. “Take it out of that, and get the senator another one.”
Hartsburg nodded his consent and the bartender left. After looking at his book for a moment he asked, “What’s so important?”
Rapp took a sip of his dark beer and asked, “Have you told anyone about our new arrangement?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“You’re sure?” Rapp took another sip. He doubted that Hartsburg had, but he wanted to get the man on his heels.
The crotchety senator from New Jersey turned and faced Rapp. “I don’t like repeating myself.”
Rapp watched him intently. “What about Senator Walsh?”
Hartsburg’s face twisted like he’d just bit into a lemon. “No. Bill’s a vault. He keeps secrets better than anyone on the Hill. That’s why he’s chairman of the Intelligence Committee.”
“Neither of you consulted anyone further up the chain of command?”
“Whose chain of command?”
“Mine,” said Rapp.
“Dr. Kennedy, of course.”
“No one else?” asked Rapp. The bartender came back with Hartsburg’s drink. From the color of it, Rapp guessed it was probably scotch.
Hartsburg, like most senators, was a lawyer by training and he did not like to be on the receiving end of questions. “Stop pussyfooting around, and tell me what’s on your damn mind.”
Rapp admired the man’s tenacity. “Mark Ross is on my mind.”
“The new director of National Intelligence.” The senator had a frown on his face. “Why?”
“He’s taken a sudden interest in a colleague of mine.”
“I’m not following.”
“There’s someone who we use from time to time to handle delicate matters. We’ll call him a consultant. The other day this consultant came out to Langley to sit down with Dr. Kennedy and myself so we could discuss our new venture.” Rapp pointed to Hartsburg and then himself. He wanted the senator to take ownership. “Right in the middle of the damn meeting Mark Ross comes barging in unannounced. He introduces himself to the consultant, he leaves, and the next thing you know, Ross’s people are calling up the Pentagon asking for this consultant’s personnel file. Then the next day the IRS shows up on this guy’s doorstep, bends him over, and starts to give him an anal cavity search.”
A pleased smile formed on Hartsburg’s face and he got a faraway look in his eyes. After a moment he said, “That’s why I put him there.”
The answer surprised Rapp. “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Ross is a detail guy. He’s extremely controlling and curious. That’s why I pushed him on the president.”
Rapp was missing something. “And why is this good…”
“The whole idea behind creating the new cabinet position of director of National Intelligence is to consolidate all of these far-flung agencies. We need someone who will get into the minutiae and reform from the top down.”
Rapp shook his head and set his beer down. “Listen, for the most part, I could give a rat’s ass what this guy does. Just keep him away from me, and the people I deal with.”
“I don’t see how I can help you here.”
A disbelieving expression formed on Rapp’s face. “The whole reason why I agreed to sit down with you and Walsh was that you guys were willing to offer me some serious funding, and that you’d keep people off my back. I’ve got enough enemies out there without having to worry about people who are supposed to be on my own team. If you can’t rein in a clown like Ross, we might as well end this right here and now.”
Hartsburg was smiling. He waved to the bartender. “Charlie, another beer for my friend.”
My friend, Rapp thought. I wouldn’t go that far.
Hartsburg made Rapp retell, in detail, what had happened when Ross popped into Kennedy’s office unannounced. By the time Rapp’s second beer arrived he’d told the senator the entire story.
“I assume you’ve seen the movie Patton,” said Hartsburg.
“Of course.”
“Remember the scene where they’re celebrating and the Russian general gives a toast and Patton refuses to drink.”
“Yeah.”
“And then the Russian calls him a bastard and Patton laughs and says, ‘All right, from one bastard to another…I’ll drink to that.’ ”
Rapp took a swig of the dark brown Guinness. “It’s one of the best scenes in the whole movie.”
“Well,” Hartsburg held up his glass, “you’re one of the biggest bastards in a town filled with bastards. So…from one bastard to another.”
The two men clanged glasses and drank. “Just so we’re clear,” said Rapp, “I’m Patton and you’re the commie.”
Hartsburg laughed. “That is my point exactly. You are Patton. You are this politically incorrect warrior who is good at only one thing and that is fighting terrorism. You’ve saved the president’s life on one occasion, and you had a very big hand in making sure this city wasn’t nuked. I have never agreed with your tactics, but that close call last Memorial Day woke a lot of us up. These are drastic times and they call for drastic measures. We need to isolate these radicals, and we need to turn their own people against them. It needs to be done covertly and it needs to be off the books. You,” the senator pointed to Rapp, “are the perfect man for the job.”
“
You still haven’t solved my problem.”
“Maybe we need to bring Ross in on this?”
Rapp shook his head. “No way. Too many people are already involved.”
“Then that leaves only one option.”
“What’s that?”
“You act like Patton.”
Rapp frowned.
“Let me explain what makes Mark Ross tick, and then let me tell you how to handle him.”
23
MONTREAL, CANADA
G ould took the overnight flight from Paris to Montreal and arrived early morning. He was traveling with a French passport under the name of Marcel Moliere. His stated purpose was business—pharmaceutical sales, to be more precise. He hailed a taxi at the airport and headed for the Hyatt downtown. A haven for international businessmen who visited the largest French-speaking city outside of France, the Hyatt suited his needs perfectly. It was upscale, with over 300 rooms and a very well staffed business center. Claudia was several thousand miles away en route to the island of Nevis to make sure their fee was secure from the army of snoops and hackers now employed by the U.S. government.
Louie Gould had many secrets, and one of them was that he had worked briefly for France’s Direction Génerale de la Securité Exterieure or DGSE. The DGSE was France’s main intelligence arm for industrial and economic espionage and for penetrating terrorist organizations. Gould had done his time in the Legion and had been looking for new challenges. As an officer, and a citizen of France, he was a priority recruit for DGSE. What sealed the deal was the fact that his diplomat father detested the spy agency and everything it stood for.