Act Of Treason Part 15

Stu Garret exited the Willard lobby onto Pennsylvania Avenue and turned immediately to his left. It was five to seven in the morning. He was tired and crabby. A night owl even as he approached sixty, Garret didn't like to get out of bed before 9:00 or 10:00 if at all possible. But this morning he couldn't sleep. There was simply too much on his mind. He needed to make a call. A gust of wind hit him square in the face and he swore out loud as he clutched for the fur-lined hood of his puffy down jacket.

"Six more days and I'm done with this s.h.i.t hole," he grumbled to himself.

Garret pulled the hood over his head and zipped the jacket all the way up under his double chin. Born in Detroit, he left when he was eighteen and never returned. He hated the weather, and the people. Detroit was for losers, and Garret wasn't afraid to tell that to people. Especially his clients. The place was a shining example of how unions and special interest groups could come together to suck a city dry by driving off its tax base.

Southern California was the place to be. San Diego in particular, where Democrats were liberal on social issues only. Fiscally, they were as conservative as any northeastern Republican. The people who flocked to San Diego sunk their money into real estate. Very expensive real estate. They had worked too hard for their money to watch property values plummet due to the governance of a few bleeding-heart liberals. Abortion, gun control, and the environment were all hot-b.u.t.ton issues across America, but in San Diego real estate was the big overarching issue. People's entire life savings were tied up in their homes, and after living in sunny San Diego, retiring to Arizona or Florida made no sense. Garret couldn't wait to get back to San Diego and his toys.

Garret took quick strides and kept his head down. His retainer for the campaign had been a million dollars. That was just for him. He was a one-man gun for hire. Stu Garret, the political savant. By the time the campaign was over he'd burned through the retainer plus another million. On top of that his contract called for a million-dollar bonus if they won. Garret was flush with cash. He'd now managed two separate presidential campaigns and won both. Candidates across the country were reaching out for his advice. He'd even received a few calls from abroad. He was at the top of the heap. People were lining up to hand him large retainers. For the first time in his career he considered bringing someone else on board.

Garret tried to tell himself it wasn't about money. His home was paid for, his wife was as frugal as he was, and their only child, a daughter, had married an SOB of a trial lawyer who made gobs of money. The two of them, and their two children, lived up in L.A. with all the beautiful people. There was one area where Garret really spent money, though. He loved to collect vintage muscle cars and rare motorcycles. Beyond that he was pretty much addicted to golf, and then there was the big forty-two-foot cruiser he kept down at the marina. The boat and golf membership were for entertaining clients. Golf was a must. It was an intricate part of his business. He'd sealed more deals on the golf course than in an office by a landslide. The cars and the motorcycles, those were purely for his own gratification. He supposed they brought him back to his youth and his own father who had worked on the a.s.sembly line for General Motors. Back when they made great cars. Garret only collected American vehicles made before 1970. Everything made after that was s.h.i.t. Although, Detroit had begun to turn out some decent vehicles lately. Ford had a new Mustang Shelby that was supposed to be out of this world, and Chevy was coming out with a new Camaro. If he caught another big fish this week he could buy one in every color.

That was part of the reason Garret had given into hanging around town. It was only Monday, but already the party's big-money people were arriving for Sat.u.r.day's inauguration. He had meetings set up all week. Those running for the U.S. Senate or a state governorship were the only two he'd touch. He was done with congressional races no matter how much money they were willing to pay. He already had his eye on the next presidential campaign. No campaign manager had ever won three presidential elections.

Garret cleared the Treasury Department and was. .h.i.t with another blast of wind. He turned left, put his head down, and reminded himself to avoid taking on any new clients from northern states. He continued east, pa.s.sing the White House and picking up Pennsylvania Avenue at 17th Street. From there he angled northwest for two blocks to the building that housed what was left of the campaign offices. At the height of the campaign they'd leased two full floors. After their victory, ninety percent of the s.p.a.ce was converted into transition offices for the new administration. The personnel and furniture all pretty much stayed the same. The only real difference was who paid the bills. During the race, the campaign wrote the checks. Now it was the federal government. To the victor go the spoils, or something like that.

The lobby was enclosed in gla.s.s. The floor was covered in white marble with a green border around the edges. In the middle was a black elevated desk that looked like it belonged on a sci-fi movie set. There was a black woman sitting behind the desk and beyond her were three elevator banks. Garret pushed his way through the main door and started for the elevator bank on the far right. Still chilled, he didn't bother to take his hood off. He walked straight past the toy cop and the stupid little sign-in sheet.

"Excuse me, sir," the security guard called from behind her desk. "I'm going to need you to sign in."

Garret didn't break stride. He pulled his office badge out of his left pocket and went straight for the elevator. He took it up to the fifth floor and stepped into an empty reception area. Red, white, and blue campaign signs hung from the wall like vintage artwork. The big banner right behind the reception desk was filled with signatures and a few drawings. It had been Ross's idea to motivate the troops. They were going to present it to Alexander after he was sworn in on Sat.u.r.day. Garret supposed it would be hanging in the man's presidential library someday. Garret looked to his left and then his right. The floor was covered with dark gray carpeting and the walls were covered with light gray wallpaper. The place was bland, but more importantly, empty.

Garret pictured all the young volunteers still sleeping in the their hotel rooms. They were no longer volunteers of course. They were now on the government payroll. With the pressures of the campaign behind them, they were partying even harder than they had during the election, which one would think impossible. It was standard operating procedure on campaigns to provide volunteers with four things: coffee, food, liquor, and a place to sleep. The booze, the fact that the bulk of the volunteers were in their twenties, and the fact that they all pretty much stayed at the same hotel, created an interesting environment. If the general public had any idea how much fornicating happened on these campaigns, they'd be shocked.

To his right were some of the transition offices and to his left, four actual offices and another dozen workstations for the campaign staff. Garret's office was in the far corner. He hesitated for a moment and then decided it would be better if he made this call from someone else's desk. He started toward the transition offices. He pa.s.sed a few rooms, all empty. Looking out across the sea of cubicles he listened for a sign that some loser who didn't get laid was in early to impress his boss. There was nothing but the hum of the overhead lights.

Garret walked into the next office, left the light off, and shut the door. He retrieved a piece of paper from his pocket. It was from the Willard, with just a phone number with an international dialing prefix on it. No name. Garret picked up the handset and entered the number. This was the real reason he was still in town. It helped to meet some of these fat cats in person, but he could have traveled to see them or they could have visited him in San Diego. The negotiating always went well after a round of golf and a few c.o.c.ktails on the boat. He would have definitely gone back to warm sunny California if it hadn't been for this last piece of business.

After a few rings a woman answered, and Garret said, "I need to speak with Joseph."

"May I ask who is calling?"

"No. Just get him on the phone."

Garret looked around the office. There were no personal photos. Nothing that could tell him whose office it was. On the wall next to the door was one of those stupid motivational posters. It showed a men's crew team rowing on a river. In large letters across the top were the words, "Team Work." Garret shook his head. Any jacka.s.s who needed to find motivation, inspiration, or anything else in some ma.s.s-produced trite piece of junk wasn't going to get far in this business.

Joseph Speyer finally came on the line and in a cautious voice said, "h.e.l.lo?"

"We've got a problem," Garret blurted out.

"Oh...h.e.l.lo, Stu. My a.s.sistant told me there was a rude American on the line. Which is fairly redundant, don't you think? But nonetheless, I should have guessed it was you."

"Very funny."

"Why did you not come to my party? Your boss came."

"He isn't my boss."

"Oh Stu...such a big chip on your shoulder. It must be difficult going through life so angry all the time."

"Yeah," Garret laughed gruffly. "But probably not as bad as taking it up the a.s.s, like you do."

"Stu," Speyer said with mock surprise. "You are a Democrat. You are supposed to support my people."

"You might want to drop using my name every other line, and I do support your people. Go ahead, get married. What the f.u.c.k do I care? It's just not my bag...what you guys do between the sheets."

"Maybe you should try it some time."

"No thanks." Garret looked out the window and watched a cab pa.s.s by on the street below. "Back to the point. We've got a major f.u.c.king problem!"

There was a sigh and then Speyer said, "How could we possibly have a problem? Everything turned out exactly as you wanted."

"Your buddy promised that he was going to b.u.t.ton things up on his end."

"And as far as I know he did."

"You don't know s.h.i.t. The FBI is going to hold a press conference in a few hours."

"Why?"

"They've arrested someone."

There was a long pause before Speyer responded. "Do you know who?"

"I don't have a name, but I've heard it's the guy."

"Impossible. I just spoke with your boss on Sat.u.r.day. He said the FBI's investigation was dead in the water. He was being briefed daily."

"It wasn't the FBI who found him."

"Who was it?"

"The CIA."

"That is wonderful news," Speyer said with feigned enthusiasm.

"Just f.u.c.king great."

"I will make sure to pa.s.s it along to our friend."

"Yeah...you do that, and on an entirely different matter, tell him I want scorched earth. Do you follow me?"

"I think so."

"Good."

"You know this man the CIA grabbed...it's too bad that it's probably as far as they'll get. I've seen how these people operate. They rarely know who hired them."

"So I've heard."

"I will call you back after I speak with our friend."

"Don't bother," Garret said. "Just tell him if he doesn't handle this problem immediately I have no intention of following through on our end of the bargain."

"He will not be happy to hear that."

"I don't give a f.u.c.k what makes him happy or not. He needs to do what he said he would do and he needs to do it today." Garret slammed the phone back into its cradle and walked out of the office.

27.

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA.

Kennedy sat behind her desk and watched and listened as McMahon and Juarez worked themselves into a frenzy. She knew both of them extremely well. It was not abnormal to see either of them get this upset. They were very pa.s.sionate about their jobs. The unusual part was seeing them upset at the same time. Well, that wasn't exactly right either. The abnormality lay in them being upset over the same thing. Their jobs dictated that they approach situations from different angles. Angles that didn't always intersect. What Juarez deemed to be best for America did not always jibe with the FBI's vision. In essence, McMahon's job was to enforce the law and investigate and arrest those who broke it. Juarez's job was to send men and women to foreign countries to recruit spies, gather information, conduct covert operations, and pretty much break laws on a weekly if not daily basis. There was an undeniable conflict between the two missions.

Mitch Rapp had somehow managed to get both men on the same page, which was another red flag to Kennedy. Mitch was a disrespectful, almost always unmanageable a.s.set. He was akin to a company's top sales rep, who was often the same guy who thumbed his nose at the sales manager, showed up late to meetings, or didn't show at all and in general did whatever in the h.e.l.l he wanted, just so long as he kept hitting his numbers. Pretty much every successful company had a rep that fit that bill. Men and women who were at their best when management stayed out of their way. Smart bosses knew it was wise to turn them loose and look in the other direction. In a sense Rapp had been the CIA's top rep for ten-plus years and counting, and Juarez was his de facto sales manager. Juarez did not resent Rapp. He'd been on the messy end of black ops himself and the two men shared that unique bond, which was no small thing in a bureaucracy where ninety-nine percent of the employees had a desk job. Juarez respected Rapp, even revered him and depended on him in situations just like this to get results where others had failed. The problem, Kennedy knew, lay in the fact that Rapp had corrupted one of Juarez's precious recruits. Rapp had gotten Brooks involved in what could quickly become a criminal investigation. If this went south it would be a big blow to the Clandestine Service. Juarez might even lose his job over the deal.

"The videotape," McMahon said, "from the Starbucks...is not enough evidence to convict this guy. The attorney general is losing his mind over this. You told us he was the guy."

"He is," Kennedy said calmly. She'd had almost a day now to consider the situation, and she was slightly embarra.s.sed that she had allowed her own emotions to cloud her judgment. First off, getting upset with Rapp served no purpose. She should have known that after all these years. He was going to do what he thought best regardless of orders from HQ.

"Can you back that up?"

"Not at the moment."

"s.h.i.t." McMahon had his dark blue pinstripe suit jacket open and a hand on each hip. A bulky pistol sat on his right hip and his badge was clipped to his belt above his left front pocket. As a general rule he didn't carry his pa.s.sport sized FBI credentials. Some people acted funny around guns, so he kept his badge displayed.

"You're going to have to do better than that," the agent continued. "The press conference is in less than three hours, and I need some real evidence. All I've got at the moment is a shot-up Greek guy who keeps claiming he was kidnapped and tortured. This could get really embarra.s.sing."

Kennedy wondered if that was what Rapp was up to. Punishing everyone for going public with this.

"Let's get Brooks in here," Juarez said. "She knows what the h.e.l.l is going on."

"Are you sure about that?" Kennedy asked.

"h.e.l.l yes. She told me herself that Mitch told her to say nothing. He said he would show up in a few days and take care of everything, and in the meantime she was to keep her mouth shut."

"I know that's what he told her, but that doesn't mean she knows what he's up to."

"How about simply telling us what in the h.e.l.l really happened in Cyprus?" Juarez asked.

"How about telling me anything?" McMahon jumped in. "She shows up at Andrews yesterday in a white rental van, from where, we have no idea. We were expecting them to land on a plane. My people ran down the plates on the van. It was rented by some LLC out of Baltimore that exists on paper only. We checked the gate logs at the base. She showed up five minutes before the handoff. We called Customs and Immigration. They show no record of Brooks or Rapp entering the country yesterday. I don't suppose either of you would like to tell me what aliases they were traveling under?"

Kennedy and Juarez didn't bother looking at each other. They both shook their heads in response to the agent's question.

McMahon looked down at the ground and grabbed the back of his neck with his right hand. After a moment he said, "Now I might not care how in the h.e.l.l they got this guy from Cyprus to the States without clearing him through customs, but I know a whole lot of other people who are are going to care. People at Justice are already asking questions, and I'm sure when this guy gets a lawyer he is going to want to review the chain of custody. Add to that the press and you guys are going to get a whole lot of unwanted attention. My office tells me they're already receiving calls. They're going to be all over you by this afternoon." going to care. People at Justice are already asking questions, and I'm sure when this guy gets a lawyer he is going to want to review the chain of custody. Add to that the press and you guys are going to get a whole lot of unwanted attention. My office tells me they're already receiving calls. They're going to be all over you by this afternoon."

That was it, Kennedy thought to herself. This was exactly what Mitch was worried about. Their tactics and methods being exposed. So the question she had for herself was, Kennedy thought to herself. This was exactly what Mitch was worried about. Their tactics and methods being exposed. So the question she had for herself was, What was Rapp really up to? Was he destroying evidence or collecting evidence? Or both? What was Rapp really up to? Was he destroying evidence or collecting evidence? Or both?

"I say we get her in here." Juarez said in an impatient voice.

"Brooks," Kennedy replied.

"Yes."

"I think you two are being a bit hard on her."

Juarez's eyes practically popped out of his head. "Hard on her? I've had the kid gloves on until now. I'm half tempted to get the Office of Security in here. Have them turn on the hot lights and polygraph her a.s.s."

Kennedy placed her gla.s.ses on top of a leather briefing folder. She used both hands to square them up perfectly in the center of the smooth, brown surface. Kennedy had thought Juarez would threaten to do this, but she wondered how much of it was bl.u.s.ter. The move carried with it certain risks. The Office of Security would start a paper trail that just might get the Inspector General's Office involved, and then they were only one step away from the Department of Justice and the FBI.

"I think she's been put in a very difficult position."

"What's so difficult about being debriefed by your boss?"

"I think everyone needs to take a step back and look at this from a different angle."

"What angle could that possibly be?" Juarez asked sarcastically.

Kennedy shot him a look and said, "Mitch's angle."

"Irene," Juarez's jaw was clenched, "I have a lot of respect for Mitch, and he has pulled some pretty goofy s.h.i.t over the years, but this one takes the prize."

"You were as upset as I've ever seen you yesterday," McMahon said. "Why the h.e.l.l are you all of a sudden defending him?"

Kennedy leaned back in her chair and glanced out the window before answering. "I was distracted yesterday. I think I made a mistake."

"What mistake?"

"I did not advise the president as closely as I should have on this."

"How so?"

"Going public..." Kennedy shook her head, "this fast...bad idea."

"Mitch told you this was the guy. One hundred percent. The smart thing for you to do was turn him over."

"We could have waited...should have waited a week or two, or maybe we should have just let Mitch take care of the problem for us."

"I didn't hear that," McMahon said as he shut his eyes tightly.

"What's done is done," Juarez added. "What I want are answers. I'm willing to give Brooks one more chance. Let's bring her in here, lay out her options, and get to the bottom of this. I want to know what in the h.e.l.l Mitch is trying to hide."

Kennedy studied Juarez for a moment and then looked to McMahon.