Consent To Kill_ A Thriller Part 16

"Jonathan...good to see you again." Rapp released Ross's hand and looked down at the other two individuals who he did not know. Before he had the chance to introduce himself, something on the surface of the conference table caught his eye. Rapp stopped and stared at the grainy black-and-white photo on the table. His blood pressure started to rise almost instantly. His lips parted. n.o.body moved.

"You've got to be s.h.i.tting me." Rapp reached down and grabbed the photograph.

It was a surveillance photo of a warehouse. Rapp had been there many times. Parked in front was a large Ford Excursion and standing next to it was a man with blond hair. The man was Scott Coleman. Rapp's face was now flushed with anger. The man sitting beneath his hand started packing up the contents that were laid out on the table. Rapp grabbed the guy between the collarbone and clavicle. His fingers dug in.

"Don't touch a thing." Rapp reached over and placed the photo on the table. He released the man's neck and put both hands on the back of his chair. He stepped to the side and wheeled the chair with the man in it away from the table. These people were anonymous. Underlings of some sort. They did not need to be involved in this. Looking at the other person who he had not met, Rapp said, "Would you two please excuse us for a minute?"

The men got up and left without a word. The solid door closed with a dull thud. Gordon stayed seated and to his credit remained calm. Director Ross on the other hand did not.

"Just what in the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?" he asked furiously.

"Saving you from stepping in it your first month on the job." Rapp didn't bother looking up. He was leafing through the files on the table. Coleman's service jacket from the Pentagon was there, his last five years of personal and corporate tax returns and a nifty little surveillance file that looked to have been compiled over the last few days. Rapp held up the surveillance file.

"Are you out of your f.u.c.king f.u.c.king mind?" He looked Ross right in the eye and resisted the urge to reach out and whack him across the head with the file. mind?" He looked Ross right in the eye and resisted the urge to reach out and whack him across the head with the file.

Ross began to shake, he was so angry. "Get the h.e.l.l out of my office right now!" He pointed at the door for good measure.

Rapp grabbed Ross's finger like he was s.n.a.t.c.hing a fly out of mid-air. He bent the index finger back and forced the director down in his chair. Men like Ross were always shocked by physical contact. Most of them had never been in a fight, or if they had, it had been a long time ago.

"What kind of a control freak are you?" asked Rapp. "You have over a hundred thousand people spread over I don't even know how many agencies. Your job is to make these agencies work better together. That's it. It's not to run operations or investigate people, but you meet Scott Coleman for all of two minutes and you don't like the way he answers you, so you start trying to dig up dirt on him."

Ross's face was twisted with anger. "You wait until I talk to the president. You have finally gone too far. You have no right barging in here like this."

Rapp grabbed his cell phone from his hip. "Let's call him right now. I've got his private line right here on speed dial." Rapp thrust his phone in front of the director's face. "You didn't even know he had a private line, did you?"

The look on Ross's face betrayed the truth.

"We can tell him," said Rapp, "how good a job you're doing of micromanaging the various intelligence agencies. We can tell him how you called up one of your lackeys over at the IRS, and told them to audit Scott Coleman...who the president knows and likes by the way. A decorated veteran. The president will be furious. While we're at it, why don't we call a few of your old buddies on the Hill and tell them how you're using your staff to spy on private citizens?" He waved the file in front of Ross's face. "That's what this is by the way. It's spying on a private citizen, you fricken fricken hypocrite. And you spent twelve years up on that f.u.c.king hill p.i.s.sing and moaning about the CIA. Grandstanding in front of the cameras and saying that we'd better not be spying on American citizens...suspected terrorist or not." hypocrite. And you spent twelve years up on that f.u.c.king hill p.i.s.sing and moaning about the CIA. Grandstanding in front of the cameras and saying that we'd better not be spying on American citizens...suspected terrorist or not."

The file was arranged with thumb tabs. One of the tabs was labeled Phone Records. Rapp opened it and started looking at the calls. "You have a subpoena for these records? Did you go to a judge? I didn't know you had investigative powers. I don't think the press knows you were given investigative powers. I'm sure they'd love to write about it. Get you all bogged down and ineffective before you even had a chance to make any reforms."

Ross was indignant. He yelled, "I demand to know what the two of you are up to, and I demand to know right now! Neither of you are private citizens! You work for me!"

This time Rapp couldn't resist. His anger got the best of him. The file was about an inch thick. He cracked Ross across the left side of his head with it. Ross's perfectly combed hair went askew, with a clump falling across his forehead, partly obscuring his left eye.

Rapp grabbed him by the front of the shirt. "Listen, you idiot. I don't answer to you. I answer to the president. I hunt terrorists for a living, and the last thing I need is some hack like you, who doesn't know jack s.h.i.t about what we're up against, looking over my shoulder and telling me what to do." Rapp released his shirt and shoved a shocked Ross back into his chair.

Rapp took a step back. "Don't think I don't know the game here. This is your stepping stone to bigger things. That's your plan, isn't it, Ross? You want to be president someday."

Ross was too angry to speak. Rapp glanced over at Gordon, who was still cool as a cuc.u.mber. "I heard you're the reasonable one. Talk some sense into him, because I promise you this...I can't make him president," Rapp pointed at Ross, "but I'll guarantee you I can make sure this is the last government job he ever holds."

Rapp grabbed the other files and stuffed them under his arm. He didn't even bother to address Ross. He looked at Gordon. "Call the IRS off by noon, or I'll see you two in the Oval Office, and I promise it'll make this look like a f.u.c.king picnic."

Gordon didn't answer. He just nodded.

Rapp left with the files and slammed the door shut behind him.

Gordon waited a few seconds and then heaved a huge sigh. He slowly began shaking his head. He looked over at his boss, and said, "I told you..."

"Don't say it," snapped Ross. "I know you told me this was a bad idea. I know you told me Rapp was the wrong guy to mess with. I know! I know! I know!" Ross sprang out of his chair. He walked over to his desk and looked out the window and down the street toward the White House. After fifteen seconds of silence, he said, "I think I should talk to the president about this."

Gordon just looked at him. "Are you out of your mind?" There was no malice in his tone. It was more clinical. Like a shrink. "Did you hear anything he just said? That was Mitch Rapp, Mark. He kills people for a living. He penetrates terrorist cells. He ran I don't know how many deep-cover ops. He's on a first-name basis with the president. Get him out of your mind. Get Coleman out of your mind. We have more than enough stuff to tackle."

Gordon watched his boss. He knew how the man thought. He knew how large the man's ego was. He knew how hard it would be for him to walk away from something like this. "Mark, this isn't worth it. It's beneath you. You're going to be president someday and when that happens, you can do whatever you want. Right now, though, we need to just walk away from it."

Ross ground his teeth and kept staring at the White House. He'd never been more humiliated in his entire life. He didn't give a c.r.a.p who Mitch Rapp was. He could outmaneuver anyone in this town. Ross told himself to get control of his anger. He would regroup. Be more careful next time. Hire better people. As much as he hated to admit it, Gordon was right. It was good advice. At least for now. But if an opportunity presented itself, he would crush Mitch Rapp and make that Neanderthal pay dearly. Rapp needed to be taught his place in the natural order of things. He needed to be brought to heel at the boot of the elected officials. Ross nodded slowly, and a sly smile crept over his face. He would get even. No, he would get more than even. When the time was right he would destroy Mitch Rapp.

25.

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND.

I t had taken Gould the better part of the day to drive down from Montreal. The border crossing had been a joke. He put on a suit and tie. He bought a big travel mug, the kind you can purchase at any gas station in North America, and filled it with bad coffee. He put his briefcase on the front pa.s.senger seat and hung a garment bag in the back driver's side window of his rented Ford Taurus. He was just another sales rep hitting the road. He timed it so he made the crossing during the morning rush. Cars were lined up in both directions for a hundred plus meters. The customs agent at the border didn't even ask him where he was going. The woman took his Canadian pa.s.sport, opened it to the first available page, hammered it with a stamp and handed it back. If she had asked, he was going to tell her he was headed to Boston for the rest of the week and would be returning on Friday. But she hadn't asked. She had a line of cars to deal with and Gould was just another calm, bored businessman doing his job. t had taken Gould the better part of the day to drive down from Montreal. The border crossing had been a joke. He put on a suit and tie. He bought a big travel mug, the kind you can purchase at any gas station in North America, and filled it with bad coffee. He put his briefcase on the front pa.s.senger seat and hung a garment bag in the back driver's side window of his rented Ford Taurus. He was just another sales rep hitting the road. He timed it so he made the crossing during the morning rush. Cars were lined up in both directions for a hundred plus meters. The customs agent at the border didn't even ask him where he was going. The woman took his Canadian pa.s.sport, opened it to the first available page, hammered it with a stamp and handed it back. If she had asked, he was going to tell her he was headed to Boston for the rest of the week and would be returning on Friday. But she hadn't asked. She had a line of cars to deal with and Gould was just another calm, bored businessman doing his job.

The drive took twelve hours with a few stops along the way. He started out on Interstate 87 going south through upstate New York. It was beautiful country. The road skirted the west side of Lake Champlain. When Gould had lived in the States, he'd traveled a lot. He'd been down to Georgia and Texas. Had gone out to see Mount Rushmore and Yellowstone National Park with some of his cla.s.smates during one summer break. He'd traveled from Vancouver to San Diego and from Portland, Maine, to the Florida Keys. The one thing that always amazed him about America was its vastness, its never-ending, always-changing landscape. Each part of it was different and each part beautiful in its own way. This slice of northern New York had been no different. The fall colors were in their glory, and the towns that dotted the landscape were quaint.

He took the interstate straight south to Albany and filled up on gas, a single pastry, and some water. He paid for it all with cash. The rental car had been paid for with a credit card belonging to Peter Smith. Gould was Peter Smith. At least he was to the bank teller in Montreal where he had set up the account more than a year ago. He'd gone into the bank and opened a corporate account into which he deposited $5,000. He listed a P.O. box as the business address. Pretty standard stuff. The teller had offered him a cash card and a credit card right there on the spot. Gould had received both within a week. The credit card bill was automatically deducted from his bank account. The cards fit very nicely with the pa.s.sport and driver's license he'd had forged by a close friend from his Legion days. Neither card had been used before today, and neither would be used after today.

From Albany, he took Interstate 88 to Binghamton, New York. This part of the journey wasn't as nice as the first leg, but the road was in good shape and most of the traffic moved along at 80 mph. Gould moved in packs of cars. Tried not to be the lead vehicle or the last one. He went with the flow, and stayed in the right lane as much as possible. At Binghamton, he turned south and crossed the state line into Pennsylvania. He couldn't remember if Pennsylvania was a red state or a blue state, but he did know it was a hunting state. Gould kept alert for the right type of place and found it on the outskirts of Scranton.

He pulled into the ma.s.sive parking lot and walked into the equally ma.s.sive building. It was some type of retail Mecca for hunters, fishermen, and outdoorsmen. A big stuffed grizzly bear greeted him at the front door, its front paws up, claws extended, ready to strike. It was an impressive beast, and made him think of Mitch Rapp for a moment. He wondered how the beast had been slain. Probably a rifle shot from a good distance. It would be far too risky to get close to an animal like this. They had a great sense of smell and good hearing and they were surprisingly quick for their size. You'd need a heavy bullet with a lot of punch to take him down. If you didn't hit him in the brain, or the spine, he'd just keep coming. Even if you hit him in the heart, he might last another ten seconds, which would give him enough time to tear your head off with one of those big paws. What a shame to kill a beast like this without ever giving him a fighting chance.

He wondered if he'd give Mitch Rapp that chance, or if he'd simply conceal himself and shoot him in the head with a long rifle shot, like this hunter had undoubtedly done. Gould honestly didn't know. Part of him wanted to see who was better. Do it up close, just to prove he was the better warrior. But that was his ego talking, and he knew it. Rapp was like this grizzly. You'd have to be crazy to go toe-to-toe with him.

Gould shook his head and turned his attention away from the stuffed bear. Canoes, kayaks, and small aluminum fishing boats hung from the ceiling. At the far back of the store was a climbing wall, replete with colorful toe- and handholds. Bright colored ropes hung from the steel girders that supported the barrel roof. Gould grabbed a shopping cart and started off in the fitness department. He picked out some sweats, a shirt, and a pair of shorts. The women's stuff was right across the aisle and he loaded the cart with the same type of clothing for Claudia. Next he grabbed a pair of running shoes and socks for himself and then for Claudia. Gould had the beginnings of a plan. At least as far as the initial reconnaissance went.

He left the shoe department and found the hunting department. It took up half the store and it took him five minutes to get his bearings straight. He started off with the field gla.s.ses, and found a nice st.u.r.dy pair. He was about to move on, but spotted a night vision scope. It might come in handy. He smiled to himself and thought, only in America can you buy gear like this with such ease. He kept filling the shopping cart with the various things he might need. He had spent enough time on patrol to know what worked and what didn't. His last stop was the ammunition racks. He took his time finding the highest-grade ammunition available. The 9mm rounds for the pistol was no big deal. There was plenty of hollow-point steel jacket ammo to choose from. He grabbed two fifty-round boxes which was a lot of rounds considering he wasn't planning on firing more than five shots to make sure the sights on the Glock were as he had last left them. The rounds for the rifle took a little longer. He eventually settled on a box of Federal 168-grain HPBT bullets. It was amazing what you could buy off the shelf in America.

He finished up and went to the checkout line. Both sides of the line were merchandized with trinkets and other small items. Gould grabbed a few Power Bars and a pack of gum. He plopped everything down on the scanning counter and dug out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. The total came to just under a thousand dollars. He paid the polite woman and carried his four shopping bags out to his car. The bags were placed in the trunk and he was back on the road. From Scranton he continued on Interstate 81 south to Harrisburg and took 83 across the state line into Maryland. The sun was firmly in the west and daylight was fading by the time he reached Baltimore. Gould called the American Airlines toll-free number to check on Claudia's flight. It was on time and so was he. Just before the main entrance to Baltimore International Airport, Gould exited the highway and filled the car up. Claudia called while he was pumping gas. It was the first time his phone had rung since he'd purchased it two days earlier. It was good to hear her voice.

Gould topped off the tank, ran into the little shed, and paid for the gas. He pulled up to the American terminal just as she was exiting the building and fought the urge to jump out and kiss her. There were cameras everywhere. He kept the visors down and sat up straight. All Claudia had was a shoulder bag and a generic black carry-on bag. She put the carry-on in the backseat and got in the front with her shoulder bag. She leaned over and grabbed his face with both hands.

"I missed you." She kissed him on the lips.

Gould smiled and took his foot off the brake. "Are you hungry?"

"Famished."

"I know of a good place. I think you'll like it."

The operational rules had been set. They only spoke English. While Gould's was so good he seemed like a native, Claudia wasn't as proficient. Like him, she was traveling with a Canadian pa.s.sport. At least for the remainder of the day. Tomorrow morning they would change ident.i.ties yet again.

She nodded. "No problem crossing the border?"

"No," he said, "and you?"

"Landed in Miami and cleared customs without too much difficulty."

"Did they fingerprint you?"

"I'm afraid so."

Gould nodded. He thought they would, but at least the new system wasn't in sync yet. The airports had months of backlogged fingerprints that needed to be input and correlated. "The money?" he asked.

"No problem. It's safe." That's where Claudia had been. Making sure the five million dollars was sliced and diced, moved and shuffled and then put back together in the vault of a boutique financial inst.i.tution on a beautiful island in a very warm and sunny part of the world. Claudia was very good at such things. She had been in the banking business before they had decided to strike out on their own. She kept up on all the laws, regulations, and most importantly, which banks knew how to guard their clients' privacy in the face of an overzealous war on terror.

"What's the plan?" she asked as the car picked up speed.

"Downtown."

She looked at him sideways with a confused expression.

"I thought they lived out on the Chesapeake Bay."

"They do, but we don't know exactly where, and it would be foolish to start poking around. If he hears that strangers are asking questions, he's likely to come looking for us."

The explanation made sense to her. "But why are we going downtown?"

"Because that is where she works. We'll check into our hotel. Have a nice meal. Make love and then sleep."

"Tomorrow?"

"We'll do a little sightseeing. Get rid of this car, and if all goes well...we'll follow her home."

26.

WASHINGTON, DC.

T hey were to meet at the Capitol Grill. It was one of their favorite restaurants. hey were to meet at the Capitol Grill. It was one of their favorite restaurants. Bulletproof, Bulletproof, Rapp liked to call it. The place had yet to let them down. Order anything on the menu and it was great. It came out hot or cold depending on how it was supposed to be served. They covered the surf and the turf equally well, which was important because she ate fish and he ate steak. He actually ate anything, but at these prices he preferred red meat. Rapp liked to call it. The place had yet to let them down. Order anything on the menu and it was great. It came out hot or cold depending on how it was supposed to be served. They covered the surf and the turf equally well, which was important because she ate fish and he ate steak. He actually ate anything, but at these prices he preferred red meat.

Rapp was on time. She was late. This was nothing new, but it unnerved him to no end. They'd gone round and round over her lack of punctuality and had a few pretty big blowouts. Even under normal circ.u.mstances it would have bothered him, but their relationship was not normal. She was a TV correspondent who received at least one stalker letter a month. Nothing unusual really. At least not for women in her line of work. Middle-aged single men who undoubtedly had deep issues with their mothers. Voyeuristic sickos who got off on writing down their dirty thoughts. Every attractive woman at every TV station across the country had to deal with it to some degree or another. The good news was that ninety-nine percent of these perverts never graduated beyond the letter-writing stage. The remaining one percent gave Rapp cause for concern, but they were not the real source of his worries.

Rapp was a marked man with a price on his head. Fatwas, religious findings by Islamic clerics, had been handed down demanding that he be killed. This in part fed his desire to see men like Khalil resting in a pool of their own blood. They had entered the fray with their bellicose mouths and soft bodies. They were men who had never seen battle, and never would. Men who took perverse joy in inflaming the hearts of young Muslim boys, sending others to do work they had neither the skill nor the courage to perform. Those boys, and the ones who had grown into men, were the people Rapp worried about every time Anna was late.

Lovely Anna Rielly was a study in contrasts. Her delicate features and enchanting green eyes conveyed a sense of cla.s.sic beauty. Just beneath the surface, though, lurked the tough street-smart daughter of a Chicago cop. Rielly had grown up with four brothers, three of whom had followed in their father's footsteps. The fourth brother became a lawyer. His choice of profession and Anna's created a bit of a divide among the siblings. The three brothers who donned the uniform referred to Anna and the lawyer sibling as the enemy. the enemy. True to their Irish blood, the political debates were heated and s.h.i.t was deep. As was their love for each other. True to their Irish blood, the political debates were heated and s.h.i.t was deep. As was their love for each other.

This colorful upbringing on Chicago's South Side added tenacity to her beauty and smarts. Anna did not like defeat, and she knew not how to retreat. It was a very potent mix for a reporter. Rapp sought to hone these natural instincts, and hopefully teach her to detect trouble before it was upon her. She teased him about the Dictaphone he bought her, but eventually came around to the wisdom of the device. "If you think someone is following you," he told her, "record the license plate and I'll run it." She'd seen Rapp do this himself at least once a week. He put her through a defensive driving course, and taught her how to shoot both pistols and shotguns.

She was pretty good with both. Since she'd never shot before, there were no bad habits to break. Unlike most guys she held the weapon without trying to choke it. She had a smooth steady trigger pull and didn't antic.i.p.ate the shot. She just put the front site on the target and fired over and over. How good would she be if ever confronted with a real situation? It was hard to tell. The human body had automatic survival mechanisms. Chief among them was the release of adrenaline. At the first sign of danger the body released it before certain parts of the brain even knew what was going on. Adrenaline levels spiked in preparation for either of two choices-fight or flight. This is where it got tricky. It was where people came unglued, and it happened when they chose to do neither. They froze and were hit with the aftershock of the adrenaline hangover leaving them soggy and depleted. The only way to prepare someone for this was to practice over and over. Make all of the motions second nature. First work on the fundamentals, stance, grip, front sight, and trigger pull, and then work on marksmanship, and then after a solid foundation was built move on to situational training.

He had Anna practice drawing the gun from her purse and firing. They worked on both the left and the right hand. He taught her how to draw and fire at close range as if she were struggling with someone. How to reach out and punch the gun into the person's ribcage and let loose a round. He taught her to get in tune with her natural instincts. "If you're walking to your car at night and something doesn't seem right," he'd say to her, "unzip your purse and put your hand around the grip." Rapp got her a permit to carry and made sure every time she left the house she had the Smith and Wesson .38 AirLight revolver. It was light, had a short barrel and a relatively small hammer. It was very user friendly, and the ideal personal defense weapon for someone in Anna's position. He was obsessed with her well-being, and with giving her the edge that he himself possessed through years and years of training. He never worried about his own safety. Only hers.

Rapp was situated in the back of the restaurant in a corner booth. His drink arrived, and a short while after that the calamari was set on the table by one of the servers. It was the best calamari in town. Rapp did not wait for Anna. He was famished and surly, so he dug in. After devouring half the plate, he paused and took a sip of his whisky. He chased it with some water, looked toward the front door with his dark, almost black eyes, and shook his head in frustration. She was now twenty-five minutes late, and his mood was getting more rank by the minute. She was going to give him an ulcer.

Add to his wife's habitual tardiness his earlier meeting with the new director of National Intelligence, and it was no wonder he was in such a foul state. He'd been tempted earlier in the day to pay the president an unannounced visit and tell him to get rid of Ross before the man really stepped in it, but Rapp dismissed the idea almost immediately. It was naive of him to think the president would do something so drastic based on one blunder. Gone, in Washington, were the days of people being shamed from public office and slinking out of town under cover of darkness. Now people hung on for weeks, sometimes months, while their media and publicity flacks tried to spin their way out of the problem. The media, especially the cable news outlets, loved this.

Rapp sincerely hoped Ross would heed his warning. For everyone's sake. Something told him, however, it was wishful thinking. He'd dealt with this type of man before. Washington was filled with them. They didn't like losing. Ross would be licking his wounds right now, and trying to figure out a way to get even, or more likely, bury him. Kennedy was the obvious target, but Ross would have to be careful. He would still be afraid of Rapp carrying through on his threat and rightly so. If the president caught Ross wasting his time and resources following Scott Coleman he would be furious. It wasn't enough to get the man fired, but it would be enough to provoke some genuine anger.

Rapp would have to prepare contingencies, find some additional leverage on Ross, and he would have to tell Coleman to be extra careful. An easy move for Ross at this point would be to anonymously put the FBI onto Coleman's trail. Rapp should have covered that during their meeting. He'd have to call Ross's right-hand man, Gordon, and make it crystal clear what was at stake. Gordon at least seemed like someone he could deal with.

Kennedy was another problem. She would not be happy when she found out what he'd done. He'd put off telling her all day. His excuse to himself was that the timing was never right, but that was lame. He just didn't want to tell her. She was the one who would be dealing with Ross on a day-to-day basis, though. He'd do it in the morning.

He was reaching for his phone to call his wife when she entered the restaurant. A mini commotion ensued as the ma.s.s of men in the bar area turned to get a look. Several of them cut her off before she could get to the restaurant. Rapp was uttering profanities under his breath as he watched. Reporters, especially the TV variety, were celebrities in D.C.

She would have turned heads anyway, Rapp thought. Rapp thought.

Anna Rielly was full of life. She had a smile that lit up the room, and a whole lot of confidence to boot. She carried herself like someone who knew exactly what she wanted and that was no front. Anna really did know what she wanted and she almost always got it.

Anna shook hands as she moved through the crowd quickly, but politely. She was good that way. She flashed her infectious smile, tossed her hair about, and laughed, but kept herself quartered at all times. She never let them fully engage her and suck her into a potentially lengthy conversation. She kept smiling and nodding and then pointed at her watch and then her husband located in the far corner of the restaurant.

"I'm sorry," she apologized as she finally strode up to the table. "I was walking out the door when Sam called." Sam was her producer in New York. "He wanted to go over tomorrow's live shot for the Today Today show, and then he just kept talking and talking." She made a puppetlike gesture with her hand, mimicking the chattering motion of a person's mouth. show, and then he just kept talking and talking." She made a puppetlike gesture with her hand, mimicking the chattering motion of a person's mouth.

Rapp stood and kissed her on the cheek. His anger was already melting away, but he couldn't let it go entirely. "It was nice of you to call."

"I know," she said in defense, "but by the time I got off the phone with Sam, Liz called me on my cell, so I just grabbed my bag and left."

Liz O'Rourke was Anna's best friend. He took her jacket and hung it on the hook at the end of the booth. Anna scooted in across the bench and he joined her on the same side. Rapp considered pointing out that she could have called Sam back on her mobile phone, but knew they'd simply end up in a fight. She'd just say he was the last person who should be complaining after all the nights she'd lain awake wondering if he was dead. It was better to just let it go.

"So," she said, "would you mind telling me what's going on?"

"What do you mean?" he asked. He had no idea what she was talking about.

"Well, when I was leaving work Jack Warch escorted me to my car." She looked at him with her unwavering green eyes.

Rapp tossed his head to the side as if to say oh that, oh that, but nonetheless tried to downplay it. "Irene got a phone call from one of our allies. Supposedly some crazy Wahhabi has been shooting his mouth off that he wants to kill me." Rapp said this with as much gravity as if he was announcing to her that they were out of her favorite Chardonnay. but nonetheless tried to downplay it. "Irene got a phone call from one of our allies. Supposedly some crazy Wahhabi has been shooting his mouth off that he wants to kill me." Rapp said this with as much gravity as if he was announcing to her that they were out of her favorite Chardonnay.

"Lovely." She sat back and folded her arms.

The waiter appeared with a gla.s.s of wine that Rapp had already ordered for her.

As soon as the man was out of earshot Anna said, "You must be pretty worried if you called Jack."

Rapp considered this for a moment. He didn't want to alarm her, but at the same time he didn't want to make light of it. "I'm no more, or less, concerned than I normally would be. I had to talk to Jack about something else today, so I mentioned it to him. He's offered before, so I decided it was a good idea to take him up on it."

She looked at him with her reporter's eyes, trying to detect how forthright he was being.

"Honey, I'm serious. I don't want you to be alarmed, but at the same time I want you to be aware."