Executive Power Part 7

Abe Spielman was a scholar. A writer of books and a professor of theology and history, who just so happened to moonlight as a spy. Or vice versa. He gazed down the length of the heavy wood table. The sight of the young man before him, so full of vigor and youth, reminded him of just how old he was.

"Excuse me for not getting up to greet you, Jabril. "The voice was raspy and slightly unsteady.

"Don't be silly, Abe," laughed David.

"You don't need to get up for me." He crossed around the room and extended a warm hand.

Spielman took it weakly in his own and said, "Please sit. Tell me how you've been, my friend."

"I've been fine." David dropped gracefully into the chair on Spiel-man's left.

"And you?"

"Fine." He clasped his hands and added, "My graduate a.s.sistants do most of my work now so I can focus on my writing."

"Is that good or bad?"

Spielman frowned.

"A bit of both, I suppose. I miss the kids mostly.

Their youthful exuberance."

"But you don't miss the politics of the university?" David knew that his old friend felt very strongly about the takeover of Hebrew University by the ultra-orthodox rabbis of his religion.

"They will be the end of us all. You know it as well as I. The zealots of Judaism and the zealots of Islam will drive us all right into the abyss."

David nodded knowingly. They had discussed it for years. After a long reflective moment he said, "If there were more people like us, peace wouldn't be such a problem."

"Problem." Spielman wryly noted the use of the word in relation to peace. There was a time not so long ago when he thought he would see peace between the two peoples of Palestine, but now he felt that elusive prize slipping over the horizon. He'd dreamt of an armistice between Arabs and Jews for many years. He knew that for his tiny nation to survive long-term they would need to forge a real and lasting friendship with their neighbors. In recent years, though, that had all slipped away.

"I do not think I will see peace in my lifetime."

David noted that there was genuine sadness in the old man's eyes when he spoke. In an encouraging voice he said, "It might not be as far off as you think, Abe."

Spielman shook his head.

"No. There is no hope. Things are worse today than they have ever been short of the War of Independence.

When teenage girls begin strapping bombs to themselves and blowing themselves up in public, we have reached a level of despair and hatred that the world has rarely seen."

"Not even with the n.a.z.is?" asked David a bit skeptically.

"The n.a.z.is were bullies; inhumane coldhearted butchers. They detested us, but in their minds we were beneath them." The professor paused for a moment and then added, "These martyrs that we are facing today hate us with every ounce of their being. But they also think that we are the villains, the cause of all their problems."

He added sadly, "I warned my people years ago that these camps would someday be our undoing. Everyone ignored me, though. Apparently there were better things to spend our money on." Spielman frowned at the shortsightedness of politicians.

"When you take away all hope, when you treat people as if they are no better than animals, undeserving of respect and compa.s.sion, do not be surprised one day when the whole lot of them rise up and shake off their bonds. It is the story of my own people being led from Egypt by Moses."

"Except the Palestinians," added David, "are already home."

"Exactly. They are not going anywhere. They want us to leave. For the first time they have seen hope in these so-called martyrs. They dance in the street when innocent Jewish women and children are killed."

"Are not innocent Palestinian women and children killed by your tanks and your missiles?" David parried.

Spielman eyed the younger man like a stern father.

"You do not see Jews dancing in the street when a Palestinian baby is borne from the rubble."

David nodded. It was an ugly reality that his people not only rationalized the murder of civilians, but celebrated each death as if it were a glorious event.

"The day of a Palestinian state is not far off. The economy of Israel cannot hang on much longer. Tourism has all but withered away.

If it were not for the Americans propping us up we wouldn't last more than a week. Yes, Jabril, you will get your state, and then there will be great bloodshed. Jewish settlers will refuse to leave the occupied territories and the bigots that your people look to for guidance will never be satisfied until all of Palestine is cleansed of Jewish blood. We will continue in this downward death spiral for years." He shook his head sadly.

"And I'm afraid my people no longer have the stomach it will take for such a fight."

David nodded thoughtfully. Everything the elderly Jew said he agreed with; especially the last part. It was, in fact, the reason why he was here.

"I agree with much of what you say but I am not quite so fatalistic."

"That is because you are young. You have many years ahead of you where I have only but a few. My faith in humanity has dwindled over this past decade. I feel as if we are settling into a dark period."

David reached out for the old man's hand.

"Do not give up hope just yet." With a smile he added, "A meeting is set to take place tomorrow evening." David pulled a small sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and slid it in front of Spielman. On the list were eight names that were sure to grab the professor's attention.

Spielman donned a pair of reading gla.s.ses and glanced over the list.

His mouth went completely dry. The list was a virtual who's who of terrorists in the occupied territories. It was more than he'd bargained for. When he began cultivating a relationship with Jabril many years ago he knew the young Palestinian had the potential to do great things. Jabril's parents were rationalists who placed a high value on education and shunned the violence and fiery rhetoric of the PLO. Spielman thought that Jabril might someday be a real leader of his people.

But as much as he thought their friendship might someday bear the fruit of good intelligence, he never thought it would lead to such a staggering moment.

Mossad had kept an eye on him, discovering only recently the young Palestinian's successes at raising money for the various terrorist groups. All the while, Spielman had kept the backdoor relationship open through Monsignor Lavin. Along the way it had been very beneficial.

He had gained a true friend in Jabril; a pragmatist who believed in peace.

Holding the piece of paper up in the air the sage Spielman said, "This is an interesting group."

"Very."

Spielman held the younger man in his gaze.

"I suppose you wouldn't like to tell me where this meeting will be taking place?"

David bit down on his lip, and after some serious consideration he slid a second piece of paper across the table. It contained a sketch and the dimensions of an attache case.

"I need two of them. Have your people build them to my specifications, and I will meet you here again tomorrow to discuss the details."

Spielman cautiously surveyed the young Palestinian for a sign that his gesture was anything other than genuine, for if it was, Abe Spielman had just been given the golden nugget that every intelligence officer searches a lifetime for.

FIFTEEN.

Rapp sat awkwardly over a laptop, his muscular arms contorted so he could peck at the keys. He stopped reading the profile on the screen and looked out the porthole of the Agency's Gulfstream V long-range jet. As far as the eye could see was an endless stretch of blue water. The plane was outfitted with a VIP package: plush leather seats, a couch, galley, head, bedroom and a secure communications system that allowed the team to stay in touch with Washington without fear of being intercepted.

Rapp didn't know how she'd pulled it off, but she had. Kennedy had convinced the President to give his approval to the operation, or turn a blind eye. Either way it didn't much matter to Rapp. He caught himself. That wasn't entirely true. He did care. It was infinitely better if the President turned a blind eye to the goings-on of the Orion Team and their dark operations.

As far as the American people were concerned, Rapp honestly felt that the vast majority didn't want to know what he was up to. America had been attacked. The country was at war, and war was ugly. They didn't want to see the gruesome details of how it was fought. They didn't start the war but they sure as h.e.l.l didn't want to lose it. They wanted someone like Mitch Rapp to take care of the dirty work. The chief problem lay, as always, with the politicians.

They would use any issue to gain the upper hand on an opponent.

Scandal is what they were in constant search of, so consequently the fewer people who knew at the White House, the better his chances of staying under the Washington radar.

If President Hayes wanted to insulate himself politically, so be it.

From an operational standpoint it was a far more desirable situation. If the President didn't want to be a.s.sociated with the op it would ensure that he wouldn't be discussing it with any of his advisors, and the probability of another leak would be reduced.

From the standpoint of morale it was a less palatable situation, however. Not that morale mattered much to Rapp. He didn't need his hand held, he didn't need to be pumped up, no pre-game speeches were required.

Early in his career as a counterterrorism operative he'd once heard a Special Forces officer give his men a talk before launching a hostage rescue. The officer a.s.sembled his team and simply said, "If you need a pep talk right now, you're in the wrong line of work. We all know why we're here, so let's load up and get this done." No one said a word; no one needed to.

That scene had stayed with Rapp all these years. He was only twenty-three at the time. Twelve of the calmest, coolest bad a.s.ses he'd ever met climbed onto two Black Hawk helicopters and went out and performed their jobs to absolute perfection. It was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

Despite his natural preference for operational security, Rapp couldn't help but feel disappointed in the President. He'd thought better of the man. Rapp was starting to wonder if Robert Hayes was losing his determination in the battle against terrorism. Up until now, Hayes's commitment had been unwavering. Why he'd now decided to get gun-shy was a mystery.

When Rapp had gone into the Oval Office this morning he'd honestly thought the President wouldn't need more than two seconds to sign on. When Rapp got back to Washington he'd make it a point to talk to Kennedy about the President. If anyone knew what was going on it would be her.

Kennedy was an amazing woman. Even after the President had given him the cold shoulder, he knew Kennedy would succeed. Her powers of persuasion were so total that Rapp liked to joke if she got tired of running the CIA she could go to work for the D.C. police talking jumpers off the ledge. Her ability to navigate her way through Washington 's political maze was amazing.

With all this fresh on his mind Rapp had put the wheels in motion the moment he left the White House. His first call had been to the SEAL Demolition and Salvage Corporation, out of Baltimore, where he spoke to an individual who he'd worked with many times before. Since they were talking on an unsecured line the conversation had been brief and cryptic, but enough information was pa.s.sed along that the man on the other end could begin to a.s.semble his team and prepare to leave on very short notice.

The rest of the drive back to Langley was spent talking to his new bride. In her mind, the day they got married was the day her husband was to retire from field operations. And Rapp, at least, when they got engaged, thought so too.

The problem was, between the engagement and the wedding, he'd been forced to sit through an endless succession of meetings where little was accomplished. He was quick to come to the realization that retiring from the field might not be as easy as he thought. Simply holding down an office job was never going to cut it. He knew it and she knew it, but they were both in agreement that the really dangerous operations were out of the picture.

Rapp saw himself taking a very active role in planning operations.

He might not be the man pulling the trigger anymore, but he sure as h.e.l.l wasn't going to sit in his cushy office in Virginia doling out orders from thousands of miles away. There was a reason why military commanders favored the opinions of on-site commanders, and that was why Rapp would be running this op in person. There was nothing arrogant about it, but the truth was there was no one he trusted more to get it done right.

Anna, always the inquisitive reporter, asked a solid minute's worth of questions. Each one came from a different angle and each one was met with the standard, "You know I can't answer that." There was one question, however, that he could answer. Anna wanted to know if it would be dangerous. Mitch laughed and told her, "No," and to his way of thinking, at least, it was the truth.

There was little doubt, however, that if Anna knew what he had planned, she would disagree with him vehemently. Setting her opinion aside, in Rapp's brutally lethal world, this op didn't score too high on the danger list, and depending on how the final pieces were put into play, the op might actually present no direct threat to him whatsoever.

Something told him he wasn't being totally honest with himself, but at present he wasn't willing to explore it much further. Right now he had the calm sense of clarity he always felt before a mission. Like any predator, he was comfortable with only brief periods of inaction.

He never felt more alive than when he was moving forward with a plan. His intellect came to life, he saw things with a heightened sense of awareness. Possibilities opened up before his mind, with paths to take, and options to choose from while the entire time he subconsciously calculated the odds for success and set the information aside.

There was something else, though. Something he'd never discussed with anyone, not even Kennedy. When he stripped everything away and forced himself to be brutally honest, he was left with the undeniable fact that he enjoyed killing men like General Moro.

At first he had been embarra.s.sed by these feelings, uncomfortable with the knowledge that he took pleasure in something so brutal. But with time and maturity he had grown comfortable with the knowledge that he was killing men who had made a conscious choice to do harm. Moro was a traitor of his own volition, and when you plowed through all the political horse s.h.i.t, the Anderson family had been minding their own business, breaking no laws, when they were s.n.a.t.c.hed from their seaside resort. They were noncombatants in a war that had nothing to do with them.

Moro had decided to climb into bed with the enemy and because of him the Andersons were still held hostage and two U.S. commandos were now dead. Rapp knew that just planning this operation wouldn't be enough. He wanted to be there. He wanted to see the look on the general's face when he knew it was over. He wanted to reach out and tear the man's throat out with his bare hands.

Rapp's thoughts of blood l.u.s.t were interrupted by a presence hovering over his shoulder. Reaching up he closed his laptop and turned to see who it was.

Special Agent Skip McMahon of the FBI placed one of his forearms on the top of the seat next to Rapp and frowned.

A bit of a fashion throwback, McMahon had on a short-sleeve, white dress shirt with a striped tie. In a deep gravelly voice he asked, "What are you up to, Secret Agent Man?"

Rapp smiled. McMahon was one of the few people he knew who had absolutely no problem giving him s.h.i.t.

"Just a little homework."

McMahon took a seat across from him, letting his tired, beat-up body slump into the leather chair.

"Homework, huh?" he said in a skeptical voice. McMahon studied Rapp with his probing eyes. In his more than thirty years with the Bureau, McMahon had hunted bank robbers, kidnappers, killers, serial killers, terrorists, cyber punks spies, several federal judges and a few politicians to boot. He was a tenacious no-nonsense lawman who the Bureau often called on when they needed results. He was loved by the few people who truly understood him, and hated by the army of bureaucrats in dark suits who were more concerned with protocol than results.

But even the pension gang at the FBI had a grudging respect for McMahon. In a place where 99.9 percent of the employees had never discharged their weapon in the line of duty, McMahon had done so on more occasions than he cared to count. He wasn't a lawyer or an accountant, he was an old-fashioned law enforcement officer.

"So who's General Moro?" asked McMahon, his eyes staying locked on Rapp.

Rapp didn't answer at first. He cursed himself silently for allowing McMahon to read his computer screen and then he tried to figure out how much he should say. McMahon had been brought along to conduct surveillance on Amba.s.sador c.o.x, and when Rapp gave him the word, he was to arrest the Amba.s.sador and escort him back to the United States.

The President had personally asked for McMahon at the urging of CIA director Kennedy. Kennedy and McMahon had a relationship that went beyond work. How far beyond, Rapp had never been comfortable in asking, but McMahon was ideal for the job. He had a reputation as someone who could turn a blind eye to certain things if need be.

Rapp figured McMahon could find out who the general was with one phone call, so he told him the truth.

"He's with the Philippine army."

"No s.h.i.t," McMahon said, feigning surprise.

"I don't know if I ever could have figured that one out." McMahon scratched one of his hairy forearms and asked, "So what's your interest in the man? Is he friend or foe?"

Rapp smiled.

"Tread lightly, Skip."

"Or what I might step in dog s.h.i.t?" McMahon's face contorted into an annoyed grimace.

"Come on, Mitch, I step in dog s.h.i.t for a living, and don't give me any of that need-to-know c.r.a.p. I know plenty about you and"-McMahon leaned forward, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb-"I also know a fair amount about Blondie sitting up there. I don't know who the other guys are, but I can take an awfully d.a.m.n good educated guess that they're pretty handy with a gun and they probably know all that kung fu s.h.i.t they teach you guys.

So"-McMahon leaned in even closer-"why don't we just cut to the chase and save each other a lot of time and effort."

Rapp shook his head with amus.e.m.e.nt. The "Blondie" Skip was referring to was Scott Coleman, the former commander of SEAL Team 6.