Vince Flynn - The Third Option

Kennedy had not seen this coming. She had wondered who would succeed Stansfield but had honestly never thought of herself as a candidate. «I'm very flattered, but I don't think I'm qualified.»

In a rare show of emotion, Stansfield grinned. «You are more than qualified.»

«But what about all of the other people…»

«You are the best candidate for the job.»

«I disagree.» Kennedy slowly shook her head. «I can barely keep up with things as it is. It's to the point where I'm lucky if I spend an hour with Tommy a day, and then I have to try to tear him away from the TV.»

«Right now you have the hardest job at the Agency. Things will get easier when you become director.»

«How?» asked an incredulous Kennedy.

«You surround yourself with good people, and you delegate.»

Kennedy was still filled with disbelief. How could a job with more responsibility translate into fewer hours? It didn't compute.

«Irene, how many Sundays have you seen me work since you've known me?»

Kennedy thought about it for a second. «Not very many.»

«Correct.»

The more she thought about it, the more she knew he was right. The CTC was a pressure cooker. «I'm not qualified.»

«You are more than qualified.»

«I'm too young.»

«You're a little young for the job, but that is balanced out by your success with the CTC.»

«I don't know, Thomas. I don't know if I want your job, and that's assun1ing they'll confirm me.»

«Oh, they'll confirm you. The Republicans love your hard stance on terrorism, and they won't want to look like sexists. The Democrats… well, they'll follow the president. He might have to grant a few favors, but that's nothing unusual.»

Kennedy took a deep breath. This was a little too much of a surprise. «I'll have to think about all of this.»

Stansfield smiled. «Of course you will, but keep in mind that the Agency needs you. It needs someone like you to protect it from the likes of Chainnan Rudin and Secretary Midleton.»

Kennedy frowned as a piece of the puzzle fell into place. «Is that what this meeting tomorrow is really about?»

«I don't know for certain, but I think so.» Stansfield looked at Kennedy with steely gray eyes. «They fear you, Irene, just like they fear me. They fear us because they can't control us.»

IT TOOK RAPP and his new four-legged friend eight minutes to reach the far side of the preserve. After that, it took several more to find the house he was looking for. Rapp had been to the house before, but he had been invited and had arrived by car – not on foot through the woods. He almost mistook the neighbor's house for Stansfield's.

They were similar-both colonials. The neighbor had a small storage shed in the back corner of his lot that was adjacent to Stansfield's. Rapp and Shirley walked through the tall grass and took up a position behind it. The complete lack of security that was placed around; high-ranking U.S. officials here in America never failed to amaze Rapp. With the exception of the president, the vice president, and the first family, protection was a joke. When officials were out of the country, it was much better, but here at home, they usually had no more than a glorified home security system and a chauffeur who doubled as a bodyguard. He expected Stansfield's to be a little better than most, but still nothing he couldn't overcome.

Rapp pulled a small pair of field binoculars out of his jacket and started checking the windows. All of the lights were off on the second floor. On the first floor was a woman in the kitchen who appeared to be washing some dishes. Rapp wondered about the woman briefly and then decided she must be domestic help. There was a car in the driveway. Rapp focused the lenses on it and saw a driver sit- ting behind the wheel of a government sedan. Something looked vaguely familiar about the man, but the top half of his face was obscured by the visor. Taking Shirley, he went back into the tall grass and worked his way down toward the river. Midway down the property line, he found something interesting. Set up to look like landscaping lights next to a flower bed were two laser tripwires. Rapp grabbed his night-vision pocket scope and held it to his eye. The red beams invisible to the naked eye popped to life on the small scope. Rapp followed them around the perimeter. They wouldn't be a problem.

He and Shirley continued around the back of the property line until they had a view of the other wing of the house. Rapp had a pretty good idea that this was where Stansfield would be. He wanted to talk to the man. He wanted to find out the truth. And for Thomas Stansfield's sake, Rapp hoped he had some answers. After that, he would go to Kennedy's to see if her story could withstand some intense scrutiny. He'd labored over the decision for several days, but he had decided it was the quickest and most effective way to get to the bottom of what had happened in Germany.

When Rapp reached the far end of the lot, he brought the binoculars up and found Stansfield sitting in his study. He looked frail, a good ten pounds lighter. He was talking to someone, but Rapp couldn't see who, so he moved to a different spot. When he focused in on the woman sitting across from Stansfield, his throat became dry. Rapp brought the binoculars down and stood motionless. His paranoia had just gone into overdrive.

As he worked his way back to the neighbor's storage shed, he began to cling to the hope that neither of them had anything to do with it, but a sickening feeling in his gut told him otherwise. As Rapp prepared to make his move, a pair of headlights flashed across the front lawn. A car was coming down the driveway. Rapp put his plan on hold for a second and kneeled down next to Shirley. She hadn't made a peep so far, and he hoped her good behavior would continue. The car was actually a four-door SUV: Rapp watched with increasing interest as the driver got out. As the man walked across the driveway toward the front door, he knew instantly who it was. The sight of him sent Rapp's pulse racing and his mind scrambling to come up with a reason for this person nom his past to be here on this night. The man was like him. He was a killer, but one whom, until now, he thought he could trust.

Fear suddenly gripped Rapp. It was not a fear of the man but fear of something that he may have done. He looked at his watch. It was almost seven-thirty. Before he went forward with his plan, he needed to make a call. All of his discipline told him he shouldn't do it, but he had to. He had to know. Rapp retreated into the woods with Shirley and turned on his digital phone.

Just outside the main entrance to the West Wing, an almost nightly occurrence was taking place. Reporters from all the major networks and cable news stations were positioned in front of their cameras, loaded up with makeup and hair spray. They were waiting to tell the people in the mountains and on the West Coast what they had already said to the people in the eastern and central time zones an hour earlier. Anna Rielly was in her usual spot or, as her smart-ass cameraman Pete liked to remind her, «NBC's spot.» Pete kept things interesting; he was a little immature, but in a good way. Rarely serious, Pete loved to give people a hard time. Normally, Rielly was more than willing to play along, but today she hadn't been. The last several nights of sleep hadn't gone so well. She was worried sick about Mitch. He wasn't okay, she was convinced of that. If he were okay, he'd pick up the phone and call her. She had spent every spare minute of the day looking at the newswire, paying particular attention to the Middle East. That was where Mitch was trained to operate. Since the Israeli prime minister was in town for meetings with President Hayes, she had a tailor-made excuse for her interest in the region.