Vince Flynn - The Third Option

«Yeah. It has to be.»

Dumond continued chewing. «If we call this number, I can figure out who the provider is, and I might be able to get you pretty close to him.»

Rapp and Coleman looked at each other. «How?» asked Rapp.

«Once I find out who his carrier is, I can get into their records and track his tower usage.»

«What do you mean, tower usage?»

«The call has to be relayed by a tower. We track the towers that his phone is using.»

«How close can you get us?»

«Usually within a zip code or two.»

«Can you do any better than that?» asked Coleman.

«Yeah, but I'd need to get one of the special vans from the Agency, and you'd have to keep him on the phone.»

«For how long?» asked Rapp.

«If we got lucky and were close when he took our call, we could have it narrowed down to the right structure within a minute or two. If not, it might take several calls.»

«What if he's on the move?»

Dumond shook his head. «Not good for us.»

«Why can't you do this with Villaume?»

«I'd have to get his number first. He calls us, and it's blocked, and then he only stays on for a minute or two. That's not enough time to crack it.»

«But you might be able to with the Professor?»

«Might be able to.»

Rapp rubbed his chin for a second while he thought about making the call. «So what do you suggest we do?»

«I think we should call this number and see what we can find out.» Dumond looked eager.

«Any chance it can be traced back here from the other end?»

Dumond scoffed at such an idea. «Not with my gear. I'll have this baby bounced off six different satellites and twice as many ground stations before I'm done with it.»

«What about the NSA picking it up?»

«Big Brother.» Dumond shrugged. «It's hard to say. Sometimes I think they are all-knowing, and other times I think they know nothing. I always recommend keeping it short and staying away from details.»

Rapp and Coleman both nodded. They had lived by the exact same philosophy for years. Rapp glanced over at the former SEAL. «What do you think?»

Coleman looked down at the notepad, and he thought about the man he'd seen in Colorado. The man they now knew as the Professor. He didn't strike him as a killer. He also didn't strike him as a leader. He was working for someone, and if Coleman had to guess, that someone was a big hitter.

Coleman tossed the notepad back on the desk and said, «We need some backup. In fact, I'd recommend we move this whole operation to a safe house.»

«Marcus says this place is fine. What's bothering you?»

«This Professor is working for someone. And whoever that person is, he or she has the type of pull that put them in the know about that little op you were running over in Germany.» Coleman raised an eyebrow. «That worries me.»

Rapp hadn't spent a lot of time dwelling on this obvious fact. He was leaving that up to Kennedy and Stansfield. He could tell by the look on Coleman's face that he suspected someone at the NSA. He could very well be right, but the last thing they could afford right now was to become incapacitated by fear. «I trust Marcus on this one. Lf he says they can't trace us, I believe him.»

Coleman looked over at Dumond. «This is no time to be cocky. Give me the straight poop. Can Big Brother track this call or not?»

Dumond thought for a moment. Finally, he answered,»I don't think they can trace it, but just to be safe, we should keep it under two minutes.»

«You're sure?»

«At two minutes or less, I'm positive.»

«Are you satisfied?» asked Rapp of Coleman.

Coleman nodded slowly. «Yes, but I think it would be a good idea if we brought some more people to the party.»

«Who do you have in mind?»

«A couple of my men. You've worked with them before.»

«All right.»

«What are you two talking about?» asked Dumond.

«We're going to get a few more guns over here just in case,» answered Rapp.

Dumond's expression soured in an effort to show he didn't like the idea.

«Take it easy, Marcus. It's for your own good.» Rapp pointed to the computers. «Do you have everything ready to make this call?»

«Give me a minute.»

«All right.» Rapp turned to Coleman. «What's bothering you?»

«I don't know if l like letting him know we're onto him just yet. I'd like to get some more info.»

«I'd like to spook him into doing something stupid. Besides, there's a chance I might know this guy. Get a hold of your guys and make the arrangements. Then we'll make the call.»

Peter Cameron was in his small office at George Washington University reading a paper one of his students had written. Cameron taught a special topics course on the CIA for GW's Elliot School of International Affairs. The course was nothing earth-shattering, rather a mundane look at how the bureaucracy of the CIA functioned with its counterparts in the intelligence community. One section met on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays at eleven in the morning for one hour, and the second class met at six in the evening for two hours on Mondays and Thursdays. The day class was made up of fourteen professional students who thought they were smarter than everyone, including their professor. The evening class, however, was far more interesting. At least half of his students were military officers or other intelligence types who had a little better grasp of reality and the practical side of the business. The professional students in his night class tended to listen more and pontificate less, which he rather enjoyed.

Cameron's mind tended to wander when he was reading, and right now he was wondering why he hadn't gotten into teaching earlier. He worked an average of about ten hours a week, had ample vacation time, and was paid forty d1ousand dollars a year. The job was a complete boondoggle. The respect he was given when introduced as a professor at GW was amazing. And he could actually talk about his job. When he was at Langley, about all he could say was that he worked there. Cameron had decided he could easily teach into his seventies. It might be the perfect position to have when President Clark called on him to help out with his new administration.

Cameron set the paper down and stared aimlessly at his watch. Would national security advisor be too lofty a post? Maybe not. He had the practical experience and now the academic title. If anyone could make it happen, it would be Clark. His pie-in-the-sky daydream was rudely interrupted by the ringing of one of his phones. He knew it wasn't his office phone – that had an entirely different ring. But he could never tell his two cell phones apart. One was legitimate, meaning it was purchased under his real name. The second phone was purchased using a bogus name. He had paid for a year's worth of service using a money order. One thousand minutes a month, anywhere, any time.

The phones were in his leather briefcase. Cameron reached in with two hands and grabbed both phones. The Motorola was the one ringing. No number came up on the caller ID, but that wasn't unusual.

He pressed the send button and said, «Hello.» There was no immediate response, so Cameron repeated himself.

«Professor, how are you doing?» came the slightly menacing voice.

Cameron leaped from his chair-the voice on the phone caused the hair on his neck to stand on end. He knew instantly who was on the line. He had listened to that voice in Germany: Attempting to sound unfazed, Cameron lied, «Ahhh… fine. And you?»

«I would say I'm doing very well.» Rapp offered nothing further, intentionally letting the tension build.

Cameron went over to the window and looked down on the street to see if anyone was watching him. Silently, he cursed himself for not preparing for this contingency. «I'm sorry, but you're going to have to help me out. I have no idea who this is.» He did not sound convincing.