Vince Flynn - The Third Option

YOUR SUBJECT WILL BE AT HIS OFFICE IN FUNGER HALL AT GW FROM APROXIMATELY 8:15 TO 8:30, AND THEN HE WILL BE LEAVING THE COUNTRY FOR A WHILE. IF YOU CAN MEET HIM AT OR NEAR HIS OFFICE IT WOULD BE PREFERRED. HIS DESTINATION IS THE CARIBBEAN. IF YOU CAN'T MEET HIM THIS MORNING YOU WILL HAVE TO MAKE ARRANGEMENTS TO MEET HIM THERE. IT IS PREFERED THAT YOU TAKE CARE OF THIS THIS MORNING. OUR CLIENT IS OFFERING ANOTHER 25K IF YOU CAN CONCLUDE THE DEAL BEFORE HE LEAVES.

Rahn glanced over at the clock next to the bed. It would take her fifteen minutes to get ready and approximately nine minutes to leave her hotel and walk to Cameron's office. She had timed it last night when she had been out scouting the neighborhood. It took Rahn only seconds to decide. She could get there with just enough time to check things out and then abort or proceed. Moving with speed, she went into the bathroom and pinned her luscious auburn hair up on her head. She applied a base to her face and hands, changing her natural olive skin to a lighter shade. Next, she put on some underwear, a pair of black leggings that went down just below the knee, and a long-sleeved white T-shirt. Over that she put on a shapeless, beige, full-length linen tank dress. To top off the disguise, she carefully pinned a sandy blond shoulder-length wig to her head.

All of the makeup and toiletries were swept off the vanity into one of the hotel's plastic b~, and the whole thing was thrown in her suitcase. Donatella slipped into a pair of white J. Crew tennis shoes and stood in front of the full-length mirror. The outfit could not have complemented her figure less, but that was the point. It was standard East Coast yuppie. Donatella liked to think of it as suburban housewife camouflage. She could go to virtually any city in America and blend in perfectly.

She closed her suitcase, locked it, and left it by the door. On her way to the school, she would call the front desk and ask them to have a bellhop bring it down. She left the room with only her oversized shoulder bag and took the elevator to the lobby.

RAPP MADE IT to the Safeway a few minutes before the others. He studied the black-and-white photo and brief dossier that had been faxed to the director's house. He was ninety-nine percent sure he had never laid eyes on Peter Cameron. That probably ruled out any personal grudges. Cameron had to be working for someone else. The drive in from McLean had given Rapp time to think of the larger ramifications. He had been focused on himself and how the events of the last week had affected him personally; now he was beginning to see the big picture.

He had never seen Stansfield or Kennedy as worried as this, and the more he thought about it, the more he understood why. If Cameron worked for a foreign intelligence agency, the real question would be how long had he been doing so, and how much information had he passed along? To make matters worse, the man was a consultant with the intelligence committees, and that meant he still had access to sensitive information. The damage would make the Aldrich Ames scandal look like child's play.

Before leaving the director's house, Stansfield had impressed upon Rapp the magnitude of the situation. Cameron was to be taken alive, and it was to be done as quietly as possible. No scenes, nothing that would gamer the attention of law enforcement, the media, and even any- one at the Agency. Stansfield was adamant that the Agency was to be kept out of it. He placed the entire matter on Rapp's shoulders. He could use Irene and the Counterterrorism Center in a very limited support role, but that was it. The Cameron matter was to be kept quiet.

When the van arrived, Rapp abandoned his car and climbed in. Dumond and Coleman were waiting for him in the back. Hackett and Stroble were parked on Wisconsin in the Ford Explorer. When the van pulled out of the lot, it took a left and headed south on Wisconsin. Cameron's apartment was less than half a mile away. At the top of the hill, they took a left onto R Street and slowed to a crawl. The Dumbarton Oaks Research Library was on the left. The old Federal-style mansion was located on one of the most expensive pieces of property in Georgetown.

Rapp grabbed a secure Motorola radio from the rack and said, «Guys, I want you to hang back. Go down to Q Street and park. We'll go in and check it out first.»

Dumond said to Rapp, «We'll do a slow drive-by. I'll scan the building with the directional mikes and see if I can find out who's home.»

«Good.» Rapp looked at Coleman. «We need to take him alive.»

«I can't make any promises.»

«I know you can't, but we have to try.»

«All right.»

«You and I are going in alone,» Rapp said to Coleman. Then to Dumond he said, «Marcus, what else have you found out about this guy?»

«He teaches at George Washington University.»

«When do they meet?»

«I'm trying to find that out. I've already checked customs, and there is no record of him leaving or reentering the country in the last six months.»

«What about wheels?»

Dumond shook his head. «I checked DMV and came up blank.»

«Finances?»

«I haven't gotten around to that yet.»

«All right. Get me that class schedule first.»

Dumond held up one hand to silence Rapp and pulled the arm of his lip mike down with the other. «Stop at the next corner and give me a second to get things ready.»

Looking over at Rapp, he said, «We're one block away. Are you guys ready?»

«Yes.»

They cruised by once very slowly and then turned around for another pass. There were no alleys in this neighborhood, so trying to get a look at the house from behind would not work. Both times Dumond manipulated the tiny directional microphones atop the van to try and pick up noises within the three-story brownstone. On the second pass, Dumond told the driver to stop briefly in front of the house. Using a joy stick on his control panel, he zoomed the camera in on the mailboxes to the right of the front door. When he got the image he wanted, he told the driver to go to the end of the block and park. Dumond showed Rapp and Coleman the shot of the mailboxes. It appeared there were four units, one on the first, second, and third floors, and another one in the basement.

«It looks like Cameron has the third floor.»

«Yeah.» Rapp looked over Dumond's shoulder at the screen and then checked his watch. It wasn't yet eight. «What did you pick up on the mike?»

«Nothing on the third floor, but I got a TV on the second and some water running on the first.»

«Nothing on the garden level?»

«No.»

Rapp looked to Coleman. «What do you think?»

«I don't think he's there. Would you be if you were in his shoes?»

«Probably not. Let's go take a look.» Rapp grabbed the radio. «Guys, we're going in. Bring it over to Twenty-ninth and sit tight.»

«What's our cover?» asked Coleman.

They were woefully unprepared for this. Both were wearing jeans, jackets, and baseball hats, and both needed a shave. If the neighbors saw them snooping around, they were apt to call the cops. Rapp looked around the van and said, «Marcus, hand me that clipboard.» Rapp took it and asked, «Can you find out who owns this place?»

«Yeah. All I have to do is access the city's tax records.»

«Do it.»

«What do you have in mind?» asked Coleman.

«We work for Metropolitan Roofing. The owner asked us to come out and get him a bid for some work he wants done.»

«What if the owner lives here?»

«That's why I've got Marcus running the check.»

On cue, Dumond announced, «You're clear. The guy listed on the tide doesn't show up on any of the mailboxes.»

«Good.» To Coleman, Rapp said, «You got your tools?»

Coleman nodded and patted the breast pocket of his jacket.