Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

“Are you kidding me? The opposing candidate’s wife gets incinerated by a car bomb, and you think I should have gone public with a bunch of pornographic photos of her screwing her bodyguard, who, by the way, also got killed in the explosion? I would have been branded the biggest bastard in the history of politics.”

“I didn’t say go public. Why didn’t you bring it to me?”

Baker stood and waved his hand in frustration at McMahon. “You’re where I was in the weeks after the attack, except I still had a campaign to manage. A campaign that we almost won, which is amazing, when you think about it.” He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. “I didn’t want to believe any of this. Things were happening so fast those final two weeks. There were the funerals, and then Alexander decided to go on with the debates, after we’d been informed that he was pulling out. We were in a street fight with our hands cuffed behind our backs. We couldn’t fight back. We had to just sit there and take it.”

“So again,” McMahon said forcefully, “why now? Why sit on this for two months?”

“Because I didn’t want to believe it. This is going to sound really corny to you, but I believe in this country. I believe in the two-party system. I believe in the peaceful transfer of power, and from everything I’ve seen, Josh Alexander is a decent man. I’m not about destroying institutions and ruining the people’s faith in their government, but…” Baker fell silent.

“But what?” prodded McMahon.

“Mark Ross and Stu Garret are motherfuckers! And I mean motherfuckers!”

The severity of the comment caught even McMahon off guard.

“Pathological liars, the both of them,” Baker continued. “The more I sat and thought about this, the more I realized they are absolutely capable of orchestrating some fucking coup like this.”

“That’s great,” McMahon said sarcastically, “your personal opinion and all, but do you have a shred of evidence that the vice president-elect of the United States plotted to have his own motorcade attacked?”

“Evidence…no.” Baker shook his head. “But motive, yes. And trust me, Agent McMahon, I’ve been following your investigation. In fact, I’ve already read the draft you’re going to deliver to the president on Monday. It’s heavy on supposition and light on the facts. Yeah, you have all your standard lab analysis on the bomb. You guys are great at that, but beyond the lab report, it’s all fluff. You guys don’t know where that van came from or how the explosives got into the country. Most importantly, though, you don’t have a suicide bomber, and we all know how the Islamic radical fundamentalists love to martyr themselves.”

“That’s not always the case.”

“Fine. Then where’s the guy in the red Nationals baseball hat?”

McMahon’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

“Who, not a what, and don’t act so surprised. I told you, I’ve been following your investigation.”

McMahon looked anxiously at Kennedy and then back to Baker. “Who have you been talking to?”

“You know that is something that has always driven me nuts about this town. Everybody gets hung up on who said what to who, and they ignore the fact that the truth is staring them right in the face. You have a thirteen-year veteran of the Secret Service who has an impeccable record, and she reports that just before the blast, she saw a man in a red Nationals baseball hat and sunglasses standing behind a tree and acting suspicious. The man was, and I will quote from your original draft, not the one that you are going to give to the president on Monday. In your first draft you wrote Agent Rivera saw a man holding a device and right before the explosion he suddenly ducked behind the tree.”

“Agent Rivera was under a lot of stress at the time.”

“Don’t start acting like one of those attorneys over at Justice. I can see from your face that you believe that BS about as much as I do.”

“And you’re sounding like one of those crazy conspiracy theorists.”

Baker laughed loudly. “Better than some shill for the government who’d rather bury evidence than face the facts.”

McMahon was up off the couch with surprising quickness for his size. “I’d be careful about questioning people’s motives, Mr. Blackmailer.”

“I did no such thing, and you know it, but I’m glad to see you’re angry. You’re going to need it if you’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“And you’re in denial. You’ve accounted for every person at the scene of the crime that day except the man in the red hat.”

“The man in the red hat doesn’t exist.”

Baker stepped back and smiled. “Oh, really? If he doesn’t exist, then why does the Starbucks on Wisconsin have him on digital surveillance buying a cup of coffee roughly thirty minutes before the explosion?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Black-and-white surveillance tape. Red doesn’t look red. Your people had it right in front of them and they missed it. Go back and check. You’ll see.”

McMahon was at a complete loss for words. This shark knew more about his own investigation than he did.

“Watch your back, Agent McMahon. These guys don’t play by the rules, and neither should you, if you want to find the truth.” Baker turned to Kennedy. “One last thing. You know that Ross will move to get rid of you right after the inauguration.”

“Yes.”

“And anyone else he deems a threat.”

“Are you thinking of anyone in particular?”

“Mitch.”

“Mitch Rapp,” said McMahon. “What in the hell does Ross have against Rapp?”

“It’s a long story,” said Kennedy, not wanting to answer the question. “Cap, I know you have a plane to catch, so cut to the chase.”

“I think it would be a good idea to bring in a fresh set of eyes on this.”

“Are you sure you don’t mean you’d like to let the bull into the china shop and see what he breaks?”

“Oh, that’s a tempting visual, but it’s not what I had in mind. I was thinking more along the lines of an assassin’s assassin. Someone who knows the ins and outs of this world.”

“It’s not a bad idea.”

What Baker and McMahon didn’t know, and what Kennedy was not about to tell them, was that she already had Mitch Rapp on the case. She had known about the mystery man in the red hat for almost a month, and Rapp and his team had been working quietly to find out who he was, and more importantly, who had hired him.

He was six inches taller than her and ten years older. “I think you should kiss me,” she said softly.

Mitch Rapp ignored her and watched the door to the café across the street.

“If we were really lovers you wouldn’t be able to take your hands off me.” She slid her chair closer to his and placed a hand on his thigh. She ran her hand through his long black hair. Streaks of gray were coming in on the sides. For three straight weeks she’d studied him. She knew every wrinkle and scar and there were quite a few of the latter. Some visible. Some buried in his psyche. She had no proof the mental scars were there, but they had to be. No body lived the type of hard life he’d lived and came out unscathed.

She lifted her sunglasses off her nose just enough to reveal her hazel eyes. They were more green than brown, which she thought might be part of the problem. His ex-wife-no, that wasn’t right, his deceased wife-had the most stunning green eyes. Cindy Brooks made the mistake of calling her the ex one night and he’d made her sleep on the floor. Brooks had been with the Agency for only five years, and she considered it a huge honor to work side by side with a living legend like Mitch Rapp. At least she had when she was first given the assignment.