Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

Rapp stuck out his hand. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Good luck with the handoff,” Coleman replied.

“You sure you don’t want to come along?”

“Yeah…right after I get my barium enema.”

Rapp laughed at him and left the cockpit. He passed Stroble who was now wearing a soiled BWI ground crew uniform. “Don’t drop the container.”

“I won’t, boss.”

“And stop calling me boss.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Brooks was waiting by the cargo door with her two bags.

“Are you all set?” Rapp asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

The two of them proceeded into the storage area with Stroble following them. The big Russian had already been transferred into the container and placed bound and gagged on the floor next to Gazich. Like Gazich, he was also drugged. There was just enough room for Rapp and Brooks to sit at each end of the container. Once Rapp and Brooks were situated, Stroble closed and locked the doors.

The plane was guided to its spot on the tarmac, and the engines were shut down. Ten minutes later two trucks pulled up, one with a set of stairs, the other with an extending cargo box. The two pilots and Coleman came down the stairs, their black trench coats flapping in the wind. They held their hats with one hand and dragged their carry-on bags behind them as they made their way to the cargo terminal. The forward port cargo door opened from the inside, and the aluminum cargo container was pushed into the back of the truck’s extended cargo area and secured. Stroble shut both the truck’s and plane’s cargo doors and walked back through the plane and down the stairs. When he hit the tarmac, two more trucks manned with BWI ground personnel pulled up and went to work emptying the cargo in the lower holds.

Stroble gave the guys a wave and a nod as he jumped in the front passenger seat of the truck he had just loaded. The man sitting behind the wheel was someone he had never met and didn’t care to know. Someone who worked for Rapp at the CIA handled this end of the operation. The truck headed straight for the customs checkpoint. A customs officer left the warmth of his booth just long enough to grab the paperwork from the driver and then he retreated inside. Stroble assumed this guy was also on the payroll. Thirty seconds later the guy came back out with the paperwork and gave it back to the driver. They rolled through the gate and stopped at a truck yard no more than a quarter mile away. A truck of similar size, but without the ability to lift the cargo box vertically, was waiting with its rear door open. Stroble jumped out, opened the cargo door, and climbed in. The truck from the airport backed up until the two cargo areas were aligned with just a six-inch gap in between. The cargo container had ball bearings on the bottom so it could be easily maneuvered in tight spaces. Stroble unhooked two straps that had kept the container in place and then pushed the aluminum box from one truck into the back of the new one.

Once the truck from the airport left, Stroble jumped behind the wheel of the new vehicle and began driving toward an industrial park on the Patapsco River. Only four miles away, he took the quickest route, just like Rapp had told him. Five minutes later, he pulled into an old brick warehouse and closed the door. The entire trip took just under thirty minutes.

Two white vans were waiting side by side. Other than that the place was empty. Stroble let Rapp and Brooks out of the cargo container and they transferred Gazich into one van and the Russian into the other. Rapp put his bags and Brooks’s bags in the van with the Russian and then walked Brooks over to the other van.

“Do you know where you’re going?”

She nodded. “What if they won’t let me in?” She held up a passport. “This isn’t even real.”

“I told you I’d call and make sure you’re on the list. Candice Jones…just give them the passport, and they’ll tell you where to go.”

Brooks shook her head and frowned.

“What?” Rapp asked.

“They’re going to be expecting you.”

“Yes they are. But I’m not going.”

“Why do I have to do this?”

“Because you’re the one who thinks this will be good P.R. for the Agency.”

“I do, but I don’t see why you’re dumping it all on me.”

“Cindy, listen to me. I promise you this will not hurt your career. In fact, it will probably help it. Just hand Gazich over and leave. Don’t hang around and let them start peppering you with questions. There’s going to be an agent there who I know pretty well. He’s a big guy. Late fifties. His name is Skip McMahon. Just tell him I’ll call him.”

“When?”

“Today…tomorrow…I don’t know. You’d better tell him today. But whatever you do don’t tell him how we got into the country. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Follow us to the interstate and then once we hit the exit for Andrews you’re on your own. Give them Gazich and get out of there. I’ll call you in an hour. All right?”

“Yeah…I got it.”

“Good. Let’s roll.”

Brooks climbed behind the wheel of the one van and Rapp got into the passenger seat of the other. Stroble pulled down on the gearshift and put the van in drive. They pulled out of the garage and headed toward Interstate 95.

Stroble looked over at Rapp and said, “They’re going to shit their pants when they figure out you’re not there.”

“I know they are.”

“So what’s your master plan?”

“Sandbag them.”

“Huh?”

“Sooner or later the media and the Clark Kents at the FBI and Justice are going to turn the spotlight on me and make this about my tactics.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m just making sure they do it sooner rather than later.”

“And why is that a good idea?”

“I’m going to give them enough rope to hang themselves, and then I’m going to kick the chair out from under their legs.”

“I’m still not sure I follow.”

Rapp held up his Treo phone and played back the recording he’d made of the session he’d had with Gazich. “Don’t worry,” he said to Stroble. “By tomorrow evening they’re all going to be diving for cover.”

Ross had flown commercial with his Secret Service detail even though a private jet had been offered to him by one of the billionaire attendees at the conference. The offer was tempting, but Ross knew the media, the vicious bloggers, and the crazy talk radio folks would light him up. Taking a private jet home from a conservation summit smacked of elitism and hypocrisy. He could wait one more week untilAir Force Two was at his disposal.

Besides, the Air France flight wasn’t bad. The stewardesses up in first class were extremely attractive and spared no effort in fawning over him. His fellow passengers wanted their photo taken with him. Ross was a man of the people. His not-so-pleasant conversation with Green in the wine cellar the night before had driven him to drink more wine than he should have, and he had boarded the plane with a head-splitting hangover. Everything after midnight was a slight blur. He remembered being in the kitchen with Speyer, and the lanky blond talking, though about what, he could not remember for the life of him. Music was playing, the blond started dancing, and the next thing Ross knew, he was pinned against the refrigerator; her ass pressed firmly against his groin. He had a glass of wine in his left hand; she had his right hand wrapped around her body and placed dangerously close to her left breast.

Ross would have had her right there in the kitchen if it hadn’t been for Speyer and the lascivious look in his eye. The president of one of the world’s most private banks, Speyer didn’t so much keep secrets as he did collect and trade in them. A prince of Europe ’s unofficial gay mafia, the banker would have loved nothing more than to be able to hold such a salacious bit of information over Ross’s head. The vice president-elect had managed to extricate himself from the situation by playfully chastising Speyer and giving the leggy blond a kiss and a promise that he’d put her on his dance card for next year’s conference.