Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

To his right were some of the transition offices and to his left, four actual offices and another dozen workstations for the campaign staff. Garret’s office was in the far corner. He hesitated for a moment and then decided it would be better if he made this call from someone else’s desk. He started toward the transition offices. He passed a few rooms, all empty. Looking out across the sea of cubicles he listened for a sign that some loser who didn’t get laid was in early to impress his boss. There was nothing but the hum of the overhead lights.

Garret walked into the next office, left the light off, and shut the door. He retrieved a piece of paper from his pocket. It was from the Willard, with just a phone number with an international dialing prefix on it. No name. Garret picked up the handset and entered the number. This was the real reason he was still in town. It helped to meet some of these fat cats in person, but he could have traveled to see them or they could have visited him in San Diego. The negotiating always went well after a round of golf and a few cocktails on the boat. He would have definitely gone back to warm sunny California if it hadn’t been for this last piece of business.

After a few rings a woman answered, and Garret said, “I need to speak with Joseph.”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“No. Just get him on the phone.”

Garret looked around the office. There were no personal photos. Nothing that could tell him whose office it was. On the wall next to the door was one of those stupid motivational posters. It showed a men’s crew team rowing on a river. In large letters across the top were the words, “Team Work.” Garret shook his head. Any jackass who needed to find motivation, inspiration, or anything else in some mass-produced trite piece of junk wasn’t going to get far in this business.

Joseph Speyer finally came on the line and in a cautious voice said, “Hello?”

“We’ve got a problem,” Garret blurted out.

“Oh…hello, Stu. My assistant told me there was a rude American on the line. Which is fairly redundant, don’t you think? But nonetheless, I should have guessed it was you.”

“Very funny.”

“Why did you not come to my party? Your boss came.”

“He isn’t my boss.”

“Oh Stu…such a big chip on your shoulder. It must be difficult going through life so angry all the time.”

“Yeah,” Garret laughed gruffly. “But probably not as bad as taking it up the ass, like you do.”

“Stu,” Speyer said with mock surprise. “You are a Democrat. You are supposed to support my people.”

“You might want to drop using my name every other line, and I do support your people. Go ahead, get married. What the fuck do I care? It’s just not my bag…what you guys do between the sheets.”

“Maybe you should try it some time.”

“No thanks.” Garret looked out the window and watched a cab pass by on the street below. “Back to the point. We’ve got a major fucking problem!”

There was a sigh and then Speyer said, “How could we possibly have a problem? Everything turned out exactly as you wanted.”

“Your buddy promised that he was going to button things up on his end.”

“And as far as I know he did.”

“You don’t know shit. The FBI is going to hold a press conference in a few hours.”

“Why?”

“They’ve arrested someone.”

There was a long pause before Speyer responded. “Do you know who?”

“I don’t have a name, but I’ve heard it’s the guy.”

“Impossible. I just spoke with your boss on Saturday. He said the FBI’s investigation was dead in the water. He was being briefed daily.”

“It wasn’t the FBI who found him.”

“Who was it?”

“The CIA.”

“That is wonderful news,” Speyer said with feigned enthusiasm.

“Just fucking great.”

“I will make sure to pass it along to our friend.”

“Yeah…you do that, and on an entirely different matter, tell him I want scorched earth. Do you follow me?”

“I think so.”

“Good.”

“You know this man the CIA grabbed…it’s too bad that it’s probably as far as they’ll get. I’ve seen how these people operate. They rarely know who hired them.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I will call you back after I speak with our friend.”

“Don’t bother,” Garret said. “Just tell him if he doesn’t handle this problem immediately I have no intention of following through on our end of the bargain.”

“He will not be happy to hear that.”

“I don’t give a fuck what makes him happy or not. He needs to do what he said he would do and he needs to do it today.” Garret slammed the phone back into its cradle and walked out of the office.

Kennedy sat behind her desk and watched and listened as McMahon and Juarez worked themselves into a frenzy. She knew both of them extremely well. It was not abnormal to see either of them get this upset. They were very passionate about their jobs. The unusual part was seeing them upset at the same time. Well, that wasn’t exactly right either. The abnormality lay in them being upset over the same thing. Their jobs dictated that they approach situations from different angles. Angles that didn’t always intersect. What Juarez deemed to be best for America did not always jibe with the FBI’s vision. In essence, McMahon’s job was to enforce the law and investigate and arrest those who broke it. Juarez ’s job was to send men and women to foreign countries to recruit spies, gather information, conduct covert operations, and pretty much break laws on a weekly if not daily basis. There was an undeniable conflict between the two missions.

Mitch Rapp had somehow managed to get both men on the same page, which was another red flag to Kennedy. Mitch was a disrespectful, almost always unmanageable asset. He was akin to a company’s top sales rep, who was often the same guy who thumbed his nose at the sales manager, showed up late to meetings, or didn’t show at all and in general did whatever in the hell he wanted, just so long as he kept hitting his numbers. Pretty much every successful company had a rep that fit that bill. Men and women who were at their best when management stayed out of their way. Smart bosses knew it was wise to turn them loose and look in the other direction. In a sense Rapp had been the CIA’s top rep for ten-plus years and counting, and Juarez was his de facto sales manager. Juarez did not resent Rapp. He’d been on the messy end of black ops himself and the two men shared that unique bond, which was no small thing in a bureaucracy where ninety-nine percent of the employees had a desk job. Juarez respected Rapp, even revered him and depended on him in situations just like this to get results where others had failed. The problem, Kennedy knew, lay in the fact that Rapp had corrupted one of Juarez ’s precious recruits. Rapp had gotten Brooks involved in what could quickly become a criminal investigation. If this went south it would be a big blow to the Clandestine Service. Juarez might even lose his job over the deal.

“The videotape,” McMahon said, “from the Starbucks…is not enough evidence to convict this guy. The attorney general is losing his mind over this. You told us he was the guy.”

“He is,” Kennedy said calmly. She’d had almost a day now to consider the situation, and she was slightly embarrassed that she had allowed her own emotions to cloud her judgment. First off, getting upset with Rapp served no purpose. She should have known that after all these years. He was going to do what he thought best regardless of orders from HQ.

“Can you back that up?”

“Not at the moment.”