Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

“When isn’t that little fucker upset? Have you ever met a more irritating person in all your life?”

Speyer decided it was better to not answer the question. “He has a point this time.”

“I’m beginning to question your wisdom. You were the one who advised me to do this. That’s what I pay you to do. You said it would be a good return on my investment.”

It was almost impossible for his clients to surprise him. He’d seen it all. Their selective memory, their ability to rationalize or simply forget every bad decision or deed they’d ever committed, was endless, while their capacity to fixate or create blame elsewhere was eternal. “Cy, before we go any further, I want to make it very clear that you brought this proposal to my attention. You expressed your desire to proceed from the very beginning and you never vacillated. You wanted to do this. I merely supported you.”

Green stared at him for a moment and decided to change the subject. “I’ll tell you what pisses me off. I’ve already spent millions of dollars on this. I’ve leveraged some of my most important contacts, I’ve risked a lot…and what have they done?”

Speyer shrugged.

“They haven’t done shit. Where’s my fucking pardon?”

“They always said it wouldn’t happen until the last minute.”

“What are they waiting for? There isn’t much time left.”

“I’ve told you it would likely take place this Saturday.”

Green began pacing in front of the fireplace. “Are we sure the Americans have the right guy?”

“I have no way of knowing. Plus I have no idea who the right guy is.”

“Yeah,” Green said as if he had figured something out. “Vasili is the only one who knows. Have you called Vasili?”

“No.” Speyer did not like dealing with the Russian mobster directly. Not if he could avoid it.

“I’ll call him and find out what’s going on, and in the meantime you call that little prick Garret and tell him I said I want my pardon.”

Speyer nodded, took a large gulp of wine, and questioned once again the wisdom of working with men like Green and Garret.

The Justice Department sat directly across Pennsylvania Avenue from FBI headquarters. Ross’s motorcade pulled up to the building unannounced at 9:30 on Tuesday morning. Stu Garret, Jonathon Gordon, and Ross emerged from the back of the armored limousine and proceeded across the wide sidewalk surrounded by a phalanx of Secret Service agents. A single agent ran into the building ahead of everyone so he could alert security that the vice president-elect was coming in to see the attorney general. Much of the hassle could have been avoided if they’d called ahead, but Ross liked to make surprise visits. The vice president to be told the agent in charge of his detail that it was a way of getting a better sense of how things actually ran. The agent suspected it had more to do with Ross liking to keep people off balance.

Ross, his chief of staff, and his campaign manager skirted the security lines and crowded into an elevator with four tall agents. They went to the top floor and down the hall to the attorney general’s suite. During Ross’s short stint as the director of National Intelligence he spent many mornings attending security briefings at the Department of Justice. They passed several administrative assistants in the hallway. Ross, always the politician, smiled and greeted them.

The attorney general had a good-sized outer office where three secretaries sat behind large desks. Ross was about to say good morning when the door to Stokes’s conference room flew open. A six-foot-tall blond appeared in the doorway with her back to the reception area. She was wearing a brown, long-sleeved, formfitting dress, belted at the waist, and a pair of leather boots.

“You guys are out of your minds,” she yelled. “You can find someone else. I’m not going anywhere near this thing.”

“Peggy, please come back in here and sit down.”

Ross and his entourage stood motionless and silent on the threshold between the hallway and the reception area. Ross knew this woman, and although he couldn’t see Attorney General Stokes, he knew his voice well enough to know it was he who had asked her to come back in and sit down.

“Marty,” the tall blond said, “you more than any other person in this building should know he is the wrong guy to mess with.”

“Just close the door, and sit down. I’m in no mood for the theatrics this morning.”

“Theatrics,” she yelled. “You want to see some real theatrics, keep doing what you’re doing. He gets wind of this and he’ll eat you for lunch.”

Ross grinned. It appeared they had stepped in to the middle of a disagreement. The three secretaries were looking back and forth between the next vice president of the United States of America and the leggy blond deputy attorney general in the doorway. The leggy blond was Peggy Stealey. Ross knew her by reputation more than anything else. She was an intense lawyer who did not suffer fools lightly.

“Peggy, I’m serious,” Stokes said raising his voice. “Get back in here. We need to finish discussing this.”

“Marty, did I somehow give you the impression that I wasn’t taking this seriously? Because if I did, I would like to set the record straight. Where Mitch Rapp is concerned, I take things very seriously.” She folded her arms across her chest. “If you want to continue down this path, which I am advising against, that’s your prerogative. Just go find someone else, because I’m telling you I want nothing to do with it.”

“You’re the deputy assistant attorney general in charge of counterterrorism. This case is yours whether you like it or not.”

“I never said I wouldn’t handle the case. I’m just not going to investigate Mitch Rapp, and that’s final.”

Stealey turned to leave but after a step she noticed the group of men standing in the doorway and she stopped dead in her tracks. Before she could speak the attorney general yelled from the conference room, “Times are changing, Peggy. Rapp and his boss have made a lot of enemies in this town, and this mess he created isn’t going to win him any friends.”

Ross looked at the blue-eyed woman standing before him. With her high cheekbones and strong jaw, she looked decidedly Scandinavian. Ross extended his hand. “Ms. Stealey.”

Stealey hesitated for a second, unsure of which title to use. “Mr. Vice President.”

Ross clasped her right hand firmly, took a step closer and then placed his left hand on her shoulder. Smiling warmly he whispered, “He’s right, you know.”

“Excuse me?” Stealey was taken slightly aback.

“Times, they are a-changing.”

“That tends to happen around here every four years or so.”

Ross studied her. She was nearing forty and her skin was still flawless. Ross leaned forward placing his mouth within inches of Stealey’s right ear. “Don’t worry about Mitch Rapp. You won’t recognize the CIA a year from now.”

Stealey’s blue eyes narrowed into an analytical stare. “I don’t make mistakes very often, but when I do, I learn from them.”

Ross nodded and smiled. He thought of something Stokes had once told him about Peggy Stealey. He had compared her to a thunderstorm. The anticipation of her arrival was made up of equal amounts of fear and excitement over the awesome spectacle that was about to commence. If she blew through quickly it made for a rather enjoyable watching. But if she hovered or stalled, she could cause serious damage.

“And what am I supposed to glean from that comment?” Ross asked.

Stealey pulled Ross closer and in a soft voice said, “Don’t fuck with Mitch Rapp.” And with that she was gone.