Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

Without taking his eyes off the photo Rapp said, “Please tell me this guy is not a United States Secret Service agent.”

“Unfortunately he is.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

“Who is it?”

“Special Agent Matt Cash.”

Rapp looked at the photos again, from left to right. “When were these taken?”

“Labor Day weekend at her parents’ Palm Beach estate.”

“How did they come into your possession?”

“Cap Baker. He bought them from an unknown individual for what was probably a large sum of money.”

“Can you believe him?”

“I think so. He claims he had no intention of using them. His candidates were ahead in the polls.”

“Then why did he buy them?” Rapp asked a bit skeptically.

“He says the campaign was flush with cash and he thought the best move would be to take them out of circulation. He thought there was a slight chance they could be released and might cause sympathy for Alexander.”

Rapp laughed. “Yeah, right. When did he buy them?”

“Mid-September, I think.”

“A lot could’ve happened between then and the first Tuesday in November. His candidate could have fucked up in one of the debates and overnight his lead would have vanished. These photos were his insurance policy.”

“I agree.”

“So why did he decide to give them to you?”

Kennedy sighed. “This is where things get interesting. Apparently there’s some bad blood between Baker and Stu Garret.”

“Alexander’s campaign manager?”

“Yes. They despise each other. In early October, Baker decided to give Garret something to really sweat over, so he took three of the photos, wrote, ‘You’ll Never Win,’ on the back, and had them delivered to Garret’s hotel room in Dallas.”

“Did Garret know they came from Baker?”

Kennedy shrugged. “If he did, it was a guess.”

Rapp put his hands on hips, looked down at the photos, and then shook his head. “Did Special Agent Cash happen to be in the second limo on the day of the attack?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful.”

Kennedy walked back to her desk and grabbed a two-inch file in a red folder. She returned to Rapp’s side and said, “I want you to take a fresh look at the case from top to bottom.” She handed the file to Rapp. “This is the Secret Service’s preliminary report. Read through it and talk to Special Agent Rivera. I want to know if she knew one of her people was screwing the boss’s wife.”

Rapp nodded. “So you’re thinking Gazich might be telling the truth.”

“That the second limo was the target…I think that a lot of people rushed into this thing assuming certain facts. Read the report. Especially the investigator’s notes. The entire investigation was conducted through the prism that the attack was perpetrated by terrorists. Give it a fresh look and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Rapp lifted the file up and looked at it for a second. “Anything else?”

“Yes.” Kennedy hesitated briefly and then said, “Have Marcus do a thorough check on Stu Garret.”

“Stu Garret,” Rapp said with obvious surprise. “That little pud. You think he’s capable of pulling something like this off?”

“There are some things you don’t know about Mr. Garret, and I’m not going to get into them right now, but trust me when I say the man is capable of almost anything.”

“Okay. I’ll have Marcus start right away.”

“Have him focus on the month before the attack.”

“You got it. Anything else?”

“No. Just be careful and move fast. We don’t have much time.”

Wednesday morning arrived with a bit of a hangover for Mark Ross. He had actually tried to leave the hotel at one point, but the festive atmosphere continued to build until well after midnight. After the meeting with Tom Rich from theTimes, Ross had gone up to see Alexander, who was in a black mood. There’d been times over the past month when Ross had wanted to grab Alexander by the shoulders, shake him violently, and tell him the harsh truth about his deceased wife. The woman was a slut. She deserved to be the First Lady of the United States about as much as a street hooker from New Orleans did. What Ross wanted to do and what was prudent, though, were miles apart. Besides, Alexander had proved very malleable in his grief. He’d basically let Ross run the transition team, which enabled him to stack the administration with people who were loyal to him. There were a lot of people from Georgia, to be sure, but Ross made sure they got jobs at Transportation, HUD, Education, Veterans’ Affairs, and the like. Defense, State, and Justice, the crown jewels of any administration, were loaded with his people.

After meeting with Alexander in the Abraham Lincoln Suite, Ross headed down to the Round Robin Bar for a much-needed drink. That was shortly before six. Four hours later he found himself more than a little cockeyed, drinking a glass of cognac and smoking a big fat Dominican cigar with two big Hollywood producers. Party big-hitters from across the country kept showing up, and with Alexander sulking in his suite, it fell on Ross’s shoulders to thank them for their hard work and support. At midnight he finally tore himself away from the party. One of his aides convinced him to stay at the hotel and offered to fetch him a change of clothes before morning. Less than stable on his feet, Ross took the young man up on his offer.

He awoke a few minutes before 7:00 a.m. and ordered room service before jumping into the shower. The food arrived while he was shaving and he asked the young man to set it up in front of the TV. He finished shaving and then sat down in his hotel robe and dug into his eggs, toast, and bacon. He used the bacon and toast to poke at the rich yellow yolks. He chased it with some grapefruit juice and then started in with the coffee. Within minutes he was feeling better. Then there was a knock on the door.

Ross cocked his head in the direction of the sound and considered ignoring it. It was rare these days that he got to spend time alone. There was more knocking. This time it was much louder. The door shook. Ross threw his napkin on the table and walked across the suite. He yanked open the door to find Stu Garret standing there with a huge grin on his face.

Garret pushed his way past Ross and said, “I heard you tied one on last night.”

Ross closed the door and followed him, saying, “I was merely trying to be a good host.”

Garret went straight for the room service cart and snatched a piece of bacon from Ross’s plate.

“Don’t touch my food, Stu.” Ross was dead serious.

“Relax,” said Garret as he grabbed a newspaper from under his arm and presented it to Ross. “Isn’t this beautiful?”

In large black type across the top of the paper was the headline, “CIA Tortures Wrong Man.” Ross snatched the paper from Garret’s clutches and began reading in earnest. The grin on his face was even bigger than the one Garret had when he’d answered the door. “This reallyis beautiful. He mentions both Kennedy and Rapp in the first paragraph.” He kept reading and a few moments later added, “I’m not going to have to lift a finger. The press is going to tear them apart for me.”

“Like hyenas descending on a wounded rhino. It’s already started.” Garret picked up the remote for the TV and turned on CNN. “It was picked up by all the wire services and amplified on the cable news stations, AM radio, the Internet. You name it. The blogosphere is going nuts. They might not make it to Saturday.”

Ross laughed and shook his fist in the air. “Stu, this has to be one of your better calls.”