Vince Flynn - Consent To Kill

"When?"

"An hour ago."

"Where?"

"In front of his office."

"By who?"

"Who do you think?"

"I don't know," growled an angry Abel.

"Mitch Rapp."

Abel stopped pacing. "How? That's impossible."

"Apparently not."

Abel could feel a monstrous headache coming on. He started pacing again, looking at the floor as he went from one end of the room to the other. "I want my money back," he blurted out.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The eleven million dollars Saeed paid me to have Rapp killed."

"Rapp is still alive."

"I don't care. The deal was I keep the deposit whether he was killed or not. I want my money back."

"Come to Riyadh and we will talk about this."

"Rashid, don't be a fool. I will never set foot in your country again." Abel had never spoken to him in such a discourteous manner. It was always prince this or prince that.

"Then come to Spain. I am leaving for Granada tonight. We can discuss your money and figure out how we will deal with Rapp."

"No," Abel said firmly. "You will pay me eleven million dollars by five o'clock Zurich time today, or I will tell Rapp this was all your idea."

There was a long silence and then Rashid said, "Don't be foolish. Two can play that game. If you do that you will be signing your death warrant."

"Maybe, maybe not. I am nobody. A single individual who can disappear. You are the powerful and wealthy Prince Muhammad bin Rashid." Abel spoke the name with disdain. "Rapp will have a hard time finding me. You, on the other hand, will be easy to find."

"Erich, think about what you are doing. You do not want me as an enemy."

"And you don't want to end up like your friend Saeed, so you'd better give me the eleven million dollars by five or I promise you, Rapp is going to find out that you orchestrated this whole thing. I'll send your assistant wiring instructions for the money."

"Give me until five tomorrow. I am wealthy but not in the way Saeed was. I need time."

"Noon tomorrow! That is all you have."

Abel hit the end button on the phone and threw it on the bed. He clasped his hands behind his neck, took several more laps around the room, and then grabbed his suitcase. He had to get moving. He needed cash, but he couldn't trust the banks. That meant he had to get to the Alpine house. He had close to $100,000 in the safe. It would be enough to get the surgery done and buy a new set of identification. Hopefully Rashid would see the light and give him the money. He did not want to spend the rest of his years looking over his shoulder for Mitch Rapp.

Kennedy's armor-plated sedan pulled up to the Southwest Gate. The Secret Service officers were accustomed to her coming and going, but checked the undercarriage and trunk nonetheless. Kennedy had been to the White House so many times she'd stopped counting years ago. There were still moments, though, like now, when she could feel her pulse quicken and her stomach tighten. Most of these visits were simple, standard intelligence briefings. Occasionally there was a crisis to handle, but more often than not her duty was to inform and advise the president and the rest of the national security team as was needed.

This afternoon was going to be different, though. Nothing boring, benign or otherwise. It was going to be a high stakes game, and the players were some of Washington's most powerful. Three people in particular wanted her head on a platter-the director of National Intelligence, her supposed boss; the secretary of state; and the attorney general. On top of it all, her recent travels had tired Kennedy out. DC to Zurich and back in less than sixteen hours. Add to that the murder of Anna Rielly, the attack on the safe house, and a boss who had no idea what he was doing and you ended up with a frayed and worn-out director of the CIA. Kennedy would have preferred to go straight home to see Tommy and then go to bed early, but there was no postponing this meeting. They were too upset, and to be completely honest, there was a devious side to her that was looking forward to it. She'd learned from Rapp. Sometimes it's best to let it fly. Especially when the deck is stacked in your favor.

Kennedy checked her watch. It was 5:18 on Monday. Fortunately, she'd managed to get a few hours' sleep on both the flight over and the flight back. When she'd decided to follow the lead to Zurich, she did so with the comforting knowledge that the president would at least privately support her. She was always prepared to play the game and kiss the ring fingers and curtsy, in order to keep the Cabinet members and other important types happy. She herself, after all, was one of the important people, but that wasn't going to help her out on this one. These people were above her and she had committed the ultimate insider's sin. She had kept them out of the loop and she had stepped all over their toes. In the end, at least in their eyes, she had made them look bad. That was the problem. This group didn't like being made to look bad.

Kennedy left her large briefcase in the backseat and grabbed a brown leather folder. She stepped from the car and stood on the curb for a second. Her shoulder length brown hair was pulled back in a simple black clip that matched her black pantsuit and black shoes. Kennedy slid a hand between her blue blouse and her pants waist to make sure the shirt was tucked in. She adjusted her glasses and then set off through the door and into the West Wing where she was stopped by another Secret Service officer. Kennedy flashed her badge and signed her name in the logbook. From there she went upstairs and straight to the president's gatekeeper, Betty Rodgers, a DC native and extremely competent assistant.

Betty's office was small, like most of the rooms in the West Wing with the exception of the Oval Office and Cabinet Room. Betty looked up at Kennedy over the top of her reading spectacles. She was in her early fifties, but she already had that grandmotherly look. She pursed her lips as if she had something to say and then stopped.

Kennedy liked Betty, which was important. As the president's top assistant she got to see some of the country's most treasured secrets. She was someone who needed to be tough and discreet. She was both.

"Good evening, Betty."

"Irene, what have you been up to?" Betty asked in a friendly but accusatory tone.

"Very little."

"That's not what I've heard, honey. You've got some very angry people in there. They've been burning up the phones all day."

Kennedy cared about their reaction, but she was most interested in getting a read on the top boss. "How is the president?"

"Different."

"How do you mean, different?"

"I don't know…he just hasn't been himself lately. It has nothing to do with your little trip to Switzerland. He's actually been pretty calm about that. It's the other ones who've been raising a stink. They all called individually to complain and then they came over here together at lunch to do it all over again." Betty took her glasses off and let them hang from the chain around her neck. In a hushed voice she asked, "I hope you got what you were looking for, because they want to burn you at the stake."

Kennedy smiled and patted her brown leather folder.

"Good." Betty looked at her watch. "Get in there and give them hell. And be quick about it. I have dinner plans."

Kennedy thanked her and entered the Oval Office. They were all waiting for her. The president, Ross, Secretary of State Berg, Attorney General Stokes, and even Vice President Baxter. Baxter and the president were sitting in the two chairs directly in front of the fireplace. The power chairs. Ross, Berg, and Stokes were lined up on one couch like a firing squad. The identical couch opposite was empty. That was where they wanted her to sit. Isolated, like some child being called to the principal's office. Kennedy gladly accepted her seat of solitude. She set her leather folder on the glass coffee table and leaned back, confident that their argument would be emotional whereas she had some pretty damning evidence on her side.