Vince Flynn - Consent To Kill

"Irene, sorry to intrude, but I was in the neighborhood and decided to drop by." Ross reached the area where they were sitting and let his gaze fall on Rapp. "Mitch," he said, placing his left hand on Rapp's shoulder and extending his right hand. "Good to see you as always."

Rapp nodded. He'd only met the new intel czar twice, both times when Ross was in the Senate. Kennedy had warned him to be cordial to their new boss. Rapp recalled her being unusually cautious about the former senator. Kennedy had explained that it wasn't Ross as much as it was his new job. No one in Washington was quite sure how the new position of director of National Intelligence was going to play itself out, and that uncertainty had caused the political gamesmanship to begin. At the mere mention of politics Rapp tuned her out. He was more concerned about who Ross was and where he'd come from. If Ross was going to politicize intelligence they would butt heads big-time.

The skinny on Ross was that he had a firm grasp on national security issues and knew how to motivate people. It also helped that after graduating from Princeton he'd actually worked at the CIA in the Directorate of Intelligence. His claim to fame at the Agency was that right before leaving to get his law degree at Yale he prepared a report on a fringe Iranian religious figure known as the Ayatollah Khomeini. Ross predicted that Khomeini's religious fervor and growing following was likely to lead to a full-blown revolution in Iran. He was one of the only people in the government who read the tea leaves correctly. On the surface Ross had an outgoing manner about him that was interpreted by some as self-assured and by others as arrogant. Rapp assumed that like most men who had been members of America's most exclusive club, the U.S. Senate, Ross was a bit of both, depending on the situation. Now Rapp sat uncomfortably in the chair, with the man's hand still on his shoulder, wondering if the former senator had any idea how much he hated being touched. He glanced down at the offending hand and briefly envisioned snapping one of the fingers.

"I see that pretty wife of yours on TV every day," Ross continued. "You're a lucky guy." He took his hand off Rapp's shoulder and looked at the third party in the room. It was obvious by the square jaw and athletic build of the man that he was not your average Langley bureaucrat. He appeared to be a Nordic version of Rapp, and Ross suddenly found himself wondering what he, Rapp, and Kennedy had been discussing.

"Mark Ross," he introduced himself to the blond-haired man. "Director of National Intelligence."

Coleman nodded. If he was impressed he didn't show it. "Scott Coleman."

"You work here at Langley?"

"No, my IQ is too high." Coleman gave him his best shit-ass grin.

Ross laughed. "I don't think there are too many people in this town with an IQ as high as Doctor Kennedy's, but I'll go along with your explanation for now. You look ex-military to me. What branch?"

"Navy."

"SEALs?"

"That's classified."

Ross hesitated for a second, and Rapp thought he noticed a flash of anger just beneath the surface. Ross quelled it and looked to Kennedy. "Definitely a SEAL. Nowhere else in the military do they breed such contempt for authority."

Rapp was the only one in the room who laughed. Kennedy never found such banter very funny, and Rapp knew Coleman well enough to know he was having an internal monologue as to the merits of blindly respecting authority versus real leaders who earned respect.

Before Coleman could respond Ross placed his hand on the back of the man he'd come in with and said, "This is Jonathan Gordon, my new deputy. He's going to be my point man on all coordination between Langley and National Intelligence."

"Nice to meet you, Jonathan," replied Kennedy. She took off her glasses and set them on the leather folder in front of her. Her body language revealed nothing.

Gordon was a half head shorter than his boss and looked to be in his early forties. Rapp tried to size him up, but got nothing.

"Again, sorry for interrupting," said Ross as he clapped his hands together. "I'm trying to get up to speed as quickly as possible. I'll let you three get back to whatever it was you were discussing. I'm going to go check in on a couple of my old intel buddies, and then I'll pop back up here in about thirty minutes." Ross checked his watch. "Will that work for you, Irene?"

"If you give me a few minutes to finish up here, I'll show you around myself."

"No, don't bother," Ross insisted. "I still remember my way, and besides you're too valuable to be giving tours." He started to back away, and in a quieter tone said, "I'll stop back up in a bit. There's a few things I'd like to discuss with you." Ross and Gordon then left the corner office as quickly as they'd arrived.

When the door was closed Rapp turned to Coleman and asked, "Why do you have such a problem with authority?"

Kennedy shook her head. "Mr. Pot, leave Mr. Kettle alone and let's get back to where we were."

ROSS, GORDON, AND the two bodyguards approached the bank of elevators. Ross stopped and folded his arms across his chest. He looked back toward Kennedy's office and appeared fixed on a particular thought. As the elevator doors slid open Ross whispered to Gordon, "I want you to find out everything you can about Mr. Coleman." Ross stepped into the elevator.

"I'm already on it." Gordon retrieved a Palm Pilot from his suit and went to work.

Ross stared at the backs of his thick-necked bodyguards and then tilted his head toward Gordon and, still whispering, said, "Rapp makes me nervous enough as it is. I don't think there's a person in this town who can control him."

"Not even the president?"

"Especially not the president. Rapp's saved the man's life twice." Ross held up two fingers to punctuate his point. "You remember Valerie Jones, the president's chief of staff, stepping down this past summer?"

"Yeah."

"That was Rapp. He and Jones were like a frickin' ferret and a snake… I mean, they hated each other. Rapp gave the president a choice. Me or Jones, and the president chose Rapp."

Gordon appeared impressed. "I've heard the man is very talented at what he does."

"He is. Don't get me wrong, he's the best, but guys like that need to be kept on a short leash. No, strike that. They need to kept in a cage in the basement and the only time you let them out is when there's a murderer in your house."

Gordon flexed his knees. "He doesn't strike me as the type who's going to let you put him in a cage."

"There lies the problem, my friend. We have to rein in all these damn agencies, most of whom can't stand each other, and get them to cooperate. I need them to follow my orders. I need everyone playing off the same sheet of music and looking at me, the conductor. I can't have Rapp running around banging on his war drums doing whatever the hell he wants."

The elevator doors opened. "There are people in this town, Jonathan, who would love to see me fail. People who would give a lot to see me embarrassed, and I don't like to be embarrassed. Rapp makes me nervous, and if you can't figure out how to put him in a cage, you'd better at least find a way to put a leash on him."

They exited the elevator and started down the hall. "And find out the bona fides on that smart-ass Coleman. There's no way he and Rapp are up to anything good."

Erich Abel leaned against a light post and stared at the pretty woman sitting across the street. He'd arrived early and walked the neighborhood, doubling back from time to time and making sure he was familiar with at least two potential escape routes. He made a few small purchases: a gift card and an antique pen. Both stops allowed him to pause and make sure he wasn't being followed. The gift card would end up in the garbage, but the pen he would keep. It was an ivory Mont Blanc fountain pen with inlaid silver bands and shirt clip. It would be the fifty-sixth pen in his collection.