Vince Flynn: Protect And Defend

For Garret, if there was any lesson to be learned from history, it was that victory went to whoever was bold enough to take it. Pitted against some of history’s more sensational power grabs, Garret felt that what he had participated in was pretty mild. After all, he would have never joined in the plot if the photos hadn’t been thrown in his face-a clear effort by the other side to play dirty. Garret knew it had been his old nemesis Cap Baker, who had sent him the pictures. Garret’s candidates, presidential nominee Josh Alexander and his running mate Mark Ross, were getting their asses handed to them by the Republicans. Money was drying up and the time left to close the gap was shrinking quickly, but they still had a chance. That was, until the photos arrived.

There were a lot of obstacles Garret could overcome, but the wife of his candidate caught on film having sex with a Secret Service agent was not one of them. Garret showed the photos to Mark Ross, Alexander’s vice president on the ticket. Ross nearly lost his mind, but after a good thirty minutes of a profanity-strewn tirade, he composed himself. He was not prepared to quit so easily. He had fought too hard to see his lifelong ambition destroyed by some little slut. Ross had contacts from his days at the CIA and as Director of National Intelligence. He went to work on finding a way to neutralize the problem, and in less than a week had reached a deal with a very shady expatriate named Cy Green.

Now it had been a little more than sixteen months since the attack on the motorcade that had killed Jillian Rautbort and fourteen others, including the Secret Service agent who had been sleeping with her. Garret had deluded himself into thinking that his role in the entire matter had been that of a bystander. He had neither condoned nor criticized the plans that had been set in motion. He had merely followed orders.

Garret remembered the shock and surprise he’d felt when the bomb attack had worked. The press, the public, even law enforcement bought the entire thing. A splinter terrorist group took credit for the attack on the motorcade, and the hunt was on to track them down. The voters rallied behind Alexander and Ross and several weeks later they rode the tide of sympathy to victory. Everything was going smoothly up until the week before the inauguration. That was when Mitch Rapp, Langley ’s top counterterrorism man, had somehow managed to track down the assassin who had detonated the car bomb. In just a few short days, everything they had worked so hard for began to unravel.

Just days before the inauguration the two men who had helped them pull off their miraculous come-from-behind victory disappeared, never to be seen by anyone again. That was unnerving enough, but mild compared to the shock Garret felt when he received the news that Vice President-elect Ross had died of a heart attack the morning of the inauguration. In the Oval Office, of all places. Garret knew Ross had a history of heart problems, but he found it hard to accept the timing of his departure. He had no real evidence that Rapp was to blame, but the odds of all three conspirators dying in the same week were impossible to swallow. Garret’s gut told him the CIA was behind the entire thing, but he was hardly in a position to run to the authorities or the media. He left Washington and promised himself that he would never return. A year later, however, he was already rethinking that decision.

He missed manipulating the media and the voters. He missed outfoxing the Republicans and watching them complain about his dirty tactics. President Alexander’s people were courting him as if it was a foregone conclusion that he would run the reelection bid that would begin in a little over a year. No man in the history of the republic had ever managed three successful campaigns. Being the first, and likely only, man to do so would be hard to refuse.

Garret threw the sheet off himself with no regard for his wife lying beside him. He placed his feet on the floor, grabbed the edge of the recessed bookshelf, and stood. As was his habit, he was buck naked. He began walking across the cabin toward the open door. A strip of lights along the floor illuminated the way past the bathroom. Garret used the onboard toilet as little as possible and never for a simple piss. One of his other defining traits was that he was cheap, and he’d be damned if he was going to pay the extortionate rates the marinas charged to pump his waste tanks.

He reached the door that led topside and undid the lock. As he climbed the steps he thought of the adrenaline rush he got from running a presidential campaign. Maybe it was time to get back in the game. Surely, if they were going to kill him they would have done it months ago.

Garret stepped into the spacious cockpit with careless confidence, blinded by his own lack of patience. It was simply unthinkable to him that anyone would wait to do anything. He walked over to the port side and along the narrow passageway that led down to the swim platform. Reaching out with his right hand, he steadied himself against the side of the boat as he moved down the steps. His knees and back were stiff. When he reached the expansive platform he turned immediately to his right as he always did.

Garret moved his toes to the edge and grabbed hold of himself. He flexed his knees several times and let out a yawn while he waited for his prostate to release its grip on his bladder. As he was looking out across the bay at the lights of the small town, he noticed a slight tremor beneath his feet. He started to turn his head to look over his shoulder, but before his head moved more than an inch a gloved hand clamped down on his mouth. A startled scream leapt from his throat but never made it past his lips. Garret felt the warmth of the attacker’s breath on his right ear and then he heard a voice. It was a growl, barely louder than a whisper, and it sent shivers down his spine.

“One fucking peep, and I’ll snap your neck like a toothpick.”

Adam Shoshan rounded the corner with his cart and counted the paces. To his satisfaction the long barren hallway was empty. He located the faint pencil mark at waist height and unfolded his small footstool. Reaching under the cart, he retrieved a metal box and yanked the wax paper off the back, exposing a sticky surface. After looking over both shoulders, he limped his way up the stool and pressed the device firmly against the wall, securing it in place. With no time to spare he folded up his footstool, set it on top of his cleaning cart, and was off.

Shoshan’s mission had evolved in ways no one had predicted. He had been sent in as a spy in the most classic sense of the word. His mission was to surreptitiously collect intelligence on the Isfahan Nuclear Facility and nothing more. No unneeded gambles or risks were to be taken. He was to monitor who came and went and at what time. He was to build dossiers on the key scientists, and most importantly he was to ascertain the capacity of the centrifuge facility buried deep underground. Almost as an afterthought, the air force weighed in with one request. If it was possible, they wanted to get a look at the blueprints of the facility. After all, they would be the ones who would be called on to destroy it, and the more they knew about where to drop their bombs the better their chances were of succeeding.

Shoshan was under strict orders to move cautiously, take his time and make sure he passed on accurate information. This was not to be a quick in-and-out operation. The ops people back at Mossad anticipated he would be in country for a minimum of one year. Shoshan accepted all of this with a sense of duty and honor. Every time the maniacal Iranian president appeared on television and expressed his desire to see Israel consumed by a nuclear fireball, Shoshan was reminded just how much was riding on his ability to sell himself as a Persian.