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“Was it Mitch?”
“Yes.”
“So everything is okay between you two?”
Rielly hesitated. “Things were never bad between us. We just had a little problem over the weekend.”
“Great,” replied Pete with sarcasm. “You guys had a little problem, I make a little comment at lunch, and then you make me feel bad about myself for the rest of the day.”
Rielly smiled. “I’m sorry, Pete, it was just bad timing. I was a little sensitive today.”
“That’s fine,” he continued in his sarcastic tone. “I’m a big target. I can take it. Whatever you need to do to make yourself feel better…go right ahead.”
Rielly laughed. “I see the little baby has his sense of humor back.” She punched him in the arm. “You are so full of it.”
Pete stood up with a weepy expression on his face. “You know, I have feelings, too.”
“Yeah, I know you do, big shooter. I’ll make it up to you and buy you a beer.”
“Really?” The pained look vanished.
“Yeah, but not tonight, maybe tomorrow.” Rielly wanted to get home and give Liz the update.
“If you really cared, you’d take me out right now. I’m feeling very vulnerable tonight.”
Rielly just shook her head. “Oh, please. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned and walked away toward the northwest gate. On her way, she called Liz. After four rings, her friend answered.
“Liz, I’m leaving work. I’m going to grab a cab.”
“No you’re not! Michael’s right here. I’m kicking him out the door as we speak. He’ll be there in five minutes.”
“No. I’m fine. Don’t worry, I can catch a cab.”
“Anna, don’t argue with me. Michael is on his way.”
“Liz, everything is fine. I talked to Mitch. I’ll tell you about it when I get there.” Her friend tried to protest again, but Rielly cut her off. “Don’t bother sending Michael. I’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”
Rielly hung up the phone without giving Liz a chance to argue further. She passed through the gate, waving good night to the uniformed Secret Service officers behind the bulletproof windows. Walking west down Pennsylvania, she lifted her face to the sky and grinned with relief. The night’s fall air felt crisp and clean. One block over, in front of the Renwick Gallery on the corner of 17th, she caught a cab and told the driver the address in Georgetown. The cab pulled out into traffic, and Rielly sank down in the back seat. Her energy was gone—her mind was set on a big glass of merlot and a good night’s sleep.
A DARK BLUE Crown Victoria was parked on 17th Street facing south. It had U.S. government plates and two antennas affixed to the back window. Dave Polk sat behind the wheel and watched the cab pull away with his surveillance target in the back seat. Polk started the car and pulled out into traffic. In the trunk of the car was a suitcase. It looked ordinary, but inside was a sophisticated piece of equipment designed to intercept analog and digital phone calls. It was made in Taiwan and was most effective at picking up analog calls, but if the user were in possession of the specific digital number they were monitoring, it was no problem. Two cables ran out the back of the suitcase. One was attached to the antenna on the back window, and the other one was strung under the back seat, under the carpeting, and came up between the front seats. It was attached to a small earpiece that Polk was wearing.
He had been on post since three P.M. Most of his shift had been uneventful, with the exception of the last fifteen minutes. This was the first day they’d had her under surveillance. Polk hadn’t been told why, and he didn’t ask. He was a good soldier that way. He followed orders. That didn’t mean he was a robot, though. He kept up on current events, and he had a healthy libido. The two together made it impossible for Anna Rielly to stay off his radar screen. She was the hottest reporter in Washington, and she’d been involved in the hostage standoff at the White House the year before. Polk remembered reading an article about how her colleagues admired her for not trying to capitalize on her personal involvement in the tragedy. Polk had a sneaky suspicion that there was more to the story.
When you were on surveillance, there was a lot of extra time. He had already read the Washington Post and the Washington Times cover to cover. Polk liked to compare the papers and how they spun stories, one liberal and one conservative. They were a daily lesson in how biased the press was.
Polk continued following the cab west down G Street. He was careful to stay far enough back. One of the few things they had told him to look out for was any communication between Rielly and a man named Mitch Rapp. From what Polk had heard earlier, he could safely assume this Mitch Rapp was Rielly’s boyfriend. Polk had originally thought that this assignment was about Rielly. Probably something to do with a story she was digging into. But now, after hearing her conversation with Rapp, he was beginning to wonder if it wasn’t about him.
RAPP TOLD KENNEDY and Stansfield to leave their hands on their laps where he could see them. Both did as they were told. They were well aware of Rapp’s capabilities. Rapp moved behind Stansfield and positioned himself so his back was against the wall and not one of the windows. He rested the butt of the pistol on the back of the leather chair and kept the long black silencer aimed at Coleman. His dark eyes were trained on Kennedy. They were searching for the slightest sign of guilt. There was nothing, exactly what he had been afraid of. The woman was utterly unflappable.
Kennedy was momentarily caught off-guard. It was now evident that she had missed something. She had been so worried about Rapp the last several days that it had never occurred to her that he might th
ink he had been set up by her and Stansfield. She told herself to stay calm and said, “Mitch, I know what you’re thinking, but I could never do that to you.”
“Oh, really. And how is it that you know what I’m thinking?”
“Why else would you come in here like this?”
Rapp ignored the question and asked, “Why did you send those two to kill me?”