CHAPTER FIVE.

    Washington, D. C. Monday evening

    Approximately two miles north and a little west of the White House is one of the most formidable embassies in Washington. Located atop a hill off Connecticut Avenue, the large encampment is fitting for a nation that has felt threatened throughout its entire existence. Most native Washingtonians didn't even know that the embassy belonged to Israel. To them the series of buildings seemed to possess nothing more than an interesting architectural style and a commanding view. The more informed observer saw a fortress. The buildings were designed with small windows that were used sparingly. The architectural device was one that was used in the Middle East to combat the hot sun, but here in Washington it was employed as a security measure. The windows were all bulletproof and designed to neutralize audio listening devices. The buildings were set back a very comfortable distance from the street and a blanket of steel mesh was hidden beneath the varying facades. The perimeter fence looked normal enough, but was in fact reinforced to stop anything short of a tank.

    The Israelis had ample experience with car bombs, and that experience contributed greatly to the design of the embassy compound. Humans are creatures of survival, and there is perhaps no greater modern day example of a tribe fighting for its survival than Israel. The western world is very familiar with the horrific atrocities perpetuated against the Jewish people by the Nazis in World War II. Unfortunately, in Israel 's opinion, the west considers the Holocaust a historical event: the Nazis are gone and Israel now has a country of its own. What most of the west has failed to realize is that Israel is a piece of land surrounded on three sides by Arab countries that have at one time or another over the last fifty years, attacked the tiny Jewish state and threatened to wipe it off the face of the earth. In addition to their neighbors, the Jews must also deal with a threat from within. The Palestinians, the people who occupied the ancient lands before Israel settled there after World War II, have also sworn to destroy Israel. Israel is a country, a people, a tribe that must fight every day for its very survival. When dealing with the Israelis this is something that must always be remembered.

    Senator Hank Clark never lost sight of this important fact. People who had to fight for their survival tended to be quite a bit more motivated. The senator's limousine pulled up to the main gate of the Israeli embassy. As the limo's headlights bathed the sturdy gate and the security personnel who were dressed in tuxedos, he thought of how much he admired the Jews and their tenacity. After the car was thoroughly checked it was allowed to pass.

    Parties at the Israeli embassy were never known to be lush affairs. Now the French, for all of their complaining and lack of devotion to their allies, were an entirely different matter. The French knew how to throw a party. The Israelis tended to be quite a bit more serious about life, and their parties had a rather austere atmosphere.

    Even so, Senator Clark made it a priority to attend as many functions at the embassy as he could. Everyone simply assumed Clark was pandering to the Jewish vote in Phoenix, but that wasn't the case. Clark enjoyed immense popularity in his home state, and his getting reelected did not depend on whether or not he attended a party. But it was fine, if his staffers, his colleagues and the press thought he was currying favor with the Jews. Like most things with Clark, one had to dig a little deeper to find his real motive.

    The tall senator stepped into the main foyer of the embassy by himself. He had left wife number three at home. She didn't care for the serious, cut-to-the-chase approach of the Israeli diplomats, so she had decided to sit in a warm bath and indulge herself in an aroma therapy session and an expensive bottle of wine. This suited the Senator fine. He had a lot on his mind tonight, and the last thing he needed was to baby-sit number three. In fact, Senator Clark would love nothing more than to replace number three with a number four, but he was afraid it didn't fit into his current plans. The American people would give him a pass on two divorces, but a third would really be pushing it.

    Clark had barely made it through the entrance when the Israeli ambassador's underlings besieged him. Hands were firmly squeezed. Clark doled out a few back slaps and greeted everyone with his best smile. One of the more senior diplomats, who knew Clark better than the others, helped whisk him away so he could take care of the first order of business. Thirty seconds later Clark was standing in the large ballroom with a tumbler of ice-cold Scotch in his hand. A full head taller than almost everyone at the party, Clark scanned the crowd for the face he doubted he would see. The man he was to meet with tonight did not like to be seen in public.

    After about an hour of schmoozing, Senator Clark was led away from the other guests by an unremarkable man in his forties. The senator had no idea who the man was and had no interest in finding out. After a brief stop at the men's room, Clark was handed off to another individual who led him past the Shin Bet security personnel and into the working part of the embassy. None of the security officers asked for identification, much less looked at him. Everything had been arranged, Clark knew, by the man he was going to meet. By the time they reached the elevator the sounds of the party were a distant roar.

    The entire embassy was considered a secure facility by Shin Bet, the Israeli agency charged with handling security for all of the country's embassies and consulates. But nowhere in the embassy was security taken more seriously than in sub level three. The entire floor was without windows and partitioned from the rest of the facility. It housed the offices of the military's various intelligence organizations, AMAN, AF I and N1, as well as those of Mossad, Israel 's vaunted foreign intelligence service. The area could be accessed in only two ways; by a single elevator or staircase. The staircase, however, could only be used in the event of a fire, which to date had never happened. All traffic to and from the floor was by way of the elevator.

    Clark stepped into the elevator by himself and descended four stories beneath the earth to an area where electronic eavesdropping was more difficult. When he stepped from the elevator, he was greeted by a sterile combination of bright lights, white floor and white walls. The only noticeable feature in the room was a heavy secure door with a camera mounted above it and an automatic fingerprint recognition pad to the right, Clark heard the metallic click of the lock on the door being released and he opened it. Standing on the other side was a woman who Clark guessed to be in her mid thirties. Without speaking, she gestured for the senator to follow, and they were off. Midway down the corridor the woman took a right and then stopped several doors later. With a polite smile and an open palm she motioned for Clark to enter the dim room.

    Clark found his friend sitting at the other end of a rectangular ten person conference table. He stepped into the room. The thick spring loaded door closed automatically with an airtight click. The walls and ceiling were covered with a gray foam that looked similar in pattern to the inside of an egg carton. The senator knew the foam was designed to keep whatever was said inside the room, which was exactly what both men wanted. The man at the far end of the room closed the file he was reading and switched his cigarette from his right hand to his left. Standing, he extended his hand to the senator and greeted him warmly. "Good evening. Hank. It is a pleasure to see you, as always."

    "Thank you for making the trip, Ben. I really appreciate it."

    Ben Freidman shrugged as if to intimate that traveling halfway around the world from Tel Aviv was no big deal. Freidman gestured for Clark to sit, and he turned to a small portable bar that was behind him. Like Clark, Freidman also enjoyed his alcohol.

    "I had to come anyway. I need to see the President in the morning." He poured two drinks and then eased himself into the chair at the head of the table.

    "Anything important?"

    "I'd say so," Freidman replied with a troubled look.

    "Can you tell me about it?"

    "It involves Iraq. You will hear about it soon enough, but let's not talk about my problems right now. Let me hear yours." Freidman was a pit bull of a man in both personality and physique. He was aggressive, tenacious, and loyal. If he did not love you, he was a man to be feared, but if he did love you, he was as dependable as a eunuch guarding a vestal virgin. Freidman loved his country first and foremost, and after that he loved those who helped protect Israel. Senator Clark fell into the latter category.

    Freidman kept his head shaved, and rarely wore a tie. Most of the time, like tonight, he wore a pair of dress pants with a plain short sleeved dress shirt. A good fifty pounds overweight, the five foot ten inch spy liked to keep his shirts untucked. Not only did he find it more comfortable in the often oppressive heat oft el Aviv, it also helped to conceal the gun he always carried in a holster at the small of his back. Born in Jerusalem in 1949, Freidman came of age just in time to distinguish himself in the famous Six Day War of 1967. He was in a front line unit that was overrun during the initial hours of the war. Instead of lying low and waiting for the Israeli Defense Forces to push the Egyptians back across the border, Freidman grabbed two men from his squad, and against the orders of his squad leader, set off into the night to harass the enemy. They succeeded brilliantly in their mission, infiltrating the perimeter of a mobile Egyptian command post and wreaking utter havoc. His bold actions did not go unnoticed, and after the famous Six Day War, AMAN, Israels military intelligence organization, got their hands on him. By the age of thirty Freidman had risen to the rank of colonel and had fast gained a reputation as a man who got results. It was then that he had been recruited, or as some in the military felt, stolen by the Mossad.

    Over the next two decades Freidman became a legend within the Mossad. What was even more miraculous to some was his uncanny ability to avoid highly embarrassing situations. Whether it was luck or cunning, no one could be quite sure, but Ben Freidman had risen to the very top of what many considered the most effective intelligence agency in the world. He was a man to be respected and feared. He was the director general of the Mossad, and rarely did a month pass where he didn't send someone to their death.

    Freidman took a sip of his Polish vodka, and looking at his guest, surmised that he would most likely keep the trend going. Tilting his head slightly, Freidman asked the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, "What troubles you, my friend?"

    "Oh, many things, but one thing in particular."

    "Dr. Kennedy?"

    "Ummm… yes and no. She is an issue, but at present there's someone who is a bigger priority." A thin mischievous smile creased Freidman's lips. "Mr. Rapp?" Shaking his head he added, "I told you, you should have never got him involved in all of this. He is far too dangerous a man."

    "Yes, you were right about that, but we can't turn back the clock." Clark hesitated for a moment, as if he were struggling to suppress a bad memory. Freidman had indeed advised him to avoid Mitch Rapp. He had been very specific on that point, warning him that four continents were littered with the corpses of people who had gone toe to toe with America 's top assassin. At the time Clark had thought that Freidman had refused out of some respect for Rapp, some common bond they had forged while fighting the same enemy. That was the rationale the senator had used when he had been stupid enough to trust Peter Cameron.

    Just the thought of Cameron caused Clark to grimace. He had recruited him personally. As the trusted chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, there wasn't much that Clark couldn't get his hands on. He had chosen Peter Cameron after several years of studying the mans every move. Cameron was a twenty-four-year veteran of the CIA's Office of Security; the CIA's own little private Gestapo. One of the Office of Security's chief jobs was to watch the watchers, to spy on the spies.

    Cameron knew things and had contacts that the senator was more than willing to compensate him for. After more than two decades of mediocre pay, Cameron leapt at the chance to become a well-paid mercenary for the senator. It had been Camerons idea to kill Rapp and leave him in Germany for all the world to discover.

    Despite all of his suppressed anger Clark had to be honest with himself. The plan had been a bold one. Clark had shadowed Rapp and Kennedy and intercepted the orders. Cameron had used his contacts inside the Agency and paid them well. Clark was sure of that, for he had been the one handing over the suitcases of cash. If the plan had succeeded, Chairman Hank Clark would have presided over the most sensational hearings this country had seen in decades. The facts Clark was prepared to slowly unearth would have destroyed President Hayes, and wounded the Democratic Party for at least the next two general elections. It would have allowed the senator to virtually hand pick the next director of the CIA. A director who would be more than willing to open up the treasure trove of secrets formerly known as Echelon. And more important than all of it, the entire affair would have allowed Hank Clark to launch his bid for the White House. He would have had the money from Ellis and his associates in Silicon Valley, the nationally televised committee hearings would have given him the all important face time and name recognition, and his party would have been beholden to him for bringing the Democrats to their knees. It was a lock. They had come so close. If only Peter Cameron had succeeded.

    Clark had failed to listen to Freidman and he was now paying for it. When the Germany operation blew up in their faces Cameron assured Clark that he could handle the CIA's top killer, Clark had given him one more chance, and Cameron had screwed that up too. Disguised as FBI special agents, Cameron and his cronies had picked up Anna Rielly and brought her to Rapp's house. Once again, Cameron underestimated his target, and before the night was over more men had died at Rapp's hands.

    That was when the senator had decided to cut his losses. In a brief coded e-mail to Freidman, Clark had arranged for Peter Cameron to meet his maker. Twenty-four hours later Cameron was dead and Mitch Rapp had run into a brick wall in his pursuit to find out who had ordered the hit on him in Germany.

    If Clark had learned anything from his experiences of the last month it was to be extra careful. The lure of ultimate power had caused him to make some poor decisions, and he was not going to let it happen again. He would heed the advice of Ben Freidman, and from this point forward he would be more careful.

    Leaning back in his chair, Freidman gestured with his hands, telling his friend to unload his burden. "How can I help?"

    Clark hesitated briefly and then said, "The woman you sent to take care of Cameron?"

    Freidman raised an eyebrow."I never told you it was a woman."

    "The CIA has tapes of her."

    "When you say the CIA, who do you mean specifically?"

    "Kennedy."

    "What do the tapes show?"

    "They show her coming and going."

    Freidman noticed that Clark seemed very disturbed by this bit of news. Always with one eye on the end game, he decided to play the whole thing off as unimportant. "She's a pro. I doubt they will find anything on those tapes."

    "But what if they do?"

    Freidman acted as if he were giving the senator's words serious concern. He scratched one of his muscular forearms and said,"I'm not worried. Even if they got lucky and found her, they would never get anything from her."

    The thought of the CIA finding the woman caused Clark 's chest to tighten. He reminded himself to keep breathing and stay calm. "I'm worried," he said flatly. "I would like this potential problem to go away. No loose ends. Rapp got close enough last time."

    Freidman grimaced at Clark 's words as if he were wrestling with an idea he didn't like. "This woman is very good. One of my best. I have put years and years of training into her."

    "Five hundred thousand."

    Freidman liked the number. It was easily double what he had expected. That was another thing he really liked about Clark and his cowboy attitude. There was no dicking around when it came to money. After considering the issue for a bit longer, Freidman nodded and said, "I'll take care of it, but it will have to wait until I return. This is too delicate to handle from America."

    Clark felt as if a heavy weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. Relieved, he asked, "When are you heading back?"

    "Tomorrow afternoon."

    Smiling, Clark said, "Ben, I can't thank you enough for coming all this way. I really appreciate it. I should have listened to you when you warned me to steer clear of Rapp."

    "Don't worry." Freidman shrugged off the comment as if it were trivial. "You have been a good ally, and when you are President," the director of the Mossad raised his glass in a toast, "you will be an even better ally."