With all of the damn technology around today, strategizing was in danger of becoming extinct. The other bonus was that he no longer felt the need to plod through twenty-plus pages a day of cable traffic that was rarely germane to what he was most concerned with. Now, they’d meet face to face two or three times a month and go over the most important information.

Rapp put on a fresh pot of coffee in the galley and then brushed his teeth and washed his face. Since his hair was only a quarter inch of black stubble there was no need for a comb. When the coffee was ready, he poured himself a cup, took a few sips, and then changed back into his dark suit and a fresh light blue dress shirt. The closest in-flight screen told him they would be landing in approximately ten minutes. Rapp turned on his laptop and used it to skim forty-one emails. Thirty-nine of them were pretty much useless chatter, but two jumped out at him as things he would need to deal with.

Rapp slid back a wood compartment and retrieved the handset for a secure satellite phone. He punched in the number for Kennedy’s direct line and thought about the best way to convince her that his plan was sound. After six rings Rapp knew the call was rolling over to one of her assistants.

“Director Kennedy’s office.” The woman’s voice was neither polite nor rude-just efficient.

“Kristen, It’s Mitch. Is she around?”

“She’s on the phone.”

“Can you interrupt her?”

“Let me see.”

There was a click as he was put on hold and then a few moments later Kennedy was on the line. Rapp said, “You know that meeting we had this morning?”

“Yes.”

“I’m on board.”

“You sure you’re up for all the attention?”

“No . . .” Rapp said, making no attempt to hide his lack of patience. “I’m talking about Mike.”

“I know,” she said. “I was just jerking your chain.”

“Can you get it done?”

“Do you care what your boss thinks, or are you calling the shots now?”

Rapp groaned. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Torturing me. You told me this morning that you thought it was a good idea.”

“That was when I thought you would accept the medal as well. I’ve had the visual in my head all day of you sitting on Oprah’s couch talking about skin-care products.”

Rapp pulled the phone away from his head and looked at it as if he might snap it in half. “Are you done?”

“Yes, but I want you to at least recognize the fact that you are giving Mike no say in the matter while you have threatened me or anyone else with extreme violence if we dare recognize your achievements, which were even more remarkable than Mike’s.”

“We’ve been through this so many times . . . Do we have to go over it again?”

“No, we don’t have to go over it again,” Kennedy said in slightly playful tone. “I just want you to recognize that you’re not being entirely fair.”

“Fine . . . I’m happy to admit it. Life isn’t fair. Mike has four kids and a wife who need him. My wife and unborn child are dead, because of what I do for a living. Maybe I don’t want to see that happen to him. Maybe I don’t want to have to knock on Maggie’s door some night and explain to her and the kids that their dad is dead. We’re different people. I’m damaged goods. He still has a shot at a seminormal life, and that’s why he’s going to be the face of this thing. Not me.”

Kennedy didn’t answer for a long time. Rapp rarely talked about his deceased wife and it had caught her off guard. “I think I understand.”

Rapp felt like an ass for coming down so hard on her. “Sorry, boss.”

“For what?”

“For snapping at you like that. You know I’m no good at this stuff. I just . . . he’s not doing well,” Rapp said, changing gears. “I’ve seen it before. The lie is tearing him up.”

“I don’t think seeing his assistant and another dozen and a half coworkers killed did him any favors.”

“No, it didn’t.” Rapp thought about Nash’s fragile state. “Just please do this for me, and do it quick. Before he does something stupid.”

“What do you mean something stupid?” Kennedy asked with trepidation.

“Nothing,” Rapp lied. “It’s just a feeling. Tell Dickerson it’s a go. Get it set up for tomorrow if you can.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What?”

“Mike. You know he’ll never go for this.”

“Don’t worry about him. You tell me what time you need him at the White House, and I’ll have him there. Just make sure everyone keeps their mouth shut.”

SANTA MARIA ISLAND, AZORES

THE landing gear thudded into the down position and the plane banked to port. Out of the nearest window Rapp caught a glimpse of the western edge of Santa Maria Island and her big ten-thousand-foot runway, courtesy of the U.S. taxpayers. The place had been a busy hub during World War II and in the decade after but was now nothing more than a tourist destination and convenient meeting place for three spooks who didn’t want to be noticed.

The plane landed so softly Rapp wasn’t sure they were down until the pilots began to brake, but with ten thousand feet of concrete there was no rush. He looked out the window and saw the other two private jets parked in the distance at the refueling station. That was the other thing Santa Maria Island was known for-fuel. Roughly a thousand miles from the European mainland, the big airstrip offered a convenient place to stop for fuel or repairs on transatlantic flights.

The other beauty of the island was that it only had five thousand residents, who were more or less uninterested in the tail numbers on the planes that came and went. Even so, Rapp grabbed a pair of sunglasses and a newspaper as he prepared to exit. When the plane stopped he disengaged the safety lock and lowered the steps. He moved stiffly down the stairs and pretended to read the newspaper as he proceeded around the nose of a Bombardier Global Express. He hesitated for a moment at the base of the Bombardier’s stairs and looked around. Not a person in sight. Rapp bounded up the steps two at a time. Once inside, he glanced to his left. The door to the flight deck was closed. Rapp hit the close button on the hatch and the stairs began to fold back into the closed position. He then walked through the well-appointed galley to the rear of the long-haul private jet. All of the shades were down on the windows, and there, sitting side by side at a table near the back of the plane, were two familiar people.

They were both facing the front, but only one of them stood. At six foot four, George Butler had to tilt his head a few inches to the right to avoid hitting the ceiling. The forty-eight-year-old Brit offered his hand and said, “Hello, Mitch. Good of you to come.”

Rapp grabbed the hand of MI-6’s counterterrorism chief. “Good to see you, too.” Rapp turned to look at the woman who had remained seated. She was petite, just under five and a half feet tall and weighing no more than 120 pounds. Rapp had known her for nearly fifteen years. Her name was Catherine Cheval and she worked for France’s Directorate General for Security External, or DGSE. She gave Rapp a faint smile and offered her cheek. Rapp leaned over the desk and kissed her first on her right cheek and then the left. “Always good to see you, Catherine.”

“The feeling is mutual,” she said in perfect English. Cheval sat back and brushed a strand of her raven black hair behind her right ear. She looked a decade younger than her fifty years.

Rapp took one of the two seats across from them. Cheval leaned forward and gestured toward the coffee cup sitting in front of Rapp. “Please.” As Cheval poured Rapp a fresh cup, he apologized for being late.

Butler nodded and said, “Frankly, I’m surprised you could make it on such short notice.”

“Irene didn’t give me an option. She said it was important.”