Ross entered the suite and found Stu Garret sitting in the oval shaped living room with Tom Rich of theNew York Times. Just like the real Oval Office, two couches faced each other with a small table in between. Rich was of average height and slender with the exception of a small pouch around his midsection. He had a youthful head of brown hair that he liked to show off by avoiding regular visits to the barber. He looked close to forty but in truth he was actually fifty-one. National security was his beat and he had a reputation for being very critical of the CIA and the way they waged the war on terror.

Rich stood. Garret didn’t. Ross extended his hand. “Tom, thank you for coming to see me.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“Please, call me Mark when we’re in an informal setting like this.”

Rich nodded but kept his game face on. He was wearing a blue, button-down oxford, a gray and black tweed sport coat, a pair of jeans, and brown Timberland boots. He looked at Ross in his expensive blue suit and tie. “I apologize for my appearance. I was at home working on a story when Stu called. He told me to get down here right away. He said he had something that couldn’t be discussed on the phone.”

Ross nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid he’s right. Before we get started, may I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, have a seat.” Ross unbuttoned his suit coat and sat on the couch across from Garret and Rich. “I assume you’ve been following the story about the arrest that was made in connection to the motorcade attack.”

Rich nodded enthusiastically while reaching in to his sport coat and retrieving a notebook and pen. “I’ve got a piece running in the morning.”

“What’s your angle?”

“Angle?” Rich looked either surprised or offended.

“What’s your story about?” Garret asked in his typical no-nonsense way.

Rich hesitated and then said, “I’m hearing rumors. Grumblings…really.”

“About?” Ross asked.

“That the case against this guy isn’t as strong as the FBI claims.”

Ross and Garret shared a knowing look and then Ross said, “Off the record.”

“Of course.” Rich wrote the wordOff across the top of the page.

“What have you heard so far?”

“Basically that this guy was dumped in the FBI’s lap with some very weak evidence.”

Ross nodded. “Continue.”

“There are some major problems with the case. The FBI and Justice are fighting, and neither of them is happy with the CIA. The Greek government is going to file an official complaint with the UN in the morning and supposedly no one knows where to find Mitch Rapp, who my sources tell me ran the team that grabbed this guy.”

“You’ve got the broad brushstrokes down, but there’s a lot more. Rapp not only ran the team, he was the one who identified, grabbed, and tortured the suspect.”

“Did you say torture?” Rich looked up with wary eyes.

“What would you call shooting a man once in each knee and then in both hands?”

“He kneecapped him?”

“And shot him in both hands.”

Rich kept his eyes on Ross while his right hand flew across the page. “Let me guess…he tortured a confession out of the guy?”

“No one knows.”

“What does Rapp say?”

“No one knows because Rapp has been AWOL for three days now.”

“AWOL?”

“Absent without leave. Rapp had his team bring this guy back from Cyprus and he has yet to report in. We literally have nothing on this guy other than Rapp’s word. The Greek government is furious. The State Department is outraged. The Justice Department says they have no case against this guy and then here’s the kicker. The guy volunteered to be polygraphed.”

“And?”

“He passed with flying colors.”

“So this might really be the wrong guy?”

“That’s a distinct possibility, and even if he is the guy, Rapp screwed things up so bad by torturing him that I don’t think there’s any chance of convicting him.”

Rich wrote frantically. This was going to be a huge scoop. The type of story that could win him his second Pulitzer. After a moment he gained control of his escalating euphoria and remembered that he was a journalist. He looked up at Ross and asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

Ross was prepared for this question. “When I was director of National Intelligence, I warned President Hayes that Mitch Rapp was a malcontent. I told him, ‘Sir, sooner or later he’s going to do something that will permanently damage America ’s international standing.’” Ross sat back and crossed his legs. “And now, here we are. President Hayes is on his way out, and we’re on our way in. Well, I’m not going to allow this administration to pay for his poor leadership.”

“I assume you mean President Hayes.”

“Yes. And, Tom, I can’t stress it enough. This is off the record. Way off the record.”

“I know,” Rich said, as he scribbled frantically. “So this is Hayes’s fault?”

“I’m not willing to go that far on or off the record. You’ll have to draw your own conclusions.”

“So who do you blame besides Rapp?”

“His boss, for starters.”

“Irene Kennedy?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to ask for an investigation?”

“I’m going to leave that up to the attorney general and my former colleagues on the Hill.”

“Is it safe to say that your administration will be looking for a new person to run the CIA?”

Ross liked the ring of “your administration.” He could get used to that. He looked at Rich with a very serious expression and said, “Director Kennedy and Mitch Rapp should make sure their résumés are up to date.”

Rich smiled as he wrote down the exact quote. When he was done he pulled out his mobile phone and checked the time. It was 4:51 in the afternoon. Looking at Ross he said, “Excuse me for a second. I need to call my editor and tell her to hold a spot on the front page.”

Ross nodded and kept his delight in check. The article would cause a feeding frenzy. He only wished that he could be there to see the expression on Kennedy’s face when she read it.

Rapp was cruising down Georgetown Pike in a rented white van at five miles an hour over the posted speed. It was almost 7:00 in the evening, which meant he was late for his meeting with Kennedy. He wasn’t crazy about getting together in her office, but she’d insisted. What she had to show him could not leave the building. That bit of information got Rapp’s imagination working overtime. It also helped him make up his mind that he would transfer Milinkavich to Dr. Hornig.

After a long afternoon of Milinkavich changing his story over and over and sobbing like a child, Rapp decided that he didn’t have it in him to interrogate the man properly. Coleman couldn’t stand being in the presence of Hornig, so Rapp rented another van and drove the Belarusian himself. The drive from Baltimore to an off-budget CIA facility in Northern Virginia took longer than expected, and then Hornig wanted to talk. She wanted to know every intricate detail of the subject. Rapp told her what he had discovered and handed over audiotapes of the interrogations he’d already conducted, and left as quickly as he could.

He turned off the Pike and approached the main gate of the CIA. Normally a rental car would cause problems, but the security officers recognized Rapp and after a speedy check of the cargo area, he was waved through. Rapp parked in the visitors’ lot near the main door and hustled up the steps and into the lobby. Straight ahead to the right were the security desk, metal detectors, and turnstiles. Rapp hung his badge around his neck and stayed to his left, walking past the undersized statue of Wild Bill Donovan, who was more or less the patron saint of the CIA. Just past the statue Rapp turned left into a small vestibule and then to his right up a couple steps to a small landing. Directly in front of him was the director’s private elevator. Rapp grabbed his badge and held it in front of the scanner. A moment later the door opened and he was on his way to the seventh floor.