The Third Option (17 page)

The colonial grandfather clock in the comer announced the arrival of the day's twenty-second hour. Senator Clark was sitting behind an expansive hand-carved oak executive desk in his study. A glass of cabernet sauvignon was in his left hand. It was the last of a sixty dollar bottle from McLaren Vale, Australia. Clark never bought French wine. It was overpriced and, more importantly, was made by a bunch of snobs. The man who had literally come from the wrong side of the tracks was a little sensitive when it came to elitists. For the most part, Clark kept these opinions to himself. No sense in announcing your hot buttons to a potential adversary. Secretary of State Midleton was a perfect example. The man was a full-blown cultural elitist. As a senator, he had voted for every liberal pet project that came down the aisle, just so long as it didn't affect the gentry in his blue-blood neighborhood. Midleton didn't know it, but Hank Clark wasn't his friend. Clark not only didn't like his former colleague in the Senate, he could barely tolerate the man, but he was willing to put up a front until the time was right.

Clark studied a memo that one of his senior staffers had prepared at the senator's request. It summarized the lack of affordable housing for military personnel. It was a sad state of affairs. The men and women in the military were getting the short end of the stick, living in conditions comparable to those of people on welfare. As could be predicted, morale was suffering, and readiness was way down. The cuts in military spending had gone too deep. This was going to be his issue. The issue he would run on. A newly commissioned officer in the armed forces made less than a new city bus driver in Washington. He made less than your average federal government administrative assistant, and he made far less than a teacher. That was another thing the senator was planning to exploit. He was sick of hearing the NEA gripe about teachers' salaries. When you factored in their personal days, sick days, workshops, holidays, and summers off, they barely worked two-thirds of the year. The men and women of the armed services were getting screwed.

The NEA was in bed with the Democrats; there was nothing he or any other Republican could do about that. He wasn't going to get their votes regardless of what he did, so he might as well make hay of it. The plan was to go into California, Texas, and Florida – all states with huge blocks of electoral votes and loaded with military bases. He would run on a ten-percent pay increase for all military personnel. The states would salivate over the potential boost to their economies. In addition to that, he'd demand that the brave men and women of the armed services be given the same health benefits as all other federal employees. The HMOs, pharmaceuticals, medical device manufacturers, and insurance companies would throw cash at his campaign. They would line up to get a piece of the action. That combined with the other backers he already had would give him a substantial war chest.

The sound of the doorbell made him turn his attention to some more immediate issues. A lot of different factors were involved in getting elected president. But no two were more important than money and name recognition. No one was going to vote for you if they didn't know who you were. Hell, right now he'd be hard pressed to get his own party's nomination. Outside his home state, Clark was relatively unknown. Most people knew him only as «that big senator.» At six foot five, he was a full head taller than most of his colleagues. Clark was hoping to change all of that. There was nothing in Washington like a few months of televised Senate hearings to raise one's profile.

There was a knock on the study door, and the senator said, «Come in.»

Peter Cameron entered the office scratching his black beard. Clark made no effort to get up. Instead, he gestured to the chair sitting in front of the desk. Normally, Clark would have offered him a drink, but from the tone Cameron had used on the phone earlier, Clark was waiting until he heard why his minion was rattled. Clark took a sip of his wine and leaned back in his chair. «Did you watch the news tonight?»

«I caught a bit of it earlier.»

«Did you happen to see the local story about the man gunned down in College Park?»

Clark leaned forward and set down the wine glass. The murder in College Park had been the lead news story on every local station and appeared to be headed for the front page of the Post in the morning. More than fifty rounds had been fired. Most of them from silenced weapons, and most directed at the lone fatality. There were several eyewitness reports that a woman also had been shot, but the police had yet to confirm her existence. They were monitoring local hospitals for gunshot victims.

«I saw the story.»

Cameron shifted uncomfortably in his. chair and finally said, «I was there.»

«Why?»

«I was keeping an eye on things.»

Clark said nothing for a moment. He just stared at Cameron and his unkempt beard. Finally, he asked, «Why don't you tell me what happened?»

Cameron started with an apology for not doing a better job of controlling Duser and his people. From there, Cameron went into the play-by-play of events. He verified that the woman mentioned in the story had been shot – killed, as a matter of fact – and that her body had been disposed of, as well as all of the weapons and vehicles that had been used. On a positive note, the muscle behind Gus Villaume, namely Mario Lukas, was no longer a threat.

Clark managed to stay calm and listen without interruption, despite the fact that he desperately wanted to ask Cameron one blindingly obvious question. When Cameron finally finished, Clark got his chance. «What were you doing there?»

«I'm not sure I follow.»

«What were you doing in the car? Why would you expose yourself like that?»

Cameron was slightly embarrassed. Clark had preached to him about keeping a low profile. «I knew this was going to be complicated, and I wanted to make sure Duser didn't screw things up.»

Clark felt the need to take a sip of wine. He reflected on the possibility that Cameron was not telling the truth. The man was a voyeur, that was obvious enough. His sudden desire to be so hands-on was dangerous. Cameron was the one and only person who could tie the senator to the events of the last five days. He took a second sip, and while the expensive red liquid slid down his throat, he decided Cameron would have to go. Clark didn't know where he would find a replacement, but he would. The man had become too big a liability. The senator would have to make arrangements for his disappearance, but until then he would keep Cameron close and happy.

«Peter, you've done very good work for me. I want you alive and out of jail.» The senator frowned. «No more field trips with the boys. You're too valuable for that. Let them do the dirty work, and concentrate on keeping your hands clean.»

«Yes, sir.» Cameron let out a sigh of relief and said, «There has been another development.»

«Good or bad?»

«Oh, I think you'll like this one;' replied Cameron with a smile. He retrieved a small tape recorder from his pocket. Holding it up, he said, «Earlier this evening, one of my people intercepted this conversation.» Cameron turned up the volume and pressed play.

«Anna Rielly here.»

«Honey, it's me. Are you all right?»

The quality of the tape was good. Clark leaned forward resting his forearms on his desk. «Is that who I think it is?» Cameron nodded.

«Mitchell.»

«Honey, it's me, but I can't talk long. Are you okay?»

A slow chill of excitement ran down Clark's back. This was the first time he had heard Mitch Rapp's voice. After carefully studying him for months, this was the first time he had felt the man's presence. The voice was deep and a little scratchy, just as the senator had expected. Clark listened to the rest of the tape intently and then had Cameron play it back for him two more times. Clark memorized every word of the tape. He was beginning to see a path. A way to complete his plans. After a long moment of reflection, he looked up at Cameron and said, «I want you to get into the girl's apartment. See if she keeps a journal. If she does, copy it. If there are any computer disks, copy them also. Find out what type of books she reads, what magazines she subscribes to, if she takes any medication.» Clark paused. «See if you can get her medical history. I want to know as much about her╩ possible, and I want it by tomorrow night.»

«That might be a little difficult.»

That was not what Clark wanted to hear. Not with Rapp so close. Things were reaching critical mass. «Peter, I pay you well. No excuses. I want that information by tomorrow evening.» Always aware of the need to keep both friend and foe close, he added with a warm grin, «When his is all over, I will make sure you are very well compensated, Peter. To the extent that you just might choose to retire.» Clark held up his wine glass in a toast to the future.

Cameron nodded. «I'll get it done.» With a smile still on his face, Clark decided to go ahead and hire the person who would get rid of Cameron. There was no telling when he might have to have him taken out.

THE CLUB WAS located off 695 in Dundalk. Downtown Baltimore was four miles due west. It was a Bally's Total Fitness club, one of hundreds nationwide. That's why Gus Villaume had joined. Flexibility and anonymity. At Bally's he was just one of millions trying to fight the never-ending battle. Villaume was in the twenty-sixth minute of his workout, and he was sweating profusely. Four more minutes on the stationary bike, and he was done. There were eight televisions mounted on the wall in front of him. They carried the signals of MTV, VH-l, ESPN, CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC, and FOX. Most of Villaume's attention, however, was focused on the issue of Conde Nast Traveler that was sitting in the bike's magazine stand. Villaume's real job-or fake job, depending on how you looked at it – was travel writing. He was published under the name Marc Gieser, and his areas of expertise were southern France and French Polynesia. The job provided him with a great cover for international travel and a good thirty to fifty grand a year in legitimate income. The other benefits were obvious: he could stay at some of the world's finest hotels for next to nothing, just so long as he continued to write nice things.

The club was pretty calm. Villaume refused to enter the place between the hours of eleven A.M. and nine P.M. This evening, there was one guy running on a treadmill and two women talking to each other on the stair steppers. Villaume had chose Baltimore as his home because it kept him close enough to Washington to be readily available but far enough away to keep him from bumping into the wrong people when he was out and about. He had been thinking a lot about Peter Cameron since returning from Colorado. There was something unsettling about the man. In a nutshell, he couldn't be trusted.

Villaume and his people were not usually hired to kill someone. More often his work involved simple intelligence gathering: rifling through an office in the middle of the night, copying a computer hard drive, tapping phones, and planting bugs. Attorneys and businessmen were his two biggest clients. He knew who they were, but very few of them knew who he was. The rules were simple. Villaume had a network of overseas accounts that he used to collect fees. He would receive a name and summary of the information desired. Villaume would then quote a price to the client. If the client agreed, he or she would transfer half of the fee into one of the accounts. When Villaume handed over the desired information, they would wire the other half. It was usually very simple.

That was, until Peter Cameron had shown up. The mad been insistent on meeting face-to-face. To help assuage Villaume's fears, Cameron offered to double his fees. At the relatively young age of fifty-two, Villaume was looking to retire. There was, however, a catch. He wanted to make he was absolutely set – no financial worries. The lifestyle had in mind required at least two million dollars. When Cameron waved the prospect of double fees in his face, the temptation was too much to resist.

Now he wondered if it might not be a good idea to take what he had and disappear, at least for a while. He would have to alert the others. Tell them to cool it for a while and lie low. Maybe take a long trip. He'd already warned Lukas and Juarez to be careful. With Cameron associating with W the likes of Duser, things could get ugly.

The thirty minutes was up. Villaume stopped pedaling and closed his magazine. He had made up his mind. Lukas and Juarez needed a vacation. There were two others on the team. but, fortunately for them, Cameron didn't even know., they existed. As Villaume stepped from the bike, he looked up at the array of televisions above the running track. The local news was starting. It appeared all three stations were leading with the same story. Villaume froze upon seeing the words «College Park» flash across the screen directly in front of him. The volume was off, but subtitles were running across the bottom of the picture. A reporter was standing in front of a yellow maze of crime scene tape. She pointed over her shoulder at two parked cars. Villaume scrambled to read the white-on-black words as they were typed in from left to right. There was something about one hundred shots being fired… one dead for sure, maybe two. The police were looking for a silver SUV: A Maryland driver's license appeared on the screen. The station reported that the victim's name was Todd Sherman. Gus Villaume knew better. He turned and started walking for the exit. The face on the driver's license belonged to Mario Lukas.

Villaume forced a smile and said good night to the attendant behind the front desk. Inside he was burning up. Mario Lukas had been his friend for a long time. He had taken care of Mario, and Mario had taken care of him. Mario was the muscle, and Gus was the brains. Alone they were adequate, together they were the best. Villaume thought of running. They had made arrangements years ago that if one of them died, the other would get all the money. With Mario's passing, Villaume's retirement account had just effectively passed the two-million mark. He could disappear and never look back. But that meant allowing that smug prick Cameron off the hook. Villaume crossed the parking lot to his car. At the very least, he had to alert Juarez. After that, he could decide what to do with Cameron. As Villaume opened his car door, he was overcome with grief for the loss of his friend and hatred for a man he barely knew.