He reached the gully he’d been searching for without any more contacts but almost missed what he was looking for. The forest had really taken hold since he’d last been there, causing him to generate more noise than he would have liked penetrating it. Fortunately, the trees around him were still actively dripping, generating a disorienting soundscape that, while not as good as rain, would be enough to cover a little impromptu landscaping.
The hatch he uncovered was similar to the one in his yard, with the exception that it was set up to be easily opened and had a rubber seal to keep it watertight. After slipping in headfirst, he closed it behind him and turned on his penlight. The pipe was a leftover from the construction of the subdivision and significantly larger than the one he’d escaped through. Capped at both ends, it was also quite a bit dryer. Damp and stinking of mold for sure, but at least its eight-foot length was free of standing water.
Rapp’s gear was where he’d left it more than a year ago. Fatigues, civilian clothes, an assortment of weapons, cash, and IDs were all sealed in heavy plastic bags. Water and canned food were stacked to one side, but otherwise creature comforts were scarce. A light sleeping bag and waterproof bivvy sack were about it. He’d identified the need for a latrine when he’d created the place, but drilling through the pipe to make one had always been beaten out by other priorities. After a few days, that particular oversight would likely become extremely unpleasant.
CHAPTER 4
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
USA
THREE unfamiliar Secret Service agents ushered Irene Kennedy into the Oval Office and pointed her toward the modern desk that dominated it. She obediently took a position in front of it, examining her reflection in the dark windows behind. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Makeup running, soaking wet, and dripping on the president’s brand-new oak floor. Virtually nothing of the past—nothing of tradition—remained in the room. And that was probably fitting.
She’d used Rapp’s master password to lock down his house while she finished collecting Claudia’s things. From his tablet, she’d been able to monitor the teams taking positions outside the wall but none had been in any hurry to come over it. When attacking Mitch Rapp on his home field, caution was very much the better part of valor.
After finishing off another glass of wine and taping up Claudia’s box, she’d briefly entertained the idea of just staying. There was probably enough food stored for a year and the wine cellar would last even longer. The government—her government—would eventually sabotage the solar panels, and the diesel backup generators would run dry. At that point, Anthony Cook would order his hesitant men to charge. They’d swarm the property with their automatic weapons and battering rams, and the jig would be up.
After a few hours in front of the fireplace to give Rapp time to carry out his escape plan, the effects of the wine had begun to diminish. And with them, so did the appeal of spending weeks alone in a house under siege. It had been an entertaining fantasy while it lasted, though.
She stood staring at her reflection long enough to create quite a puddle before the Cooks appeared. The president sat behind his desk and dismissed the Secret Service men guarding her. Catherine, interestingly, took up one of their positions. She tended to sit in a chair to the side of her husband’s desk or, in more dire circumstances, stood behind his right shoulder. For whatever reason, she seemed content to observe this interaction from a distance. Why? Safety? Perspective? Catherine Cook had a reason for everything she did. It was a trait that she and Kennedy shared and could have potentially become the basis for a functional working relationship. There was no hope of that now, though. In hindsight, maybe it had been na?ve to believe there ever was.
“Where is Mitch Rapp?” Cook said, staring directly at her.
“He left the house when your people cut power to the subdivision’s gate. After that, I don’t know where he went.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“There’s no reason for me to know Mitch’s escape plan in the event of an attack, nor would I want to. What if I were captured by one of his enemies and questioned?”
She allowed her tone to suggest that she believed that’s exactly what had happened.
“Where would he go?”
“Again, I have no idea.”
“You’re the one who trained him to disappear,” Cook said, the volume of his voice rising in step with his frustration.
“Actually, Stan Hurley did. And Stan had a healthy distrust of governments—including his own. I assume that Mitch has safe houses all over the world and a fair number of identities that I don’t know anything about. But I couldn’t tell you for certain.”