The Third Option

29

Peter Cameron was in his small office at George Washington University reading a paper one of his students had written. Cameron taught a special topics course on the CIA for GW's Elliot School of International Affairs. The course was nothing earth-shattering, rather a mundane look at how the bureaucracy of the CIA functioned with its counterparts in the intelligence community. One section met on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays at eleven in the morning for one hour, and the second class met at six in the evening for two hours on Mondays and Thursdays. The day class was made up of fourteen professional students who thought they were smarter than everyone, including their professor. The evening class, however, was far more interesting. At least half of his students were military officers or other intelligence types who had a little better grasp of reality and the practical side of the business. The professional students in his night class tended to listen more and pontificate less, which he rather enjoyed.

Cameron's mind tended to wander when he was reading, and right now he was wondering why he hadn't gotten into teaching earlier. He worked an average of about ten hours a week, had ample vacation time, and was paid forty d1ousand dollars a year. The job was a complete boondoggle. The respect he was given when introduced as a professor at GW was amazing. And he could actually talk about his job. When he was at Langley, about all he could say was that he worked there. Cameron had decided he could easily teach into his seventies. It might be the perfect position to have when President Clark called on him to help out with his new administration.

Cameron set the paper down and stared aimlessly at his watch. Would national security advisor be too lofty a post? Maybe not. He had the practical experience and now the academic title. If anyone could make it happen, it would be Clark. His pie-in-the-sky daydream was rudely interrupted by the ringing of one of his phones. He knew it wasn't his office phone – that had an entirely different ring. But he could never tell his two cell phones apart. One was legitimate, meaning it was purchased under his real name. The second phone was purchased using a bogus name. He had paid for a year's worth of service using a money order. One thousand minutes a month, anywhere, any time.

The phones were in his leather briefcase. Cameron reached in with two hands and grabbed both phones. The Motorola was the one ringing. No number came up on the caller ID, but that wasn't unusual.

He pressed the send button and said, «Hello.» There was no immediate response, so Cameron repeated himself.

«Professor, how are you doing?» came the slightly menacing voice.

Cameron leaped from his chair-the voice on the phone caused the hair on his neck to stand on end. He knew instantly who was on the line. He had listened to that voice in Germany: Attempting to sound unfazed, Cameron lied, «Ahhh… fine. And you?»

«I would say I'm doing very well.» Rapp offered nothing further, intentionally letting the tension build.

Cameron went over to the window and looked down on the street to see if anyone was watching him. Silently, he cursed himself for not preparing for this contingency. «I'm sorry, but you're going to have to help me out. I have no idea who this is.» He did not sound convincing.

«Oh, I think you do.» Rapp's voice was steady and direct.

«No… I really don't.»

«Come on, Professor. We have mutual friends, or should I say had mutual mends?»

«I don't follow.»

«The Jansens of Evergreen, Colorado, or should I say the Hoffmans of Germany?»

Cameron was shaking. How in the hell had Rapp found him? Grasping for words, he finally managed to say, «I have no idea what you're talking about.»

«Oh, I think you do.»

«Who is this?»

«I told you… I'm an old friend of the Jansens. In fact, I think we almost bumped into each other in the woods once.»

Cameron grabbed his forehead with his free hand and squeezed. How in the hell did Rapp know he'd been in the woods that night? He hadn't even told the Jansens. «Listen, I don't know who you are or what you're talking about.»

«Why don't you drop the act, Professor? We need to negotiate.»

«Negotiate?» asked an incredulous Cameron. «For what?»

«Your life.»

«My life.» Cameron's voice cracked under the strain. «Just what in the hell are you talking about?»

«Cut the bullshit.» Rapp's voice took on a harder edge. «I'm going to call you back in one hour. In the meantime, I suggest you calm down and gather your thoughts. My offer is simple. You tell me what I want to know, specifically who hired you, and I'll let you live. And if you have half a brain, you won't tell your employer about this caII.» Rapp paused, giving Cameron a second to think about things then added, «If you screw with me in the slightest way, I'm going to do to you what you did to the Jansens. Except I'll be much closer than you were. I promise you, the last thing you'll feel before you die is my warm breath on the back of your neck.»

The line went dead. Cameron was left standing in the middle of his office staring at his phone – shaking. «How in the hell did he find me?» Cameron felt the urge to run. He needed to get out of his cramped office. He shoved the phones back in his briefcase and grabbed his laptop. He left everything else where it was and locked the door behind him. He needed to find someplace safe. A place where he could think things through and figure out what he was going to tell Clark.