The Third Option

41

Donatella Rahn was sitting on the floor of her hotel room in the lotus position. Her breathing was rhythmic and effortless, like gentle waves rolling onto a quiet beach. She had slept well. For years the simple act of sleeping had been her own personal Holy Grail. No matter what she tried, or how hard she tried, the quest remained elusive. It was either the killing or the demons of her drug addictions, or probably both. The faces of her victims haunted her during the lonely dark hours from midnight to sunrise. At first she tried drugs, and with predictable results: she became addicted and strung-out. After a month of treatment at a private facility in the hills north of Milan, she was off the sleeping pills.

After that it was men, but not just any man. With Donatella's beauty, she could afford to be picky. This brought a new set of problems, and she eventually had to abandon that life raft in search of another. From men she moved on to hypnosis, massage therapy, acupuncture, aromatherapy, herbs, almost anything that was suggested to her. None of it worked for longer than a month or two.

After years of struggling, she had finally discovered yoga. That had been six years ago, and ever since then, sleep had ceased to be a worry. She was at peace with herself for maybe the first time in her life. Yoga had taken her to levels of relaxation that she didn't know existed. It had allowed her to stop running from her past and start hoping for the future.

Rahn sat on a towel. She was naked. Her legs crossed, her hands resting gently on her knees, open and facing up. Her posture was straight but not rigid, and her chin was tilted up just slightly. Her eyes were closed, her breathing was even, and her heart was pumping in a slow, restful beat. Donatella imagined herself sitting on the terrace of a beautiful villa overlooking the breathtaking waters of Lake Como. This was often where she went, both in her mind and in reality. The long, smooth water of Lake Como was tucked in the Alps of northern Italy just south of Switzerland. It was, in her mind and the minds of most of her countrymen, one of the most beautiful places in the world. A place of sheer relaxation, where no one was in a rush and wristwatches were frowned on. Rahn had a small place there with a meager fifty feet of lakeshore. For now it was good enough, but she had hopes for an even more serene setting. She was saving, putting away the money so she could buy the place of her dreams. One of the old stone villas with several hundred feet of lakeshore and at least ten wooded acres to waste away the lazy afternoons. It was a dream that would one day come true.

The sun was bathing her smooth, naked body in warmth when her phone started to beep. The beauty of Lake Como vanished as Rahn opened her eyes. Slowly, she unfolded her long legs and stood. Her Motorola StarTAC phone was sitting on the desk. Donatella flipped it open, and the screen told her she had a text message. Rahn pressed the envelope button on the bottom row, and the phone automatically retrieved her e-mail. She concentrated on the tiny letters as the message scrolled across the screen.

YOUR SUBJECT WILL BE AT HIS OFFICE IN FUNGER HALL AT GW FROM APROXIMATELY 8:15 TO 8:30, AND THEN HE WILL BE LEAVING THE COUNTRY FOR A WHILE. IF YOU CAN MEET HIM AT OR NEAR HIS OFFICE IT WOULD BE PREFERRED. HIS DESTINATION IS THE CARIBBEAN. IF YOU CAN'T MEET HIM THIS MORNING YOU WILL HAVE TO MAKE ARRANGEMENTS TO MEET HIM THERE. IT IS PREFERED THAT YOU TAKE CARE OF THIS THIS MORNING. OUR CLIENT IS OFFERING ANOTHER 25K IF YOU CAN CONCLUDE THE DEAL BEFORE HE LEAVES.

Rahn glanced over at the clock next to the bed. It would take her fifteen minutes to get ready and approximately nine minutes to leave her hotel and walk to Cameron's office. She had timed it last night when she had been out scouting the neighborhood. It took Rahn only seconds to decide. She could get there with just enough time to check things out and then abort or proceed. Moving with speed, she went into the bathroom and pinned her luscious auburn hair up on her head. She applied a base to her face and hands, changing her natural olive skin to a lighter shade. Next, she put on some underwear, a pair of black leggings that went down just below the knee, and a long-sleeved white T-shirt. Over that she put on a shapeless, beige, full-length linen tank dress. To top off the disguise, she carefully pinned a sandy blond shoulder-length wig to her head.

All of the makeup and toiletries were swept off the vanity into one of the hotel's plastic b~, and the whole thing was thrown in her suitcase. Donatella slipped into a pair of white J. Crew tennis shoes and stood in front of the full-length mirror. The outfit could not have complemented her figure less, but that was the point. It was standard East Coast yuppie. Donatella liked to think of it as suburban housewife camouflage. She could go to virtually any city in America and blend in perfectly.

She closed her suitcase, locked it, and left it by the door. On her way to the school, she would call the front desk and ask them to have a bellhop bring it down. She left the room with only her oversized shoulder bag and took the elevator to the lobby.

RAPP MADE IT to the Safeway a few minutes before the others. He studied the black-and-white photo and brief dossier that had been faxed to the director's house. He was ninety-nine percent sure he had never laid eyes on Peter Cameron. That probably ruled out any personal grudges. Cameron had to be working for someone else. The drive in from McLean had given Rapp time to think of the larger ramifications. He had been focused on himself and how the events of the last week had affected him personally; now he was beginning to see the big picture.

He had never seen Stansfield or Kennedy as worried as this, and the more he thought about it, the more he understood why. If Cameron worked for a foreign intelligence agency, the real question would be how long had he been doing so, and how much information had he passed along? To make matters worse, the man was a consultant with the intelligence committees, and that meant he still had access to sensitive information. The damage would make the Aldrich Ames scandal look like child's play.

Before leaving the director's house, Stansfield had impressed upon Rapp the magnitude of the situation. Cameron was to be taken alive, and it was to be done as quietly as possible. No scenes, nothing that would gamer the attention of law enforcement, the media, and even any- one at the Agency. Stansfield was adamant that the Agency was to be kept out of it. He placed the entire matter on Rapp's shoulders. He could use Irene and the Counterterrorism Center in a very limited support role, but that was it. The Cameron matter was to be kept quiet.

When the van arrived, Rapp abandoned his car and climbed in. Dumond and Coleman were waiting for him in the back. Hackett and Stroble were parked on Wisconsin in the Ford Explorer. When the van pulled out of the lot, it took a left and headed south on Wisconsin. Cameron's apartment was less than half a mile away. At the top of the hill, they took a left onto R Street and slowed to a crawl. The Dumbarton Oaks Research Library was on the left. The old Federal-style mansion was located on one of the most expensive pieces of property in Georgetown.

Rapp grabbed a secure Motorola radio from the rack and said, «Guys, I want you to hang back. Go down to Q Street and park. We'll go in and check it out first.»

Dumond said to Rapp, «We'll do a slow drive-by. I'll scan the building with the directional mikes and see if I can find out who's home.»

«Good.» Rapp looked at Coleman. «We need to take him alive.»

«I can't make any promises.»

«I know you can't, but we have to try.»

«All right.»

«You and I are going in alone,» Rapp said to Coleman. Then to Dumond he said, «Marcus, what else have you found out about this guy?»

«He teaches at George Washington University.»

«When do they meet?»

«I'm trying to find that out. I've already checked customs, and there is no record of him leaving or reentering the country in the last six months.»

«What about wheels?»

Dumond shook his head. «I checked DMV and came up blank.»

«Finances?»

«I haven't gotten around to that yet.»

«All right. Get me that class schedule first.»

Dumond held up one hand to silence Rapp and pulled the arm of his lip mike down with the other. «Stop at the next corner and give me a second to get things ready.»

Looking over at Rapp, he said, «We're one block away. Are you guys ready?»

«Yes.»

They cruised by once very slowly and then turned around for another pass. There were no alleys in this neighborhood, so trying to get a look at the house from behind would not work. Both times Dumond manipulated the tiny directional microphones atop the van to try and pick up noises within the three-story brownstone. On the second pass, Dumond told the driver to stop briefly in front of the house. Using a joy stick on his control panel, he zoomed the camera in on the mailboxes to the right of the front door. When he got the image he wanted, he told the driver to go to the end of the block and park. Dumond showed Rapp and Coleman the shot of the mailboxes. It appeared there were four units, one on the first, second, and third floors, and another one in the basement.

«It looks like Cameron has the third floor.»

«Yeah.» Rapp looked over Dumond's shoulder at the screen and then checked his watch. It wasn't yet eight. «What did you pick up on the mike?»

«Nothing on the third floor, but I got a TV on the second and some water running on the first.»

«Nothing on the garden level?»

«No.»

Rapp looked to Coleman. «What do you think?»

«I don't think he's there. Would you be if you were in his shoes?»

«Probably not. Let's go take a look.» Rapp grabbed the radio. «Guys, we're going in. Bring it over to Twenty-ninth and sit tight.»

«What's our cover?» asked Coleman.

They were woefully unprepared for this. Both were wearing jeans, jackets, and baseball hats, and both needed a shave. If the neighbors saw them snooping around, they were apt to call the cops. Rapp looked around the van and said, «Marcus, hand me that clipboard.» Rapp took it and asked, «Can you find out who owns this place?»

«Yeah. All I have to do is access the city's tax records.»

«Do it.»

«What do you have in mind?» asked Coleman.

«We work for Metropolitan Roofing. The owner asked us to come out and get him a bid for some work he wants done.»

«What if the owner lives here?»

«That's why I've got Marcus running the check.»

On cue, Dumond announced, «You're clear. The guy listed on the tide doesn't show up on any of the mailboxes.»

«Good.» To Coleman, Rapp said, «You got your tools?»

Coleman nodded and patted the breast pocket of his jacket.

«Marcus, give us a thirty-second head start, and then move the van in closer and give us audio surveillance. And while we're in there, keep digging. We need to know as much about this guy as possible, and we need it quick.»

Rapp and Coleman left the van and started down the heaved cobblestone sidewalk. There was a small wrought- iron gate between the sidewalk and the tiny front yard. Rapp paused at the gate, as if not quite certain where he was. He looked at the clipboard and then the address on the house. He and Coleman continued through the gate and walked up onto the porch. Rapp stood between the bay window of the first-floor unit and the door while Coleman went to work on the lock. Rapp had his radio hooked to the top of the clipboard.

He brought it up to his mouth and said, «Marcus, bring the van around, and let me know what you can pick up from the third floor.»

Coleman twisted the lock gun, and the old, heavy door swung in. They stepped into the small foyer and looked up the staircase. They waited there listening for almost thirty seconds. When Dumond told them he was on station, they continued slowly up the stairs. They kept their weapons holstered but had their hands under their jackets ready to draw at the first sign of trouble. They made it to the second landing without incident and continued to the third. Once past the other tenants' doorways, they pulled headsets from their jackets and plugged them into their radios so they could communicate with their hands free. The door to Cameron's apartment had three separate locks on it. While Coleman went to work, Rapp set the clipboard down and drew his gun, which he kept in his left hand.

«Marcus,» Rapp whispered. «Are you picking anything up?»

«Nothing, just the hum of the refrigerator.»

«Let me know the second you hear something. Guys, how does the street look?»

It was Stroble who answered. «Everything's quiet.»

Coleman was working on the third and final lock. It was giving him the most trouble. After several frustrating minutes, he finally got it. Standing up, he put the lock pick away and grabbed his gun. He pointed to himself and then Rapp. Rapp shook his head stubbornly. This was his problem more than it was Coleman's. He would go through the door first.

«Marcus, we're going in.» Rapp was slightly crouched with his silenced Beretta extended. He nodded to Coleman, who had a hand on the doorknob. Coleman twisted the knob, opened the door, and stepped out of Rapp's way. Rapp charged through the door, his heart beating a little faster than normal but not much. He heard the beep of an alarm but ignored it. It would have to wait. He moved quickly, sweeping his weapon from left to right and back again, searching for motion. Reminding himself with every step that he had to take Cameron alive, that he had to fight his training and aim for the shoulder and not the head.

Coleman entered the apartment right behind Rapp and closed the door. He also heard the alarm but ignored it. He looked to the far comers. When Rapp moved to the right, he moved to the left. The living room and kitchen were secure within seconds, and they continued down the hallway to what they assumed were the bedroom, a den, and a bathroom. They moved quietly. Rapp checked the bathroom quickly and then went straight for the bedroom. Coleman followed behind, closing the bathroom door and moving on to cover Rapp. The bedroom door was open. Rapp paused for just a second to allow Coleman to catch up, and then he came into the room in a low crouch. There was movement to his right, and he spun quickly to bring his Beretta to bear. Rapp had started to depress the trigger and then held off when he realized it was a cat leaping from the dresser to the floor. He looked around the room quickly. The bed was made and had several stacks of clothes lying on top of it. On the floor next to the bed was a suitcase. Rapp noted the suitcase and then moved on to the last room.

The study was also empty. It was not unexpected that Cameron was gone, but it was still disappointing. Rapp had just started to look at the desk when Dumond started chirping in his ear. «Is that beeping noise coming from a security system?»

«Yes,» replied Rapp.

«You'd better hurry up and tell me which service it is, or we're going to have some unwanted company.»

Rapp walked quickly back to the living room and approached the keypad next to the door. Rapp flipped open the panel and read the tiny writing. «It's Omega Security. Can you stop it?»

«No problem. Give me two minutes.»

Rapp turned around and grabbed his phone. Coleman, always thorough, was busy checking the closets. A second later, Rapp had Kennedy on the line. «He's not here. We set off his security alarm, but Marcus is going into the firm's system to deal with it.»

«Do you want me to send a team over?»

«Yeah, but be careful who you pick.»

«I will. Anything else?»

Rapp thought about the suitcase in the bedroom. «We might want to think about alerting the airports. I think he's getting ready to run.»

«That could be tricky.» «I know, but it's better than letting him get away.»