JК
The Third Option :: Flynn Vince
Страница: 255 из 267That's the president's job. The second thing that really, and I mean really chafes my ass is that you and that windbag Charles Midleton decided to recruit a Republican to help conspire against the president's nominee. Do you know what that makes you, Albert?» Kaiser didn't give him a chance to answer. «It makes you a goddamned Judas, that's what it makes you.»
45
It was after nine when Rapp showed up. The streetlights were on, and there were plenty of open meters. He eased his black Volvo S80 into a spot on F Street. Before getting out of the car, he checked all of his mirrors. Then, when he stepped onto the asphalt, he casually scanned the street, first to the west and then the east. If the last week had taught him anything, it was that he needed to be paranoid, especially here in Washington. He had sensed that something wasn't right in Germany, and he'd been careless enough to ignore those instincts. It was a valuable lesson, one he hoped he'd never have to learn again.
Rapp started walking toward 17th Street and the looming Old Executive Office Building. He had to admit he lived a strange life. Here it was, a Friday night, he'd been sitting on the couch with Anna and their new dog Shirley, and he had gotten a call telling him that the president would like to see him. Rapp actually had the nerve to ask Kennedy if it could wait until the morning. Kennedy told him to get over to the White House and hung up. They were all tired and frustrated. Peter Cameron was turning into a dead end, and Rapp knew that it would only get worse with each passing day; He didn't know if he had it anymore – the energy to keep this frantic and dangerous lifestyle going. And there was the bigger question of Anna. She wouldn't tolerate it. She'd said so, and the recent week's events would only solidify her opinion.
It didn't bother Rapp in the least that he was wearing a pair of jeans and a black leather jacket. If the president couldn't wait until morning, this was what he'd get. As Rapp dragged his tired bones across 17th Street, he couldn't help but wonder what the president wanted from him at this hour. Rapp feared he knew the answer. It wasn't as if he were being called on to receive a commendation or medal. They didn't hand those out for what he did. Rapp was one of the dark weapons in the national security arsenal. People didn't even talk about what he did, let alone acknowledge it either privately or publicly. There was only one thing the president could want from Rapp, and he wasn't so sure he would accept it. He was an assassin, and he was sick of killing. It was time for them to find someone else.
45
It was after nine when Rapp showed up. The streetlights were on, and there were plenty of open meters. He eased his black Volvo S80 into a spot on F Street. Before getting out of the car, he checked all of his mirrors. Then, when he stepped onto the asphalt, he casually scanned the street, first to the west and then the east. If the last week had taught him anything, it was that he needed to be paranoid, especially here in Washington. He had sensed that something wasn't right in Germany, and he'd been careless enough to ignore those instincts. It was a valuable lesson, one he hoped he'd never have to learn again.
Rapp started walking toward 17th Street and the looming Old Executive Office Building. He had to admit he lived a strange life. Here it was, a Friday night, he'd been sitting on the couch with Anna and their new dog Shirley, and he had gotten a call telling him that the president would like to see him. Rapp actually had the nerve to ask Kennedy if it could wait until the morning. Kennedy told him to get over to the White House and hung up. They were all tired and frustrated. Peter Cameron was turning into a dead end, and Rapp knew that it would only get worse with each passing day; He didn't know if he had it anymore – the energy to keep this frantic and dangerous lifestyle going. And there was the bigger question of Anna. She wouldn't tolerate it. She'd said so, and the recent week's events would only solidify her opinion.
It didn't bother Rapp in the least that he was wearing a pair of jeans and a black leather jacket. If the president couldn't wait until morning, this was what he'd get. As Rapp dragged his tired bones across 17th Street, he couldn't help but wonder what the president wanted from him at this hour. Rapp feared he knew the answer. It wasn't as if he were being called on to receive a commendation or medal. They didn't hand those out for what he did. Rapp was one of the dark weapons in the national security arsenal. People didn't even talk about what he did, let alone acknowledge it either privately or publicly. There was only one thing the president could want from Rapp, and he wasn't so sure he would accept it. He was an assassin, and he was sick of killing. It was time for them to find someone else.