Separation of Power

The intercom on the desk buzzed and a woman's voice a

Without taking his eyes off the photograph, Freidman reached out and pressed the intercom button. "Send him in." The head of Mossad looked down at the image and sadly shook his head. What a waste, but it had to be done. Mitch Rapp could not be allowed to find out that he'd been involved in any of this.

Marc Rosenthal was one of Freidmans most trusted kidons. At thirty-two he had been with the Mossad for almost fifteen years. He had always been small and even now could pass for someone in his early twenties. When he had joined the Mossad at nineteen he could have passed for a twelve-year-old, and that was exactly what he did. Freidman used the teenager to run sensitive information in and out of the occupied territories and to scout out areas before raids were launched. By the time he reached his twenty-first birthday Rosenthal was garroting terrorists in the back alleys of Hebron and Gaza.

Freidman had only a handful of people he could trust with this operation and Rosenthal was one of them. There were two others who Freidman could think of, but both of them had worked with Don at ella and he did not want her powers of persuasion to get in the way. Thus he was left with little Marc Rosenthal. He was a Mossad man through and through, and more important, he had been recruited and trained by Freidman himself. He would do as he was told and would ask few questions. And if things went wrong, he would keep his mouth shut.

"Marc, I have something very delicate and important that I need you to take care of." Freidman stabbed out his cigarette and closed the file. Picking it up, he handed it to Rosenthal and said, "Her name is Don at ella Rahn. She used to work for us." Freidman lit another cigarette and exhaled a billowing cloud of smoke. "She's good ... very good. Unfortunately, she's been doing some things that could be very embarrassing to us."

Rosenthal nodded. Nothing more needed to be said. The boyish looking man began looking through the file. "When do you want it taken care of?"

"As soon as possible."

"Do you want me to do it solo or bring my team?"

Freidman let loose an ominous laugh as he thought of Marcus trying to take Donatella down all by himself. It was possible, but not wise. "Bring your team, Marcus. This woman is very dangerous. She's killed more men than both you and I combined." The comment elicited an arched eyebrow but nothing else. "What about the body?"

"Use your judgment. If you can, I'd like you to dispose of it yourselves. If things get hairy, leave the body and get out." Having worked in the field for years, and detesting interference from HQ, Freidman tried whenever possible to give his people the freedom to make decisions themselves.

While still looking at the file, Rosenthal said, "I can be in place by tomorrow morning."

"Good." Freidman pointed the tip of his glowing cigarette at Rosenthal. "Use only your best people, and take care of it as quickly as possible." The colonel leaned back in his chair, took a drag off his cigarette and then added, "And of course ... don't get caught."

CHAPTER 12

Capitol Hill, Wednesday morning.

Senator Clark sat behind his massive desk in the Hart Senate Office Building. It was cold and windy in the nation's capital. He stared out the window, studying the weather, putting off for at least another moment a more pressing problem. The last vestiges of fall hung stubbornly from the burly oak trees on the grounds across the way. Only a few dark sodden leaves were left. Winter was on the nations doorstep, and the thought of it brought a sense of dread. Clark did not do well in cold climates. A native of the southwest, he thought that DC. winters were anything but mild. To Clark, if it snowed for even a day the city was too cold. Looking out the window at the gray sky, he decided he would get out of town for the upcoming weekend: either Phoenix for golf or down to the island for a little fishing. Wife number three had something pla

This was something he couldn't understand. He had come into the marriage knowing exactly what he wanted, and he had made his intentions very clear. For Christ's sake, he was sleeping with number three while he was still married to number two. What did the woman expect, that after all these years he was going to change just for her? Well, he wasn't going to change. Things would have to be managed. Another divorce at this juncture was out of the question. It would torpedo his chances at ru

A voice from the recesses of Clark's constantly plotting mind came up with another option. Have her killed. No, he told himself, she's not that bad, at least not yet. The morbid idea gained a little more weight with him as he thought of the potential advantages. The grieving spouse role might really help him co

Clark returned his focus to a file on his desk and decided the problems of wife number three would have to wait for now. At present, he had a more pressing issue that needed his attention. Mark Ellis and the other money men from California could not be put off indefinitely. They expected a return on their investment, and they had their sights set on the CIA and its treasure chest of valuable industrial secrets. The problem for Clark was not a new one. He needed to effect the outcome of an event without anyone knowing that he'd had a hand in it. He'd built his entire political career on this simple concept. He had gained the President's confidence by professing his support for Ke

Clark closed the file and pressed the intercom button on his phone. "Mary, would you please send in my next appointment." The senator stood and buttoned his suit coat. When the door opened, Clark walked around his desk to meet his visitor. Extending his hand he said, "Good to see you, Jonathan."