Free The Third Option by Vince Flynn Page A

and thought now might be one of those times he could push it. «Geoffrey, have you spent much time in southern Germany?»

7
    Irene Kennedy awoke to strange sounds that could only be coming from one thing: cartoons. This had become a Saturday morning ritual. Young Thomas, or Tommy, as he was called by most of his peers, was six. The days of him calling for her when he woke up were gone. In a strange way, she missed it. He was always at his best in the morning, affectionate and cuddly. She preferred the extra hour of sleep on Saturdays, but every once in a while, she wouldn't mind having to get out of bed and rub his back and kiss him until he was ready to get out from under the covers. He was too old for that stuff now; he had told her. He had an independent streak that no doubt had come from Kennedy herself.
    She sat up in bed and swung her feet onto the floor. The bedside clock told her it was 7:58. Kennedy was simple in most regards. Her pajamas for as long as she could remember were either flannel pants or boxers and whatever large T-shirt happened to be available. She was thin, maybe too thin. It wasn't intentional; she just wasn't a big eater.
    In the bathroom, she turned on the water and pulled her straight brown hair into a ponytail. After scrubbing her face with a washcloth and soap for a good three minutes, she brushed her teeth and went down the hall to find Tommy right where she thought he'd sitting four feet in front of the TV in his pajamas, completely entranced by the Power Rangers blowing buildings apart. Kennedy walked around the couch and kissed the top of his head.
    «Good morning, honey.»
    Tommy mumbled something that his mother couldn't quite understand and kept his eyes focused on the screen. Kennedy rubbed his head, picked up his empty cereal bowl, and headed into the kitchen. On her way past the table, she grabbed the milk and put it back in the fridge. After placing her son's bowl and spoon in the sink, she started the coffee maker and grabbed a banana.
    As she leaned against the counter, her thoughts turned to Rapp. The anonymous tip to the German authorities about the freighter had gone as planned. For good measure, they had also alerted the media. That way, the BKA wouldn't be able to downplay the story. As far as what had happened with Hagenmiller, Kennedy was in the dark. The Counterterrorism Center had the ability to monitor events from afar, and with the help of the Global Operations Center, there wasn't a news story that could break without them being informed in fifteen minutes or less. The problem with this particular story was that Kennedy had to play dumb. She couldn't let even her closest people in the CT know that she had any idea that Hagenmiller was going to be taken out.
    Kennedy finished the banana and told Tommy to turn off the TV and get dressed. He reluctantly obeyed, and fifteen minutes later they were out the door – Kennedy with two cups of coffee and Tommy with his football and rubber Godzilla. Waiting for them in the driveway was a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria with their driver, Harry Peterson, from the Agency's Office of Security. Irene and Tommy got in the back seat and said good morning. Kennedy handed Harry the fresh cup of coffee, and they were on their way.
    Kennedy had resisted getting a driver. She lived less than ten minutes from Langley and at first saw it as an intrusion into her private life. Unfortunately, though, the previous summer the Washington Post had done a profile on her titled «The Most Powerful Woman in the CIA.» Kennedy had not cooperated with the interview, and the president himself had asked them not to pursue the story; But the Post went ahead and did it anyway: She wanted nothing to do with the limelight, and more directly she wanted the people she was hunting to know as little about her as possible.
    The fallout from the story was predictable. The threats started to roll in. Thomas Stansfield moved decisively. He ordered a security system for