The Last Man

by Vince Flynn

  Wilson remembered the words all too well. At the time he had spewed them at Hargrave it felt good. Hearing them now in this setting, they seemed foolish.

  “This is a fairly serious accusation.” Miller picked up a pen and held it just above the surface of a yellow legal pad. “Which employees of the Counterintelligence Division believe that Sam is too close to DCI Kennedy?”

  “Sir, I’m here to answer for myself. I’m not comfortable involving other people in this.”

  “But you’re comfortable enough to throw around wild accusations?” Miller stared at Wilson, waiting for a reply.

  “It’s not that, sir, it’s just that I’m willing to answer for my own opinions, but I’m not going to get any of my people into trouble.”

  Miller turned to Taylor. “David, you ran that division for three and a half years. At any point during that time did you hear anyone complain that Sam was too cozy with DCI Kennedy?”

  “Not a single person.”

  “How about anyone else at the CIA?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well,” Miller said, setting down his pen, “that’s a pretty short list. Your case doesn’t look very strong at the moment. We have protocols in place for a reason, and it is not up to you to decide when you may or may not follow them. So this is your last chance. Why did you think you couldn’t trust EAD Hargrave?”

  Wilson cleared his throat and drummed his fingers on the table for a minute. This was a card he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to play, but he really had no choice. “Senator Ferris told me that EAD Hargrave was not to be trusted in this matter and that I should try to run my investigation without his interference.”

  Miller made a great show of taking notes. As he scratched away he asked, “Tell me, Joel, I’m pretty familiar with the Bureau’s organizational chart, but I must have missed something. Just where does Senator Ferris’s name appear on that chart?”

  “It doesn’t, sir.”

  “Jason,” Miller said, turning to the head of the FBI’s Office of Congressional Affairs, “I assume Joel followed protocol and reported his discussions with Senator Ferris to your office.”

  “He did not.”

  “Were you aware in any way that Joel was working with Senator Ferris?”

  “No. We had no idea.”

  Wilson could see how bad this looked. His only hope was to get to the heart of the corruption. “Sir, I don’t want people’s animosity toward the senator to cloud their judgment.”

  “Careful,” Miller snapped, like a judge warning a wayward attorney, “we’re not talking about feelings or opinions. We’re sticking to the facts right now. And so far the facts are looking an awful lot like you willfully withheld information from your superior and that you failed to inform Congressional Affairs that you were running an investigation based on information passed along to you by Senator Ferris.”

  “That’s not true, sir. I received independent information that employees of the CIA were stealing millions of dollars in cash and placing the money in a private bank in Switzerland.” Wilson grabbed the file from his briefcase and slid it toward the director. “I have the accounts and the amounts and dates of the deposits along with a sworn affidavit from the private banker who handled the accounts. In the affidavit the banker swears that both Joe Rickman and Mitch Rapp were the owners of these accounts.”

  “And how did you come by this information?” Miller asked.

  “The first batch in the mail, and then I interviewed the banker myself. He’s a very credible witness.”

  Miller looked at the file. “That affidavit is in this file?”

  “Yes, it is, sir.”

  Miller flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for. “The banker’s name has been blacked out.”

  “For security reasons, sir.”

  Miller picked up his pen again. “Let’s have it.”

  Wilson squirmed. “Sir, I would rather not reveal that name until the investigation is on firmer ground.”

  “You will either give me the name or you will give me your badge and your sidearm.”

  Wilson saw no way out. “Leo Obrecht.”

  “And this first batch of information you mentioned . . . let me take a wild guess . . . it was given to you by an anonymous source?”

  “Because of the nature of our work, we receive a good number of anonymous tips.”

  “Are you familiar with Swiss banking?”

  “Somewhat, sir.”

  Miller placed his hands on the file. “And how easy do you think it is to come by information like this?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  “Lisa,” Miller said.

  The head of the Bureau’s Intelligence Division said, “Extremely difficult, sir. We spend months on end trying to just find out if a person of interest has an account at an institution like this. Getting our hands on detailed account records is extremely rare.”

  Miller closed the file. “Did it ever occur to you that this is disinformation?”

  “It did until I was able to interview the banker.”

  “Lisa,” Miller barked, “how difficult is it to get these bankers to talk about private accounts?”

  “I’m unaware of it happening without an order from a Swiss court.”

  “Did you have a court order?”

  “No.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that these were legitimate accounts?”

  “Legitimate . . . how?”

  “You do understand that the CIA has to move money around the world?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that because they’re the CIA, they need to do a lot of it in a secretive manner.”

  Wilson nodded. “All the more reason we need to keep an eye on them.”

  Miller shook his head. “You’re not getting this, are you.”

  “Getting what, sir?”

  “That you’ve fucked this thing up so bad, you’ll be lucky if you have a job by the time this is over.”

  “With all due respect—”

  “Shut up,” Miller barked. “Lisa, please explain to Senator Ferris’s man what’s going on.”

  “It appears that a hostile foreign intelligence agency launched an operation against the CIA’s Clandestine Service. We believe that part of that operation involved sending disinformation to the FBI’s Counterintelligence Division.”

  Wilson frowned. “Says who . . . the CIA? This is bullshit. Where did you get this information?”

  “I’m afraid it’s classified.” Williams looked from Wilson to the director.

  Wilson wasn’t going to go down so easily. “My clearance is as high as yours.”

  “Your clearance used to be as high as Lisa’s,” Director Miller said.

  “What is going on here? I don’t get it. The fact that a few of you don’t like Senator Ferris doesn’t mean this information is false. You need to allow me to finish my investigation. Give me thirty minutes with Rapp. I’ll hook him up to a polly and we’ll get some answers.”

  Miller shook his head. “I’ve decided to pull your clearance until an official review can be completed.”

  “But . . . you have to let me take a shot at Rapp.”

  Lisa Williams, the only woman in the room, looked at Wilson as if he was nuts and said, “Do you have any idea who you are talking about?”

  “You mean Rapp? Yeah, I know who I’m talking about. He’s dirty and he’s corrupt and I don’t understand why everyone is so afraid of taking him on.”

  Miller shook his finger at Wilson and said, “Let’s get something straight. First off, you could polly Mitch Rapp for the next year and you wouldn’t get a thing out of him.”

  “I disagree, sir.”

  “Stop interrupting me. You have no idea what you’re talking about. Rapp would eat you for lunch. Beyond that, you don’t know jack shit about the man. He’s a damn national hero. You’ve been played, Joel, and you’ve made the FBI look like a bunch of fools.” Miller hit the intercom button and said, “Pleas
e send her in.” Turning his attention back to Wilson he said, “You are on indefinite administrative leave until I say otherwise. If you are lucky enough to keep your badge, I can promise you that you will be assigned to some benign post where you can do as little damage as possible.”

  Wilson was reeling. In his wildest dreams he hadn’t imagined it could get this bad, and then the door opened and it got worse.

  Director Kennedy stopped directly across from Wilson. She placed a document on the wood surface and slid it across the table. After Wilson caught it, she said, “I assume you recognize the legal document in your hands.”

  Wilson scanned the heading. It was a national security nondisclosure contract.

  “If you flip to the last page, you’ll see your signature.”

  Wilson went to the last page and noted his signature. He’d signed the document when he went to work for counterintelligence. He began to slide the document back to Kennedy. “I think we should be looking at your—”

  Kennedy reached out and stopped him from moving the document another inch. “That copy is for you. I suggest you read it, and then you find a really good lawyer. A private one, who will more than likely be very expensive, because the FBI will not be supplying you with counsel on this little screwup.”

  “What are you talking about? You don’t decide what the FBI does or doesn’t do.” Wilson looked to Miller.

  “No, I don’t, but I do run the CIA, and we have a very good legal department, and we happen to have a very good working relationship with some federal judges who take national security issues quite seriously. We haven’t even begun to investigate you, and we’ve already come across three instances in which you are in violation of your national security contract. I’m no lawyer, Agent Wilson, but they tell me if we want to press the issue we could have your ass thrown in a high-security federal facility for months. You screwed up here big-time, and if you want to avoid jail you had better start to show some serious cooperation, or at a bare minimum shut your mouth and crawl under some rock, but this is your only warning. If you run to Ferris, or try to claim victimhood, I will have your ass thrown in jail.”

  “You can’t intimidate me.”

  Kennedy realized Wilson didn’t get it. “I’m not trying to intimidate you. I’m telling you the facts. You have screwed up like very few people in your position can screw up. You signed that document in your hands and we happen to take it very seriously. Do yourself a favor and find a lawyer who has had some experience with this type of thing. He will tell you that if I decide to push this, you will go to jail.”

  “If you have everything all locked up, then why don’t you do it?” Wilson asked Kennedy in an overconfident tone.

  Kennedy looked to Miller and said, “I’m done with him. The man’s a fool. If you can talk some sense into him by this evening, I’ll call the dogs off. If not, my people will be in federal court in the morning.” Kennedy turned and left without saying another word.

  Wilson looked at his five colleagues and said incredulously, “Can’t you see what’s going on? She wants me to drop this because she knows I’m onto something.” When no one reacted, Wilson looked at David Taylor, whom he’d worked closely with for the last three years. “David, don’t you see what’s going on?”

  Taylor spun his chair to his left. With his back brace it was the only way he could look Wilson in the eye. “Do you know what your problem is, Joel? You think you’re the only noble person in this town.”

  “Come on.”

  “I’m serious. The rest of us are all corrupt or greedy. Our motives are suspect, but not you. You’re above all of that. You’re a fucking martyr and you brought this all down on yourself because you’re an arrogant know-it-all. Even in the face of all of this, you can’t see that you’ve screwed up.”

  Director Miller looked at him with pure disgust. “Maybe you’d gain a little more perspective from our field office in Bismarck, North Dakota.”

  CHAPTER 46

  VIRGINIA

  THE house was forty minutes northwest of Langley, just past Dulles International Airport. A couple who had retired from the Clandestine Service after putting in thirty-plus years were listed as the owners of the sprawling property. They were now consultants for the CIA, and continued to be paid a generous salary, but they rarely made the commute to the George Bush Center for Intelligence. Their job was to manage the forty-seven-acre compound and its various buildings. The place was low-key, concealed behind rows of trees, a fence, and nothing more than a single gate. There were no guard dogs or men wandering the perimeter with machine guns.

  Even to the more discerning eye there was very little to see. The perimeter security was all microwave trip wires and heat sensors and miniature cameras. The system itself was automated, with a software program that could distinguish a deer from a man to limit false alarms. The bulk of the security was in the house. All the windows were fixed, bulletproof Plexiglas, and the interior had been demolished to the studs. Because of the lessons learned from overseas embassy attacks, the walls were now reinforced with ballistic fabric and the doors were all titanium, covered in wood veneer. The basement contained two holding cells, an interrogation room, and a panic room as a last and unlikely resort, should the security on the first floor be breached.

  Rapp was in the study on the main floor, sitting in a black Herman Miller lounge chair. A man in an identical chair sat six feet away on the other side of the fireplace, asking questions and taking notes. The man, Dr. Lewis, was the resident shrink for the CIA’s Clandestine Service. He had known Rapp for a long time. He adjusted his glasses at the corner and said, “Your wife.”

  “What about her?”

  “How much do you remember?”

  Rapp remembered all of it, or at least he thought he did. It was a strange process to relive it all for a second time, and it wasn’t all bad. The good memories came back as well as the bad ones. Rapp recognized that might be a good thing to share with Lewis. To a certain extent you had to share with the man, or he simply deemed you unfit for the field, and the only thing more unnerving to a Clandestine officer than a therapy session was being confined to a cubicle at Langley. There was also a feeling of trust with the doctor. It was similar to the way he had felt with Kennedy when he’d awakened in the hospital. There was also a feeling that he was not typically a very trusting person.

  “At first it was just the pain . . . the bad memories . . . the loss . . . the feeling that I would never be able to recover. It all came flooding back.”

  “And how did that feel?”

  Rapp laughed defensively. “Like shit . . . how do you think it felt?”

  Lewis nodded and scribbled a quick note. “No, I would imagine that was not an enjoyable experience.” He stopped writing. “And then what happened?”

  “The good memories came back. Meeting each other, dating, falling in love . . . that didn’t take long, and then the wedding. We were really happy. I was really happy.” Rapp looked into the fire for a moment and said, “I don’t think I was ever happier.”

  Lewis nodded. “I would say that’s probably true.”

  Rapp pulled his gaze away from the fire. “Did you know her?”

  “I only met her once, but I’ve watched you grow up in this business. I did your original psych evals twenty-some years ago. I’ve watched you through the good and the bad and you definitely had an extra bounce in your step during the time you just described.”

  Rapp’s gaze fell back to the fireplace. “In a strange way I want that again.”

  “What exactly do you mean?”

  “What Anna and I had. I want to find that again. How have I been since she was killed?”

  Lewis did not like vague questions. “Could you be more specific?”

  “As a person, did I change? Was I the same? What was I like?”

  “I would say your grieving process was not untypical.”

  “You’re holding something back,” Rapp said, putting a hard stare on Lewis.

/>   Lewis thought of Kennedy and the way she described how Rapp could look right through her at times. “You were understandably angry.”

  “Violent?”

  “Yes,” Lewis said with a nod, “although violence is a part of this business.”

  “But I was more violent than before?”

  “Yes . . . you lacked patience. Not that you ever had a great deal of it to begin with, but after Anna’s death you seemed to lose any tolerance for dissent.”

  “Did it interfere with my work?”

  Lewis thought about that for a long moment and then said, “As far as I know, it did not, but I think you should ask Irene.”

  “You’re holding back again.”

  “There was some concern that you were growing a bit too reckless. Taking too many chances. Always pushing ahead even when it made more sense to pause and regroup.”

  That sounded familiar to Rapp. He remembered the rage, he remembered killing certain people and feeling satisfaction that the person would never take another breath. It was actually gratifying. Rapp had spent some time trying to remember all of the people he’d killed. It was like a photo album of assholes. The Who’s Who of terrorists, assassins, arms dealers, corrupt financiers, and intelligence operatives. The trip down memory lane was devoid of guilt.

  “Back to the good memories,” Lewis said in an effort to steer the conversation back to a point of interest. “How did they make you feel?”

  “Good.” Rapp shrugged. “That’s why they call them good memories.”

  Lewis laughed and scratched another note.

  Rapp frowned as a distant memory came back to him. “Didn’t I tell you once that I don’t like you taking notes?”

  Looking as if he’d been caught, Lewis set his pen down and said, “Yes, you did.”

  “And we came to some kind of an agreement.”

  Lewis nodded.