The Last Man

by Vince Flynn

  “If I would be more open, then you’d stop taking notes.”

  Lewis coughed slightly and then said, “That’s correct.”

  “So what gives?”

  “It’s a habit,” Lewis said sheepishly.

  “Were you trying to test my memory?”

  “A little bit.”

  After pointing at the note pad, Rapp pointed at the fire. Lewis tore out the top three pages and tossed them into the fire. “Now,” Lewis said, “back to the good memories for the third time. Tell me about them.”

  “I was happy.” Rapp got a far-off gaze in his eyes. “I remembered how close we were. How it was hard to be apart, and when we were together, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”

  “And you remember making love?”

  “Jeez, Doc,” Rapp said, fidgeting in his chair. “Come on. Can’t I keep some of this shit to myself?”

  Lewis smiled. “Yes, you may. I don’t need to know everything. It’s just good to know that you’re no longer repressing those memories.”

  “I did that?”

  “Yes. I tried to get you to talk about her on several occasions, but you became so enraged that I had to drop it.”

  “Did I threaten you?”

  The question caught Lewis so off guard, he began to laugh nervously.

  “What?”

  “Your mere presence is a threat to many people.”

  “And to you?”

  “No.” Lewis shook his head. “I’ve known you a long time and you’ve never threatened me, but you need to understand that you are very good at what you do and you have some anger issues. After your wife was murdered, there was a bit of fear that you had become more volatile.”

  Rapp didn’t like that sound of that. “Like I couldn’t control myself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I ever cross that line?”

  “Mmmm . . . no.”

  “But I came close.”

  “Yes.”

  This didn’t sound good. “I think I need a drink.”

  “Why?”

  Rapp grimaced. “I don’t like hearing this.”

  Lewis took this as a good sign. Progress with Rapp was rare and should be celebrated. “I could use a drink as well. Come on . . . follow me.”

  The two men left the study and moved down the hall to the open living room and kitchen. Rapp was surprised to find Kennedy in the kitchen, a series of files spread out on the table in front of her.

  Kennedy looked up and asked, “How’s it going?”

  Rapp shrugged, not feeling that it was his place to judge his progress or lack thereof.

  “It’s going well,” Lewis said.

  Kennedy could tell by the tone of Lewis’s voice that he was sincere, which got her wondering. “How is his memory?”

  “Good. A lot of things are coming back.” Lewis grabbed a bottle of cabernet and started searching through drawers. He found a corkscrew in the third drawer and opened the bottle. He grabbed two glasses and held one up for Kennedy.

  “Please.”

  Rapp had filled a tumbler with ice and was standing in front of a bar cart in the living room, his right hand dancing over the tops of the bottles. “Would one of you please remind me what it is that I like to drink?”

  A look of distress washed over Kennedy’s face, and she shared a look of concern with Lewis.

  “I’m just kidding,” Rapp announced. “Vodka, occasionally scotch or whiskey, gin and tonic in the summer, margaritas when I eat at a Mexican restaurant, a little high-end tequila when I’m south of the border, and I think I got sick on Campari once.” Rapp started pouring some Grey Goose into a glass. “That was years ago, of course. I think it was Stan’s fault.”

  “That’s more than I knew.” Lewis shot Kennedy a raised eyebrow.

  “I do remember hearing something about you not being able to hold your liquor.”

  Rapp came back to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. “I think my problem was that I was dumb enough to think I could go drink for drink with Stan.” Rapp’s entire body convulsed at the thought. “Not a fun memory.”

  “Speaking of memories,” Kennedy said as Lewis handed her a glass of wine. “Thank you. Speaking of memories, how do you feel about Switzerland?”

  Rapp took a sip of vodka and said, “Switzerland . . . nice country. Could you be more specific?”

  “Banking . . . bankers, actually. Do you remember doing any business with Swiss bankers over the years.”

  “Of course. Herr Ohlmeyer and then his sons. This isn’t about his granddaughter, Greta, is it?” Rapp had had a relationship with the woman years ago.

  “No . . . not that I know of. Is there something you’d like to tell me about Greta?”

  “Not very professional,” Rapp said, shaking his head in disappointment.

  “How’s that?”

  “Just because I had this little knock on the head, that doesn’t mean you guys get to go on a fishing expedition through my memories.”

  “It was worth a try,” Lewis said with a shrug. “I’ve never found him to be this cooperative.”

  “I agree,” Kennedy said, as if Rapp wasn’t present. “Is there a chance he’ll stay like this?”

  Lewis made a great show of pondering the possibility and then shook his head. “I think he’ll be the same old combative, ill-tempered man he always was.”

  “His authority issues?”

  “Can’t say for sure, but it stands to reason that those will reemerge as he regresses to his old ways.”

  “You two are hilarious. Why don’t we ever spend any time talking about your issues?”

  Kennedy and Lewis looked at each other and at the same time said, “Because we don’t have any.”

  As they laughed at their own joke, Rapp looked on with a deep frown. “Bankers . . . we were talking about bankers.”

  “Sorry,” Kennedy said as she took a sip of wine. “Bankers.” She set down the wineglass, grabbed a blue folder, spun it toward Rapp, and opened it to reveal a photograph of a man who looked to be in his midfifties. “Does this man look familiar to you?”

  Rapp shook his head. “I’ve never seen him.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could it be a blind spot? Maybe it’ll come to you later?”

  “That’s not how it’s worked so far. When you show me photos or tell me something it triggers something that helps me remember. This guy,” Rapp waved his hand over the photo, “there’s nothing. No sense that I’ve ever met him or know anything about him.”

  “Interesting.” Kennedy pulled the file back and flipped through a few pages. “What about these photos?” Kennedy laid out a photo of an office building and another one of a house.

  “Nothing.”

  “He works at a second-tier bank . . . Sparkasse Schaffhausen, located in District Five, Gewerbeschule Quarter.”

  “I know where that is.” Why do I know that place? Rapp asked himself. His mind was filled with visions of a dark street and a gunfight. “I think I killed someone not far from there.”

  Kennedy gave him a blank stare for a long moment and then said, “That’s correct. Two people, actually. You killed them not far from there and then fled to the Gewerbeschule Quarter.”

  “I remember.” Rapp grabbed the file from Kennedy and held up the photo of the banker. “Tell me about him.”

  “A Herr Obrecht. We don’t know much about him. I’ve made a few discreet calls, but our people don’t seem to run in the same circles as he does.”

  “Is this the banker who claims I’m stealing money?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Rick as well.”

  “That’s right. Director Miller showed me the affidavit. The banker claims to have met you twice and Rick on five separate occasions. Each time the man says the two of you converted cash into bearer bonds and placed them in a safety deposit box.”

  “And how did this Agent Wilson come across Herr Obrecht?”
/>   “An anonymous tip.”

  “Come on.”

  Kennedy nodded. “I know . . . it’s ridiculous.”

  “This is bullshit.” After looking into his drink for a long moment, Rapp said, “Hypothetically, if I was going to steal money from Langley, wouldn’t I be a little better at covering my tracks? I mean, we have five accounts in Switzerland that we use to fund various operations. Right?” Rapp asked, not trusting his memory.

  “That’s correct.”

  “So why use some second-tier banker who I don’t know and can’t trust?”

  “I’m afraid that’s a question we’re going to have to ask Herr Obrecht.”

  The excitement on Rapp’s face was obvious. “Please tell me we have him.”

  “We have him under surveillance.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing so far, other than some contacts with a few unsavory types. In the world of Swiss banking, however, that’s hardly an indictment.”

  “How about I go have a chat with him?” Rapp raised an eyebrow in anticipation.

  This was the old Rapp. Extremely results-oriented and rarely willing to sit back and let things unfold. Kennedy was torn between letting him do what he was so good at and the potential fallout if things didn’t go well. The FBI was firmly behind her at the moment, but with Senator Ferris lurking about, who knew what next week would bring? “If I send you, what are you going to ask him?”

  Rapp looked at her as if it were a trick question. “How about why did you lie to the FBI and say that I did business with you, you piece of shit?”

  Kennedy frowned. “Not very subtle.”

  Rapp looked at Lewis. “Was I known for being subtle before I hit my head?”

  Lewis sighed and said, “I’m afraid subtlety has never been your thing.”

  CHAPTER 47

  ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN

  IN the upper left corner of the fifty-inch flat-screen TV a single car passed through the main gate of Bahria Town. General Durrani took in a drag from his cigarette, ignored the anchor on Al Jazeera, and focused on the smaller picture. The next part of his plan was so ingenious that he had kept it from Rickman so he could see the man’s shock and then admiration as the audacity of it sank in. He couldn’t wait to see the surprise on his accomplice’s face when everything was revealed.

  Dr. Bhutani had arrived the previous evening, and after spending an hour with the patient Bhutani informed Durrani that his decision to call him had been the right one. Rickman had a 103-degree temperature, a ruptured testicle, severely bruised kidneys, four broken ribs, and a shattered left orbital socket, and those were just the most immediate concerns. There were too many scrapes and bruises to count, and Bhutani had no idea if any other organs had been damaged. The doctor was no fool. He knew the importance of Durrani’s job and he knew his comrade placed an extremely high premium on secrecy.

  So after finishing his examination, Bhutani said to Durrani, “That man needs to be in a hospital. I don’t suppose you will allow that?”

  “No,” Durrani offered brusquely. “And he doesn’t want to go to a hospital either.”

  “State secrets?”

  “Yes.”

  “You may trust me, as always.” Bhutani then took a long moment to consider the care of this intriguing patient, whom he had already identified as an American. “Antibiotics will go a long way to making sure we nurse him back to health, but there are some things we must keep an eye on. If we cannot get the fever down with antibiotics then I’m afraid we really will have to move him to a hospital, if you want him to survive. Would you like me to quietly explore some options?”

  Durrani frowned and said, “It is imperative that you do not speak to anyone of this.”

  “I understand.” Bhutani placed a calming hand on the general’s arm. “I will speak to no one, but I will see where we can take him if we absolutely have to. I have some ideas. In the meantime you will need to come up with an official explanation . . . a cover, I think you call it.”

  “I have already taken care of that,” Durrani said with a wink.

  “May I send a nurse over? Someone we can trust?” When Durrani hesitated, the doctor said, “It is essential that we monitor his vitals every hour until we think he is out of danger.” Seeing that Durrani wasn’t convinced, he added, “I know who I can trust. People who believe in what you are doing . . . in what we are doing.”

  Durrani weighed the need for secrecy against the possibility of Rickman’s dying. He could always kill the nurse if he felt the need to, but if Rickman died there was no bringing him back. The nurse might also help avoid having to bring him to a hospital, which would be a very difficult environment to control. “Fine, but just one nurse. She can train one of my men what to do when she needs to sleep. She must never speak of any of this. Never.”

  “I will make sure of it.”

  Durrani then attempted to hand the doctor an envelope filled with cash. Bhutani vehemently refused, and when Durrani insisted, the doctor was insulted, telling Durrani that everyone must do his part in the defense of Pakistan, and that this was his contribution.

  The nurse had showed up within the hour. She was an ugly, fat thing, and Durrani decided almost immediately that the woman would have to die. She had spent the night at Rickman’s side, taking care of his every need and giving him the appropriate drugs and fluids as needed.

  Now, Durrani snatched the handset from his office phone and pressed the Page button and then a second button for the guesthouse living room. After a series of long beeps, Kassar answered in his disinterested voice.

  “The nurse,” Durrani said. “Send her to the other guesthouse. Tell her to take a two-hour break and that you will come get her when you need her.”

  “Is your friend here?”

  Durrani glanced at the security feed. “Almost. I don’t want the nurse to see him.”

  “What does it matter? You are going to kill her anyway.”

  “She doesn’t need to see this, and stop questioning my decisions. Just do what I say.” Durrani replaced the handset and wondered if it was time to get rid of Kassar. The problem would be replacing the man. He was so good at what he did, Durrani doubted he could find someone to fill his shoes any time soon.

  Durrani returned his attention to the flat-screen TV in time to see the black Range Rover pull up to his private gate. His men did a quick inspection of the vehicle by running a mirror underneath and then checking the trunk cargo area. When the vehicle was cleared, Durrani stabbed out his cigarette, stood, and walked down the long hallway, stopping just short of the foyer. After fifteen months of hard work, the decisive moment was upon him.

  He looked at his reflection in a full-length mirror with a thick gold frame. After adjusting the black beret on his head, he adjusted his tan tunic to make sure all the buttons were centered. His left breast was covered with four rows of ribbons, and each collar had two gold stars in a sea of red. Pleased with his impressive image, Durrani moved to the front door and opened it in time to see his guest emerging from the Range Rover.

  “Larry,” Durrani yelled with a wave. One of Durrani’s bodyguards was waving a black magnetic wand over his guest, more for show than anything. Durrani yelled at the guard, “No need for that. He’s fine. Larry, come.” The general stood, beaming with anticipation, waving his right arm for his American friend to join him.

  The American was wearing a khaki suit with a blue button-down shirt. He walked casually across the stone courtyard with a warm smile on his face. “General, good to see you.”

  “And you, too, Larry.”

  Larry Lee was an American expatriate from Wichita, Kansas. He was an engineer who specialized in petroleum refineries. “I can’t get over how beautiful your house turned out.” Lee stopped and did a 360-degree turn, taking it all in.

  “And your house will be just as beautiful.”

  “Not quite, but it is nice of you to say.”

  Durrani had purchased a smaller lot next door for Lee, his bus
iness partner. Lee had started building at the same time as Durrani but was still months away from finishing. Lee complained that the contractors took advantage of him, but Durrani had talked to the builder and found out that the engineer in Lee made it very difficult because he wanted to inspect and sign off on every piece of work.

  The two men shook hands and Durrani said, “How long until your house is complete?”

  Lee shrugged as if to say your guess is a good as anyone’s. “They tell me two months, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “I will see if I can hurry them along,” Durrani said with a wink as he grabbed Lee by the elbow. Whispering in his ear, he said, “There is something that I want to show you.” He led Lee by the elbow into the house.

  Halfway down the hall to the study, Durrani stopped and pressed the button for the elevator. Lee looked surprised. “The basement.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you put in a pistol range?” Lee asked hopefully.

  “No . . . I did not think of that.” Durrani stroked his mustache and then laughed. “That is a wonderful idea. I will have my architect look into it.”

  They stepped into the elevator and Lee took the opportunity to lecture Durrani about the engineering of an indoor pistol range. Durrani couldn’t get off the elevator fast enough. He’d had about all he could take of this condescending American. He showed him to the secure door and punched in his code.

  “I didn’t know you had tunnels,” Lee said as he walked along the cement floor.

  “I had them installed for security.” Durrani continued the small talk until they reached the door that led to the smaller of the two guesthouses.

  As they started up the stairs, Lee asked, “What did you want to show me?”

  “These tunnels are very convenient. I think we should think about putting another one in.”

  “Between our two properties?”

  “Yes.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  By the time they got to the top of the stairs Durrani was out of breath. Lee continued to talk and eventually got around to asking a question. Durrani held up a hand, signaling that he was out of breath, while his other hand searched for his pack of cigarettes.

  “You know those things are going to kill you, right? As your business partner, I have every right to get on you about stopping. If you die, our partnership will go up in flames.”