by Vince Flynn
He would finally be accepted for what he had always known himself to be. The best of all time.
CHAPTER 10
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
U.S.A.
MITCH Rapp gunned his Dodge through the underground parking garage, finally pulling into an empty spot labeled DAVID SANDERS. He had his own designated space, but never used it. The Charger was weighed down with a lot of armor but not enough to park beneath a sign with his name on it. Better to choose one at random. He assumed that when the people whose spaces he took saw his car, they just found a spot in the outdoor lot, but he’d never bothered to find out. All he knew for certain was that no one had ever been stupid enough to lodge a complaint.
Rapp activated the elaborate car alarm that a friend of Marcus Dumond had installed and walked briskly up the ramp, avoiding eye contact with the people he passed. Once inside Kennedy’s private elevator, he relaxed a bit. He hated coming to Langley. About half the people working there—the sensible half—used any available excuse to scurry away when they saw him coming. The rest wanted to slap him on the back and drone on about what an honor it was to work with him. The only thing he despised more than people recognizing him was being touched.
“Is she alone?” Rapp said as he entered the director’s suite. All three of Kennedy’s assistants were on the phone, but one gave him an energetic nod and motioned toward her door. Rapp banged on it a few times before entering.
Like her assistants, Kennedy was on the phone, but she stood and offered her cheek to Rapp. He gave it a quick kiss and then dropped into one of the chairs in front of her desk. She looked like she’d finally gotten some sleep. The dark circles beneath her eyes had faded, but the deep lines at their edges remained.
She wrapped up her call and slid a manila folder toward him. “I’m sorry to drag you out here, but I thought you’d want to see this.”
He pulled out two eight-by-ten photos taken in low light. The first was immediately recognizable—the naked corpse of Abdul Zahir wired to a chair. Judging by the lack of damage to his body and face, he hadn’t been interrogated. Someone had simply cut off one of his hands and then smashed him in the side of the head with a blunt instrument.
No great loss to the world. Zahir was a violent, backstabbing piece of human refuse even by terrorist standards. Unfortunately, he had been an occasionally useful violent, backstabbing piece of human refuse.
The second photo was of a man lying on a dirt floor with about a third of his face missing. The combination of the damage and his thick beard made it impossible to ID him.
“Who’s this?” Rapp said, holding up the photo.
“That is your friend Abdul Qayem.”
Rapp looked down again at the man who was responsible for sending the better part of an Afghan police precinct to kill him. “Are we sure?”
“Our people did a digital comparison with photos we have on file. Ninety-nine percent.”
“And who sent us these?”
“They’re a peace offering from Ahmed Taj.”
Rapp threw the eight-by-tens back onto her desk in disgust. “Amazing how quickly he was able to track Qayem down when it was suddenly in his best interest.”
“I don’t think we should jump—”
“Where were they?”
“He says his people caught up with them in a small village in Afghanistan.”
“And the ISI went in personally instead of calling in a drone?”
“He said they wanted to take Qayem alive so he could be questioned.”
“That worked out well,” Rapp said sarcastically. “Ten bucks says Qayem knew too much. Maybe it wasn’t just Durrani who ordered that hit on me. Maybe it went higher and people at the ISI didn’t want me to catch up with him.”
“It’s something I’ve considered.”
“Well, then I’ve got another ten bucks that says he was inside Pakistan. Probably Lahore. The S Wing is moving more and more terrorists into the cities to give them cover from our air strikes. About all that’s left in the countryside are the groups that they can’t get a handle on. We kill the people who are a danger to them and then they publish pictures of the aftermath to whip up anti-American sentiment.”
“Ahmed and President Chutani are trying to get control of the ISI.”
“And I’m supposed to feel good about that?”
She held up a hand. “Right now the only thing that matters is that, for better or for worse, Qayem is dead. That leaves Leo Obrecht as our only window into the Rickman situation.”
“So?”
He knew that Kennedy could have just emailed those images to the Farm. But she hadn’t. That meant she had something on her mind other than Qayem. Something that demanded a face-to-face meeting. It wasn’t hard to guess what it was.
She reached for a mug at the edge of her desk and took a sip from it. Twinings Earl Grey, he knew from the dossier he’d created on her when he was just starting out. When she was under a lot of stress, she went with the decaf version.
“Where do you stand with Louis Gould, Mitch?”
“I haven’t killed him yet, if that’s what you mean.”
“Do you think he can help you get to Obrecht?”
“I don’t know.”
“But he’s good. Even by your standards, yes?”
Rapp didn’t answer.
She held the cup in both hands as though she was trying to warm them. “I’m sorry, Mitch. I don’t want to have this conversation any more than you. But if we don’t do something, the situation is going to get worse. Good people are going to die.”
“He’s a sociopath, Irene. He doesn’t care about anything or anyone but himself.”
“Sometimes sociopaths aren’t that difficult to control. You just give them what they want.”
“Yeah. But what exactly is that?”
“His life? To be returned to his family?”
Rapp wasn’t so sure, but he’d already decided he had no alternative to bringing Gould in on this. What he was in no mood for, though, was sitting around the seventh floor talking about it. He stood and started for the door.
“I’m going down to see Marcus. If you get anything else from Rickman, you know how to reach me.”
CHAPTER 11
ISI HEADQUARTERS
ISLAMABAD
PAKISTAN
AHMED Taj sat behind his massive desk, staring at the wall. The headphones covering his ears were plugged into a secure laptop and the voice of the late Akhtar Durrani was audible above the hiss of static.
“Now, you have many stories to tell me.”
“Not yet,” Joseph Rickman replied.
“You made a promise. I have arranged everything. You are safe in my country. I have even gone so far as to arrange a new identity for you. You must follow through on your side of the bargain. I want the names of the American spies.”
“When Vazir gets back from Zurich, we will see how things are, and then I will decide when and how I will begin sharing that information.”
“That was not our deal!” Durrani shouted, and the low growl of Rickman’s Rottweiler became audible.
“The deal has changed. You did that when you decided to interfere with Louis Gould’s assassination of Rapp. Now we will have to wait and see.”
“I could have you killed,” Durrani hissed. “Or better yet, I will nurse you back to health and have you beaten to a pulp again. How would you like that, you stupid American? You think you are so smart . . . well, you are not so smart. I hold all of the cards here. I am the one who decides if you will live or die.”
Rickman’s laughter had a distinctive gurgle to it. Undoubtedly the result of his self-inflicted injuries. “You think you have me by the balls, General?”
“I could have you killed right now.”
“Yes, you could, and then in a month or so you would die as well.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You are so naïve, General. Do you think I’m foo
lish enough to put my life in your hands and not have an insurance policy?”
“You are bluffing.”
“No, that’s not my style. I plan, I don’t bluff. I have taken certain precautions. I’ve hired a law firm and given them very specific instructions that if they don’t hear from me at prearranged intervals they’re to begin emailing files to Director Kennedy and a few other select people.”
“What kind of files?” Durrani said, cautiously.
“Very detailed information that, among many other things, implicates you in all this.”
“What could you possibly be thinking? That is reckless . . . what if these lawyers take a look at the information?”
“It’s encrypted, and don’t worry, they are people I trust. You have nothing to worry about as long as you honor our agreement.”
“You are the one who needs to honor our agreement. Senator Ferris says he needs the information so he can move against Rapp and Kennedy.”
“Let’s see how things go in Zurich.”
“You are a fool.”
“Really,” Rickman answered in an amused tone. “I think it is actually very pragmatic of me.”
“I’m talking about giving such valuable information to people I cannot trust. It’s foolish.”
“It’s actually very smart, although probably not all that smart considering your history.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s pretty obvious that you have a habit of killing the people you work with.”
“That is an exaggeration.”
“Not really, so the fact that I took a few precautions is just common sense. It’s not particularly smart.”
Taj reached for his keyboard and shut down the recording, returning it to its encrypted folder. There were hundreds of hours of audio from the listening devices in Durrani’s home, and he’d allowed no one—not even his personal assistant, Kabir Gadai—to listen to them. In the intelligence business, the control of knowledge was all.
While there was a great deal of interesting information on the tapes, this brief passage was by far the most critical. When he’d first heard it, he’d thought Rickman’s threat was entirely credible and immediately began looking into law firms the man could have used. Now he had confirmation that his investigation had been worthwhile. That very morning Taj had received proof that Rickman was telling Durrani the truth about his “insurance policy.”
The ISI’s network had picked up chatter about an email Rickman sent to the FSB exposing a high-level agent stationed in Istanbul. This had been confirmed by a rendition attempt thwarted by Mitch Rapp that left two Russians dead. Most critically, the email had been sent after Rickman’s death.
Taj smiled thinly. It was hard not to appreciate the man’s brilliance. From beyond the grave, he would set fire after fire, running Kennedy and her people ragged. It was a plan that had gotten off to a rousing start. Even if that whore prostrated herself in front of the director of the FSB, the already tense relations between America and Russia would further worsen. There was little doubt that plans for reprisals were in the works at the Kremlin.
It was tempting to just let Rickman’s strategy play out. To sit on the sidelines and watch the CIA blow itself apart. Tempting, but impossible.
Rickman’s plan for revenge against his former employer was akin to an IED—powerful, but indiscriminate. If Taj could possess the information—particularly if he could do so without Kennedy knowing—it could be transformed from an explosive to a scalpel. With it, he would not only ferret out every traitor in his own government, but co-opt the Americans’ entire network. Under the threat of exposure, he could quietly turn the CIA’s most sensitive assets and monitor or kill the others. Critical spies they believed to be loyal would in fact be working for the ISI. They would provide him with an endless stream of information about U.S. intelligence efforts while feeding back a carefully formulated mix of truth and lies. He wouldn’t just blind the world’s most powerful spy agency, he would enslave it.
Kabir Gadai was personally leading the team trying to track the law firm Rickman had spoken of but the task had proved difficult. The CIA man hid his activities with incredible care and also created countless false trails, each of which had to be diligently followed. Now that he was dead, though, Rickman’s maze had stopped expanding. The picture began to clear.
There was a knock on the door, and Taj took off his headphones before closing the laptop on his desk.
“Come.”
Kabir Gadai strode in and closed the door behind him. Most people were unaware that they were second cousins, and looking at them would offer no hint of the relationship. Gadai was good-looking, well dressed, and outwardly accomplished. He was truly devoted to his three gifted sons and portrayed the necessary fondness for his daughter. His wife was beautiful and charming but, more important, willing to overlook his extramarital affairs in return for a life of privilege. It was an immoral lifestyle that Taj had learned to tolerate in light of Gadai’s competence and loyalty.
Of course, like all men, Gadai had weaknesses. While his infidelity was problematic, his egocentric need for those around him to be aware of his accomplishments was far worse. Taj excused it as the exuberance of youth, but until Gadai matured, he would have to be watched with extra care.
“Do you have news about Rickman’s attorney?”
They had traced the Sitting Bull information dump to the general area of Rome, but that left hundreds of individual firms to investigate.
Gadai laid a dossier on Taj’s desk and the ISI director opened it. He immediately recognized the name of the Italian law firm.
“We already looked into them, no? They were helping Rickman create anonymous financial trusts with money he’d siphoned off from the CIA’s Afghanistan operation. To benefit his children, if I recall correctly.”
“You do,” Gadai said. “After we confirmed that his connection with the firm related to personal affairs, we moved on.”
Taj felt his grudging admiration for the CIA man grow further. More of Rickman’s complex web. He hadn’t hidden his personal activity as carefully as he could have, calculating that anyone who found the firm he used would assume that it wouldn’t also be involved in his plot against the Agency.
“Then you have him? You know the identity of the lawyer?” Taj said, trying to keep his voice even despite the excitement he felt.
“I’m afraid it isn’t that easy, Ahmed. It’s a very large firm, and Rickman didn’t use the same lawyer that he used for the trusts.”
“What about the managing partner? Can we interrogate him?”
“He’s a very public and very well-connected man in Italy. Also, I very much doubt he would know anything. While we understand the importance of the files, this arrangement would be unremarkable to the firm. Essentially just a schedule of electronic documents to be sent if certain criteria are met. It’s unlikely the attorney handling the details would even know that his client is dead. And it’s almost certain that he would be in the dark as to the contents of the files.”
This time, Rickman had displayed his cleverness by taking a page out of Taj’s own book. Make everything too commonplace to attract attention. It was infuriating. He was within a hair’s breadth of closing his fist around Irene Kennedy’s delicate throat.
“So, you’re telling me that we have to investigate hundreds of individual lawyers whose careers are predicated on confidentiality in hopes that they left some clue about a client they never met? That’s unacceptable, Kabir.”
The younger man smiled, his eyes shining with an arrogant light that Taj was very familiar with. Gadai knew something but had withheld it for effect.
“Don’t make me wait, Kabir. I’ve indulged your sense of drama in the past, but my patience is at its end.”
“My apologies, Director. Our research suggests that this firm has a dedicated division that handles these kinds of arrangements—scheduling, payments, requests for information, notifications . . .”
“How many people are in this division?”
“It’s largely automated. Most of the work is done by computer or—”
“How many!”
Gadai opened the dossier again, shuffling to a photo of a plump woman with dyed blond hair. “Isabella Accorso runs the entire enterprise with a single administrative assistant.”
Taj picked up the photo and examined the woman’s face. She was probably in her mid-thirties, wearing a blouse that clung to her breasts in an obvious attempt to facilitate the faceless, nameless sexual encounters so enjoyed by Western women.
It was hard to believe that this female had the keys to America’s heavily guarded intelligence apparatus. That she unwittingly possessed more information on the CIA’s operations than anyone outside Langley’s executive offices.
“What do we know about her?”
“She’s divorced. Clean. No drugs or illegal activity. No affairs or significant financial problems.”
Taj just glared at him. Again, his assistant’s expression suggested there was more.
“She does have a daughter, though. A sixteen-year-old who attends public school. Quite an attractive young woman.”
“Can I assume she’s accessible to us?”
Gadai smiled. “Easily.”
CHAPTER 12
THE FARM
NEAR HARPERS FERRY
WEST VIRGINIA
U.S.A.
DID you get it put back together?” Rapp said as he walked into the Farm’s basement bar.
Hurley was standing next to the pool table with the ubiquitous drink in his hand while Scott Coleman was beneath the elaborate scale model with a screwdriver.
“Just finishing,” the old man said, lighting a cigarette. “The little twit outdid himself.”
He was right. It was an impressive effort even by Marcus Dumond’s standards. The computer genius had used a drone-mounted camera to take more than a thousand high-definition photos of Leo Obrecht’s property. After stitching them together in Photoshop, he’d fed them to the railroad-car-sized 3-D printer at Langley.