Mitch Rapp 14 - The Survivor

by Vince Flynn

  “I assure you, this will be quite effective,” Taj continued. “No media company can afford to be painted as unpatriotic, and a large number of their advertisers have significant ownership by the army and ISI. They’ll publish no more articles critical of you, and if we proceed carefully, I think we can coerce a retraction. Or at least a clarification that highlights the difficulties of stamping out terrorism and provides examples of how effective your administration has been thus far.”

  “If this is your recommendation, I will accept it,” Chutani said, still unwilling to make demands that could be traced back to him. “But I expect results, Ahmed.”

  There was a knock on his office door and a moment later Kabir Gadai entered.

  “I think you’ll be quite satisfied,” Taj said, watching his assistant approach. “We should be able to resolve the situation without undue risk to you or your government.”

  “Tomorrow morning, Ahmed. I want a briefing on your plan’s specifics tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll have my people schedule a meeting.”

  The line went dead and Taj hung up the phone. “Our president can be quite the hysterical woman.”

  Gadai smiled and took a seat.

  “What news do you have for me, Kabir? Have you determined what was in the Rickman file that we released?”

  “I believe I have, sir.” He held out a manila envelope containing a number of eight-by-ten photographs, and Taj began flipping through them. He recognized the city as London and two of the men behind the police barricade as being from MI6 and the CIA, but other than that, the images meant little to him.

  “Those are stills from security cameras installed near the Iranian ambassador’s residence. Our resources say that he and his family were taken by Iranian security in the middle of the night. They’re being recalled to Tehran.”

  “Was a threat made against him? This might have been done for his own protection.”

  “That’s what we thought at first, too.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Do you see the man in the black coat? The one whose face is always turned away from the camera? We believe that’s Mitch Rapp.”

  Taj spread out the photos in front of him and studied the man in question. It was difficult to determine detail but, in a strange way, that’s what made the images stand out. In the middle of London, during a well-lit police operation, there wasn’t a single definitive photo.

  Taj leaned back in his chair and met his assistant’s gaze. “So, you’re saying that Kamal Safavi was on the CIA’s payroll?”

  “It seems likely. Since this occurred, there’s been a huge increase in diplomatic traffic between Iran and the United States, including a reported personal conversation between the ayatollah and President Alexander. It’s the first direct communication between the two men that we’re aware of.”

  Taj felt the perspiration break across his forehead. If he’d had an asset this highly placed, only one or two of his most trusted people would have known. Kennedy operated no differently. If Rickman had access to this level of intelligence, what else could be hidden in his files? What did he know about the Israelis? About America’s politicians and allies? Indeed, what did he know about Pakistan?

  “It’s a massive blow to the U.S.,” Gadai said, sounding typically prideful. “The thawing of relations between Iran and America was one of the cornerstones of Alexander’s Middle East strategy. He hoped to build a Shiite bulwark against the expansion of Sunni militias.”

  “Don’t be too pleased with yourself, Kabir. The loss of Safavi has harmed America but if we’d had access to this information instead of being forced to release it, we would have had the tools to turn one of the CIA’s highest-placed assets. He was a well-liked moderate with political aspirations. Who knows how useful he could have been in keeping the Iranians in their place. This wasn’t a victory, it was an opportunity missed. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gadai said, averting his eyes appropriately.

  Taj needed to keep the young man’s arrogance in check, and highlighting the negative side of the situation was a good way of doing it. Having said that, it was admittedly difficult not to revel in this particular failure. A partnership between Iran and America would significantly extend the West’s influence in the Middle East. It was a natural alliance that had been made impossible by a powerful—but largely empty—animosity between the two countries. Now the flames of that fire would once again burn bright.

  “The question I’m interested in, Kabir, is whether the file release got us any closer to finding the man who can decrypt the files.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” Gadai said, recovering quickly from his reprimand. “My people were able to trace it even farther than they originally thought. Perhaps as few as two more releases will lead us to his location.”

  “And the next one is scheduled for when?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Taj nodded thoughtfully. It was difficult not to speculate what that dispatch contained. What damage it would do to the country that believed it had the right to rule the world.

  “Unfortunately, we have no choice. You have my authorization.”

  CHAPTER 40

  ROME

  ITALY

  THE sun was up by the time Mitch Rapp’s Gulfstream landed at the private airport in Rome. It had barely rolled to a stop when a black BMW with heavily tinted windows pulled alongside. Rapp jumped out of the plane without lowering the stairs and walked briskly across the runway. Inside the car, Mike Nash leaned over the seats and threw one of the back doors open. Rapp slid inside and a moment later they were accelerating toward the highway.

  “Your suit and tie are in the garment bag,” Nash said. “There’s a passport in the breast pocket with the name Mitch Kruse. The entry stamps have you arriving last night. You were on a Turkish Airlines flight out of Dulles.”

  Typically thorough but, ironically, Rapp wasn’t the problem on that particular day. His operations on Italian soil had all gone relatively smoothly. Nash, on the other hand, had been betrayed during a rendition in Sicily a few years back and was now a wanted man in Italy. This little excursion must have been important if Kennedy was willing to risk sending him to Rome.

  “Who are you?” Rapp asked, unzipping the garment bag.

  “Michael Blake, aka a guy who’s very anxious to finish this little errand and get out of here.”

  Rapp started stripping off his clothes as they merged into traffic. The suit was his, one of a few he kept in a locker at Langley. So was the Glock 19 and the custom shoulder holster that contained it. A silencer hung from the side opposite the weapon, as did a spare magazine. Hopefully, neither would be necessary. The heat coming down on the CIA from enemies and allies alike was starting to take its toll on ops all over the globe.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see an attorney. Our luck might finally be changing. We had DaisyChain searching for mentions of law firms—”

  “You got the NSA involved?”

  Rapp didn’t trust those tech freaks. He spent more time worrying about them monitoring his communications than he did about foreign intelligence agencies.

  “No choice, Mitch. We just don’t have that kind of computer firepower.”

  London had already put him in a dark mood, and the involvement of Fort Meade wasn’t making it any better.

  “We’ll talk about that later,” Rapp said, pulling the partially buttoned dress shirt over his head. “What did they come up with?”

  “More stuff than I want to remember. All complete crap until they turned up an obituary from an Italian newspaper. A woman named Isabella Accorso was killed in a car accident along with her daughter.”

  “How is this interesting to me?”

  “Well, first, she worked at a large law firm managing trusts and payments to clients. She’s the person who’d administer the kind of scenario we think Rick set up. We figure he’d check in with someone like her on a given schedule, and if
he didn’t, she’d start sending the files he gave her.”

  “That’s it?” Rapp said.

  “No. The crash was a head-on with a truck that crossed into her lane. The driver was an undocumented Pakistani immigrant.”

  “Thin.”

  “It gets better. Irene strong-armed the Italians into giving us the records from the law firm’s Internet service provider. We found heavily encrypted files going out the day before the Rickman stuff hit the streets.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Who?”

  “The Pakistani driver.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can we get to him?”

  “Well, he’s in an unguarded hospital room if that’s what you mean.”

  “I take it that’s not as good as it sounds.”

  “He apparently wasn’t wearing a seat belt and the part of his brain you’d want to communicate with is still on the inside of the windshield. So we’re on our way to talk to the managing partner of Accorso’s firm.”

  Rapp finished dressing and did the best he could to smooth his unruly hair. The reflection in the side window suggested that despite the month’s salary he’d spent on the suit, it didn’t have the power to make him look respectable. His grooming was aimed more at being able to walk around Kabul unnoticed than blending into American boardrooms.

  He sat back and watched the ancient buildings pass by. Italy had always felt like a second home to him. He’d spent many happy—if infuriating—months living there with a fashion designer who had a way with ice picks. Probably not the right woman for him, but also not entirely the wrong one. She understood and accepted the life he’d chosen, neither judging him nor worrying every time he didn’t make it home for dinner. On the other hand, he’d never been able to sleep well lying next to her. There was no question that there was a price at which she’d turn that ice pick on him. A high price, to be sure, but he’d still found himself habitually searching the bed for hidden weapons while they were having sex.

  He’d resigned himself to the fact that another Anna Reilly would never come along. Trying to find a replica of her would only make him and the poor woman he ended up with miserable.

  Anna had been everything to him, but as time went on he could start to see the flaws in their relationship. She’d come to terms with what he did but had never become comfortable with it. He could see now that the dissonance had been slowly driving her insane. Anna believed strongly that people were fundamentally good and that violence inevitably led to disaster. He’d developed a somewhat different philosophy.

  It was time to change his life before it was too late. Shaking off the habits he’d picked up from Hurley was a good start, but there was going to be a lot more to it than that. Selling the burned husk of his and Anna’s home would have to finally happen. And getting out of the dank apartment he’d landed in wouldn’t hurt, either. Most of all, though, he needed to figure out how he could be in a relationship that didn’t end with an ice pick in the ear or his partner having a nervous breakdown.

  For now, though, he had to shove all that into a dark corner of his mind. If he didn’t stop Rickman, his elaborate plans for self-improvement wouldn’t be necessary. More than likely, he’d end up the subject of a very public witch hunt led by the politicians who had spent the last two decades demanding his protection.

  Rapp didn’t realize he’d dozed off until the BMW glided to a stop in front of a building with a series of flags hanging over the entrance. He stepped out, looking up at the six-story glass structure.

  “Irene says I’m supposed to take the lead. We’re not dangling anyone out of windows today,” Nash said.

  “They don’t open.”

  Nash wasn’t sure whether that was meant as a joke and flashed a nervous smile before starting toward the lobby. Rapp dragged his feet behind. He hated lawyers and was dreading the meeting. If Kennedy really didn’t want him to do anything, why was he here? Clearly she expected results and wasn’t certain that Nash’s honey tongue was enough to get them.

  There was no security beyond a friendly woman who used her broken English to give them directions. Nash looked a little apprehensive as they rode the elevator to the top floor—an emotion the former marine never displayed when getting shot at or blown up. He was still transitioning into his new job and wasn’t yet comfortable with his role as management. Also, the knowledge that Rapp and Kennedy were watching his every move wasn’t doing much to calm his nerves.

  Two men were already waiting for them in a conference room nestled in a quiet corner of the executive floor. Nash strode in with an easy smile.

  “Mike Blake,” he said, shaking hands with the older of the two men. “It’s good to finally meet you, Mr. Cipriani.”

  “Please, call me Marcelo,” the man said with a light accent. “May I present my attorney, Dante Necchi?”

  Nash’s smile broadened while Rapp’s own expression darkened. The lawyer they’d come to see had a lawyer. Outstanding.

  “Good to meet you, Dante.” He motioned behind him. “This is my colleague Mitch Kruse.”

  Rapp sat in an empty chair and stared straight ahead, unwilling to shake hands with either man. He just wanted to get what they were here to get and head back to the plane. Maybe after a quick stop for a plate of carbonara. He hadn’t eaten anything for almost twelve hours.

  “What is Mr. Kruse’s role in this meeting?” Necchi said, looking a bit bemused. “To intimidate us?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Nash said. “He’s part of our legal team.”

  Neither man seemed convinced, but they let it go. Necchi laid a cell phone on the table.

  “I assume you won’t object to this meeting being recorded?”

  Nash continued his valiant effort to be disarming. “Not at all. Now we have—”

  “And by ‘we’ you’re referring to America’s Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “I’m referring to the U.S. government in general. Now, may I continue?”

  “By all means.”

  “We have reason to believe that classified information stolen from us has been given to your firm.”

  Both men looked a bit startled, and Nash raised his hand before that surprise could turn to indignation. “Unknown to you, of course. We are not suggesting any impropriety on your part. It would be in the form of a series of encrypted files that you would be asked to release if you aren’t contacted by your client on a given schedule.”

  Rapp kept his gaze locked on the managing partner, who in turn kept his on Nash so as to avoid eye contact.

  “We have many clients who have many schedules for many things,” Necchi said. “All completely legal.”

  “Again, I’m aware of your firm’s sterling reputation and that you would have no way of knowing what’s in these files.”

  “I assume that you’re not just here to tell us this? That you want something from my client?”

  “In the past weeks your firm has been responsible for releasing information that’s compromised our national security and gotten a number of people killed. For obvious reasons, we’d like to see that stopped.”

  “And how would you know what files this firm has released?”

  “I don’t think that’s important right now.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the Internet video of your Joe Rickman being tortured?”

  “I don’t think that’s relevant to our discussion, either.”

  “I, however, believe it is. And I find it odd that a group of jihadists would use a law firm to administer a series of schedules and triggers. Why wouldn’t they just release the information into the public domain?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Do you understand what you’re asking, Mr. Blake? I presume your legal counsel Mr. Kruse does. You’re asking us to completely ignore our legal obligations in regard to this matter. In light of that, your equivocations are rather insulting.”

  Rapp took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was willing—actually
anxious—to let Nash handle this. But there was a limit to how long he was going to sit there and listen to this bullshit.

  “If that’s the case, Dante, I apologize. I certainly didn’t intend to give offense.”

  “I have to wonder . . .” Necchi said, warming up to the subject. “Since I think we all agree that jihadists hiring this firm is absurd, who might have? Is it possible that Rickman himself is responsible? Perhaps he was afraid he was being targeted by your organization and was using the threat of releasing these secrets to protect himself?”

  “That’s an interesting piece of speculation, but we seem to be ranging pretty far from the subject, don’t you think?”

  “Is Mr. Rickman dead?”

  “I don’t know Rickman’s status.”

  Necchi clearly wasn’t buying that. “The CIA may be all-powerful in the United States, Mr. Blake. But not in Italy. We have laws.”

  Rapp couldn’t help laughing out loud, and everyone turned toward him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking about the scientists you put in jail for not predicting an earthquake and the fact that your former prime minister spent most of his time screwing underage hookers. But by all means tell us more about the integrity of your legal system. This meeting’s finally starting to get entertaining.”

  Necchi lost his train of thought for a moment but recovered quickly. “For all we know, your organization murdered Mr. Rickman because he was trying to expose your illegal activities.”

  Rapp leaned back in his chair and when he did, Cipriani fixated on the bulge in the side of his jacket.

  “Is this man armed?” he said, alarmed.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Nash said, still trying to remain civil. “It’s just bad tailoring.”

  “This meeting is over,” Necchi said, standing. “If you want to speak to us further, you can make a request through the appropriate political channels.”

  “Isabella Accorso was handling the files, wasn’t she?” Nash said.