by Vince Flynn
“What about the fourteen guys?”
Kennedy took a step back and shrugged. Her nonverbal answer was clear. She could care less what happened to them.
Ross started to speak, but the president reached out and placed a hand on his forearm. “Mark, trust me on this. Sometimes you’re better off not asking questions. Let Irene take care of it.”
It was clear Ross was struggling with this concept. He drew in a breath through clenched teeth and said, “Fine, but we need to find Rapp and make sure he doesn’t embarrass this country.”
Kennedy expected this. “Why?”
“Because we are a nation of laws, and we can’t have a federal employee running around other countries killing people.”
Really, Kennedy thought to herself, what do you think Mitch has been doing for the last fifteen years? She shared a quick look with the president. “Mark, I want you to be real careful here. Think about how this would be done, and what type of unwanted attention it will bring us. For starters, we can’t charge him with anything.”
“How about the thirteen dead Latinos?”
“Mark,” the president said in a forceful voice, “forget about what happened last night. I don’t want to hear it brought up again.”
“Fine,” Ross said, backing off a bit, “but we have to do something.”
Kennedy saw her opening and said, “I think I have a solution.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Ross.
“For now, we only alert our station chiefs abroad. I can send out a flash message telling them if they are contacted by Mitch, or they hear anything about him, they are to pass it on to me ASAP. I can stipulate that I want him brought in for questioning.”
“What about the embassies?” Ross asked.
Kennedy thought he would suggest this. “I would prefer to keep it within the Agency.”
“Not a big enough net.” Ross shook his head.
Kennedy looked to the president to see if he’d back her up.
“For now,” Hayes said, “let’s alert only the Agency people.” The president noted that Ross didn’t like this and added, “Mark, he’s not going to reach out to anyone from State. If he comes up for help, he’ll contact one of his Agency connections.”
“But can we trust those people to turn him in?” Ross asked.
Both the president and Ross looked to the director of the CIA. The truth was that they could not trust the station chiefs, but Kennedy wasn’t about to admit that. This was all about telling Mark Ross what he wanted to hear, so Kennedy said, “I’ll start calling select station chiefs immediately, and I’ll make it very clear that they are to report any contact whatsoever, or they’ll spend the rest of their careers burrowed in the basement of Langley purging outdated files.”
This seemed to satisfy Ross, and Kennedy decided that having accomplished what she’d set out to do, now was a good time to leave. “I know you two have an important lunch scheduled, so I won’t keep you waiting. If there are any new developments I’ll let you know, otherwise, I’ll have a more detailed briefing ready for tomorrow morning.”
The president thanked Kennedy, which inspired Ross to do the same. Kennedy left the lodge and was ferried to the helipad in a golf cart. As soon as she was tucked away in the back of her helicopter, she pulled out her secure satellite phone and punched in a number. After several rings a man answered on the other end and Kennedy said, “I just bought you a little more time.”
61
MAZAR-E SHARIF, AFGHANISTAN
The G-3 executive jet descended through the thin mountain air toward the old Soviet-era airport. They were in Northern Alliance territory; a small section of the country that had refused to be ruled by the Taliban. It was Sunday night. There were no clouds and a three-quarter moon bathed the rugged landscape beneath. It was almost 11:00, and from the air you would have no idea that Mazar-e Sharif was a city of over 100,000. There were only a few streetlights here, and an occasional floodlight. Very few cars were on the move. Even the runway lights appeared in spotty condition. Considering the sketchy shape of runways in this part of the world Scott Coleman had relieved one of his men and taken over the controls. If anyone was going to ruin his fifteen-million-dollar plane it would be him.
He’d received the call from Rapp just before 11:00 p.m. He had been expecting to hear from him, just not so soon. They’d spent the morning and early afternoon together at the facility talking about where they would start once Rapp was in good enough shape mentally and physically. Coleman had left that meeting and called his team. He knew they were already in—they had all individually approached him to offer their services. “Anything Mitch needs, just ask and we’ll be there.” The guys—Charlie Wicker, Dan Stroble, and Kevin Hackett—were all former SEALs, and they had all worked with Rapp before, as recently as the op they’d run in Canada.
Everyone had been assembled by midnight, and they were wheels up by 1:00 a.m., streaking across the Atlantic at nearly 40,000 feet. They’d stopped in Germany long enough to refuel and were back in the air in under thirty minutes. No customs to clear, no hassles to deal with. Operators like Coleman and his men were used to a lot of hurry up and wait. Deployments, such as this one, where they literally had to fly to the other side of the world, took some time. For this reason Coleman kept the plane well stocked with DVDs, paperback novels, and magazines. Coleman was happy they had them, because after Wicker, Hackett, and Stroble had offered their condolences to Rapp, which was before they even got off the ground, none of them knew what else to say. Special Forces operators like these guys were not exactly in touch with their feminine side. They had no problem discussing death when it was some guy they’d blown away in combat, but when it was someone’s wife who had been tragically killed, they were at a complete loss for words.
Coleman and Hackett took turns flying, and everyone else either slept or tried to sleep on the way to Germany. The second leg of the journey was spent watching movies, reading books, and talking to Rapp about anything other than his dead wife. With the landing lights on, Coleman made a diving pass at the runway to see if there were any unusually large craters he should try to avoid. He was surprised to see the strip patched up and in relatively good shape. No doubt, courtesy of the U.S. taxpayers. He circled around and came in on his final approach. The G-3 touched down and settled at the far end of the runway.
Coleman leaned into the center aisle and looked back into the cabin. “Where to now, Mitch?”
Rapp had a satellite phone up to his ear. He covered the mouthpiece and said, “South end of the terminal. There should be a fuel truck and a Toyota 4Runner.” Rapp removed his hand and said, “Sorry about that, Irene. You were saying?”
“Ross agreed to keep the State Department out of it for now.”
“And the FBI?” Rapp asked.
“Yes.”
“Good work.”
“That remains to be seen. Last night someone set off a grenade in downtown Leesburg injuring five people. Two of them seriously. Five minutes later an RPG was fired into the Loudoun County Sheriff’s Department.”
“A diversion?”
“I would assume so.”
“Has anyone asked about the racket at our place last night?”
“Yes. Local nine-one-one received a complaint at nine thirty-eight last night. They finally got around to calling this morning.”
“And?”
“We told them we had a corporate event and shot off some fire-works.”
“They bought it?” Rapp asked.
“So far.”
“What about the house?”
“The front gate is being replaced this afternoon and the house is covered in scaffolding and tarps. They’ve already started sandblasting the bullet marks from the brick and replacing the doors and windows. All the evidence will be gone by tonight.”
“The bodies?”
“Incinerated.”
“And what about my prisoner?” Rapp asked.
“Dr. Hornig is working on him.”
Rapp considered that for a minute. The Agency had two principal interrogators with distinctly different approaches. Dr. Jane Hornig was one; Bobby Akram, a Pakistani immigrant and a Muslim, was the other. Hornig had advanced degrees in both biochemistry and neurology and was considered the foremost expert in America on the history and evolution of human torture. She specialized in experimental drugs and exotic techniques. Bobby Akram, on the other hand, wore his subjects down by manipulating Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and putting them through tough, well-researched interrogations. Rapp liked Akram, but he didn’t like Hornig. She gave him the creeps, but when time was short, no one was better.
“Has she found out who hired him?”
“Not yet, but we found an interesting link. Two years ago, the DEA arrested a Saudi immigrant who was importing heroin through his contacts in Afghanistan. It turns out the guy used to work for Saudi Intelligence. While he was in jail, his lawyers started working on a plea bargain. The lawyer said that his client could provide proof that his former employer provided training to several of the nine-eleven terrorists and helped plan the attack.”
Rapp frowned. “What does this have to do with some Latino thug?”
“Castillo, that’s his name by the way. Anibal Castillo. He says back then he was approached by the same man that hired him to kill you two days ago. He paid Castillo a hundred grand to have MS-13 kill this former Saudi intel officer while he was in the federal pen. I made a few calls and it all lines up. This former Saudi was ready to start singing and the day he was supposed to sign the plea bargain he was killed in his cell.”
“Who hired him?”
“We don’t know yet, but we have Castillo looking through our database of Saudi intel officers.”
The plane lurched to a stop, and Rapp said, “Listen, I have to run. Call me as soon as you find out.”
“Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?”
“You don’t want to know.” Rapp peered out the small window.
“Yes, I do, Mitchell. I just lied to my boss and the president to protect you.”
“I thought the president was on board.”
“All right…Ross, then.”
“Yeah, well…tell Ross if he gives you any more crap I’m going to add him to my list.”
Kennedy was tempted to take him up on the offer. “I have one last thing for you.” There was a pause and then Kennedy asked, “Have you ever heard of an Erich Abel?”
Rapp thought about it for a second. “No. Why?”
“East German–born. Worked for the Stasi during the eighties and early nineties.”
“Does he go by any other names?”
“Not that I know of, but I’m looking into it.”
“Why the sudden interest in this guy?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll let you know when I find out.”
“All right. I’ve gotta run.” Rapp punched the end button and tossed the phone on the leather seat as he stood.
Coleman was already down the steps and supervising the refueling. Rapp made his way down the small steps carefully. His legs were sore from the long flight. He walked stiffly across the tarmac.
Jamal Urda was waiting for Rapp. Urda was the CIA’s station chief in Kabul. He had worked with Rapp the previous spring on a nasty bit of business, and although things had started off a bit rocky between the two men, Urda had a lot of respect for Rapp. Urda extended his hand. “Mitch, I’m sorry about your wife.”
“Thanks.” Rapp shook his hand. “I appreciate it.”
The two men stood in the chill air for a moment while Urda tried to figure out how he should transition from the personal to the professional. He was relieved when Rapp spoke first.
“What’s the situation?”
“My deputy just called from the embassy.”
“Yeah?”
“He says we received a flash communication from Langley, saying if anyone comes in contact with you they’re supposed to report it right away.”
Rapp nodded.
“Then Irene called me and told me to ignore the message.”
Rapp knew that Urda could be a bit territorial, and he had hoped to avoid any problems. He had just wanted to land, pick up what he needed, and be on his way. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“Nope.” Urda looked over his shoulder. There were a couple of people sitting in the 4Runner. “My ex-wife.” Urda shrugged. “I don’t even like her, but I’ll tell you right now, if one of these jackasses killed her, there’d be hell to pay.” Urda pointed to the ground. “Stay here. I’ll go get him.”
Urda returned a moment later, leading a bound and hooded man. “I had them clean him up a bit for you. I guess he smelled pretty bad.”
Rapp waved Wicker over and handed the man off to him. “Buckle him in.” Rapp turned back to thank Urda. “I appreciate you doing this.”
“I know you’d do the same.”
Rapp nodded.
Urda started to leave and then stopped. “As far as I’m concerned, you were never here.”
“Good.” Rapp took a moment to stretch and then got back in the plane. The prisoner was wearing the local tribal garb. Rapp snatched the hood from the man’s head and studied his face. It was him all right. A little thinner for sure, but it was him.
The man squinted for a moment trying to adjust from total darkness to the faint light of the cabin. Upon seeing Rapp, Waheed Ahmed Abdullah’s face became a twisted mask of fear. “What do you want with me?”
“Nothing,” Rapp lied. Waheed had been part of a terrorist plot to detonate nuclear warheads in both New York City and Washington, DC. Rapp had captured him in Pakistan the previous spring and interrogated him personally.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Your father is a man of great influence. He has secured your release.” In a way Rapp was telling the truth. Waheed’s father was a man of great influence in Saudi Arabia. He had also placed a bounty on Rapp’s head, which in a roundabout way ended up getting his son released from the hellhole of a prison he had been in. Rapp was not about to tell Waheed that his father thought he was dead.
“Just relax,” Rapp told Waheed as he pulled the hood back over his head. “If you behave, you will see your father tomorrow.” Rapp retrieved a hypodermic needle from his jacket pocket and removed the protective cover. He grabbed Waheed’s bound wrists and said, “I need to give you a sedative. When you wake up, we’ll be in Saudi Arabia.” Rapp stabbed the needle into his prisoner’s thigh and depressed the plunger.
62
ZIHUATANEJO, MEXICO
Claudia hovered over the keyboard, wondering if she had lost her mind. One e-mail was bad enough; the reply, risky, but anticipated; the follow-up, downright stupid. Now here she was composing her fourth message to the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. This new repentant attitude was waging a fierce battle with Claudia’s tactical training, and so far the repentant attitude was winning. She was taking standard precautions: changing servers and bouncing around the Web delivering her messages from different locations, but still, she was dealing with the head of the world’s most powerful spy agency. There was no telling what tricks the woman might have up her sleeve.
The first message, sent nearly twenty-four hours ago, had been a simple heartfelt apology. Anna Rielly was a mistake. I am sorry. I deeply regret taking the job. If you would like to know who hired me, I am willing to discuss. Claudia struggled over whether she should write the note for both her and Louie, but in the end decided Louie hadn’t shown the slightest sign of remorse, and was in fact at this very moment trying to finish the job. By including him in the apology she would have continued to delude herself. She sent the message and went to bed. It was late Saturday night, and she did not expect to hear back from Kennedy until possibly Monday. She woke up on Sunday famished and ordered breakfast in her room. She managed to keep it down, and took it as a good sign, so she ventured out and took a long walk on the beach. She thought mostly about her father an
d mother, and tried not to think about Louie. She considered calling her parents for the first time in three years and when she made it back to her room she decided she would do just that.
She checked her various e-mail accounts first and discovered Kennedy’s reply. It read: How do I know you are the real person and not some imposter?
Claudia half expected this. She logged off and thought about her response for a minute. When she was ready she typed, We put trackers and bugs in her car, and found out he had knee surgery scheduled that morning. When they left for the hospital we filled the house with gas and waited for them to return. My partner was hiding in the woods across the street from their house. She was not supposed to be harmed.
After logging back on, Claudia sent the message and then logged off. For the next two hours, she checked the account every fifteen minutes until she finally received a reply. It read: Who hired you and why?
Claudia typed her response while online. Erich Abel. He is a former Stasi officer, and he resides in Vienna. He was acting as a middleman. For whom I do not know, but I suspect the Saudis. I have never worked with him before. She hit the send tab and logged off. Claudia stood. She was slightly short of breath, and surprised to find herself sweating.
It had been almost eight hours since she had sent the last reply and she had checked her in-box only once. The note she found from the director of the CIA asked simply, Why are you doing this?
Good question, Claudia thought, but not very easy to answer. For nearly three hours she had struggled with her reply, wondering if she was divulging too much and then simply not caring. It rambled on, page after page of her deepest thoughts and regrets. She explained that she was disgusted with herself for having any part in the matter. That she and her partner had parted ways over the debacle. She added two final points to the e-mail. The first were the names of the five Swiss banks from which Abel had transferred the money. Claudia listed the relevant routing numbers, dates, and dollar amounts, knowing that it was likely either that Abel’s name was not on the accounts or that he had used an alias. She did not know if she would have the courage to include one last piece of information.