by Vince Flynn
Rapp casually took another drag from the cigarette and watched as the waiter placed two snifters of cognac in front of the men. A few minutes earlier, Rapp had listened as the other man tried to pass on the after-dinner drink. Rapp got the feeling the man was starting to think the dinner meeting had been a waste of his time. Rapp’s coworker, however, insisted that they both have a drink. He told the other man he was going to need it after he heard what he was about to tell him.
The waiter was still within earshot when the man from Langley leaned in and began to tell his story. Rapp heard every word via a wireless earpiece. For the first few minutes it was all innuendo. Rapp’s coworker put his information on the table in a series of hypotheticals, and while Rapp had no doubt that the lawyers at the Justice Department would have found wiggle room in the statements, Rapp saw it as further proof of the man’s reckless intent. Anyone who had been read in at this level of national security knew what could be discussed and what was strictly off-limits.
Rapp was in the midst of lighting his second cigarette when the conversation moved from the abstract to the concrete. It started with the specific mention of an operation that was known to only a handful of people, including the president. This is it, he thought to himself. The idiot is really going to do it.
As casually as he could, Rapp brought his eyes back to the big window of the restaurant. There, the two men sat, hunched over the table, their faces no more than a foot apart, one speaking in hushed tones, the other looking more horrified with each word. The classified designations came pouring out in a rapid-fire staccato of dates and targets. One secret after another was tossed onto the pile as if they were inconsequential nuggets of gossip. The breadth of the damage was even worse than Rapp had dared imagine. So bad, in fact, that he began wondering if he shouldn’t simply march across the street, pull out his gun, and execute the idiot on the spot.
As quickly as things had heated up, though, they came to an abrupt halt. Living up to the role of a belligerent drunk who’d consumed one ounce too much of alcohol, the man from Langley put away his wares and announced that he’d only divulged a fraction of what he knew and that before he said anything further they needed to come to an agreement.
Up until now, Rapp had thought his coworker’s rigid principles had driven him to take this risky step, but as he listened to the two men discuss the financial details of their new relationship, that last shred of begrudging respect vanished. Rapp looked through the rain at the traitor and realized that like the hundreds of miscreants who had gone before him, his coworker’s often-flaunted idealism came with a price, just like all the other bastards.
Rapp flicked his cigarette into the gutter and watched it bob and swirl its way into the sewer. As he turned toward Park Avenue South he felt not even the tiniest bit of remorse over what he had just set in motion. Without having to look, he knew that a man bearing a striking resemblance to the traitor was now climbing into the back of a Lincoln Town Car. Every detail had been arranged from the eyeglasses to the tie and the hair color—even the black and orange umbrella from the hotel. All that was left for Rapp to do was walk a block and a half and wait for the traitor to come to him.
2
NEW YORK CITY
Glen Adams drained the last precious drop of Rémy Martin from the bulbous snifter and immediately felt cheated that he wasn’t going to get a second glass of the smooth, warm cognac. His dinner partner and former law school classmate, while brilliant, was also a bit of a bore, and had insisted on the tab. They’d graduated from NYU’s School of Law twenty-six years earlier, and in that time they’d run into each other about once or twice a year, either at alumni events or various professional functions. Every so often they’d grab lunch and catch up, but there was no doubt they had drifted apart. It was neither man’s fault, of course. Between careers and family, there was little time left for old friendships.
The two men had chosen drastically different paths after law school. Urness scored a coveted job with the public defenders office in New York City. After putting in three years of utter servitude, he bolted for the private sector and quickly earned a reputation as a fearsome trial attorney. By his mid-thirties he’d already argued two cases before the U.S. Supreme Court. At thirty-nine, he started his own law firm and quickly grew it into one of the best-known and successful in a city filled with high-priced law firms.
Adams, while not nearly as rich, was still proud of what he’d accomplished. Following in the footsteps of his father, he went to work for the CIA. His first two years, while enlightening, were worse than anything he could have imagined. Since childhood he’d dreamed of becoming a spook. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out to be anything even remotely close to what he thought it would be. Adams had grown up in the house of a father who had fought in World War II and then gone on to work for the CIA in its Special Activities Division. His dad was rarely around, and that left a lot of time for a young, impressionable boy to dream about unseen heroism and exploits. Even in his absence the man managed to cast huge presence over the house and the aspirations of his only son.
In the real world Adams found the Directorate of Operations at Langley to be staffed by crude, rude, and dim-witted ex-military types, who were challenged to think of the world in any colors other than black and white. Having graduated from one of the world’s top law schools, Adams found it unbearable to work around so many simpletons. After two years of service, and despite strong protests from his father, Adams left the CIA and went to work for the Justice Department. It was a decision that ended up causing irreparable damage to their relationship. It took the younger Adams years to come to grips with the rift it had caused, and in many ways this evening was a major step in putting the entire thing behind him.
Despite the problems it had caused with his father, Adams always felt he’d made the right decision in leaving the CIA. While at DOJ he’d tackled a series of increasingly tough jobs and his career steadily advanced. Then 9/11 hit and everything changed. That first year or two after the attacks, Adams found himself caught up in the patriotic fervor just like everyone else. Eventually, though, he regained his senses and realized that elements of his own government were every bit as big a threat as the terrorists. A vocal minority on the Hill had been screaming for increased oversight at the CIA, and before Adams knew it his name had been thrown into the hopper. His reputation as a tough federal prosecutor pleased the politicians, and his family history with Langley, and brief employment there, made him what many thought to be the perfect choice for inspector general of America’s premier spy agency.
Adam’s experienced a glimmer of hope that the new post would help mend the rift between he and his father. His dad, now in his eighties, didn’t have many years in front of him, and Adams knew there would be few opportunities like this, if any. He couldn’t have been more misguided in his optimistic assessment. The afternoon that he told his father of the prodigal son’s return ended up being the last time they spoke. Unknown to Adams was his father’s deep-seated disdain for the office of the CIA’s top watchdog. What was supposed to be a moment of healing ended up being a catastrophe that destroyed any hope of repairing their relationship. Four short months later the elder Adams passed away.
The surviving son took to his new job with a ministerial zeal. Like a missionary converting the heathens to Christianity, Adams would bring a passion for justice and the rule of law to the wild and uncouth. And like the missionaries who had worked the backwaters of South America, Adams would use force if need be— conversion by the sword. He would use his considerable talents to usher in a new area at Langley. An era they could all be proud of.
At least that was what he had told himself at the time. What he’d told his wife and his law school classmates like Urness. His fellow alums had been a great source of strength. They saw the CIA for what it was: a rotten, outdated organization. If he knew then what he knew now, he wondered if he would have taken the job. Had he been too idealistic? No, he’d told himself on many
occasions, they were just too corrupt. The Constitution and the rule of law were more important than a thousand careers. A million careers.
Adams gazed into his glass in hope that there was a drop or two to be found in the little indentation at the bottom, but there wasn’t. “All is not wasted,” he muttered to himself. Tonight was proof of that. His plan was good, better than good—it was perfect. None of them would expect it. Besides, they had their hands full at the moment, trying to figure out how they’d fucked up and allowed nearly 200 of their fellow citizens to get killed in broad daylight. They were nothing more than a bunch of goons, and these attacks were proof that their methods had served only to hearten the enemy.
“This is a big step,” Urness said as he slid his black American Express card back in his wallet. “Are you sure you want to go through with it?”
“Come on, Kenny,” Adams said to the other attorney, “I’ve never doubted your determination.”
“I just want to make sure,” Urness said with a toothy grin. “There’s going to be some very powerful people who are going to be really pissed off.”
“No doubt. Are you sure you’re up to it?”
The attorney took a moment and then said, “I’m ready for a new challenge. A cause I can believe in. I’ve made a shitload of money. Now I’d like to make a difference.”
With a raised eyebrow Adams said, “Like Woodward and Bernstein?”
“Yeah, except you’ll be Deep Throat.” “Let’s hope I don’t have to wait until I’m ninety to admit my role in all of this.”
“If I’m reading this right,” Urness said, “and I usually do, I don’t think you’ll have to wait more than two years. I’ll have it all gamed by then, and you’ll be treated as a hero.”
“By some.”
Urness pushed his chair back and started to stand. “Fuck ’em . . .”
Adams laughed and stood, oblivious that his white dinner napkin had just slid from his lap to the floor.
“I’m serious. Fuck ’em. You’re never going to get those fascists on the right to understand what we’re doing, so I’m telling you right now fuck ’em and forget ’em.”
“You’re right,” Adams said with an impish grin. As Urness came around the table Adams put his arm around him. He was almost a head taller than his friend. “You’re a good shit, Kenny. I really appreciate this.”
“I’m more than happy to help, Glen. These are strange times. If we don’t take a stand, I’m afraid what kind of country will be left for our kids.”
The two men moved from the restaurant into the bar and toward the front door. Adams looked at the booze behind the bar and, like one of Pavlov’s dogs, began to salivate. “What do you say we have one more bump before we call it a night?”
Urness abruptly stopped, looked up at his friend with a seriousness that he usually saved for his clients, and blurted out, “I think you drink too much.”
Adams looked away nervously and chuckled. “Come on, Kenny,” he said with forced levity. “A guy’s in New York for the night. What’s wrong with wanting to get a little lit up?”
“Nothing if you’re some tire salesman from Akron in town for a convention, but you, my friend, are no salesman. You have wandered out onto a very dangerous cliff. One tiny misstep and splat.” Urness clapped his hands together to emphasize the point.
“I am well aware of what I’m doing.” “I’m not so sure. If we’re going to do this, I want you to keep your drinking under control.”
“Hey,” Adams said in an easy tone, “I’m not going to tell you that I don’t like to drink, but I’m not driving. I’m just trying to blow off a little steam.”
“Yes, you are, and as your friend I’m telling you to tone it down. This shit is serious. If you fuck this up, Glen, and don’t handle it perfectly, you could end up in jail or worse.”
“Message received.” Adams put up his hands, feeling a bit embarrassed.
“Good, because I’m going to keep an eye on you. Now let’s get you in your car. I need to get home and review a case before I go to bed.”
3
Adams and Urness found themselves huddled under the small awning at the front of the restaurant with their umbrellas in hand. Each man scanned the rain-splattered windows of the closest executive cars in search of a white placard with their name. Adams was lucky. His car was only twenty feet away. Urness said a rushed goodbye and then darted away between the puddles. At each passing sedan he stopped to search for his name. Adams plotted his own course and bolted for the rear passenger door of what he thought was his Lincoln Town Car. He opened the door, closed the umbrella, and ducked into the back seat.
The driver gave him a polite nod and a soft “Hello,” followed by, “Back to the hotel, sir?”
Adams was half tempted to ask him if he knew of any good bars and then thought better of it. Urness’s admonishment over his drinking had wounded his pride. “Yes, my hotel, please.” Adams was already looking out the window, his mind trying to justify the joy he received from a good glass of booze or bottle of wine. A guy like Urness didn’t understand. He was too focused on his career to enjoy the other things life had to offer. Come to think of it, the man didn’t have a single hobby or passion other than the law.
Besides, Adams thought to himself, I’d like to see Urness walk in my shoes for a month, let alone six years. Adams felt like General Custer at times: surrounded by savages, trying to fight the good fight. Every day brought a new level of duplicity and treachery. The entire Clandestine Service, and most of the leadership at Langley, was staffed by professional liars and manipulators, men and women who had not an ounce of respect for the Constitution and the coequal branches of the republic. There was nothing wrong with the occasional drink, he decided. He would just have to be a little more discreet about it.
Adams looked out the window as they rolled through a busy intersection. Despite the concern over his drinking, he was pleased with the pact he’d made with Urness. Considering how complicated it was, he felt the night couldn’t have gone better. Adams smiled at his bold step, allowed himself to think how sweet victory would feel when the rotten house of Langley came tumbling down on itself.
Adams realized he hadn’t felt this good in months. It was as if a massive yoke had been lifted from his exhausted shoulders. This was going to be fun—turning it around on them. Adams did not miss the irony. He was going to use one of their own ploys to take them down. He’d come to think of it as his own little covert operation. He would have to continue in his role as inspector general and look, with feigned zeal, for the leaker. He’d have to be careful, though, to not seem too eager. The obtuse operatives, while not bright, were at least instinctive. If he changed his behavior too much they would sense it, so he would have to do his job, while letting it be known that he had warned all of them this day would come. Adams couldn’t wait to see the looks on their faces when the news broke.
The car hit a pothole and began to slow. Adams looked up, about to ask the driver why he was pulling over, when suddenly the passenger’s side rear door opened. A dark figure dripping with water glided into the vehicle and took a seat next him. Before Adams had the chance to figure out who it was, the door was closed and the car was moving again. Somewhere in a seemingly distant part of his brain he heard the automatic locks slam into place with an ominous thud. His mind was suddenly racing to understand what was going on. Why was this strange man in his car? Adams was about to ask him just that, when the man turned to face him.
The alcohol caused a slight delay in connecting the dots, but Adams knew instantly who he was looking at. The jet-black hair with a touch of gray at the temples, the olive skin and eyes so dark they looked like two pools of oil—they all belonged to none other than the CIA’s chief thug, Mitch Rapp. But what in the hell was Rapp doing in New York City, let alone his car?
“What?” Adams stammered. “What in the hell are you doing?”
“How was your dinner?” Rapp asked in a casual tone.
; “My dinner? What in hell are you doing? Get out of my car right now!” A note of panic crept into his voice as his addled brain began to comprehend the severity of the situation.
“Easy, Glen,” Rapp spoke in a deep, calm voice. “You’re in no position to be handing out orders.”
“The hell I’m not!” Adams reached inside his jacket. Rapp made no effort to stop him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m calling the attorney general, that’s what I’m doing!”
Rapp let out a protracted sigh, followed by “Put your phone down.” He’d figured this was how Adams would react. Rapp lifted his gloved right hand, brought it up to his left shoulder, and unleashed a backhanded slap that caught Adams square in the nose. The blow was just enough to stun. Rapp did not want him bleeding— at least not yet.
Adams yelped like a dog and dropped the phone at the same time. He instinctively brought both hands up to cover his face and began complaining loudly.
Rapp grabbed the phone and started patting Adams down, sliding his hands around his waist to make sure there wasn’t another phone or pager that he didn’t know about.
“Take your hands off me!” Adams demanded. “Stop moving,” Rapp ordered as he quickly searched the jacket pockets.
“This time you’ve gone too far!” Adams shouted. “There is no way you’re going to be able to weasel your way out of this. Kidnapping, assault . . .”
Rapp ignored the list of charges and told the driver, “It’s just the one phone.”