The Last Man mr-13

by Vince Flynn

  “Yeah… well, I’m freaking out too. Joe Rickman is missing, and if we don’t get him back the bodies are going to start piling up from here to Islamabad and Tehran and God only knows where else. Good people who have put their asses on the line for us are going to die, and on top of that I just found out the man who trained me, who I’ve spent the last twenty-plus years working with, has terminal cancer. So excuse me if I’m not exactly in the mood to deal with these people and their petty turf wars.”

  “That’s fine. I’m not looking forward to it either, but we need to work with these people. You said it yourself… Rick’s files are gone.

  These people are our only hope. We need what they have. We need to know who Rick’s been meeting with. Somebody got on the inside and helped pull this thing off.”

  Rapp slowly nodded. “I know we need their shit, but that doesn’t mean we have to kiss their ass.”

  “Yes it does. At least to start with.”

  Rapp mumbled something to himself and then walked away.

  Nash followed a few steps behind wondering if perhaps Hurley’s diagnosis had affected Rapp more harshly than he would have guessed.

  True, they’d worked closely together for a long time, but both men had an emotional side that was about as soft as granite. Nash followed Rapp into the conference room, closing the door behind him.

  Standing to his left, in the far corner, were Sickles, Arianna Vinter and a man who he assumed was the DOD’s military attache. Nash had skimmed his jacket on the flight over. He couldn’t remember his name offhand, but recalled that he was a West Pointer. The room was standard government decorating. The carpet was a dark mix of gray and black that would serve to hide any stains, and a large brown table with a fake wood grain top dominated the room. In the center of the table was a tray with a coffeepot, cream, sweetener, sugar, some straws, a half dozen mugs and as many bottles of water. There were ten black swivel chairs arranged four on each side and one on each end.

  Vinter held up her hand in a gesture to silence Sickles then smiled at the two men who had just entered the room. “Good morning. I assume you are Mr. Rapp and Mr. Nash.”

  Rapp didn’t speak, so Nash answered for them. “That’s right. I assume you are Arianna Vinter.”

  “Yes, please have a seat.”

  Nash noted that she was much prettier than in the photograph on her government-issue ID. Nash looked at the man to Vinter’s left and noted the eagle on the patch in the center of his chest and the name on the right side of his chest. Reaching across the table, Nash extended his hand and said, “Mike Nash, Colonel. Nice to meet you.”

  Poole took his hand. “Counterterrorism, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Poole looked at Rapp and stuck out his hand. “Colonel Poole, military attache. Mr. Rapp?”

  Nodding, Rapp took the man’s hand but didn’t say anything. After a firm handshake, Rapp sat down.

  “May I offer either of you anything to drink?” Vinter asked. Rapp kept his mouth shut and offered only a slight shake of his head. Nash said, “Coffee would be great.”

  Vinter grabbed the carafe and poured a cup. “You strike me as the kind of man who takes it black.”

  “That’s right.” Nash smiled. “Thank you.” Nash took the mug and set it in front of him.

  Vinter told Poole and Sickles to sit and then she grabbed a seat across from Rapp and Nash. Sickles was on her right and Poole on her left. She directed her gaze at Rapp and in a sweet voice said, “Mr. Rapp, we’ve never met before. What exactly is it that you do for the CIA?”

  “I’m in the Clandestine Service.”

  “Do you have a title?”

  Rapp shook his head. “I report directly to DCI Kennedy.” “I see,” Vinter said, placing her hands flat on the table. She examined her fingers for a long moment and then in a casual voice asked,

  “Do you think I’m stupid, Mr. Rapp?”

  Rapp didn’t take the bait. He instead turned to Nash and gave him a look that said, this is your show… feel free to jump in.

  Nash cleared his throat. “Arianna, I’m not sure we understand the question.”

  Her expression flared briefly as she turned her attention to Nash.

  “I wasn’t addressing you. I was speaking to your colleague Mr. Rapp.

  Now, Mr. Rapp, I asked you a straightforward question. Do you think

  I’m stupid?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “You don’t know me. That’s all you have to say.”

  “I’ve never met you before and I haven’t heard anything about you until this morning, so I’m not really in a position to answer your question. You could be a genius or an imbecile. As of right now I can’t answer that question, but keep talking and I should be able to give you an answer in a few minutes.”

  Vinter took in a long breath. “Do you think the president is a smart man?”

  Rapp thought about that for a moment. The man had his strengths and weaknesses, but, all in all, he was no dummy. “Yes, I think the president is a smart man.”

  “Well, the president put me in charge of this little hellhole because he thought I was the best person for the job. My team and I have worked extremely hard to implement the president’s plan and things were going very smoothly until you showed up this morning and shoved a gun in the face of one of our allies.” Vinter’s agreeable facade was slowly melting away, revealing her angry side. “I know you think you’re some hotshot, but you need to understand something. I’m in charge around here and if I don’t like you and what you’re up to, you’re going to find your ass on the next flight out of here. Do you understand me?”

  Instead of answering the question, Rapp again turned to Nash and said, “I think you’d better field this one.”

  “Arianna, we are in a unique situation. None of us are questioning what you have accomplished, but you need to understand-” “I don’t need to understand a thing,” Vinter said, slicing her hand through the air like a karate chop. “I live here. I know what’s going on.

  You two don’t.” She wagged her finger at Nash and then Rapp. “I’m not going to have you come in here and screw up a year’s worth of work because you’re upset that one of your black-bag guys got kidnapped.

  No fucking way that’s going to happen. So let’s be real clear about this.

  I don’t want you two going to the bathroom without asking me for permission first. You don’t talk to anyone who’s involved in reintegration unless I clear it. Do you understand me?”

  Rapp raised his hand as if he was waiting to be called on by his teacher.

  “What?” Vinter asked.

  “I have the answer to your question… I think you’re an imbecile.

  There could be some underlying psychological issues as well but I’d need to spend more time with you, which isn’t going to happen. Beyond that, I’m pretty sure you’re stupid.”

  Vinter’s even complexion became blotchy with anger. “Don’t fuck with me. I’m not going to warn you again. You two are not in charge.

  I’m in charge around here. I make one phone call and your lame ass is on the next military transport out… in fact I’ll make sure it’s one of those big ones with all the props that makes you feel like you’ve been in a blender.”

  “A C-130,” Rapp said, “the vibration helps me sleep.”

  “I don’t give a shit if the vibration gives you a hard-on. One wrong move and you two are gone.”

  “Listen,” Nash said, “we’re all on the same team.”

  “I’m not on your team,” Vinter said with absolute conviction. Rapp turned his attention to the CIA station chief. The fact that he had decided to sit on the other side of the table spoke volumes about him. “Did you bother to brief her on who we are?”

  Sickles cleared his throat. “I gave her some basic background.” “That’s it?”

  “More or less.”

  Nash dropped his head into his hands and waited for what was about to happen. Th
ere could be no blaming Rapp this time. This woman had clearly picked the fight.

  Rapp knew Sickles was holding back. They’d revisit all of this later when they could keep it within the family and Rapp would remind

  Sickles in a very persuasive way where his loyalties were supposed to lie. But for now Vinter was the problem. He looked across the table with his near black eyes and said, “Do you like your job?” “Let me guess… this is the part where you’re going to ask me a bunch of questions and then threaten me. Well, I’ll save you the time.

  You can’t threaten me. I’m untouchable. I’m the president’s point person in Afghanistan. I run the show here.”

  “There’s a few generals and an ambassador who might disagree with you, but I don’t have the time to argue with you. If you’re in charge, all the better. We need you to hand over everything that you were working on with Joe Rickman.”

  “That’s not going to happen. It’s highly classified information.” Rapp shook his head in semidisbelief. “You do realize we’re the

  CIA? Our job is classified information.”

  “Not my classified information.”

  After nodding a few times, Rapp stood. “So there’s not going to be any cooperation?”

  “I told you the deal. You two don’t move without talking to me first. We’ll see how you behave and then we’ll revisit the cooperation.” Looking at Sickles, Rapp asked, “Have you briefed her on how serious this is?”

  “She understands the situation and she also knows about your reputation. We’ve worked long and hard on reintegration and none of us are too happy to see you barge in here and begin destroying everything we’ve accomplished.”

  Rapp stared at Sickles for a long moment. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. He pointed at the station chief, snapped his fingers, and then hooked his thumb toward the door. “You’re done.

  Get out the hell out of here. I’ll come find you in your office when I’m done.”

  “You have no right to-”

  “Darren,” Rapp yelled, “shut your mouth. I have every right. I have the DCI’s full backing on this and I swear to God, if you’re not out of this room in the next five seconds you can kiss your pension good-bye.

  As it is, your ass is in hot water. Joe Fuckin’ Rickman got snatched on your watch. Do you have any idea how bad this is?”

  “I…”

  “Never mind. Just get the hell out of here. We’ll talk about this in your office. Go… now… move it.”

  Sickles had tried to call Kennedy three times this morning and

  Kennedy had not taken any of his calls. Maybe Rapp was telling the truth. The station chief got up and left the room without saying another word.

  When the door was closed again, “Rapp looked at Poole and said,

  “If you’d prefer to leave as well you won’t hear me complain.” “I’ll stay.”

  “Fine.” Turning his attention back to Vinter, Rapp said, “You might think you’re connected… you might even think you’re important and in certain circles you might be, but not this time around.” “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah… Let me explain how this works. We’re the guys they call in when the shit hits the fan. Go ahead and call your boss when we’re done. She’ll tell you the same thing. In fact I’m pretty sure she’ll tell you to do what we ask and then get the hell out of our way.” Vinter shook her head. “The secretary of state has complete confidence in me. After I tell her what you did to Commander Zahir this morning, you’re the one who’s going to be praying they let you keep your pension.”

  “You go ahead and make that call, but just remember, I warned you. This reintegration crap is a circle jerk and everyone who’s anyone in D.C. knows it. It’s a gimmick so we can declare victory and get the hell out of here. Joe Rickman getting snatched is serious shit and they all know it. You see, his head is full of a lot of nasty secrets that will embarrass your boss and a lot of other heavy hitters back in D.C. They don’t like being embarrassed, so your little circle jerk is going to take a backseat to my problem for a while. I don’t really care if the papers print nasty stuff about your boss or anyone else, but I do care about all the agents that work for us who will more than likely end up dead if we don’t find Rick and find him quick.”

  “You have no idea who you’re screwing with, Mr. Rapp.” “Actually, I have a really good idea. You’re some spoiled brat who’s gotten her way her entire life.” He pointed at her wedding ring and added, “Your husband is miserable. Some poor browbeaten son of a bitch. You probably keep his balls in a little box on your desk, and based on your selfish attitude this morning I’d say there’s a pretty good chance you’ve been having an affair with the colonel here. The point is I don’t give a shit who you are, but you’d better care who I am and understand that I’m the meanest son of a bitch you will ever meet. That’s why the president sent me over here. Because he wants results and he knows I won’t put up with people like you. So you go ahead and call your boss and anyone else you need to and after they’ve all told you what I’ve just told you, you will hand over every shred of information you have regarding Joe Rickman and the scumbags you had him making deals with. And if you don’t, I can guarantee you will be the one on the next flight out of here.”

  Chapter 11

  Jalalabad, Afghanistan

  He lay on the floor wearing only a pair of U.S. Army-issue boxer shorts, curled up in the fetal position, his face and body battered to a pulp. Joe Rickman tried to open his eyes, but they were either too swollen or too caked with dry blood to yield. He had never felt such pain. Never even imagined that it could be so bad. His trainers back at the Farm had warned him, and he had nodded as if he understood everything they were saying at the time, but they said he didn’t. Anyone who hadn’t been through it could never really understand just how bad it was. Now Rickman understood. He’d kept it together so far, but just barely. There had been a few moments when he was on the verge of calling it quits. He told himself that they would know when to stop. After all, Rickman had always known when to call his people off.

  He had sat through countless interrogations and had never lost a single subject. Rickman’s methods, and those of his colleagues, were a bit more clinical, though. Before an interrogation started they met and put a script in place. What questions were to be asked and what methods they would use to inflict pain. Rickman was never one to get his hands dirty, of course. He didn’t even like his people getting their hands dirty. That was why he was such a big fan of electricity. It was nice and clean. No blood to mop up when everything was done. His team appreciated it as well, as they were the ones who had to clean up the room. It wasn’t as if you could grab a janitor and bring him to the secure detention facility to clean up the blood from a rough session that in the eyes of some of his fellow countrymen was blatantly illegal.

  Rickman’s captors were obviously less concerned about the mess. The people in this part of the world were far more accepting of torture. In a sense, these animals had followed their version of a script. They had spared his feet and genitals and, for the most part, had slapped rather than punched him in the head. Most of the beating had been inflicted with a rubber hose and open palms, methods that were designed to elicit pain without causing life-threatening injury. At least that’s what he kept telling himself as each blow landed. Even during the height of the beating, Rickman had kept a careful inventory of where and how they were hitting him. Fortunately, they had restrained themselves from striking him in the head too many times. Other than a heart attack, the easiest way to lose a subject during interrogation was to create hemorrhaging in the brain.

  Rickman tried his eyes again and got one of them partially open. The eyelid fluttered to life to reveal his dank surroundings. He was in a cellar of some sort with a dirt floor. White sheets were draped along the walls. His hosts had spray-painted the word Infidel in black across one of the sheets. They had made sure to follow their script while filming his beating and kept the word Infide
l in the frame just behind him.

  The place reeked of urine. That was the first thing Rickman thought of when they’d brought him here, and he was repulsed by it. He was a neat freak and the idea of being held captive in such a foul place gave him almost as much anxiety as the impending session. After the beating started, however, the smell quickly became the least of his problems. And now he cared even less, since he was pretty sure he’d added to the potpourri during his beating. Rickman tried to lift his head, but it hurt too much, so he lay there

  The LasT Man 89 and tried to take an inventory of his pain. Nearly every inch of his body was aching, but there were a few areas that stood out. Chief among them were his ribs. He was pretty sure a few of them were broken or at a bare minimum bruised. The majority of the session had been conducted with Rickman’s arms strung above his head to some contraption on the ceiling-his flanks exposed to the brutal blows. Even when they weren’t beating him, his shoulders screamed with pain as if they were going to be ripped from their sockets.

  Rickman gathered the strength to roll from his side onto his back. He winced as shards of pain shot through his rib cage. Slowly he turned his head toward the door. The video camera was mounted on a tripod. The red light under the lens told him it was still recording. That was good. Record all of it for all he cared. He heard movement and voices outside the door. Rickman tensed with the anticipation that the beating would begin again. The door opened, throwing more light into the room. The man turned off the camera and stood over Rickman. He was wearing a gray knee-length shirt with gray baggy trousers that the locals called Perahan Tunban. He squatted and held a bottle of water to Rickman’s swollen lips.

  “It will go much easier if you tell them what they want to know. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

  “I guess I’m into pain. What can I tell you?”

  The man frowned and shook his head in a sad manner. After a long moment he fished a bottle of pills from his pocket and took off the cap. He tapped out two pills into the palm of his hand and then shoved them one by one into Rickman’s mouth. “These will help.”