by Vince Flynn
But now he’d backed away from his empire to focus on saving the world. Rapp could understand the instinct—it wasn’t that different from his own motivation. What was different, though, was the scale. There was no question that he’d put out a lot of raging fires during his career, but Ward wanted to take away the fuel that allowed them to burn.
Rapp had seen him on news programs over the years but hadn’t paid much attention. Another do-gooder. More impressive than the rest, but not fundamentally different. A lot of pie-in-the-sky ideas that sounded great in a conference room full of geniuses but that would crash and burn the moment they were released into the wild. Now that he’d met the man, though, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe Ward really could get some of his grand plans off the ground. The odds were still low, but possibly not the zero percent that Rapp would have bet on a few weeks ago.
The path cut right, and he followed two separate sets of footprints, one booted and spread out in long, confident strides; the other shuffling along in bare feet. Finally, he came upon Bruno McGraw leaning against a tree whittling the pieces of a chess set. He glanced up from a half-finished rook to acknowledge Rapp’s arrival and then went back to work.
The other man occupying the small clearing was positioned somewhat differently. Gideon Auma was naked, with hands flex-cuffed to a thick branch over his head. He’d been standing there all night, unable to rest without the plastic bands cutting into his wrists. He still had the energy to shoot Rapp the wild, messianic glare that he was so famous for, though. People like him found it hard to comprehend when they’d lost control. Rapp would have to spell it out for him.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Gideon,” he said, emptying the contents of his pack onto the ground and looking down at it disappointedly. “I know what you’re thinking, and I agree. You’re a connoisseur. Crucifixions, drawing and quartering people with motorbikes. I heard you actually have an iron maiden. Where do you even buy something like that? A museum?”
Auma stared silently at the household tools and kitchen implements at Rapp’s feet.
“A man like you deserves one of those big metal cows they used to roast people in. Or a proper rack. But I’m staying in a thousand-dollar-a-night tourist lodge, so I have to make do. Don’t worry, though. What I lack in equipment, I make up for with imagination.”
The messianic fervor in Auma’s eyes had been replaced by fear. Not surprising. People who derived pleasure from torturing others tended to be the easiest to break. For reasons a psychologist once tried to explain to him, the role reversal amplified the pain and anticipation.
“God…” the African managed to get out through his dry, disused throat. “God will strike you down.” The effort caused him to start coughing violently, putting pressure on his bound wrists. The agony was immediately visible in his face and Rapp turned his attention to the clear sky.
“Doesn’t look like lightning weather. But maybe you can conjure up a few clouds.”
“You’ll die screaming!” Auma said, his voice gaining strength and desperation. “If you touch me, your flesh will rot from your bones and your soul will burn forever.”
“I appreciate the Shakespearean flair, Gideon, but I’m not some illiterate eight-year-old whose parents you just murdered. On the list of pieces of shit I’ve skinned alive, you barely rank in the bottom third.”
Rapp picked up a garlic press, thought better of it, and instead selected a meat tenderizer.
“Who gave you the information on Nicholas Ward’s compound?”
“What?”
Rapp walked up and rammed a knee up between the man’s legs. Auma let out a low moan, gagged a few times, and then vomited what little his stomach still contained.
“That was not an acceptable answer. So, let’s try again. Who told you how to attack Nicholas Ward’s compound?”
“A Saudi,” the man choked out, spit and vomit drooling from his mouth as he tried to keep his feet under him.
Rapp frowned. Saudi Arabia was a convenient ally for America’s politicians, but also a major thorn in the side of the intelligence community. It made good TV to say Iran was the world’s number one sponsor of terror but, in truth, it was the Saudis by a country mile.
“Name?”
“Muhammad.”
“Yeah, I figured. Last name?”
“I don’t know.”
All probably true, so Rapp took a half step back. The secret to interrogations was restraint. It couldn’t be all stick. There had to be some carrot, too.
“Tell me about him.”
When Auma didn’t respond, Rapp cycled the meat tenderizer in his hand. The subtle swish of stainless-steel blades brought the terrorist back into the present.
“I first met him perhaps five years ago. He’s given me money. Some weapons. Information on the Ugandan army. That’s all.”
Also likely true. The Saudis maintained a quiet relationship with pretty much every terrorist organization on the planet. Auma had started hitting the radar about six years ago, so the time frame seemed right. As did his description of what they’d provided. Just enough to keep a channel open in case he could be useful, but not enough to draw attention.
“Description?”
“There’s nothing to say. Not tall or short. Not dark or light. Not fat or thin. His beard is neither long nor short…”
His tone suggested that he was leading to something. “And?”
“I have pictures. At my camp. I had my people take pictures of him. Many pictures.”
Again, everything he was saying rang true. If you worked as a liaison between the Saudi royalty and scumbag terrorist groups spread throughout the world, best not to have a lot of distinguishing features. And if you’re a terrorist who might one day want something from the Saudi royalty, not a bad idea to collect information that could be used for blackmail.
“Tell me about the information he gave you.”
“It was on paper. Not electronic. Overhead photos of the compound and hangar. Topographical maps. Details on the electronic security—”
“Your people attacked from the east. Why?”
“Based on the information we were provided, it was the easiest approach. And there was a wire that could be cut that would disable all of Ward’s early warning systems.”
That confirmed what Rapp already suspected. The information came directly from the CIA file that Irene Kennedy had modified. The question now was how the Saudis had obtained it.
“What were your orders?”
“I don’t take orders! I am God’s repre—”
“What did the Saudi suggest you do with the information he gave you?” Rapp rephrased. What he didn’t need right now was to get dragged into a semantic argument with this piece of shit. He just wanted to slit the man’s throat and get some lunch before the buffet was completely picked over.
“Kill the scientist. Ransom Ward.”
“What if it worked and you got the ransom?”
“Kill him if it was feasible. But if not, I was to return a man who was no longer the one I took. And never would be again.”
Interesting. Why would the Saudis want to walk out on this particular limb? The obvious answer was Ward’s advances in renewable energy, but still. It was a pretty bold move.
“Very good, Gideon. Just one last question. How do I find him?”
“I don’t know.”
Rapp considered slamming the meat tenderizer into the man’s thigh, but then thought better of it. He had a hunch that he was going to need Gideon Auma in one piece.
Fortunately, a perfect tool was close at hand. Normally, he would have gone for a torch used for sweating pipes—nice weight, felt good in the hand, intimidating hiss. But you went to war with the army you had, not the army you wanted.
Bruno McGraw shook his head in abject disappointment when Rapp picked up the crème brûlée torch. It fired right up, though, and despite its humbleness, Auma locked on the pinpoint flame.
“No! Stop! I—”
Rapp pa
ssed it over the man’s stomach slowly enough to catch the scent of burning hair but not so long as to kick up the stench of crisping skin.
Auma jerked away and Rapp prepared to clamp a hand over his mouth. They’d set up pretty far from the eco-lodge, but a scream might still reach it and Rapp wanted to insulate Ward to the greatest degree possible. For now, at least.
It turned out to be unnecessary. Instead of screaming, Auma started to blubber. It made Rapp want to cut his throat even more. How many lengthy, savage torture sessions had this man presided over in his lifetime? How many women and children had he put to death over the course of days—maybe even weeks—while he fed off their pain? And all it took to get him to sobbing like a lost toddler was a dessert torch?
“How do you set up meetings with this Saudi, Gideon? How do you coordinate bank transfers and the delivery of the weapons they give you?” Rapp moved the torch toward the man’s stomach again.
“I have a phone!”
“Tell me more,” Rapp said, pulling back but leaving the torch lit. How long would the tiny canister last? Claudia made crème brûlée but he’d always been more interested in eating it than the vagaries of how it was made. Having it sputter out during an interrogation would be a little like losing your hard-on during sex. Not good for the mood.
“It’s a burner phone. He gave it to me. It’s my only way of contacting him.”
“Where is it?”
“At my camp.”
Sadly, that was probably true, too. They’d searched him, his car, and all his men before burying the whole lot of them in a mass grave behind the hangar. There would be no reason for Auma to carry a phone like that on an operation.
Rapp found himself left with few options. In fact, only one.
Go to Auma’s camp and get it.
31
GIDEON Auma looked more dead-eyed than normal, but other than that not too bad. He’d been hosed off and put back in his fatigues. The flex-cuff wounds on his wrists had been tended to and the cuffs of his shirt had been glued down to hide the bandages. He seemed reasonably steady on his feet as he stood in a clearing bathed in natural light. If this took longer than expected and his knees started to buckle, they could probably find a way to prop him up. It was amazing what camera angles could hide.
It appeared that Auma’s time dangling from a tree branch and the subsequent swipes with the crème brûlée torch had completely broken him. Stripped of his minions and surrounded with people unimpressed by his carefully crafted image as the instrument of God’s wrath, he was surprisingly pathetic. No attempts at escape, no more dramatic calls for divine retribution. Just quiet obedience. Exactly the way Rapp liked it.
Scott Coleman had found a folding cloth chair somewhere and someone had scrawled “DIRECTOR” on the back in marker. He was settled into it, holding his hands out in front of him, thumbs together, framing the shot. Joe Maslick stood obediently at his side trying to figure out the video app on his iPhone.
Behind Auma, a young woman wearing a khaki vest was putting the finishing touches on Nicholas Ward’s makeup. They’d flown her in from one of his movie studios under the auspices of doing some pro bono work for an African charity. Now she found herself trapped in an unimaginable nightmare, kept going only by Ward’s promise of obscene financial rewards.
Despite being on the verge of a nervous breakdown, she’d done an amazing job. Ward’s clothes were tattered, filthy, and smeared with blood left over from last night’s zebra roulade. His greasy hair was appropriately tangled, and a couple of twigs hung in front of a forehead smeared with sweat and caked dust.
She stepped back to examine her handiwork for a moment and then glanced over at David Chism, who had been given a similar makeover. Finally, she turned to Rapp and gave a short nod.
“You’re sure?” he asked. “Every news and intelligence agency in the world is going to go over this video with a microscope.”
“They won’t find anything.”
He had no reason not to take her word for it. Everyone looked incredible. He was standing right in front of them and couldn’t find the slightest crack in the façade she’d built.
“Fantastic work, Lisa,” Coleman said, giving voice to Rapp’s thoughts. “We might have to call you to do a little consulting work now and then.”
“Please don’t,” she said and then started up the trail to the lodge.
He shrugged and returned his attention to the actors in his little drama. “Okay. Everyone’s read the script and found their marks?”
Auma, Ward, and Chism all nodded.
“Gideon. All you’ve got to do is insane anger. Not exactly a stretch, right? Mr. Ward. Your job is easy. Catatonic. Just kind of stare off into space like you don’t really know where you are. David. Remember what we practiced. It’s not like in the movies where people get shot and fly backward twenty feet. Just completely relax and crumple, okay? The dirt under you is soft and we’ve cleared out any rocks or roots. Your mind’s going to tell you to put your hands out or not land on your face or whatever. Fight it.”
“Don’t worry,” Chism said. “I’m about to be up for an Oscar.”
“Dr. One-Take. I like your confidence. Stay on the ground but don’t worry too much about having to stay completely still. Once you hit, we’ll take you out of frame.” The former SEAL craned his head around toward Maslick. “Got it, Mas?”
The big man, who had apparently figured out his phone, nodded.
“Okay. Let’s do this. And, Gideon, every time you flub a take, Mitch here is going to cut off one of your toes. Understood?”
“I told you I would do what you ask!” he said as Rapp brandished a pair of kitchen shears.
“All right then. Make me feel it, baby! Action!”
* * *
“As near as I can tell, it’s as Auma described,” Coleman said.
Rapp had his eye to a small magnifying glass designed to be slid along photographs. The eight-by-ten lying on the table depicted an image taken from a commercial chopper they’d rented. The resolution wasn’t bad, but it was not exactly the military quality he was accustomed to.
“You see the edge of the altar?”
“Could just be a rock,” Rapp said.
“It’s pretty rectangular. What about the guy in position A-six?”
Rapp moved the lens to that coordinate. “You mean the indistinct shadow?”
“You say tomato…”
Finally, Rapp leaned back in his chair and rubbed his tired eyes. Coleman’s core team was gathered around the table. Among them sat Nicholas Ward, freshly showered, and wearing a polo shirt emblazoned with the name of one of his companies.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I agree with Scott. This is the place Auma described. The altar seems to exist and the hill where he says there’s a cave is in the right place. But the canopy is dense as hell and if he’s good at anything, it’s keeping his followers hidden. Without a high-altitude surveillance plane, ultra-high-res video, and a bunch of professional analysts to go over it, we can’t be sure if the rest of his people are really there.”
“You think he might have pointed you to an old encampment he’s abandoned? Why?”
“It could be a decoy site,” Coleman said. “A place that any of his people who get captured would be trained to give up. Or worse, an ambush site. Auma might have people waiting there. They’d know to kill anyone who shows up.”
“Do you think he’s that smart?”
“Yes,” Rapp answered. “The question is whether he’s that cautious. It’s a lot of complexity, particularly with the illiterate child army he’s got backing him up.”
“Okay,” Wicker said. “Then this is easy. We took delivery of the armament for those Russian choppers the Ugandans lent us. Let’s go in there with guns and rockets blazing. Kill everything in a thousand-yard radius. Auma says the stuff you’re after is in the cave, right? That’ll protect them.”
Despite having all the hallmarks of an excellent
plan, Ward started shaking his head. “I see two problems. The first is that those are government choppers and the Ugandans have been clear about not wanting to be seen performing military operations that close to DRC territory. It could provoke a war.”
“Surmountable,” Rapp said. “We go in fast and low using night vision gear and then we spread a little money around to politicians on both sides of the border. No one’s going to get too twisted up about a few fireworks. Particularly if Auma’s cult is under them.”
“The second problem is one we’ve already talked about,” Ward said. “Auma keeps slaves. Mostly young girls he’s stolen from local villages. They’d be killed along with his people.”
“That’s sad,” Rapp admitted. “But collateral damage is a fact of life. How many of those girls could there be? Twenty? Thirty tops? And they’re not exactly living large. They’re going to die soon whether we go in or not. We can save the next round of girls that Auma’s people are going to go after, though. And the next. And the next.”
“No,” Ward said firmly. “I’m not some CIA assassin or African dictator. And I paid for the choppers. If that’s your plan, leave me out of it.”
Rapp examined the man silently. This wasn’t just about Gideon Auma or the CIA’s mole problem. Rapp was interested in figuring out what lines the richest man in the world would and would not cross.
“Okay,” he said finally. “What about a plan B?”
Virtually everyone at the table groaned before Coleman spoke up. “Your plan Bs always suck. Remember that time in Libya? The one where that whole building fell on us?”