Extreme Measures

by Vince Flynn

  He raced to get ready and cut himself shaving, bad enough that he had to stick a wad of toilet paper on his Adam’s apple to stem the bleeding. By 8:00 he was backing out of the driveway in the minivan. At the end of his street he stopped to make a right turn and stopped cold. His foot stayed on the brake and his eyes stayed fixed on a sign. There, stapled to a tree, was a piece of bright yellow paper with the words Lost Dog printed in big block letters. Nash stared at the paper for a good five seconds. Why this morning? Why at all? The whole damn thing was supposed to be shut down.

  Nash racked his brain for the procedures they’d set up. He knew yellow was urgent, but it was a Tuesday and he couldn’t remember at first how that affected the schedule. After a moment it came to him, the Java Shack on Franklin. He slapped the turn signal down and gunned the gas. It would take about five minutes to get there. He considered calling Ridley or O’Brien to see what was going on with Rapp, but decided he didn’t want to talk to them until he tied up this loose end.

  He drove past the place once to scope things out and then found a meter around the corner. Nash stepped out of the car and plugged four quarters into the meter. He adjusted the .45-caliber Glock on his right hip and took note of the people and cars across the street at the tire store. Casually, he buttoned his suit and started down the sidewalk. It was a slightly overcast morning, but the temperature was already in the mid-sixties. When he reached the coffee shop he scanned the outdoor tables but didn’t see whom he was looking for.

  Inside, he stepped up to the counter and ordered a cup of black coffee from the woman behind the counter. He counted three patrons. Two of them weren’t his guy, so he focused on the third, who was hiding behind the Metro section of the Post. Nash walked over to the guy’s table and said, “You mind if I take a look at the sports section?”

  The man lowered one corner of the paper and looked back at Nash with angry eyes, but in a polite voice said, “Help yourself.”

  Nash grabbed the section and sat down facing the door, just like the other guy. He took a sip of coffee and picked up the paper.

  The man next to him whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Who the fuck ratted us out?”

  Nash held up the paper and pretended to read. “I’m working on it.”

  The man drummed his long black fingers on the table. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a beer?”

  This was a subject he had no desire to revisit, but knew that his operative had been under a great deal of stress. Nash had found Chris Johnson near the end of his second tour in Iraq while serving with the 101st Airborne Division. Letting him vent for a minute was probably not the worst thing.

  “One hundred and eighty-four fucking days,” the man said, answering his own question.

  “Trust me,” Nash said, “I’m not happy about it either.”

  “I haven’t watched a football game or a basketball game in almost a fucking year. I haven’t been with a women in seven months…hell…I haven’t even looked at porn.”

  “Calm down,” Nash said in a slow, steady voice.

  “You want me to fucking calm down,” the other man hissed. “I’ve lived in that fucking stinky mosque every day. On a good week they might take one shower.”

  “No one is saying you didn’t do a good job,” Nash said in an easy voice.

  “That’s not the point. The point is, I’ve put in a shitload of time. I’ve spent the better part of a year of my life that I ain’t gettin’ back, by the way.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve eaten their shitty food, I’ve had to put up with their anti-Semitic remarks, their bigotry, the way they treat their wives and daughters…and now when I’ve finally earned their trust…you pull the plug.”

  “It wasn’t me. It came down from the top.”

  “Well, fuck that.”

  Nash turned and looked his man in the eye. “Lower your voice, and that’s an order.”

  The man sat back and took a frustrated breath. After a moment he said, “I’m going to kill someone.”

  Everybody is losing their mind, Nash thought. “No you’re not,” he said to the man. “You’re going to casually tell one of them that your mom is sick and you have to go back to Atlanta. Then you are going to pack up and lie low until I say different.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “Believe it. Shut it down, and I mean yesterday.”

  “I can’t.”

  Nash looked at the young former Army Ranger and said, “You can and you will.”

  “I’m too close,” the man said, shaking his head.

  Nash was getting mad. There wasn’t a single one of them in the Clandestine Service who didn’t have a healthy streak of insubordination in them, but this was pushing it.

  Lowering his newspaper, Nash gave up the pretense of a clandestine meeting and in a very clear voice said, “I am giving you a direct order to shut it down. Do you understand me?”

  The man thought about it for a second. Someone entered the coffee shop and his eyes darted to the motion at the front door. He flipped his newspaper back up and said, “Something started happening a few days ago.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Start making shit up.”

  “I’m not. Some boxes arrived.”

  “Big deal,” Nash said, suddenly bored. He needed to end this thing and get his ass into the office. “The place must get three or four deliveries a day.”

  “True, but this delivery didn’t come during normal hours.”

  “Come on,” Nash said in a tired voice. “You’re clutching at straws.”

  “Just hear me out for a second. The boxes arrived during evening prayer two days ago. They never do shit during evening prayer except pray. Six of the younger more radical guys weren’t around, so I snuck out to see what they were up to.”

  “And?”

  “I saw them carrying these boxes down to the basement.”

  “What’s in the boxes?”

  “I don’t know. They put them in a storage room and put a couple new padlocks on the door.”

  “That’s awfully thin.”

  “Just give me forty-eight hours. I’ve given you a year of my life. You can give me forty-eight hours.”

  Nash grabbed his coffee and took a sip while he thought about it. The truth was that only two people other than himself knew the real identity of the man sitting next to him and they weren’t about to run to the FBI.

  While Nash was thinking about it the man asked, “Did you ever get a photo of the guy I told you about?”

  “No. I couldn’t get someone up there fast enough.”

  “Well,” the man said in an I-told-you-so voice, “he’s is supposed to be coming back in town today or tomorrow.”

  Nash figured he could waste the whole morning going back and forth like this, but he didn’t have the time. One year of his life. The words rang in Nash’s ears.

  “Nobody even knows I exist. Two more days is all I ask and then I’m done. I’m going to walk into the first sports bar I can find and order a big fucking Budweiser. One of those thirty-six-ouncers. I’m gonna get smashed and then I’m gonna get laid.”

  “Can I at least debrief you first?” Nash said with a grin.

  “If you bring the beer.”

  Nash nodded. “Toss out the normal protocols. Text me at this number.” Nash wrote the number down on the corner of the newspaper. “Ten and ten. You got me?”

  “Yep. Twice a day.”

  “Don’t miss your fucking check-in.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, satisfied he’d gotten what he wanted.

  “There ain’t no cavalry to come save your ass. You’re out there solo. You don’t even exist.”

  “I didn’t come this far to lose. I’ll get the goods on these assholes.”

  “Two days. That’s all you’ve got and then I want you out.” Nash leaned forward so he could look him in the eye. “You hear me?”

 
“Loud and clear.”

  Nash folded up the sports section and handed it back to Johnson. Without saying another word he got up and left the coffee shop.

  CHAPTER 41

  CAPITOL HILL

  THE wide hallway outside the Senate Intelligence Committee’s meeting room was crowded with staffers. Some actually appeared to be in transit from one point to another, but a surprising number were simply loitering—leaning against walls and clogging doorways, standing with their politically like-minded coworkers. Nash knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. This was entertainment for a group of underpaid partisans, men and women who worshipped either the senator they slaved for or the party, or both. This afternoon’s little event was one of the reasons they worked for scraps. Most of them could walk across the street and within a few hours land a job in the private sector making double what they were already making. This was what kept them from leaving—the proximity to power. The draw of powerful men and women meeting in secret to discuss things that would have far-reaching implications.

  Nash stopped at the door for a moment and looked at the faces of the conservatively dressed staffers. Most of them looked to be no more than a few years out of college. Nash felt a pinch of rage at the entire system. None of them should be here. Nothing that was said inside SH 219 should ever be shared with these people. They were too young and too politically motivated to ever be trusted with national secrets. But they would be. The hearing was likely to last into the dinner hour, and the more senior staffers who were read in would come and go over the next several hours, relaying messages from the bosses back to their offices and slowly but steadily the leaking would start. It would start out innocently enough.

  Moods would be reported, who was upset and who was trying to calm people down. From there the facts would start to trickle out. Maybe only ten to twenty percent of what was actually going on. That’s what you could count on the staffers to do. The real damage would come from the senators themselves—men and a few women who were schooled in the nastiest game of all—politics. In the public relations arena they were the ultimate street fighters, in many cases willing to do whatever it took to win. There was a block of six or so who would uphold their end of the bargain, and another six who would hold their fire until someone else leaked first. That left two or three senators, depending on the issue, plus the four ex officio members who were the worst offenders of all. That was who Rapp was planning to meet head-on and none of them with the exception of Kennedy thought it was a wise move. Nash couldn’t figure that one out, what was going on with her, but the whole thing was making him nervous. He could feel something bad just around the corner. What it was, he had no idea, but it was twisting his gut. The last time he’d felt it this acutely was right before the mission in Afghanistan when he’d almost died.

  Nash shook the thought from his head and entered the room. He took both of his mobile phones out and handed them over to a staffer who stuck them in a numbered cubbyhole for him to retrieve when he left. No electronic devices were allowed inside the secure chamber without special authorization. As a precaution to prevent someone from pulling up his call list, e-mails, and address book, Nash had already removed the SIM cards and the batteries from each phone.

  Nash walked up the small ramp and entered the secure portion of the committee room. He squeezed by a few people in the narrow inner hallway, opened the glass door to the main committee briefing room, and was hit with a wall of noise. The raised portion of the room where the senators sat was packed. Sixteen of the nineteen seats were filled and the area behind the senators was crawling with committee staffers and senior staffers from the office of each senator. There were at least two people for every senator and maybe a few more. And people wondered why they couldn’t keep secrets.

  In front of him were two rows of chairs and a long table where six people sat. Nash knew four of them intimately and the other two only in passing, and hoped he had no reason to get to know them any better. They were the CIA general counsel and his deputy. The two men flanked Kennedy, who was sitting in the middle of the table. Charles O’Brien, the director of the National Clandestine Service, was there as well as his deputy, Rob Ridley. Rapp was the last one, and he was sitting all the way to the left. Nash grabbed a chair behind Rapp and squeezed his shoulder.

  Rapp turned around and gave Nash a confident smile. He was in a dark blue pinstripe suit with a white shirt and light blue paisley silk tie. “Glad you could make it.”

  Nash leaned forward. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Absolutely,” Rapp said in an upbeat tone.

  “But you know”—Nash glanced up at the men and women who represented nearly one-fifth of the United States Senate—“they’re nasty fuckers, Mitch. They won’t play fair.”

  Rapp laughed casually and said, “I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Just sit back and keep your mouth shut. You’re only here because they asked for you.”

  “I don’t like you taking all the heat.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you like,” Rapp said with a grin, “you’re not running the show. Just be a good Marine and sit there.”

  The background noise reached a crescendo as the last two senators entered the room. Bob Safford, the chairman of the committee, and Evan Whaley, the vice chairman, tried to get to their seats but every few feet they were stopped by a colleague or a staffer. Nash had been told by Ridley that there had already been a great deal of fighting between the two parties, and various factions within the parties, over not just how this hearing should be handled, but whether or not the Intelligence Committee should even get the first bite at the apple. The Armed Services and the Judiciary Committees were both trying to stake a claim, and then there was the House of Representatives to deal with. There was a very real chance that they would all spend the better part of the next year testifying in front of all these committees and quite possibly a special prosecutor and a grand jury as well.

  Safford gaveled the hearing to order, and the next five minutes were taken up by motions and a variety of procedural issues that had very little to do with any of the people who were called on to testify. It was simply the nature of the Senate. When all of that was sorted out, Safford took a final look at his notes and then flipped his reading glasses up onto his forehead, which was his habit when the cameras weren’t around.

  “Director Kennedy, I would like to say that I am deeply disturbed by the accusations that have been leveled against one of your employees.” Safford’s deep-set eyes floated over to Rapp.

  Rapp raised his hand in case anyone had any doubt as to which employee the senator was referring to. Nash cringed. He could tell Rapp was in one of his insolent “I don’t give a shit” moods.

  Safford’s lips curled into a sneer, but he didn’t engage Rapp. That would come later. Addressing Kennedy, he said, “There has been a great deal of maneuvering in the Senate today. There are several chairpersons who feel that this issue of Mr. Rapp’s potentially illegal and definitely unprofessional behavior would be better handled in their committees in a more open manner. Senator Whaley and I have managed to persuade them that for now this issue should be handled by this committee.”

  “I would like the record to show,” Senator Lonsdale said forcefully, “that as chairperson of the Judiciary Committee I strongly disagree with your decision and plan on holding open hearings as soon as tomorrow to get to the bottom of this.”

  “I’m sure you will,” was Safford’s tired response.

  “And I would also like the record to show”—this time it was Senator Russell Sheldon—“that as a former air force officer and prosecutor and current member of the Armed Services Committee I am deeply disturbed by what looks to be an attempt at a cover-up by the CIA and certain sympathizers at the Pentagon. I am shocked at the lack of professionalism exhibited by Mr. Rapp and expect to see him prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

  With hunched shoulders Safford looked from one end of the curved table to the other and said, �
�Is everybody done, or are we going to have an open mike this afternoon?”

  There were a few snickers from the older senators who were proud that one of their fellow bull elephants had put the young ones in their place.

  “Because,” Safford continued, “I’m not going to put up with this. Everybody knows the rules. Each member will get fifteen minutes to question the panel. Make your complaints verbally…file them in writing…I don’t care. Just wait your turn. Are we all clear?”

  A smattering of senators nodded, but most simply ignored the chairman.

  “Now, Director Kennedy, is there anything you would like to say before we get started?”

  Kennedy leaned forward and in a respectful but distant voice said, “No, Mr. Chairman.”

  Safford looked to his right and gave the okay to begin questioning.

  CHAPTER 42

  BRUNSWICK, GEORGIA

  HAKIM clenched his jaw and looked down at the body with a seething anger. The bullet hole was clearly visible in the back of the head. A neat little pucker mark no bigger than a nickel. Thank Allah the man had been dumped facedown, because Hakim did not want to see what the heavy-caliber bullet had done to his face. So much matter had exploded from the other side that Hakim imagined a gaping hole encompassing what used to be the mouth and nose.

  “What a waste,” he told himself.

  They had traveled nearly five hundred miles in just under eight hours, from the southern tip of Florida all the way up and out of the state. That had been Hakim’s goal and they had achieved it, and this was their reward. He looked down at the body again and didn’t know if he should cry or laugh. Cry for the boy whose only crime was that he had helped them, or laugh because he didn’t want to cry. He called into question for perhaps the first time the heart of his friend. It had been Karim, of course. Something had changed in the man.

  Hakim thought back on the day. How it had started with the magnificent destruction of the Coast Guard helicopter and the mad dash to shore. The exhilaration of cutting through the sea and the wind at a hundred miles an hour, knowing every second might count. Karim had been happy then. Hakim had looked over and saw him smiling like he hadn’t seen him smile in years. Unfortunately it didn’t last. His mood instantly soured when they landed the boats in the tall grass at Long Key State Park. The men from the drug cartel were waiting with their four-wheelers to off-load the drugs and Karim was livid. He’d had it in his mind that they would simply leave the boats and not be seen by anyone. He was ranting and raving about operational security and a bunch of other things that Hakim guessed he had read in one of his U.S. military manuals that he was always studying. The man couldn’t get it through his head that American Special Forces had near unlimited assets to get them from point A to point B. Billion-dollar aircraft carriers, billion-dollar submarines, stealth planes, and the best helicopters and pilots in the world. They, on the other hand, this little offshoot of al-Qaeda, had nothing but themselves, and Karim was delusional if he thought they could so closely mirror the American model—just the nine of them.