by Vince Flynn
Rapp was glad he’d gotten five hours of sack time, because Johnson was a perfect example of what happened to the human mind if deprived of sleep. Add to that the fact that he probably hadn’t felt real pain since he was a kid, and you had a very agitated fifty-six-year-old man. “So let’s do a quick recap. For the last year, you’ve been whoring yourself out to whoever will pay you. You’ve broken dozens of laws. You’ve illegally spied on officials in your own government—”
“Illegal!” Johnson scoffed. “What would you call this? You don’t exactly play by the rules.”
“I sure don’t, but there’s a big difference between what I do and what you do.”
“Maybe in your mind.”
“Really . . . why don’t you tell me how much money I’ve made breaking the law during the course of my career?”
Johnson squirmed in his seat.
“I’m not into your relativism, Max. I do this job because I think it’s important. I do it because narcissistic fucks like you care more about your own ego and making a buck than our national security. What really pisses me off, though, is that you’re the same assholes who when the next 9/11 happens, will all sit around pointing your fingers at guys like me and saying I didn’t do enough to protect the country. Well, I’m fed up, Max. I’m sick of swimming upstream. I’ve spent the last two days running around dealing with bullshit like this. Like you. Greedy fucking children, who don’t give a shit about anyone or anything other than yourselves.”
“That’s not true.”
“Really?” Rapp folded his arms across his chest. “You call yourself a fellow professional, Max. Well, if you really think you’re a professional, then you know damn well that you wandered way off the reservation and I have every right to put a bullet in your head.”
“That’s not true . . . there are things . . . things you don’t know about.”
“Bullshit!” Rapp yelled. Adams had tried the same line on him. “It’s your choice, Max. Are you going to repent with all your heart and soul, or am I going to put a bullet in your head? Your choice!”
CHAPTER 47
THIS was not Rapp’s first séance, as they liked to say in the business. There were a couple of books out there on how to properly interrogate a prisoner, but they were pretty remedial. The more nasty stuff could be found in the CIA’s Human Resource Exploitation Training Manual or the KUBARK Counterintelligence Interrogation Manual. This was stuff that the CIA had authored decades earlier when people were either brave enough or crazy enough to put such things in writing. Rapp had read both a long time ago, and found them to be useful in the sense that they offered an outline, but it was all a little bit like reading about a baseball swing. Most people can read and easily understand the swing, but less than one percent of one percent of the population can actually step into the batter’s box and hit a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball.
Rapp had no doubt that Johnson was scared to death of him. But was he scared enough to actually tell the truth? With most people, the fear of death or severe pain was all it took, and as long as you could check out the story they would tell you the truth, because if they lied, you went back into the room and pushed whatever button worked. Johnson looked up at Rapp and in a convincing voice said, “I want to tell the truth.”
Now came the sticky part. With Johnson, the crux of the problem was that he had lived by a double standard for so long that he thought lying was his birthright. He was the great inquisitor, charged with making sure Langley’s people played by the rules. And if he had to break the rules to catch them, then so be it. He was above it all. The rules were for the little people. It was no wonder he and Glen Adams had become bosom buddies. So Rapp had to come at this one from a slightly different angle.
“I have to be honest with you. I have a long day in front of me. I have to go pick up a friend this morning who’s all fucked in the head because he’s been working his ass off and he’s come within a fraction of losing his life twice in the past year, and his job is made five times harder than it should be because he’s got assholes like you running around. And then I have to get up to the Hill and listen to all those blowhards on the Judiciary Committee grill me because I didn’t treat some terrorist with kid gloves and then after that I have to get over to the White House and tell the president that I either killed you, like he asked me to do, or I spared your life and went against his orders.”
“The president ordered you to kill me?” Johnson’s eyes were wide with fear and disbelief.
“After what happened last week, the president has decided this War on Terror is not just a campaign slogan. He’s dealing with the aftermath of the attacks, trying to find the guys who are still at large and make those who helped them pay, and in the midst of all of that he finds out that the CIA’s inspector general has left the country and flown to fucking Caracas, Venezuela, of all places.” Rapp saw the surprise in Johnson’s eyes. “That’s right. Your old buddy Glen Adams.
We’ve been on to him for about a month now. Someone slipped up, he got spooked, and he bolted. Turns out he’s been working for that thug Chavez for the past four years.”
“Hugo Chavez?”
“None other. We started going through his stuff and unfortunately your name was all over the place.”
Johnson swallowed hard.
“That’s how we got on your tail. We didn’t know shit about Sidorov and all these other pet projects you had going.”
“People saw me last night. A lot of people.” Johnson looked up and pointed at Rapp. “And they saw you, too.”
“Russians. All of them. They play by a different set of rules. They respect this.” Rapp waved his gun around. “They know I’ll hunt them down and put a bullet in their head. A guy like Sidorov . . . he has enough problems. The last thing he wants is a guy like me hounding him.”
“Those two security guys,” Johnson said with a “got you” expression on his face. “They were American. They saw me. They saw you drag me out of the club.”
“You mean the two guys from Triple Canopy? The former Special Forces guys? We already talked to them. Gave them the rap sheet on what you’ve been up to. They wanted to know if they could help with the interrogation. I told them I’d see how things went this morning.” Rapp checked his watch. It was six-fifty-six. “You’ve got thirty minutes to convince me that I should stay your execution.”
Johnson was staring off into the distance with a blank expression on his face.
“Do you understand what I just said?”
“I can’t believe he was working for Hugo Chavez.”
Rapp didn’t show it, but he was smiling inside. Maybe there was a bit of a patriot still in the man. “None of us are too pleased about it. Now did you understand what I just said?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure you did, so I’m going to make it real clear. The president has told me to kill you. He’s furious that a guy with Adams’s security clearance has defected. Between you and me, he’s horrified that little sausage Chavez is going to parade Adams in front of the cameras. He knows you helped Adams collect a lot of his information.” Rapp shrugged. “He can’t get his hands on Adams, so you’re the next best thing.”
“I didn’t know he was working for Chavez.”
“Max,” Rapp said with a heavy sigh, “I’d like to feel some sympathy for you, but it’s not like you didn’t know you were breaking the law. You climbed into bed with a rat bastard and you were caught. Now . . . the only chance you have of living a minute past seven-thirty is if you put all your cards on the table. I know this won’t be easy for you because you’re a professional liar. You’re going to have to fight your instincts. If I think you’re lying, and trust me, I’ll know when you are, the gun comes out and we do the left foot, right foot thing. Understand?”
“And if I tell you the truth?”
Rapp grinned. “Let’s just say, there are a few people around here who think you’re pretty good at what you do.”
“What’s that suppo
sed to mean?”
“It means, if you are completely honest and you hold nothing back, I might consider letting you live. And if I think I can trust you, I might even give you a job.”
There was a genuine glimmer of hope in his eyes. Johnson sat up a little straighter like a dog ready to please. “All right. I think I understand.”
“Let’s hear it, and remember, no lies.”
“All right . . . about six months ago Glen came to me and explained his suspicions about what you and Irene were up to. He said that I was the only one who would understand his situation. That if you were going to catch someone who was breaking the law, you couldn’t fight fair. You had to be willing to break the rules yourself.”
“And you agreed,” Rapp said in a reasonable tone, wanting to help him along.
“Yes.” Johnson started to speak but stopped.
“Fight it,” Rapp said. “Your only chance is to tell the truth.”
“What if it pisses you off?”
“I’ll deal with it.”
“By shooting me in the foot?”
Rapp shook his head. “Only if you lie to me. So you decided to go to work for him . . .” Rapp made a rolling motion with his hand, telling him to pick up the story.
“It started out pretty simple. He wanted me to bug an office. I didn’t even know who the guy was.”
Rapp knew immediately that it was a lie. He pointed the gun at Johnson’s bandaged foot and said, “Fight it.”
“All right,” he said quickly, “I knew who he was, but I’d never met him.”
“Go on.”
“His name is Thomas Lewis. He’s a shrink. He’s kind of the go-to therapist for the bigwigs on the seventh floor. Has a practice out by Tyson’s Corner.”
“I’m familiar with him.”
“Well . . . we bugged his office.”
“That’s real classy.”
“I wasn’t calling the shots. I was merely following orders.”
“Like me,” Rapp said. “The president wants me to kill you, so who am I to question him. I should probably just kill you right now and get it over with.”
“Please let me explain. I thought it was a little underhanded.”
“But you also thought it was brilliant.”
Johnson hesitated and then said, “Kind of.”
“So how’d you do it?” Rapp asked.
“I set up a passive system in a nearby office and started recording. I’d go back to the place every couple of weeks to check on the equipment, but it was pretty much handled off-site. The recordings were uploaded to a server every day. I’d put them on a disk and hand them over.”
“Did you ever listen to any?”
Johnson started to say no, but caught himself. “A few, but not many.”
“Seriously.”
“Yeah. It might sound interesting, but it’s boring as hell.”
“How many copies?” Rapp asked casually.
“I gave one to Adams and the other one is up on the secure server.”
Rapp nodded and picked up the bottle of painkillers. He popped the top and took out two pills. He held them in front of Johnson and said, “You know Marcus Dumond?”
“Yes,” Johnson snorted. “He’s a disrespectful little shit.”
“Not really. Just seems that way because he’s so much smarter than the rest of us. At any rate he was telling me the other day that he has a new software program that can tell how many times something has been copied. Now Marcus is at your office right now. If I call him up and ask him to find out how many times this stuff was copied and he comes back with something other than two . . . well . . . let’s just say you and I will be finished. So think real hard. How many copies did you make?”
Johnson thought about it for a long moment and then said, “Three. I think there are actually three copies.”
Rapp set the pills on the table and slid the bottle of water over. “Good answer.” Rapp watched as Johnson popped the pills in his mouth and took a swig of water. “That office you leased?”
Jonson nodded.
“Third floor, directly across the courtyard from Lewis’s office. We already have all your equipment.” Rapp saw the surprise wash across Johnson’s face. “I know more shit about you than you can even begin to imagine, Max. You fucking hold back on me one more time and this will get really ugly. I mean Saddam Hussein, third world, shove a thermometer up your pecker and smack it with a hammer ugly. Shove your head in a bucket full of your own shit ugly. That’s what we do to traitors.”
“I’m sorry,” Johnson said in a shaky voice.
“Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it, Max. You need to get it though your head that you have one shot at this.”
“I understand.”
“Good, because the next time I ask you for a number, you better be damn sure it’s the right one.”
“I will. I promise.”
Rapp wasn’t so sure, but maybe with a little reprogramming they could get him back on the right team. He’d never pull a Saddam Hussein on him, but he might show him a few photos just to scare the piss out of him. “All right, now where are these copies?”
CHAPTER 48
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
THE house was on a nice tree-lined street in North Arlington, not far from where Rapp had grown up. It was upscale, but not obnoxious. Lots of two-story colonials and federal style houses with well-kept lawns. Lawyers, lobbyists, and government contractors lived in the neighborhood. Jobs that fed out of the bottomless trough of federal funds. Very few civil servants lived in the neighborhood, unless, like Nash, their spouse worked in the private sector.
Rapp pulled up in front of the house a few minutes before eight and threw the gearshift into park. He looked up the sidewalk at the white front door and imagined what was going on inside. Kennedy had called Nash before bed and told him he would be traveling with her for most of the day. They had a closed meeting on the Hill with the Judiciary Committee and then a briefing with the president. If Nash had told Kennedy about his problem with Rapp she had failed to pass it along. Rapp undid his seat belt and climbed out of the car. As he started up the walk he wondered if Nash might take a swing at him. Rapp hoped he’d gotten a little sleep and regained some of his senses.
Rapp hit the doorbell and then stepped off the front stoop. If Nash was still pissed it was best to have a little room to maneuver. A few seconds later Maggie answered the door. She had raven-black hair, a button nose, and bright blue eyes, all set against smooth alabaster skin. She was already dolled up for the big day, dressed in a black pencil skirt and white cotton blouse with a shirred waist. Her jet-black hair was slicked back in a perfect high ponytail that both showed off her gorgeous face and gave her a little bit of that corporate dominatrix look that told men to tread carefully. You would never guess by looking at her that she’d given birth to four kids.
Maggie flashed Rapp a nice smile and a conspiratorial wink. “Mitch, what a nice surprise.” She offered her cheek.
Rapp kissed it and whispered, “How’s he doing?”
“He doesn’t have a clue.” Then in a louder voice she said, “Come on in.” Maggie led him down the hallway. “We’re getting the kids ready for school.”
“Good, I was hoping I’d catch them.”
As Rapp entered the kitchen four faces lit up as if it were Christmas and one face turned so sour you would have guessed his mortal enemy had just walked in the room. Shannon, the fifteen-year-old daughter, jumped up from the kitchen table and threw her arms out. “Uncle Mitch.” She gave Rapp a hug and said, “Guess what?” Before Rapp had a chance to answer she said, “I get my permit Saturday!”
It had been a long time since Rapp had gone through that teenage right of passage, but she was obviously extremely excited at the prospect of being able to drive. “Great.”
“Will you take me driving?”
“Absolutely.” Rapp reached out and rubbed the head of Jack, the ten-year-old brain child, who was simultaneously working on a bowl of c
ereal and watching Sports Center. Maggie was from Boston and the kids were all big Red Sox fans, so Rapp asked, “How are your Yankees doing?”
“Yeah, right,” Jack replied. “They’re a bunch of overpaid prima donnas.”
“Sounds like you’re talking about the Red Sox.”
Maggie was coming back from the other side of the kitchen with a fresh cup of black coffee. “Don’t make me throw this on you.” She handed the mug to Rapp, just as Charlie, the one-year-old, started banging on the tray of his high chair.