by Vince Flynn
The front door opened and Ahmed entered the room. He leaned his rifle against the wall and took the binoculars from around his neck. With flushed cheeks he said, “The perimeter is secure. No sign of anyone.”
Karim stood with his deliberate military posture and looked out the big window. “I heard a dog.”
“Yes,” Ahmed said with a slight bow of his head. “From down the hill. The next house. Eight hundred meters away. There are several of them.”
“Are they fenced in?”
“No.”
“And what should we do if they wander up here?”
Ahmed looked nervously at Hakim for help and then said, “Shoot them?”
“Maybe.” Karim slowly turned and looked him in the eye. “I do not like this place.”
“Why?” Hakim asked, inserting himself into the conversation.
Karim looked as if he might not answer the question, and then said, “There is too much we do not know.”
“Such as?” Hakim asked
“We do not know if someone is expected to show up. They could have deliveries. The phone has already rung twice.” He looked to the photos on the mantel. “Family may live nearby.”
He was right, but all of that could have been avoided. He gambled and decided to point out the obvious. “Maybe if you weren’t so quick to kill everyone we stumble upon, we might be able to answer some of your questions.”
Karim looked to Ahmed and shook his head. It was one of those looks that said, See . . . what I have been telling you. Turning back to his old friend, Karim said, “What is wrong with you? Why must you argue with everything I say?”
“Why must you kill every person we come across?”
Karim looked with thinly veiled contempt at his friend. He was like a sick dog that needed to be put down, and if he didn’t do it quickly, the disease was likely to spread to Ahmed. They were going to have to leave this place. The woman was still in the bed. He’d considered moving her but the pillow, sheets, and mattress were soaked with blood. The old man and the dog were in the corner of the garage under a tarp. He might as well kill Hakim in the leather chair and leave him there. Maybe even make it look like a suicide to confuse the police. That was a good plan. Trash the place, shoot his friend in the side of the head, and put his gun in his hand. Karim was considering how he would move into position without alerting Hakim when Ahmed stepped between them and pointed at the TV.
“It has started,” Ahmed said.
They all turned their attention to the TV and watched as the American president stepped up to an outdoor podium. He began reading a prepared speech. Karim scowled at the man and briefly imagined what it would be like to kill the president of the United States. That would surely earn him eternal glory in the eyes of Allah and his fellow Muslims the world over. The president droned on about the hard work, duty, sacrifice, and perseverance of the rescue workers, emergency personnel, and law enforcement over the past week. Karim noticed, not for the first time, that leaders the world over loved to hear themselves speak. It was as if they were a walking thesaurus. Descriptions came in threes, when one adjective would do just fine. He supposed it made them feel smart.
The president went on to talk about the losses they had suffered. He choked up at the mention of some of the friends he’d lost in the explosions and went on to talk briefly about the funerals he’d attended for much of the week. In a more commanding voice he listed half a dozen tragedies that had beset the country over the past eighty years and gave examples of how each time Americans rose to the occasion and persevered. Then he moved onto a topic that grabbed Karim’s interest.
“In regard to the cowardly attacks of last week there is an untold chapter that I had decided to keep from you until now. The reasons for not coming forward with this sooner are complicated, but in essence involve issues of national security. In addition to the three restaurants that were bombed last week a federal facility in Virginia was also attacked. There has been no shortage of rumors in regard to the facility itself and the attack on it. I’m here this morning to put those rumors to rest. The facility that was attacked was the National Counterterrorism Center. As the name would suggest, this relatively new building houses elements of the both the FBI’s and the CIA’s counterterrorism units as well as personnel from over a dozen other agencies and organizations. The building is the nerve center for the battle against terrorism. Just hours after last week’s cowardly attacks in Washington, D.C., a . . .”
Karim pointed at the TV and began screaming. “Cowardly! He puts pilotless drones in the air over Pakistan and fires on villages with women and children and he dares call us cowards.”
Hakim thought about pointing out the fact that the reason those missiles were fired was that al Qaeda liked to hide behind the skirts of the very women he was describing, but he thought that might finally put his friend over the edge, and all things considered, he wanted to live long enough to hear the president’s side of the story.
The president continued, saying, “A black Suburban disguised as an emergency vehicle showed up at the gate of the National Counterterrorism Center. Inside were six heavily armed men masquerading as SWAT personnel. They shot and killed a number of guards and then entered the building, where they proceeded to the top floor of the facility where the Counterterrorism Operations Center is located. The six men forced their way into the operations center and opened fire on the unarmed employees who were so diligently trying to aid the men and women involved in the rescue operations. Fortunately, there were a few employees who were armed. One such individual is with us here today.”
The president stopped and looked over his shoulder to a younger man in a dark suit who was wearing a medal around his neck with a tricolor silk ribbon. “I’d like to introduce you to Mike Nash. Mr. Nash is a retired Marine Corps officer, and until very recently an undercover operative for the CIA’s clandestine service.”
Karim pointed at the TV and yelled, “That is the snake who was sending his agents into our mosques.”
The president continued, “Mr. Nash was at the facility last week when it was attacked and watched in horror and confusion as the six armed men moved into the operations center in a single line and began killing his coworkers at near-point-blank range. A combat veteran and expert on tactics, Mr. Nash assessed the situation and acted decisively. Ignoring extreme danger to his own life, Mr. Nash did the last thing the terrorists expected . . . He charged the line of men head-on. His bravery and superb training caught the terrorists by surprise. In a matter of just a few seconds, armed with a single pistol, Mr. Nash shot and killed all six terrorists. If that wasn’t enough, Mr. Nash soon realized all six men were wearing suicide vests that were on automatic timers and were set to explode in less than two minutes. Thinking quickly, Mr. Nash and his colleagues managed to get all six bodies out a sixth-floor window. The explosives then detonated without further casualties. Mr. Nash’s bravery should serve as a reminder to . . .”
Hakim noticed the object flying through the air a split second before it smashed into the TV screen, punching a hole in the glass and sending a shower of sparks onto the carpet. He turned to see Karim standing with his fists clenched in rage and the tendons on his neck so taut they looked as if they were about to break free from his own skin.
“Lies!” Karim screamed. “All of it lies!”
Hakim stole a glance at Ahmed, who carefully had his eyes focused on the floor, too afraid to look at Karim.
“They speak of honor and courage . . . they know nothing of such things! Did you hear him? He said superb training!” Karim marched from one end of the room to the other and back, angrily stomping his feet and then kicking the leg of the glass coffee table so hard it shattered. “Superb training! I will show them. I will show them what bravery and courage and superb training is!” Like a feral animal he turned and faced his old friend. “And I will show you, too. You doubt my bravery! You said I sent them needlessly to their deaths! That I am too afraid to martyr myself. Well we wi
ll all martyr ourselves,” he shouted. “In fact, some of us sooner rather than later. We will go to Washington and we will show the world that this president is a lying dog. I will show this Mike Nash what it is like to fight a real warrior!”
CHAPTER 56
WASHINGTON, D.C.
WHEN the front door opened, Rapp was confronted with an unwelcome sight. There before him was the big Russian who less than twelve hours ago had come within an inch or two of tearing off his head. Rapp’s left temple began to throb just looking at the guy. The bodyguard had a bandage around his throat and a hell of a shiner from where Reavers had tagged him, but here he was at his post, which said a lot about the guy. After having your ass kicked like that, most guys wouldn’t be too willing to show up for work the next morning. The guy was either very devoted or extremely stupid. Rapp hoped it was the former, because guys who suffered from the latter were hard to teach a lesson.
This time the guy eyed Rapp a bit more cautiously. He pointed at Rapp’s waist and in a really hoarse voice that was English with a Russian tinge said, “Open your jacket.”
Rapp popped the one button and pulled open both sides, revealing the gun on his left hip.
“Leave your toys outside,” the man ordered.
“No thanks.” It was important not to back down. Rapp had no outward physical mark from their last meeting.
“Not a choice.”
“Fuck you,” Rapp said. “This is my town, not yours.”
The big Russian stared him down for ten seconds and finally said, “Wait.” Then he closed the door.
Rapp stood there and wondered how he was going to handle this if they came back and told him to hit the road. He’d told Kennedy in very vague terms where he was headed, just to cover his ass in case some other federal agency was running surveillance, but he had no real backup if things went south, and the Russians weren’t exactly known for playing by the rules. He’d learned long ago that you could never let down your guard and think you were okay without your gun. He didn’t even like handing it over when he went to the White House. He sure as hell wasn’t going to go in here without it.
The door finally opened. This time it was Sidorov. He was in bare feet, torn jeans, and a faded blue V-neck T-shirt. He looked more like a hungover rocker than a billionaire financier. The Russian whiz kid smiled and said, “Are you always so difficult?”
Rapp thought about it. “I suppose I am. No offense to you, Peter, but I don’t know you that well, and I have no idea who you have in there. I’ve made a few enemies over the years.”
Sidorov pushed the door the rest of the way open. “I can relate to your paranoia. I myself have had three attempts on my life.” Sidorov turned and moved across the black-and-white-checkered marble foyer.
Rapp stepped over the threshold and scanned right and then left as he closed the door. A big curved staircase wide enough for four people looped up and around to his right. Sidorov moved ahead down a center gallery that divided the house in half down the middle. Rapp followed him, checking the rooms on the left and right as they went. There was a music room, a library, a sitting room, a dining room and another sitting room. All were empty. Finally, at the back of the house they entered a colossal kitchen that looked as if it had been painstakingly restored to its original 1930s condition. A babushka in a gray house dress was standing on the other side of the kitchen island staring at Rapp.
Sidorov spoke rapidly in Russian to the woman and continued through the kitchen and into a solarium. He took a seat in a white wicker chair and gestured to the one on the other side of the table. Rapp sat and Sidorov offered him his choice between the Financial Times and the Wall Street Journal. Rapp took neither.
Sidorov began scanning the front page of the Financial Times and asked, “So what can I do to help the famous Mitch Rapp?”
“I had a nice talk with your boy Max last night.”
“Very talented man,” Sidorov said while still reading the paper. “I’m shocked your CIA couldn’t find more use for him.”
“I suppose there was a time where they would have, but things have changed.”
“Yes, they have. That is what I just told my bodyguard, who for obvious reasons doesn’t like you.”
“For the record, I did not want to tangle with him, but he didn’t leave me many choices. I just wanted to collect Johnson and leave.”
“Why did you want him so badly? Surely it wasn’t my business dealings with him.”
This was the part Rapp wasn’t sure about. Had Johnson sold any additional information to Sidorov, or anyone else, for that matter? It would take a while to sort all of that out, but for now Rapp wanted to discuss something else. “His dealings with you are not my concern. At least not at the moment. Let’s just say he’s been involved in some stuff that has a few people upset.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“The kind of stuff he should know better than to get involved in.”
“Fair enough.” The babushka dropped off the service tray of coffee and poured a fresh cup for each of them. Sidorov took his with cream and sugar. Rapp took his black. “So what can I do for you at this early hour?” Sidorov asked.
“Early? It’s almost noon.”
Sidorov smiled. “I am a young man, Mr. Rapp. Early is relative.”
“I suppose so.” Rapp took a sip and said, “Max told me about the moves you’re making in Cuba.”
“He did? I paid him a considerable amount of money. I would think he would at least know how to keep his mouth shut.”
“I can be persuasive.”
“Yes . . . I suppose.” He regarded Rapp for a moment and then asked, “So, why are you here?”
“It involves Cuba.”
“Go on.”
“You’ve had some business dealings with General Ramirez?”
“Anyone who wishes to get things approved in Cuba eventually must deal with General Ramirez.”
“So I’ve heard.” Rapp nudged his coffee cup and then said, “I need to meet with him.”
“I would think that could be arranged.”
“In private.”
“Of course, but why would you need my help?”
“I don’t want him to know he’s sitting down with me until it’s too late for him to back out. And I would prefer to meet him on neutral ground.”
“The general,” Sidorov said, “is a very dangerous man.”
“And what would you call me, Peter?”
Sidorov exhaled while he thought about it and said, “I have spent three years building my relationships down there. I have significant sums of money invested in my various endeavors. Why would I want to risk all of that on a situation that is so obviously combustible?”
Rapp had anticipated this response. “Because I think you can turn it to your advantage.”
“How?”
Rapp smiled. “This is all unofficial, but there’s a man who lives not far from here. Big white house. You get the picture. For reasons that I’m sure you can understand he is not happy with the events of last week.” Rapp prepared to exaggerate a bit. “He has directed me to punish anyone who was involved in aiding the terrorists.”
“And how does General Ramirez fit into that?”
Rapp told him how the drugs had been stolen and flown to Cuba. How Ramirez had allowed the terrorists to use Cuba as a staging area for their attack and in exchange was given a large cut of the stolen drugs.
Sidorov’s face grew pained as the details unfolded. When Rapp was done he said, “I hate the drug trade. I avoid it like the plague. It’s all very bad for business, especially my business, but I do not condemn those who choose to make their living that way.”
“And I’m not asking you to take a position against Ramirez.”
“You just want me to help you kill him.”
Rapp didn’t answer right away. “I would like to give the general a chance to make amends.”
“By doing what?”
“By providing me certain information ab
out the person he was dealing with.”
“One of the terrorists?”
“Yes.”
“And if he does not want to cooperate with you?”
“Trust me, he’ll cooperate.”
Sidorov thought about it for a long moment and then said, “This terrorism is bad for business. I do not understand them, but it really isn’t my fight. I fail to see a good reason for me to put my neck on the line.”