by Vince Flynn
CHAPTER 7
LAHORE
PAKISTAN
AHMED Taj looked between his two security men as the densely populated slum gave way to open highway. He would eventually be transferred to a nondescript Suzuki Mehran that would take him to a private jet registered in the name of a local extraction company.
It seemed almost impossible that his plan was finally going into action. He’d spent the last decade developing it, poring over every detail, examining every potential pitfall. And in many ways it extended even farther back than that. The groundwork for what was to come had been laid almost from his birth.
He had been raised in a modest neighborhood surrounded by the poverty that continued to plague Pakistan. Despite accumulating significant power and wealth, his father had been an unassuming man who deferred to those around him and rarely looked anyone in the eye.
It was the lesson that he beat into his son. Present nothing of yourself that the world would take note of. Build up others while diminishing yourself. Let the endless supply of egocentric men stand in the spotlight they craved while you remained in the darkness. That was how lasting empires were built.
Taj had quickly lost count of the men who had underestimated his father. The men whose bodies still littered the countryside surrounding his childhood home.
Eventually, he had been sent to America for college. The custom of wealthy Pakistanis at the time had been to send their children to their former oppressor, England, for their education. His father had recognized that the United Kingdom was weakening while America’s influence grew. A devout Muslim, he understood that the massive Christian country would become a formidable enemy to the followers of Allah, and he wanted his son to understand its ways.
Taj had studied business and economics at an academically competent but unremarkable school in Virginia. In honor of his father’s life lessons, he’d sat at the back of the classroom, writing all the correct answers on his tests before changing them to maintain a B-minus average. He’d made no real friends, though he was polite and reasonably well liked. In the end, he’d been satisfied to study American society from its edges.
What he’d seen disgusted him. Women who used the freedoms they were given to turn themselves into whores. Intellectualism that not only marginalized God, but often denied his existence. And the hopeless, endless arrogance.
He had recognized the seeds of America’s decline and now those seeds were beginning to grow. Like the Soviets before them, the United States had been deeply wounded by its pathetic effort to conquer countries favored by Allah. Its insatiable greed for all things material had led to a financial collapse that was already in the early stages of being repeated. And its uncanny cohesiveness—the thing that was the secret to its strength—had devolved into petty squabbling and government paralysis. It was the fundamental flaw of democracy: Power found its way into the hands of liars and mobs instead of the cunning and the strong.
Upon graduation, Taj had returned to Pakistan and enlisted in the air force at his father’s insistence. The path to power in Pakistan wasn’t through the private sector, he knew. Certainly great wealth could play a part, but the country’s soul was its military.
Taj had gone into logistics and made a name for himself as a competent and respectful officer. He’d made the right connections and, more important, done away with his rivals by manipulating them into destroying themselves. Eventually that led to his first star and to Saad Chutani foolishly giving him the helm of the ISI in an effort to gain control of the organization.
Now the unassuming Ahmed Taj was positioned to become one of the handful of men who ruled the world. He would turn his country into an enemy of America that would make what they’d experienced during the Soviet era seem trivial.
In fact, it should have already happened. As often was the case, though, even the most carefully laid plans could be derailed by unexpected events. In this instance, the actions of Akhtar Durrani.
Durrani had been a man of great hubris, violence, and ambition. He generated the fear necessary to rule over the ISI’s S Wing and was a convenient tool to insulate Taj from the potential blowback generated by its operations.
Durrani had been instrumental in hiding Osama bin Laden, allowing the Saudi to hold al Qaeda together for years longer than would have been possible otherwise. He coordinated the resistance to American forces in Afghanistan and kept track of the insurgent groups that based themselves in Pakistan. Most important, though, he kept those insurgents under control, preventing them from mounting attacks inside Pakistan without ISI consent.
Durrani’s alliance with Rickman had come as a rare surprise. Fortunately, Taj kept close tabs on everyone in a position of power at the ISI. It had been through this surveillance that he’d become aware of Rickman and decided to delay the implementation of his own plans. The value of the information the CIA man possessed was beyond calculation, a prize Taj never imagined when he’d first started scheming.
His first instinct had been to simply do away with Durrani and take Rickman when he arrived in Pakistan. Upon further consideration, though, he realized it would have been a mistake. Rickman was too brilliant, his mind too twisted. Even under extended interrogation it would be impossible to sort truth from lies.
Taj had no choice but to stay in the background and wait for the man to reveal what he knew. The trick would be finding the right moment to step out of the shadows. While his and Rickman’s goals were similar, they were not the same.
Rickman wanted to punish the CIA, but Taj wanted to co-opt it. If he could gain access to what Rickman knew—his encyclopedic knowledge of every informant, traitor, and double agent in the region—he would have the ability to take control of the massive intelligence network while Irene Kennedy remained completely unaware. Before allowing the CIA to implode under the weight of its sins, he would siphon off its power. He would make the ISI, already swollen with billions of U.S. dollars, the most feared intelligence agency in history.
Unfortunately, between Durrani’s stupidity and Mitch Rapp’s brutality, the situation had become more complicated. In the end, though, it might be better this way. In every disaster lay opportunity.
He’d been watching Rickman long enough to know that the man was aware of the possibility of his own assassination and had made provisions to protect the information he’d so carefully compiled. That witch Kennedy was undoubtedly devoting her organization’s entire capability to locating it but she was at a significant disadvantage. The CIA was just starting its search while Taj’s men were nearing the completion of theirs.
CHAPTER 8
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
U.S.A.
THE intercom on Irene Kennedy’s desk buzzed and she picked up immediately.
“Dr. Kennedy, Senator Ferris just arrived.”
“Thank you. Tell him I’ll be just a moment.”
She pulled up the security feed of her outer office and examined the man walking awkwardly toward a wing-backed chair. The notoriously tardy politician was right on time, and the large taxpayer-funded entourage he normally traveled with was conspicuously absent.
Carl Ferris had been consolidating his power in the Senate since she was in college, finally rising to the chairmanship of the Judiciary Committee. Surrounded exclusively with yes men and lobbyists, his ego had expanded to proportions unusual even by congressional standards. It gave him a gift for pontificating convincingly on any subject, ingratiating him with his constituents who tended to prefer simplicity and certainty to the more nuanced arguments of experts. The intelligence and military communities, though, saw him for what he was: an ignorant and ultimately dangerous blowhard.
He sat staring straight ahead, forgoing his normal demands from her staff for everything from coffee to the removal of a spot from his tie. It was a side of the influential senator that she had never seen, but that wasn’t entirely unexpected.
Ferris had spent the last two years building a web of disgruntle
d CIA, FBI, and State Department employees to help him in his quest to bring the Agency under his control. Combined with information fed to him by a contact high up in Pakistan’s ISI, he had been attempting to assemble enough damning evidence to hold public hearings designed to raise his own stature at the cost of America’s security. Those plans had come to a grinding halt when she and the FBI had wiretapped one of his little cabal’s meetings and arrested a number of his co-conspirators.
“How does he look?”
She glanced up at Mitch Rapp, who was sitting at one end of the conference table centered in her office. “Nervous. But reasonably healthy.”
His eyes narrowed. The CIA possessed information on heart problems that the increasingly overweight senator was keeping quiet in hopes that he would be his party’s next presidential nominee. She was convinced that the first thing Rapp did every morning was check his newsfeeds in hopes of finding a story about Carl Ferris dropping dead.
“I’m going to say again that I’d rather you weren’t part of this meeting, Mitch. Based on what we’ve learned about the Rickman situation, it’s time for a deescalation between us and the senator.”
“I’m staying.”
Kennedy sighed quietly. Ferris was scared, and that was something she could use. Panic, though, was a very different emotional state. It could create an environment where the politician turned desperate and unpredictable.
She reached for the intercom, resigned to the fact that nothing she could say would change Rapp’s mind. “Please send him in.”
Ferris entered a moment later, but froze when he saw Rapp. “What’s he doing here?”
“Please close the door behind you, Senator.”
“Are you crazy? He threatened to kill me! He said he was going to sneak into my house and—”
“Senator!” Kennedy said, allowing the volume of her voice to rise slightly. “Close the door.”
He hesitated, but finally recognized that he had no choice. Kennedy indicated toward the conference table and Ferris kept a wary eye on Rapp as he took the chair farthest from him.
For her part, Kennedy remained at her desk. It would be seen by the politician as the same power play he himself used daily, but the truth was simpler. She was repulsed by the man and preferred to maintain physical distance whenever possible.
Kennedy didn’t immediately speak, letting the politician sweat for almost a minute. He had undoubtedly gone over this meeting in his head a thousand times by now, crafting an exhaustive script of the lies and spin he was so well known for.
“I’d like you to tell us about your relationship with Pakistani intelligence,” Kennedy said finally.
“I don’t have one!” he protested. “This is ridiculous.”
“Then you’re telling me the emails we found on your maid’s computer were hers? That she was corresponding with Akhtar Durrani, the deputy director of the ISI’s external wing?”
“No, of course not. But I’ve never met the man. I swear. He started a dialogue with me and made a number of accusations about illegal CIA activity.”
“And you lapped them up,” Rapp said. “Figured they’d sound great on TV.”
“Absolutely not! But there were too many allegations to ignore.” Ferris finally conjured enough courage to look directly at Rapp. “Money diverted into Swiss bank accounts, people murdered . . .”
Rapp leaned forward over the table. “You sit there on Capitol Hill and tell us to set up a coalition government in Afghanistan. You completely ignore our warnings and force us to bring in every scumbag terrorist, warlord, and drug dealer in the region. If it stays together, you’ll take the credit. But if it blows up in everybody’s face like we’ve been telling you, you’ll act shocked and hold hearings to deflect the blame.”
“The CIA must work within the law!” Ferris almost shouted. “You answer to the government. The elected representatives of the American people.”
“My ass,” Rapp said. “You’re like a four-year-old. When you’re scared, you cling to my leg, crying and demanding that I protect you by whatever means necessary. But when I succeed, you start to feel safe again. Then you want to show everyone how brave and independent you are.”
“This is a country of laws!” Ferris exclaimed, obviously unable to come up with anything more original or to the point.
“Why didn’t you come to me with these suspicions?” Kennedy asked, hoping to regain control of the meeting. Rapp looked like he was about to explode and that wouldn’t be constructive. Not yet.
“What?” Ferris said, having trouble tracking for a moment. “Why? Because some of your people were implicated. I was concerned that you might lack objectivity.”
“I see. In that case, can I assume you discussed this with the president?”
He looked down at the table. “My inquiry hadn’t progressed to the point that it would be worth the president’s time.”
She nodded. “I see. And what do you know about Akhtar Durrani, Senator?”
“He was a respected member of the Pakistani intelligence community and has served with distinction at the ISI for—”
“So you’re not aware, for instance, that he was the man responsible for hiding Osama bin Laden from us?”
Ferris fell silent and just stared at her with a stunned expression. Obviously, the mental script he’d prepared didn’t include a response to that particular piece of information. “I . . . I don’t believe you.”
Rapp slid a file across the table with enough force that Ferris was barely quick enough to stop it from slamming into his stomach. He opened it and paged through, hands shaking visibly. “Why have you kept this secret? Why haven’t you told—”
“Because we were going to hold it over his head, you moron,” Rapp said.
“But—”
“I have to admit that the tone of your emails isn’t particularly skeptical,” Kennedy said. “In fact, you seem to be strongly siding with Durrani. I wonder what the American people would think of your close relationship with one of al Qaeda’s strongest supporters?”
Ferris closed the folder but remained silent. For the first time in his long career, he seemed to have run out of things to say.
“It’s my understanding that you’re going to be part of an upcoming congressional fact-finding mission to Pakistan.”
“In preparation for the state dinner,” Ferris muttered.
He was referring to a reception hosted by the Pakistani president in honor of a new billion-dollar humanitarian aid package to his country. Ferris, along with Secretary of State Sunny Wicka, would be two of the American dignitaries attending.
Normally, the senator would consider this kind of preparatory trip beneath him and it seemed likely that he had been planning to use it as an opportunity to meet personally with Durrani. Now that the man was dead, Kennedy couldn’t figure out why Ferris hadn’t canceled. She’d considered ordering him not to go, but then decided she could learn more by giving him a bit of rope.
“Who are you scheduled to meet with, Senator?”
“No one in particular,” he said a little too emphatically. “I’m just following the itinerary set up by the State Department.”
Kennedy considered revealing more of what she knew about his activities, but it seemed unnecessary at this juncture. Her point had been made. Maybe including Mitch Rapp in the meeting had been beneficial after all.
“You’ve had a long and illustrious career, Senator. But continuing to escalate your vendetta against the CIA is dangerous to both the country’s security and to you personally.”
He gave a contrite nod.
“Then I can look forward to an improved relationship with your office?”
“Of course. My only concern is the safety and prosperity of America and my constituents.”
Rapp laughed out loud but she remained serene. “Then enjoy your trip to Islamabad, Senator.”
He was unaccustomed to being dismissed and just sat there with a confused expression until Rapp spoke.
“She means get the fuck out, dipshit.”
That set him into motion. He stood, took one last look at the file on the desk, and then hurried to the door. Rapp waited until it was closed to speak again.
“I looked at the official schedule for his trip. Just another excuse for a bunch of congressmen to ride around in limos and go shopping.”
“Maybe.”
“You think it’s more?”
“He’s a man used to power, Mitch. Is his ego really going to allow him to subordinate himself? To admit that he’s lost this battle?”
“If he’s smart it will.”
“But he’s not—he’s a good politician. Like you’re fond of pointing out, there’s a difference.”
“If we’re going to make a play for him, we should do it while he’s over there. It’ll be easier to cover up. We could make it look like a heart attack.” He paused and smiled in a way that made even her feel a little uncomfortable. “Or we could go for irony. Make him the victim of a phony terrorist attack.”
“I didn’t hear any of that.”
“No? Well, hear this, Irene. If you want to watch him and try to turn him into your lapdog, fine. Right now Carl Ferris is just a pathetic joke to me. But when I stop laughing, he stops breathing.”
CHAPTER 9
THE FARM
NEAR HARPERS FERRY
WEST VIRGINIA
U.S.A.
ONCE again, Mitch Rapp found himself standing in front of the cell holding Louis-Philippe Gould. And once again, Stan Hurley was watching.
“Want me to hold on to your gun?”
It was a noticeable change in his friend’s attitude. A few days ago, he’d have paid money to walk in there and execute the Frenchman. Now they needed him. Hurley perhaps more than anyone.