The Last Man (27 page)

Coleman laughed. “You sure did.”

“Do I speak this way to people very often?”

“When they happen to be,” Coleman said, “scumbags like Zahir, the answer is yes.”

It seemed as if each hour Rapp was learning more about his past, and by association, himself. He had a basic overview of who he was but the details were always a little shocking. It was eerie coming to grips with the stark reality that he had murdered people. There were no, oh-my-god-I’m-a-monster type moments. It was more or less, that’s who I am, I need to keep filling in this puzzle and when it’s done I can sit back and judge my actions in their totality, or not. That was the other abnormal thing about this process of getting to know himself again: The second time around you saw things that you might have missed on the first go round.

“So I threatened to put a five-hundred-K bounty on this guy’s head.”

“Yes . . . and you threatened to stick a Tomahawk missile up his ass as well.” Grinning, Coleman added, “I know it sounds harsh, but it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. He’s a real piece of shit. I think you made that pretty clear to him as well.”

“So I call him back and find out what he has.”

“Yes, but you’re probably going to have to be a bit of a prick. Do you think you’re up to it?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“All right. We have him marked in Jalalabad.” Coleman looked over Hayek’s shoulder at the blinking red light. “Hmm . . .”

“What?” Rapp asked.

“It looks like he’s just a block away from the safe house.” He tapped Hayek on the shoulder. “Everything ready to go?”

“In a second.” All of Rapp’s clothes had been cut off him when he arrived at the hospital, and his personal possessions, such as his phones and fake ID’s and credit cards, had been placed in a bag and kept in a storage room. It was just another thing that was overlooked in the chaos. Hayek was now syncing Rapp’s phone via Bluetooth to her laptop, so they could record and monitor the call. When it was ready to go, she plugged in two sets of headphones, handing one to Coleman and keeping the other for herself.

“The number’s already punched in,” she said as she handed Rapp the phone, “just hit send.”

“You said we have people back at Langley monitoring all of his calls.”

“That’s right.”

“And if they record me threatening to kill him on the phone?”

Coleman jumped in. “We’re not the FBI. We’re supposed to threaten people like Zahir. When we’re done, we’ll make sure all the recordings are erased.”

“Fine.” Rapp hit Send and tried to put himself in the proper mindset.

Chapter 37

Jalalabad, Afghanistan

Zahir had no formal police training, but he was no fool. He stroked his thick black beard and looked at the bodies. The big man he thought he recognized. He was hardcore Taliban. Unlike Zahir, who was whatever he needed to be to survive, this man had stayed faithful when the Americans swept in and mopped up the Taliban. That was the first time Zahir had done business with Rickman. He had shown up in his village on horseback with a dozen bearded fighters and two American warplanes circling overhead like predators. By then the news had spread. The Taliban had collapsed in the face of the American onslaught. For Zahir, an expert at predicting which way the wind would blow, the decision was easy.

As Rickman laid it out, Zahir could either take twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and contribute some fighters to the cause, or the Navy F-18 Hornets circling above would lay his village to waste. Zahir wasn’t even offended. It was the easiest decision he had ever made. It was made all the more easier knowing that he would likely change sides many times as this war raged on. The Taliban had run to their haven on the other side of the Pakistani border, but they would be back. Zahir liked Rickman and respected him. He never took it personally when Zahir’s loyalty wavered. He simply looked at it as a challenge to bring Zahir back to his side. That fool Hubbard, however, was another story. He lacked Rickman’s cunning. He had been so easy to push around. Not like the crazy American from two days ago. Zahir had tried to find out who he was, but his resources were limited and he had a feeling that, like so many of these damn CIA men, he had been given a fake name.

For the first time in four years Sickles had refused to take his calls, which was not a good sign. Then Hubbard disappeared, which seemed strange since he was last seen at the air base and there was no record of him leaving the base. And then there was the big gunfight in Kabul. Twenty-one police officers killed in broad daylight by a group of American contractors. It had filled the airwaves for two straight days. He knew that most of it was inaccurate, as Zahir had been briefed that General Qayem and his men ambushed the Americans. The general had fled and the Afghan National Police were reeling from the treachery. It was one thing to siphon off funds for your own personal use, but to use your men to try and kill Americans was madness. Add to it that twenty-one of his own men had been killed and Zahir was willing to bet that the reckless General Qayem would be moved to the top of the Americans’ most-wanted list.

It was total chaos. Why would Qayem do such a thing? Zahir could only hazard a few guesses, but it was likely a mix of large amounts of money and promises of more power when the Americans left. That was the new game—everyone was gambling on when the Americans would pull out and the Taliban would come rushing back in. Zahir wasn’t so sure it was that black and white. The Taliban even at their peak couldn’t control the entire country. Various local factions, including warlords and drug dealers, had consolidated power and armed themselves with the tools of war.

Zahir was a perfect example. Plans were in place to move all of his men and the American-supplied equipment back to their villages. Ammunition and spare parts had been disappearing since the day he put on his uniform. And this time would be easier with the fleet of well-maintained trucks under his command. Zahir had never doubted that the Taliban would be back. They were like weeds, as much a part of the landscape as the rocks and the trees, but Zahir understood their power would be limited this time. The secret to Afghanistan was that anyone could wreak havoc but none could govern. The Taliban had learned that mistake just as countless others had, dating all the way back to Alexander the Great. Even with all of the brutality they employed against the people, they were struggling to maintain their hold on Kabul and other large cities where the people didn’t feel like living under absolute Sharia law. Most Afghans were willing to live under a more relaxed form of the Muslim law, but when men from the mountains start beating your wife or daughters because they don’t like the color of their hijab, resentment and hatred mounts quickly.

There was one very simple reason Zahir would never throw his complete support behind the Taliban; They had no airpower. It was Zahir’s greatest fear. The Americans had killed countless men with their unmanned drones and their high-tech jets. What most people didn’t understand was that the Americans would never truly leave. Those drones would always be overhead, listening and watching, and that was why Zahir wanted so badly to give the crazy American some information that would satisfy him. The future of Afghanistan was uncertain, as it always had been. Alliances would continue to shift, but on this particular day Zahir was sure of just one thing—he had stumbled upon something that would likely save his life. Now he just needed the American to call him back.

When his phone finally rang he was back on the street smoking and relieved he was breathing fresh air. The house behind him was a mess. The basement so foul, he could not last more than a minute breathing the putrid smells. The small screen on his phone told him the number was blocked. He was both hopeful and nervous.

“This is Commander Zahir.”

“You better have something for me.”

Zahir thought he heard the menacing drone of a propeller overhead. Craning his neck skyward he searched for the telltale speck of gray. A layer of high clouds made it impossible. He couldn’t fight the ominous feeling that the American had him literally in the crosshairs. “I do,” Zahir started. “Have you seen the tape of Mr. Rick? The one that is all over the Internet?”

There was a pause and then, “Yes.”

“I have found something that you need to see.”

“What is it?”

“I am pretty sure it is the house where Mr. Rick was being tortured.”

“Why do you think that?”

Zahir turned and looked at the two-story stone house. He had one of his people looking into the utility and ownership records. “There is a room in the basement. Two of the walls are covered with sheets just like in the video.”

“What else?”

“A rope attached to the ceiling, just like in the video, and there is lots of blood on the floor.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, two bodies.” Zahir’s pulse quickened. This, he hoped was what would save his life. “I am certain they are the two men seen in the video who are beating Mr. Rick.” There was another awkward silence. Zahir could barely make out other people talking.

“The men are wearing masks in the video. How can you be certain?”

“They are still wearing their masks. On their heads, not covering their faces.”

“And they’re dead?”

“Yes . . . shot many times.”

“All right, Commander, you’ve made a big step in getting your ass out of trouble, but you’re not all the way there. I need you to text me photos of the bodies and room. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes.”

“Now I’m looking at a screen that tells me you’re close to Mr. Rick’s safe house, is that right?”

“Yes. Very close.”

“Do you have the house secure?”

“Yes. We have touched nothing.”

“Good.” After a long pause, the American said, “Send me those photos and then I will call you back in five minutes with instructions.”

“Yes, but I can promise you it is them.”

“And I can promise you if you’re lying to me or this is some kind of trap, you’re as good as dead.”

“I would never do such a thing.”

“Really,” the American said in a disbelieving voice. “You know General Qayem?”

Zahir cringed. This was the last man he wanted to be compared with. “Yes.”

“You heard what happened in Kabul the other day with your fellow police officers?”

“Yes. We are all deeply ashamed.”

“Spare me the bullshit, Commander. I was there. They tried to ambush us. We lost one man before we even knew we were in a fight. After that it was just four of us against all of those cops. It didn’t turn out so well for them. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think I understand,” Zahir said, turning away from one of his officers who was trying to get his attention.

“I’m not so sure you do. The point is, thanks to General Qayem we’re a little itchy with our trigger fingers right now and when we come to see you we’ll be traveling with a lot more than four people.”

“Mr. Harry,” Zahir said with a sigh, “I am many things, but I am not stupid. I know you will hunt down General Qayem like a dog, and he will pay for his treachery. I do not want you as my enemy. I do not want the U.S. as my enemy.”

“You’re saying all the right things, Abdul, which makes me nervous. Don’t fuck with me.”

“I will not fuck with you, Mr. Harry.”

“Send me the photos, and I’ll be in contact.”

The line went dead and Zahir stared down at his phone cursing the modern technology that enabled the Americans to track him. They’d known where he was. He looked skyward again in search of one of their drones. He thought he could hear a faint hum but he couldn’t be sure. That was another effect of the Americans’ air campaign. The psychological stress could be overwhelming. The fear that there was a drone circling above, out of sight, that was tracking your every move was incredibly disruptive. Add to that the awareness that there was some man in a trailer thousands of miles away following you with targeting crosshairs, just waiting for the green light to press a button and end your life. Zahir had seen it drive men mad and as he continued to search the sky for the Predator he understood how easily it could happen.

Chapter 38

Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan

Headaches were rare for Kennedy. She’d already had two cups of coffee and popped two Excedrin but it didn’t matter, the nagging buzz in her left temple persisted. Trying to diagnose why it had come on wouldn’t do her any good but it wasn’t Ashan’s fault. Nadeem was a pleasant man who had been a fair partner in the War on Terror. The same, unfortunately, couldn’t be said of most of his colleagues at the Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence. Maybe that was the reason for this rare headache. Ashan had picked up on it immediately. Kennedy had a reputation as unflappable. In times of calm or crisis she always maintained her composure. The steady demeanor she was known for made her pained expression all the more obvious.

“Are you sure you are okay?” Ashan asked.

Kennedy removed her hand from her forehead and, although she was wincing in pain, said, “I’ll be fine.” She looked around the table and was not comforted by the concerned expressions on both Nash’s and Schneeman’s faces. The two deputies that Ashan had brought along seemed unfazed.

Nash leaned over and quietly offered, “Take a break. I’ll handle it until you get back.”

It was a nice offer, but one that Kennedy wasn’t about to take. “See if you can find me a couple of Excedrin or Extra-Strength Tylenol. And a bottle of water, please.” She watched Nash leave and forced herself to put on a smile. She thought Ashan might understand the monumental pressure. The Rickman problem was getting bigger every hour. After the posting of the video, she had been called by the head of every allied intelligence agency. They all wanted to know their level of exposure. It was common to share assets, especially with the British, and although the agreement might only be for one person at the Agency to know the identity of their spy, say in Budapest, it was not irrational to wonder if that person had told other colleagues at the CIA. Kennedy assured all of them that Rickman had not been read in on any of their assets. While technically correct, the statement in a more broad sense was false. God only knew what Rickman had picked up over the years.