The Last Man (33 page)

“Thomas always told me I needed to understand just how rough things could get in the field.”

Thomas was Thomas Stansfield, Kennedy’s mentor and her predecessor. Rapp thought highly of the man, but there were times where he wondered if Kennedy didn’t try a little too hard to live up to Stansfield and his legend. “Being detached has never been a problem of yours. Don’t beat yourself up over this. It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault. It’s just part of the job.”

“It’s a part I don’t like.”

“It’s a part none of us like, but we move on.” Rapp grabbed her hand and said, “Someone I respect told me once to take a little time to grieve and then get my shit together and get back in the game.”

“Stan?”

Rapp nodded. The tough, no-nonsense Stan Hurley was famous for telling people to suck it up.

“And if I can’t?”

“Then you go see our favorite shrink.”

Kennedy spun her chair and looked out across the tree-laden landscape of the Potomac River Valley. She hadn’t made an appointment with Dr. Lewis yet, but she would have to. She was going to need some help sorting through all of this guilt and relief. The problem would be finding the time. Her schedule was booked solid with meetings that had been rescheduled because of the emergency trip to Afghanistan and fresh meetings with allies who wanted to discuss the fallout from Rickman. And then there was Congress. They wanted a briefing this afternoon and Kennedy had a little surprise for them. Hayek’s DNA samples from the torture room had brought in a match. One of the men in the video was Wafa Zadran, who had spent three years in Guantanamo. Several members of the Joint Intelligence Committee were harsh critics of the detention center in Cuba and had made a platform out of lecturing the CIA and the Pentagon that Gitmo was a recruiting tool for terrorists. This particular group of politicians fell into the dangerous mindset that Islamic radicals thought, acted and behaved like anyone else, and if you were simply nice to them they would be nice to you in return. In its mildest form, this type of this was naïve, and in its harshest form it was extremely narcissistic. Either way, it was wrong and did nothing to help fight Islamic terrorism. Zadran was yet another example of their failed and shortsighted policy, but Kennedy knew these politicians all too well. They would never accept responsibility for what they’d done.

There was a soft knock on the door and then a woman in her mid-fifties entered. It was Betty Walner, the CIA’s director of the Office of Public Affairs. “Everything is ready. Do I have your authorization to release the clip?”

The clip was their solution to the stampede of panicked agents and assets. Chuck O’Brien, the director of the National Clandestine Service, had advocated the idea. As O’Brien put it, “Dead men don’t tell secrets. This will put an end to it.”

Kennedy was averse to the idea at first. The CIA didn’t like making sensitive things public, and this was about as sensitive as it could get. Her mind had been pretty much made up for her when the terrorists decided to release a second edited clip of Rickman’s beating. It became obvious that they were going to try to milk Rickman’s interrogation to make it seem as if he was still alive. O’Brien’s idea became the toaster in the bathwater. Release the clip of Rickman’s death and short-circuit the entire game. There was also a serious opportunity to embarrass the Taliban by showing the execution of the two interrogators by one of their own. It would make them look like rank amateurs.

“Yes, the White House signed off on it,” Kennedy said, reaching for her cup of tea.

“I’ve already received more than a few requests for interviews with you.”

“I’m too busy right now.”

“I know you are, but you’re going to need to make some statements. First about Rickman and Hubbard and their service to our country. You have to do that.”

Kennedy nodded. “I will at some point.”

“It needs to be today.”

Kennedy didn’t take it personally. Walner was just trying to do her job. “I’ll have something prepared by the end of the day.”

“And it would really help if you’d do a sit-down with a half dozen or so reporters.”

“Off the record?”

Walner shook her head. “Not on this one, Irene. It’s too big. Have you had time to read the papers today?”

“No.”

“The hawks on the Hill are screaming bloody murder over the reintegration program in Afghanistan and all the green-on-blue violence. They’re laying all the blame on the White House, and you’re stuck in the middle. Five at the most and they’ll have you in a committee room with cameras and they’ll be asking anything they want. Your best chance is to start shaping your message right now.”

Kennedy looked down the length of her office at the small hallway that connected her office to the deputy director’s office. Stofer was leading a group of her top advisors her way. She didn’t have the energy to deal with the media right now and she wanted to hear what her advisors had to say. “Stop back in a few hours with a plan and we’ll review it,” she said to Walner.

Walner left and Kennedy got up with her cup of tea and moved over to the seating area, which was composed of one long couch with its back to the window, a rectangular, glass coffee table, and four chairs, two across from the couch and one at each end of the coffee table. Kennedy took her normal seat and set her cup of tea on the table. “So where do we stand?” she asked her advisers.

The director of the Clandestine Service looked at Stofer and then Rapp and cleared his throat. “Irene, none of us are taking this well. It sucks, but all things considered, Rick dying is not a bad outcome. I know it sounds harsh, but it’s the reality of our business.”

“So this is your glass-is-half-full pep talk?”

O’Brien looked a bit sheepish. “I’m not proud of, it but if that’s the way you want to look at, that’s fine with me.” He nervously twisted the gold band on his wedding-ring finger and added, “It could have been a hundred times worse.”

Kennedy took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”

“Remember Buckley?” O’Brien said in an ominous tone. Bill Buckley was the CIA’s station chief in Beirut who was kidnapped by Hezbollah in 1984.

Kennedy remembered Buckley. He was a friend of her parents. After his kidnapping and subsequent torture his interrogators beat information out of him until they’d discovered his entire network of spies and assets. One by one those people simply disappeared or were found dead. The disaster crippled the CIA for more than a decade in the region. “I imagine we’ve all spent a good deal of time thinking about Bill this week.” She looked at her tea for a moment and admitted, “You’re right, it could have been a lot worse, but somehow that doesn’t make me feel very good right now.”

“I hate to sound harsh,” O’Brien said in his deep voice, “but Rick probably welcomed this. After what he went through . . .” O’Brien shook his head, “I wouldn’t want to see my worst enemy have to endure that.”

Rapp didn’t know if it was his head injury or if he’d always thought like this, but he was not comfortable with all of the emotions that everyone was wearing on their sleeves. This was CIA, and more precisely, the Clandestine Service. The department were filled with bad asses from every branch of the military. They were the risk takers, the ones who were sent in to do the dirty work. You could try to soften torture and call it enhanced interrogation measures, but Rapp had used more than enhanced interrogation measures and so had Rickman. It was the world they lived in. It sucked that Rickman had to endure that kind of abuse, but they were professionals. There was also something else bothering him that he couldn’t put his finger on. It was a feeling that something wasn’t right, that things didn’t add up.

“How’s your head?”

Rapp looked up to see Kennedy studying him. He felt fine, just a little tired. “Not bad.”

Her gaze narrowed and she said, “You looked like you were in pain.”

“No . . . just thinking about something.” Rapp leaned forward and brought his hands together, and then, deflecting Kennedy, asked, “So where are we with this idiot from the FBI?”

“You’ll be interested to know that Scott saw him take a little ride with our old friend Senator Ferris last night.”

“Do we have audio?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Do I need to worry about this guy?”

Kennedy shook her head. “He has a meeting this morning with Director Miller. We’ve already discussed the matter and Miller assures me Agent Wilson will no longer be a problem.”

“Good,” Rapp said, and then, changing gears, asked, “And the transcript? I heard Rick threw them a curveball or two.”

Stofer opened a black leather briefing folder. “That’s right. He tossed out a few names . . . the names of people who as far as I know do not work for us.”

“Who?” Kennedy asked.

Stofer adjusted his reading glasses and said, “Aleksei Garin, SVR Directorate S.” Stofer whistled. “That’s going to be a tough one to swallow.”

“I’m not sure anyone over there has the balls to confront Aleksei. He’s not afraid to put bullets in people’s heads.”

Everyone agreed and then Stofer said, “Shahram Jafari, head of Iran’s Atomic Energy Organization. Another tough one to swallow, but they’re so damn paranoid they might make Jafari’s life miserable— at least for a while. They’ll be turning themselves inside out trying to find out if Jafari is a traitor. The last one isn’t so clean. He identified Nadeem Ashan with the ISI. He doesn’t work for us per se, but we consider him a valuable ally.”

“Why would Rick throw Ashan’s name in the mix?” Rapp asked.

O’Brien poured himself a cup of coffee and said, “It could have been the first name that popped into his head. Anything to stop the pain. You know how it goes.”

Rapp did, but Rickman was smarter than that. He would have had a prearranged list in his head. “We should to look into Rick’s relationship with Ashan. See if there’s anything there.”

“We’re already on it,” Stofer said.

The main door to the office opened and Stan Hurley entered. “Sorry I’m late. What did I miss?”

Rapp looked at his mentor as he moved across the large office with his smooth amble. For a seventy-plus-year old with terminal cancer he sure didn’t act like it. Hurley’s gait was the only thing about him that was smooth. He was a hard man, with hard edges, a hard personality, and a craggy disposition. This was the first time Rapp had seen him since learning he had cancer. For a split second he was about to stand to greet Hurley, maybe even give him a hug, but the reaction lost steam as quickly as it had come on. Hurley wasn’t a hugger. He didn’t like people touching him. He called it an institutional hazard. So instead Rapp gave him a short nod of recognition.

Kennedy and Stofer quickly filled Hurley in on what he’d missed. When they were done O’Brien filled the dead air by saying, “Irene, Betty wants me to say some things to the press. A few comments about Rick and Hub and their sacrifice.”

Kennedy nodded slowly. “That’d be nice. Thank you.”

No one spoke for a long moment and eventually all eyes turned to Rapp, who was clutching and unclutching his hands as if he were doing some new-age stress reduction exercise. Stofer spoke first, “Mitch, what’s wrong?”

Rapp wasn’t sure this was the time, but he knew it was better to speak his mind now. “I’m sorry to spoil the party here, but something’s not right.”

“What’s not right?” Kennedy asked.

“We’re all breathing a big sigh of relief when I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being set up.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” O’Brien said. “Rick’s dead.”

Rapp wasn’t prepared to refute that point, but neither was he convinced that Rickman was no longer of this world. “I was at the safe house,” Rapp said, remembering the four dead bodyguards. “It was an extremely precise takedown. The kind of op we’d be proud of,” he said, looking at Hurley. “A state-of-the-art security system taken offline without our watchers at Langley having any idea, four bullets, four dead bodyguards, and not a shot more . . . all suppressed. The safe is opened, not cracked, and Rick’s laptop, files, cash, and God only knows what else goes missing. And not a witness to any of it.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Stofer said earnestly.

Kennedy rubbed her forehead. She had known Mitch wasn’t going to be able to accept this. Nothing could ever be this simple. Stofer, for his part, was too reverential toward Rapp. Having come up on the analytical side he had seen many of his predecessors manage the clandestine side of the business with condescension. Stofer worked extra hard to make sure the operatives felt that they were being heard. “You agree,” Kennedy said, “that Rick is dead?”

Rapp took a moment and then said, “I’m not sure.”

O’Brien moaned, “Come on, Mitch, it’s not that complicated. He dies right on the tape. You can see the panic on the faces of the two goons when they realize what they’ve done. The anger in the third guy’s voice when he can’t find a pulse.”

“Yeah . . . I know,” Rapp said, almost sounding as if he doubted himself.

“And then the third guy executes the other two. We know that was real because you guys found the bodies in the exact same position as they were last seen on the video.”

“But we don’t have Rick’s body.”

“Doesn’t surprise me one bit,” O’Brien said with total confidence. “They’re trying to act like he’s still alive. They’re going to do a slow drip, releasing snippets of the interrogation, only they don’t know we have the entire thing, because the idiots took the SD card and didn’t know the camera had an internal flash drive.”

Rapp wasn’t so sure, but he stuck with what he knew. “Someone, or more likely several men, hit the safe house and they were extremely precise in their shots. Rick is then taken only a few hundred yards to another house, presumably by the same guys. The interrogation begins and a few days into it Rick dies. The third guy, who is obviously in charge, gets upset and empties a fifteen-round magazine into these two goons who screwed up.”

“And your point is?” O’Brien asked as if all of this made perfect sense.

“We’re shooters,” Rapp said, waving his thumb back and forth between Hurley and himself. “If we had hit that safe house it would have been no different. One shot in each guy’s head. If we’d brought Scott along with his guys, would have been some double taps . . . but my point is there’s always a pattern. Good shooters are disciplined shooters. It doesn’t matter how mad we get, we don’t empty magazines into people just because we’re pissed off.”