The Last Man (39 page)

Hurley shrugged. “He wouldn’t be the first guy to think that.”

Kennedy took a sip of wine and agreed.

“You could have forced him to come back,” Rapp said.

“I thought about it, but when I checked with JSOC and some other in-country assets they almost had heart attacks. To a person, they said they couldn’t manage without him.”

“So your solution,” Lewis said, “was to bring him back for two weeks of briefings.”

Hurley scoffed, “Let me guess . . . you made him get on the couch with Doc here.”

Kennedy shrugged. “Standard procedure. I make everyone do them. Even you two.”

“A lot of good it did me,” Hurley said sarcastically. Turning to Lewis, he quickly added, “Sorry, Doc. Not your fault. I’m pretty fucked up.”

Lewis smiled. “No offense taken, and you’re not fucked up . . . just complicated.”

“No,” Rapp said, “I’m pretty sure he’s fucked up.”

Hurley roared. “Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

“I’m not saying I don’t have issues,” Rapp grinned. “They’re just not as bad as yours.”

“Easy, Junior. Give yourself another thirty years and we’ll see how you’re doing.”

“We all have issues.” Kennedy held up her wineglass and said, “Considering what the two of you have been through I think you’re coping quite well.”

Hurley and Rapp took the words with a silent thanks and then Hurley, ever impatient, looked to Lewis and asked, “So what did you find out when you got Rick on the couch?”

“Not much. We had only had two sessions. Each one about two hours.”

“Did you get a sense that he was holding on too tight?” Rapp asked.

Lewis shook his head. “I didn’t get a sense of anything. You guys,” Lewis said, pointing at Rapp and Hurley, “are two of my more difficult patients. It took me years to earn your trust and you still will only crack that door a fraction. Rickman makes you two look like ideal patients. Have any of you read his jacket?”

Kennedy nodded while Rapp and Hurley shook their heads. “His IQ,” Lewis said, “is 205.”

Hurley scratched his cheek and said, “That doesn’t mean jack shit to me.”

“The highest in the building,” Kennedy said, “by a good margin.”

“The two of you combined,” Lewis said, pointing at Hurley and then Rapp, “might match him.”

“Doc, I’m sure he’s smart as shit, but my experience with guys like that is that they don’t cope real well with life.”

“That’s a fair point. There were a few things I picked up during our session. A potential sense of isolation, difficulty in coping with people, especially those outside his immediate circle. As you said, coping issues.”

“But,” Kennedy quickly added, “coping issues are not unusual for our people when they’ve been abroad for extended periods of time. The two of you have experienced it many times. You come back after enduring some pretty hard stuff and you have no patience for people who want to complain about the mundane.”

Actually, Hurley had a very low tolerance for people in general. “Any chance he went native?”

“We don’t have even close to enough information to say that, but he definitely began to withdraw over the past year.” Lewis was quick to add that he wasn’t passing judgment on anyone. “Looking back on things, it’s much easier to see a pattern. Sickles lost all control of him. It’s almost as if Rickman had become Darren’s boss, or at least stopped answering to him.”

“Irene,” Rapp said, “I really hope you hammer Darren. He’s an incompetent ass and a damn embarrassment.”

Kennedy was getting a lot of advice from a wide range of people regarding what she had to do in the wake of the disaster in Afghanistan. “We’re debriefing him right now. I want to make sure I know everything he knows and then I’ll make the decision on his employment.” She didn’t want the conversation to stray from the point, so she said, “Back to Rick . . . we don’t have anything definitive, and I’m not sure we will, but I’ve got three of my best analysts going over everything. If he made a mistake they’ll find it.”

Rapp shook his head like he wasn’t buying it. “They won’t find anything. He didn’t make mistakes. He always covered his tracks unless he wanted anyone looking to find something.”

“Like the banker,” Hurley said. He took a gulp of Jack Daniel’s and added, “Is that guy on your approved list, and if he is, what in the fuck is he doing talking to the FBI?”

Langley had a list of private bankers they used to handle funds for black operations. The banks were spread around between Switzerland, Cyprus, Gibraltar, the Caymans, Singapore, and a few other places. The banks and the bankers were thoroughly vetted before they were approved for business. Kennedy was the only person in the building who had possession of the complete list. She shook her head. “No . . . he’s not on the list.”

“What about the bank?” Rapp asked, thinking that maybe Obrecht had spied on one of his colleagues.

“No. We’ve never done business with this bank or anyone who works there.”

“And you’ve seen this affidavit?” Hurley asked.

“Yes . . . this afternoon. If we can believe Agent Wilson, and I’m not sure we can, Obrecht claims he did business with both Mitch and Rick. Helped them open several accounts and received deposits of several million dollars in cash. There’s also a safety deposit box.”

“Contents?” Hurley asked.

Kennedy shook her head. “It doesn’t say.”

“And, Mitch, you swear you’ve never seen this guy?”

“Never. I have no idea who he is.”

Hurley looked at Lewis. “Could it be the head injury?”

“It’s too soon to say, but his recall seems to be pretty good. We have yet to find an instance where once he’s reminded of something it doesn’t trigger the recall.”

“I’ve never seen the guy, and besides,” Rapp said looking at Kennedy, “I’ve disclosed all my financials. You’ve seen how well my brother’s done for me. I don’t need to steal money.” Rapp’s brother was a brainiac on Wall Street and had taken Rapp’s savings and turned them into a very nice portfolio.

“You better not have disclosed all your financials,” Hurley said in his typical gruff tone. “Have you learned nothing from me?”

“Stan,” Kennedy said in a chiding tone.

“Stan, nothing,” Hurley shot back. “We’re out there putting our nuts on the chopping block. We don’t get any hazard pay. You know the rule, if we come across some ill-gotten gains along the way they go into our rainy-day fund.”

This was all old-school. Kennedy hated it when they talked this way around her. On a certain level she understood where they were coming from, but it was something she could never condone. “This is the type of talk that gets a man like Wilson all lathered up.”

Hurley slapped his hand through the air, rejecting the complaint. “We’re not stupid. The majority of the stuff we come across gets kicked into the various accounts we’re talking about to help fund these ops, but you can’t begrudge my boys’ taking a little commission along the way. It’s the only insurance we have if we need to run.”

“Well, you shouldn’t need to run.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Hurley was getting angry. “Try to tell that to this idiot Wilson and that cock sucker Ferris. Shit.” Hurley set his drink down and grabbed a pack of unfiltered Camels. As he lit the cigarette he caught the look of concern on Kennedy’s face. Hurley exhaled a cloud of smoke into the lights above the table and said, “Listen here, princess. I have cancer. I’m going to die. A couple more of these aren’t going to matter.” Hurley took another drag and then felt bad for the rebuke. Kennedy was like a niece to him. “I’ve had an amazing life. No regrets . . . at least none that I’m going to tell this group . . . well, maybe I’ll tell Mitch before I croak, but I don’t want to see any long faces. We’re all dying. The fact that I’ve made it this long is amazing.” Hurley held up his glass. “To a full life.”

They all touched glasses. Kennedy wiped a single tear from her cheek and laughed. “It is pretty amazing that you’ve lived this long. You’ve been smoking those things for as long as I can remember.”

“Before you were born,” Hurley added with a wink and a swig of Jack Daniel’s. “Started at fourteen back in Bowling Green.” Hurley got this faraway look on his face as he thought of his childhood, stint in the military, and then the glory years of working for the CIA behind the Iron Curtain. He had lived a blessed life. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and said, “Back to this banker. I assume we’re digging deep.”

“I have Marcus on it, as well as a few other things. So far nothing to go on but we do have something that . . . ah, is a little odd.” Kennedy looked almost sheepish as she turned to Rapp. “Something we need to discuss, actually.” She didn’t know exactly how to do this, so she just said it. “Does the name Louie Gould ring a bell?”

The glass of vodka was half full. Rapp looked into it and for a moment considered throwing the whole thing back. Instead he pushed it toward the center of the table and said, “I remember him.”

“You remember what he did?”

Rapp didn’t flinch. “He killed my wife.”

Kennedy swallowed hard and asked, “Do you remember what happened with him in Kabul?”

“That part’s a little fuzzy. I remember seeing him right before all hell broke loose and then nothing.”

Kennedy had been trying to figure out the odds of this strange coincidence. “Would you care to take a guess where Gould does his banking in Switzerland?”

“Herr Obrecht.”

“That’s right. He is Mr. Gould’s private banker.”

“You’re shitting me.” Hurley was out of his chair. “This whole fucking thing is really starting to stink.”

Kennedy was used to this kinetic behavior. Hurley, like Rapp, was not good at sitting still for very long. She likened it to sharks that never stop moving. “Gould has other bankers that he uses, but Obrecht is one of his main ones.”

Hurley paced to the refrigerator, exhaled a cloud of smoke, took a drink, and then came back to the table. “You know what this is starting to look like?”

Kennedy nodded. She’d thought it through.

“A well-planned, multi-pronged attack. Layered like the Russians used to do. Confusing as all shit until you got rid of all the deceptions and the feints and focused on their objective.”

“And what’s the objective this time?” Kennedy asked.

“The hell if I know. I mean we know, in a general sense, that this was designed to cripple us, but we don’t know the specifics yet.”

Rapp frowned and shook his head. A memory was coming back to him. A conversation he’d had with Rickman a long time ago. It was vague because Rickman had been talking so fast and flying off on tangents and then circling back.

Kennedy noticed the look on Rapp’s face and asked, “What are you thinking?”

“Something Rick said to me years ago . . . probably fifteen-plus. I don’t remember all of it, but it was about clandestine operations and how they should be set up and run on multiple levels. It was about recruiting high-placed assets. That it wasn’t enough to just recruit them. To increase our chances for success, secondary and tertiary operations needed to be launched that would distract the watchers . . . the guys who would be keeping an eye on our asset to make sure he wasn’t spying for the other side. He was very animated when he made the point that to increase our chances of success we needed to disrupt those people.” Rapp’s face brightened as it started to come back to him. He snapped his fingers. “His idea was to frame the watchers, for example by making it look like they themselves were spies . . . set up real accounts in their names and if our asset was uncovered make the information public so the watchers would be distracted defending themselves. He advocated sleeping with the person’s spouse and a slew of things . . . anything that would trip the watchers up.”

“So you’re saying that’s what another intelligence agency was doing to us by using Herr Obrecht?”

“Possibly . . . they set up this bullshit story with this banker and they spoon-feed the info to the FBI to throw us off our game. And it almost worked. If Wilson had gotten a toehold, you and I and a lot of other people would be spending a shitload of time with the Feds right now, trying to prove our innocence.”

“If your theory is right,” Kennedy said, “then what’s their endgame? What are they trying to distract us from? And what does a theory Rickman had fifteen years ago have to do with it?”

Rapp grabbed his glass of vodka and took a drink. He thought about the last week and its roller-coaster of emotions. The “oh shit” fear when they’d found out Rick was gone, the horror and panic over the release of the interrogation clip, and the absolute relief many of them had felt when they’d found the camera and learned that Rickman was dead and his secrets were safe. That was the feint, Rapp realized. “You’re not going to want to hear this,” Rapp finally said, looking at Kennedy. “Rick’s not dead. They just wanted us to think he was dead.”

“You have no proof . . . it’s just your gut!”

“I told you already. I didn’t buy the idea that the same people who hit the safe house could have accidentally killed Rick and then conveniently left behind that camera for us to find.”

For Kennedy it was a frightening proposition. “This is all conjecture.”

“You feel comfortable not acting on it?”

She thought about that for a long time. “No, I don’t.”

“Then I’d better get my butt to Zurich ASAP.”

“Are you up to it?”

“I feel fine.”

Kennedy looked at Lewis for his opinion. “Just don’t hit your head,” the doctor warned Rapp.

“Zurich’s a safe city. I’ll be fine.” Looking back to Kennedy he asked, “Surveillance?”

“I have a team in place.”

“How aggressive?”

“Not . . . I don’t want to spook him.”

“Good.”

Kennedy glanced at Hurley. “You up for the trip?”

“Let me see. I can either stay here and listen to my oncologist try to talk me into taking rat poison or I can go to Switzerland and beat the shit out of some banker. Tough call.”

“Stan,” Kennedy said in a tone that showed she was not amused.

“Of course I’ll go.”

“Good.” Turning her attention back to Rapp she said, “One more thing. I want you to talk to Gould before you leave.”