The Survivor (29 page)

Anna had been everything to him, but as time went on he could start to see the flaws in their relationship. She'd come to terms with what he did but had never become comfortable with it. He could see now that the dissonance had been slowly driving her insane. Anna believed strongly that people were fundamentally good and that violence inevitably led to disaster. He'd developed a somewhat different philosophy.

It was time to change his life before it was too late. Shaking off the habits he'd picked up from Hurley was a good start, but there was going to be a lot more to it than that. Selling the burned husk of his and Anna's home would have to finally happen. And getting out of the dank apartment he'd landed in wouldn't hurt, either. Most of all, though, he needed to figure out how he could be in a relationship that didn't end with an ice pick in the ear or his partner having a nervous breakdown.

For now, though, he had to shove all that into a dark corner of his mind. If he didn't stop Rickman, his elaborate plans for self-improvement wouldn't be necessary. More than likely, he'd end up the subject of a very public witch hunt led by the politicians who had spent the last two decades demanding his protection.

Rapp didn't realize he'd dozed off until the BMW glided to a stop in front of a building with a series of flags hanging over the entrance. He stepped out, looking up at the six-story glass structure.

“Irene says I'm supposed to take the lead. We're not dangling anyone out of windows today,” Nash said.

“They don't open.”

Nash wasn't sure whether that was meant as a joke and flashed a nervous smile before starting toward the lobby. Rapp dragged his feet behind. He hated lawyers and was dreading the meeting. If Kennedy really didn't want him to do anything, why was he here? Clearly she expected results and wasn't certain that Nash's honey tongue was enough to get them.

There was no security beyond a friendly woman who used her broken
English to give them directions. Nash looked a little apprehensive as they rode the elevator to the top floor—an emotion the former Marine never displayed when getting shot at or blown up. He was still transitioning into his new job and wasn't yet comfortable with his role as management. Also, the knowledge that Rapp and Kennedy were watching his every move wasn't doing much to calm his nerves.

Two men were already waiting for them in a conference room nestled in a quiet corner of the executive floor. Nash strode in with an easy smile.

“Mike Blake,” he said, shaking hands with the older of the two men. “It's good to finally meet you, Mr. Cipriani.”

“Please, call me Marcelo,” the man said with a light accent. “May I present my attorney, Dante Necchi?”

Nash's smile broadened while Rapp's own expression darkened. The lawyer they'd come to see had a lawyer. Outstanding.

“Good to meet you, Dante.” He motioned behind him. “This is my colleague Mitch Kruse.”

Rapp sat in an empty chair and stared straight ahead, unwilling to shake hands with either man. He just wanted to get what they were here to get and head back to the plane. Maybe after a quick stop for a plate of carbonara. He hadn't eaten anything for almost twelve hours.

“What is Mr. Kruse's role in this meeting?” Necchi said, looking a bit bemused. “To intimidate us?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Nash said. “He's part of our legal team.”

Neither man seemed convinced, but they let it go. Necchi laid a cell phone on the table.

“I assume you won't object to this meeting being recorded?”

Nash continued his valiant effort to be disarming. “Not at all. Now we have—”

“And by ‘we' you're referring to America's Central Intelligence Agency.”

“I'm referring to the U.S. government in general. Now, may I continue?”

“By all means.”

“We
have reason to believe that classified information stolen from us has been given to your firm.”

Both men looked a bit startled, and Nash raised his hand before that surprise could turn to indignation. “Unknown to you, of course. We are not suggesting any impropriety on your part. It would be in the form of a series of encrypted files that you would be asked to release if you aren't contacted by your client on a given schedule.”

Rapp kept his gaze locked on the managing partner, who in turn kept his on Nash so as to avoid eye contact.

“We have many clients who have many schedules for many things,” Necchi said. “All completely legal.”

“Again, I'm aware of your firm's sterling reputation and that you would have no way of knowing what's in these files.”

“I assume that you're not just here to tell us this? That you want something from my client?”

“In the past weeks your firm has been responsible for releasing information that's compromised our national security and gotten a number of people killed. For obvious reasons, we'd like to see that stopped.”

“And how would you know what files this firm has released?”

“I don't think that's important right now.”

“Does this have anything to do with the Internet video of your Joe Rickman being tortured?”

“I don't think that's relevant to our discussion, either.”

“I, however, believe it is. And I find it odd that a group of jihadists would use a law firm to administer a series of schedules and triggers. Why wouldn't they just release the information into the public domain?”

“Hard to say.”

“Do you understand what you're asking, Mr. Blake? I presume your legal counsel Mr. Kruse does. You're asking us to completely ignore our legal obligations in regard to this matter. In light of that, your equivocations are rather insulting.”

Rapp took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was willing—actually anxious—to let
Nash handle this. But there was a limit to how long he was going to sit there and listen to this bullshit.

“If that's the case, Dante, I apologize. I certainly didn't intend to give offense.”

“I have to wonder . . .” Necchi said, warming up to the subject. “Since I think we all agree that jihadists hiring this firm is absurd, who might have? Is it possible that Rickman himself is responsible? Perhaps he was afraid he was being targeted by your organization and was using the threat of releasing these secrets to protect himself?”

“That's an interesting piece of speculation, but we seem to be ranging pretty far from the subject, don't you think?”

“Is Mr. Rickman dead?”

“I don't know Rickman's status.”

Necchi clearly wasn't buying that. “The CIA may be all-powerful in the United States, Mr. Blake. But not in Italy. We have laws.”

Rapp couldn't help laughing out loud, and everyone turned toward him.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking about the scientists you put in jail for not predicting an earthquake and the fact that your former prime minister spent most of his time screwing underage hookers. But by all means tell us more about the integrity of your legal system. This meeting's finally starting to get entertaining.”

Necchi lost his train of thought for a moment but recovered quickly. “For all we know, your organization murdered Mr. Rickman because he was trying to expose your illegal activities.”

Rapp leaned back in his chair and when he did, Cipriani fixated on the bulge in the side of his jacket.

“Is this man armed?” he said, alarmed.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Nash said, still trying to remain civil. “It's just bad tailoring.”

“This meeting is over,” Necchi said, standing. “If you want to speak to us further, you can make a request through the appropriate political channels.”

“Isabella Accorso was handling the files, wasn't she?” Nash said.

Cipriani had started to stand but at the mention of her name sank back into his seat. “Why do you say that?”

“Because she's dead.”

“It was a traffic accident.”

Nash shook his head. “Since you've taken your shot at speculation, let me have a turn. Someone contacted Accorso and demanded that she give him copies of those files. She was scared, so she did it. Then, when this person got what he wanted, he had her killed. One of the reasons you're fighting us is because you don't want to admit that you've lost those files. Right now, you've got your tech people searching for them in your backups but they're coming up empty.”

“That's absurd!” Necchi said. “Isabella and her daughter died in a car accident. We are not as gullible as the American people, Mr. Blake. You can't come in here and wave an American flag, expecting us to roll over. Using the deaths of these two women to further the CIA's agenda is outrageous! More than that, it's disgusting!”

Rapp had given Nash every opportunity to resolve this and he was getting nowhere. These idiots had let the Rickman files fall into the hands of one of America's enemies, and if he had to listen to another ten seconds of their fake indignation, someone was going to get pistol-whipped.

“Enough!” Rapp said, slamming his palm down on the table. “People are already dead because of your firm, including one of your employees and her daughter. Now you're going to be good citizens and give us every scrap of information you have on this.”

“Are you . . .” Necchi stammered. “Are you threatening us?”

“What threat?” Nash said, trying to regain control of the meeting. “I didn't hear a threat.”

“In that case, I apologize for not being clear,” Rapp said, picking up Necchi's phone and enunciating clearly into it. “If one more of our people is harmed because of this firm's lack of cooperation, I'm going to pay Mr. Cipriani here a visit. After that you can file as many diplomatic protests and lawsuits as you want. It's not going to do him a whole lot of good.”

The
room got very quiet as Necchi searched for some piece of legalese that would have any meaning at all, and Nash tried to figure out a way to spin Rapp's words into something benign.

Surprisingly, it was Cipriani who broke the silence. “Our firm certainly wouldn't want to see harm come to the courageous men and women who protect our countries from terrorism.”

“Marcelo,” Necchi cautioned. “You have a responsibility—”

“And I take those responsibilities very seriously, Dante, but we're being told that Isabella was murdered because of our involvement with those files. This situation has clearly escalated beyond something our firm can handle and has become a matter for the intelligence community.”

“You've made the right decision, Marcelo,” Nash said. “Your cooperation is going to save lives. Now, can I assume that I was right when I said that you're looking into this?”

“Yes,” Cipriani responded, his eyes flicking briefly toward Rapp. “After Isabella's death we immediately did an audit of her responsibilities in order to make certain our clients received the uninterrupted service they've come to expect from us. The files from one of those clients had been wiped from our system.”

“The backups as well?”

“Yes. I'm told they're completely unrecoverable.”

“Bull,” Rapp said.

Cipriani's voice rose a bit in pitch. “I swear that I'm telling you the truth.”

“Of course you are,” Nash said, delivering a subtle kick to Rapp's leg beneath the table. “But we may have capabilities that you don't. In fact, we've got a very nice young man named Marcus who specializes in resolving these kinds of problems. Can I assume you'd be willing to give him access to your system?”

Cipriani chewed his lip for a moment before answering. “Of course.”

“Thank you, Marcelo. That's very helpful. Now, is there any other information you can give us?”

Cipriani nodded. “The client is completely anonymous, but we have a hard copy of his instructions. They include various scenarios and schedules for file release.”

“I'd love to have the original of that as well as your assurance that no copies exist.”

“I'll arrange it.”

That was apparently more than Necchi could bear. “Marcelo. This is malpractice. You can't—”

“Shut up, Dante,” Cipriani said before Rapp had to. “I don't think I need you anymore. Why don't you go back to your office.”

“But—”

“Now, Dante!”

He reached for his phone, but Rapp beat him to it and smashed it against the table.

“I don't think it benefits either party to have a recording of this conversation,” Nash said as Rapp stood and headed for the door.

He pulled out his wallet and tossed a few hundred-euro notes on the table to cover the damage. “Now, if you could get us that original, it looks like we're leaving.”

CIA H
EADQUARTERS

L
ANGLEY,
V
IRGINIA

U.S.A.

I
S
Mitch all right?” Marcus Dumond said. “He looks dead.”

“Not yet,” Rapp said from his position lying on the couch in Irene Kennedy's office. He didn't bother to open his eyes when the young hacker walked in. More than forty-eight hours without sleep had made them feel like they were full of sand.

“You sure?” Dumond said. “You kind of smell like it.”

Also, more than forty-eight hours without a shower, he was reminded.

“What did you find?” Kennedy said as Rapp pushed himself into a sitting position. She was at her desk with Mike Nash in one of the facing chairs. He was fresh as a daisy in neatly pressed khakis and a golf shirt. No matter what the circumstances, Nash always looked like the former Eagle Scout he was.

“Not much,” Dumond admitted. “The computers were wiped clean.”

“Not what we wanted to hear,” Rapp said. “Are you sure?”

“Mitch, please. Do I tell you how to shoot people?”

Rapp didn't react other than to frown imperceptibly. In his current mood, anyone else ribbing him would have found themselves
with their face shoved through a wall. He had a soft spot for this kid, though. Dumond had always reminded Rapp of his younger brother Steven. But with an Afro.