The Survivor (6 page)

It was this uncertainty that had left him no choice but to tell Irene Kennedy far more than he'd wanted. There was no way to know what Kennedy had learned or what she suspected. He couldn't afford to be caught in a lie. She was a clever bitch and he needed to build trust between them—to blind her until it was too late.

“Please,” he heard Zahir say behind him. “You have to believe me. If I had known who he was, I would have never helped him. I would have—”

“Silence!” Taj screamed, spinning and running at the man. He
snatched a meat cleaver from the tray and swung it down onto Zahir's wrist where it was secured to the arm of the chair.

The hand remained wired where it was, but Zahir's arm was suddenly free. He screamed like a woman as he drew back the stump, spraying blood across Taj's white polo shirt.

The ISI director retreated out of range and Qayem snatched a piece of wood from the dirt floor, swinging it full force into the side of the wailing man's head. Silence once again descended on the cramped underground chamber. Only Qayem's elevated breathing and the sound of Zahir's life leaking from him intruded.

“Rapp is coming for you, my friend,” Taj said. “I have a man inside his organization who I believe will be able to eliminate him, but our ability to communicate is limited. Once again, we find time working against us.”

Qayem was smart enough to understand that he would eventually be found and humble enough to know that he would eventually break. No one could resist what the CIA man would unleash.

“You know what has to be done,” Taj said.

“Yes.”

The dirt floor had been turned to mud by Zahir's blood, increasing the humidity as Taj returned to the tray and picked up the traitor's .40-caliber Smith & Wesson. A gift from the Americans.

He raised the weapon and pressed it against his old friend's forehead.

God is great
were the last words to pass Abdul Qayem's lips.

T
HE
F
ARM

N
EAR
H
ARPERS
F
ERRY

W
EST
V
IRGINIA

U.S.A.

B
Y
design, the gravel road that cut through the forest never stretched more than fifty yards before taking a hard turn. The contractor who'd built it was a bit baffled by the routing and even more baffled when he'd been asked to do a purposely lousy surfacing job. In the end, though, the finished product had been exactly what Stan Hurley wanted: a road that even the world rally champion couldn't drive at much more than twenty-five miles an hour.

Despite its all-wheel-drive system, Mitch Rapp's black Dodge Charger was limited to about half that. The 5.7-liter Hemi had no problems handling the extensive modifications he'd made but dialing in the suspension had been more problematic. The biggest casualty, though, was the sound system. Most of the speakers had ended up in a dumpster to make room for multiple layers of Kevlar.

He came over a steep rise and frowned when the front spoiler scraped. He'd have to tell Hurley to order the next round of recruits to smooth the peak of that one. A perfect activity to shoehorn in between a twenty-mile run and shooting the local rapids on their backs.

It took another ten minutes to reach the interior gate, which opened automatically when he approached. A few seconds later, he was on butter-smooth pavement
bisecting a manicured lawn dotted with flower beds.

The property was nearly an exact copy of the one he'd trained at as a youth. The barn was red instead of white, built to look like it was half a century older than its actual age. The wraparound porch on the farmhouse was a little broader and the outdoor furniture a little more modern. That was about all that met the eye. Below the surface, though, updates were more substantial. The house's basement was far larger, more elaborate, and secure. The sensors that crisscrossed the hundred acres were an order of magnitude more advanced. And most of the lawn was mined. Kennedy was against the last one, but Hurley had convinced her that the computer-controlled system was foolproof. Having said that, Rapp noticed she stayed to the road and walkways.

The property was a monument to the dysfunction inside the Beltway. Every seven years or so, Hurley's clandestine training facility would “accidentally” burn to the ground and another one would be built on a new piece of property paid for with black funds.

If all this effort was to keep ahead of America's enemies, it wouldn't bother Rapp. In fact, it was done to keep ahead of the politicians sniffing around for off-the-books CIA activity they could use to make political points. Displaying fake indignation had become Congress's primary job description.

It was a game the CIA was forced to play with full knowledge that there was no way to win. If Rapp did what was necessary to keep members of Congress and their constituents safe, he was in danger of being indicted. If he followed the rules and allowed America to be attacked, he was in danger of being publicly crucified.

Ahead, Stan Hurley was standing on the porch watching through the same aviator glasses he'd been wearing when Rapp had rolled in as a naïve college kid. The old cuss was probably close to eighty now, but no one seemed to know for certain. He had a bourbon in one hand and, despite advanced lung cancer, a cigarette in the other. No point in turning into a health nut now.

“You're late,” he said as Rapp stepped out of the vehicle.

There was actually no specific time he was scheduled to arrive, but Rapp let it go. Hurley had a way of getting under his skin like no one else and it had been a long flight from Turkey.

“Good to see you, too, Stan.”

Rapp walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. Vadim Yenotin threw his hands up defensively and squinted into the sun.

“Out,” Rapp said.

The man was understandably stiff as he eased his legs over the rear bumper. The Charger didn't have much of a trunk, and the weapons case Rapp had built into the bottom made it even smaller.

He grabbed the Russian by the collar and marched him toward the house as Hurley looked on with a bored expression. “Put him in a hole and meet me in the bar. Irene touched down an hour ago. Based on my conversation with her, you're probably going to want something to take the edge off before she gets here.”

Rapp stayed behind the Russian as they cut through an incongruously modern kitchen and entered a pantry lined with canned food and baking supplies. It doubled as an elevator, and a click of the key chain in Rapp's pocket caused the floor to begin dropping. A moment later, they were in a long cinder-block room lined with doors—all bare steel with a single hatch just big enough to pass a food tray through. Rapp opened the first one and shoved the Russian inside.

“Wait!” he said, stumbling, but catching himself before he fell. “What are you going to do with me? I told you what you wanted to know. You said you'd send me home.”

“What are you complaining about?” Rapp said. “This is the presidential suite.”

There were six cells in total. They ranged in comfort from this one, which boasted a sofa bed and big-screen TV, to a concrete cube with dripping pipes and a bucket for a toilet.

“Stop!” Yenotin said as Rapp began closing the door. “I demand that you let me talk to my embassy.”

“Consider
yourself lucky, Vadim. If it weren't for Irene Kennedy, you'd be spending the week in my trunk.”

The door clanged shut, and Rapp took a step back but made no move to leave. Instead he turned and stared at the door to the left of the one he'd just closed. The cell beyond contained Louis Gould, the professional assassin who had blown up Rapp's home, killing his family and leaving him in the hospital with multiple broken bones and swelling on the brain.

He was suddenly aware of the weight of the Glock hanging beneath his right shoulder. It could be over in a few seconds. All he had to do was open the door, aim, and pull the trigger. Normally, killing affected him very little, but how would it feel to end Gould's life? To rip him away from his own wife and daughter? Would it finally put Anna's ghost to rest? Or would it just leave him with nothing to cling to?

“Vodka's on the pool table.” Hurley's voice behind him. He hadn't even noticed the elevator go up to get the man.

“Yeah,” Rapp said, trance broken.

The door opposite the holding cells led to the bar—another thing that got more elaborate with every iteration of the CIA's clandestine training facility. Hurley seemed to have plucked this one directly from his memory. With the exception of the contemporary pool table centered in it, the space felt like a mid-seventies Morocco dive. The far wall was exposed stone framing an antique mahogany bar imported from France. Asian-style lamps, a few antique ceiling fans, and Hurley's collection of framed World War II–era photos completed the illusion. As the old man's life came to a close, he seemed more and more comfortable in the past.

Rapp picked up the vodka and took a healthy slug before grabbing a cue and slamming the six ball into the side pocket. His thoughts turned to their situation, and once again the anger began to burn in the pit of his stomach. What had Rickman been thinking? Why would a man turn on his country? On his comrades in arms?

It was a question Rapp doubted he'd ever be able to answer. At his core, he was a soldier. A man who located and killed the enemies of
his country and who would give his life to protect any member of his team. That was it. Simple.

When Irene Kennedy finally walked in, she was looking a bit haggard. Most people would have seen only what she wanted them to—the neatly pressed skirt, the impeccable white blouse, and the brown hair carefully pulled back. There was something around her eyes, though. Something that said this wasn't business as usual.

“Two Russians dead, Mitch.
Two
.”

Rapp fired the one ball into the corner but didn't otherwise respond.

“Are you telling me there was absolutely no other way to handle that situation?”

He turned his head and stared at her. They locked eyes for a few seconds before Hurley intervened.

“Come on, Irene. The driver tried to run him down and then another guy jumped out with a 9A-91. What did you want Mitch to use? Harsh language? Those Russian pricks were a day late and a dollar short and they knew it. They should have just crawled back under the rock they came from. It was a tactical mistake on their part and now they're dead.”

She walked to the bar and poured herself a glass of red wine, using it to wash down two pills. Tylenol, Rapp knew. Ever since the Rickman thing had blown up, she'd been getting headaches.

He put down the cue and leaned back against the table. As much as he despised being second-guessed on operational details, he felt a pang of guilt. She'd become like a sister to him and he was worried about her.

“What Stan left out was that the 9A-91 wasn't even suppressed. That guy was about to do a spray-and-pray in the middle of a city full of fourteen million people, Irene. He had to be dealt with.”

She drained half the glass and then put it down on the bar. “I know. But I have five messages from the head of the FSB literally screaming into my voice mail.”

Hurley shook his head in disgust. “Mikhail's just playing the victim
so he can work you over for two men he doesn't give a rat's ass about.”

She shook her head slowly. “A few years ago, this would be a career-defining crisis. Now it feels like a mild distraction. How sure are you that Yenotin is telling the truth, Mitch? That the Russians got the email
after
Rick's death?”

“Ninety-nine percent. He wasn't in a lying mood.”

“I was afraid of this.”

“What?” Hurley asked.

“Akhtar Durrani has a reputation for killing people who are no longer useful to him. And Rick was terrified of Mitch. If I'd been in his position, I'd have had an insurance policy.”

“What kind of insurance policy?”

“Someone to release the information in the event I died. It would have created an incentive for Durrani to keep him alive and it would have ensured that no matter what, the damage he wanted to do to us would happen.”

“I could see the little pencil dick doing something like that,” Hurley said, lighting a new cigarette off the embers of his old one. “But how?”

“More like who,” Rapp said. “Who did he give his files to and who released the information on Sitting Bull? Some foreign agent who has it in for us? A mercenary who's just in it for the money?”

Kennedy shook her head. “Too unreliable. If it were me, I'd encrypt the files and hand them over to a lawyer. I'd tell him I was going to check in with him every week and if I didn't, he should open a set of instructions I'd given him and follow them.”

“What would those instructions say?” Hurley asked.

“They would be a schedule for sending individual files. They'd go to someone less reputable—someone who knows how to send emails and post things to the Internet without being traced. The lawyer would never know what was in the documents and the person releasing them would be the type who doesn't care.”

There was a knock at the door, and a moment later a young man with an impressive Afro peeked in. “I found something.”

Marcus Dumond was a thirty-four-year-old computer genius with a bit of a checkered past. The young cyber-wiz had run into some trouble with the feds while he was earning a master's in computer science at MIT. He was alleged to have hacked into one of New York's largest banks and then transferred funds into several overseas accounts. The part that interested the CIA was that Dumond wasn't caught because he left a trail; he was caught because he got drunk one night and bragged about his activities to the wrong person. At the time, Dumond was living with Steven Rapp, Mitch's younger brother. When the older Rapp heard about Dumond's problems, he called Irene Kennedy and told her the hacker was worth a look.