by Vince Flynn
The cars sped down a wide, tree-lined boulevard. Unlike the rest of Islamabad and Rawalpindi, here there wasn’t a speck of garbage in sight. The gate to the compound was open, and two of Durrani’s military bodyguards were standing next to the large stone columns, holding their Heckler & Koch G3 rifles. The vehicles sped past them and up the long private driveway. Durrani did not wait for his detail to take up their positions. This was his compound, after all, and there had to be at least one place in his life where he could feel free to move about on his own. He headed for the main house, where his butler was waiting at the door.
“Good evening, General,” a small man in a white tunic and black pants greeted him. “Is there anything I can get you?”
Durrani walked past his butler without making eye contact and then stopped in the middle of the large marble foyer. “Is Vazir here?”
“Yes, General. He is in the Shahi house.”
Durrani gave a quick nod and proceeded down the hallway to the elevator. When the doors opened, he stepped inside and pressed the button for the basement. Durrani was extremely paranoid, and his job only amplified his distrustfulness, so when he was having the house built he’d had the contractor, a very good friend and business partner, put in tunnels that linked all the structures on the property. As much as possible he did not want the Americans to know what he was doing. The tunnels allowed him to stay away from the prying eyes of their satellites. Durrani had even gone so far as to have an analyst give him the known overpass times of American satellites so he could be extra cautious. The problem was that Americans could move those satellites, and even worse, through the use of stealth drones they were finding more and more ways to spy on him.
Durrani punched in the code and opened the steel door. The corridors were nothing special, just poured eight-foot concrete walls and ceilings with caged industrial lights every twenty feet. The tunnel from the main house to the first guesthouse was 180 feet long. At the next door he took a right turn and continued down a much shorter tunnel. He punched in another code, entered the stark basement, and started up the steps. By the time he reached the main floor his breathing was labored. Durrani placed one hand on the railing and patted his chest with the other.
A voice called out from the next room, “Is that you, General?”
When he spoke, Durrani was still out of breath. “Yes.” He reached for his cigarettes and lit one, before pushing off the railing and walking into the sunken living room. The theme for this particular house was clean and contemporary with lots of white. In the middle of the sunken living room were two white leather couches and two modern white leather chairs with chrome frames. The furniture rested on a large white shag rug and a white marble floor with subtle shades of gray.
Durrani did not approach the man in the dark suit. He was sitting with his legs crossed on one of the white couches, a magazine in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a bulky black pistol next to him. Vazir Kassar was one of his most trusted officers. He was also an insolent son of a bitch at times. He knew that Durrani was dying to know how things had turned out, but he was going to make him ask.
“Well?” Durrani’s eyes were wide with anticipation.
“Well, what, General?”
Durrani was suddenly irritated by the gun sitting on the couch. “Put that away. You are a guest in my house.”
“I thought I was your employee,” the dark, thin man answered in a voice that conveyed ambivalence.
“Don’t play your games with me. How did it go?”
The man remained serious. “It wasn’t easy.”
“But he’s alive?”
“Yes.” Kassar jerked his head toward the hallway. “He’s in the bedroom at the end of the hall.”
Durrani clapped his hands together and stifled a scream of joy. “You will have to tell me all the details later, but first I must see him.” Durrani hurried down the hallway, his black dress shoes clicking on the stone floor. He would have run if his lungs could have taken it. When he reached the door at the end of the hall he didn’t bother knocking.
He threw open the door and froze in disbelief. The blackout shades were not pulled, and the bright afternoon light streamed through the gauzy, white linen curtains. There, in the middle of the king-size bed, filled with white pillows, white sheets, and a fluffy white feather comforter, lay a mass of purple and red flesh. The smile on Durrani’s face vanished. “Good God. What did those fools do to you?” Durrani rushed to the bedside and looked at the swollen and bruised face. “Is it you? I can’t be sure.” The monstrous face slowly turned in his direction. The man was blind. His eyes, swollen tightly shut, looked like two peaches. His lips were cut, cracked, and so puffy the top one touched his broken and deformed nose. Durrani had seen the video on the Internet and assumed that they had used makeup to exaggerate the injuries. “What happened?”
When he spoke he sounded congested. “It’s not easy to talk. I think they broke my jaw.”
Durrani’s entire being stiffened with anger. “I will kill them. I swear to you I will kill them.”
There was gruff laughter from the doorway. “I think you’re a little late for that.”
Durrani looked over his shoulder at Kassar. “How could you have let this happen?”
“It was your idea,” he said, not wanting to own any of this. “All part of your grand plan.”
“This,” Durrani said, pointing at Rickman, “was not my plan.”
“Relax, Akhtar,” Rickman said, reaching out with his left hand.
When Durrani saw the mangled and broken fingers he took a quick step back.
“I’m alive,” Rickman said. “It worked. Vazir took care of your two Taliban dupes. I’m told the entire thing was quite dramatic. Fortunately, I had passed out by then.”
“Are you in pain?” Durrani asked.
It was a relative question, or at least the pain was relative. He was not comfortable, but compared to his pain during the beatings he was at peace. “I’m okay.”
“You are no such thing. You are a bloody mess.”
“I’ll survive.”
“I’m not sure you will.” Durrani looked to Kassar again. “How could you have let this happen?”
“He insisted,” Kassar said. “You’ve told me many times my job is to follow orders. I wanted to stop sooner, but he said we had to make sure it was convincing.”
“To follow my orders.” Durrani hit himself in the chest repeatedly.
“Well, you weren’t there, General. I was following Joe’s orders.”
Durrani found Kassar’s unflappable behavior unnerving at times. Rather than start yelling at him, Durrani turned his attention back to Rickman. There wasn’t an inch of his face that wasn’t bruised, swollen, or cut. “Why did you do this to yourself?”
“I didn’t . . . it was your Taliban flunkies. They were not very smart, by the way. Perfect for the job, really. I must compliment you.”
Durrani cracked a small smile. He had always found Rickman humorous. “It looks like they went too far.”
“It was the only way. I had to sell it.”
Durrani was dumbfounded. He knew the American was smart, but he had no idea he was so tough. “You are either the bravest man I know, or you are crazy. Which one is it?”
“A little bit of both, I suppose.” Rickman started to smile, but then had to stop because it hurt too much.
Durrani considered the bigger picture. He would have preferred not to cut this so close, but he was thankful that Rickman was alive. He had pulled off one of the greatest intelligence coups in the history of the world. “This is a great day.” He put his right hand on Rickman’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze.
Rickman moaned and Kassar said, “I think his shoulders were dislocated while they were tied above his head. I wouldn’t do that.”
Durrani withdrew his hand and said, “Has the doctor seen him?”
Kassar shook his head and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from his suit coat. He tapped one free and pointed the
unfiltered end at Rickman. “He won’t allow it.”
“What?”
“I said he won’t allow it.”
Durrani shot Kassar a scowl. He was the only person who worked for Durrani who even attempted to defy him. “I heard what you said. Why won’t he allow it?”
“Because he doesn’t trust our doctor. He thinks the fewer the people who see him the better.”
“But he needs medical attention.” Durrani looked at the broken man lying on the large bed. “We need to have a doctor look at you.”
“And then you will kill him.” Rickman shook his head slowly an inch to his left and then his right. “I will heal. Just let me rest.”
“Thank you,” Kassar said, “I will be the one who has to kill him, and I like Dr. Bhutani. He has stitched me up on several occasions . . . a very handy man to have around. I would prefer it if we could keep him.”
Durrani turned halfway and swatted the air with his arm, telling Kassar to leave. The impudent man took a long pull from his cigarette, shrugged, and then disappeared. Hovering over Rickman, Durrani said, “Are you taking anything for the pain?”
“Yes.” Rickman squirmed a bit in an effort to lift his head. “It’s not as bad as it looks . . . at least not compared to the beating I had to go through.”
“What can I get you?”
“Nothing. I just want to lie here.”
Durrani’s gaze narrowed. He had no great knowledge of medicine or the human anatomy, but he had been involved in plenty of interrogations. A good number of them had ended in death, and it wasn’t always because the heart gave out. There had been plenty of cases in which the subject died from infection. The infections were no surprise considering the squalor of the cells. Add to that the way the nervous system was assaulted and the lack of sleep, and it was no wonder the immune system crashed and the patient died. Durrani decided at that exact moment that he would have his doctor here within the hour. He was former Army and was cleared to work with the ISI. He was also sympathetic to the cause of Pakistani self-determination. There was always a risk, of course, but Durrani could have him killed later if there was a problem.
Rickman stifled a cough and asked, “What about Rapp?”
This was the one part Durrani had been dreading. Everything else had worked so well. “He escaped death, but do not worry. He has other problems.”
Rickman tried to sit up, but didn’t make it very far before a coughing fit ensued and he was forced to lie back down. Blood began to trickle from his mouth as he said, “I can’t believe this.”
“Calm down. Do not upset yourself.”
“I told you, Rapp absolutely had to be dealt with. It was the one part of the operation that couldn’t fail.”
“I know,” Durrani said, prepared to deflect, “but your assassin didn’t take the shot.”
“What do you mean?”
“He walked across the street to the clinic and surrendered himself to Rapp.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, you’d better. I had two of my best men there, and I lost one of them. Your assassin marched right across the street and presented himself to Rapp. Your man failed, so I had to use my backup. General Qayem sent in his men and it was a bloodbath.”
“Bloodbath?”
“Twenty-one men were killed.”
Rickman was shell-shocked. “How many people did Rapp have with him?”
“Four.” Durrani held up his nicotine-stained fingers, practically yelling. “And then your assassin joined his ranks. I’m told he personally killed a good number of Qayem’s men.”
Rickman was suddenly feeling every ache and pain. What was it about Rapp? Why wouldn’t the man just die? A sense of foreboding weighed on Rickman’s chest, and he began to worry that he wouldn’t be able to breathe. At that same moment he feared for Hubbard. The plan had been for him to send Rapp to the veterinary clinic. Rickman had thought this through for more than a year. He knew Kennedy would send Rapp to head the search for him, and he knew how Rapp thought better than Rickman himself did. Rickman had carefully left those clues for Rapp, knowing his damn instincts would tell him that certain things didn’t add up. If Rapp had survived the trap he had laid for him, that would mean Hubbard was either dead or running for his life. Rickman suddenly wished he could open his eyes so he could read Durrani’s face.
“What about Hubbard? Where is he?”
Durrani knew this was inevitable, but the truth was not an option for him. Not if he wanted Rickman to work with him. His friend was already clearly agitated, which was a shame as there was so much to celebrate. The truth was that Durrani had never planned on getting Hubbard out of Afghanistan. Where was he supposed to hide a six-foot-five-inch, bald, pasty American in a country filled with dark-skinned men where the average height was five-seven? He’d gone along with Rickman’s desire to bring Hubbard to Pakistan because it was the only way to get him to agree to the plan, but in truth he knew he would kill Hubbard from the onset.
“It pains me to tell you that your friend is dead.”
Rickman swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How did it happen?”
“We think it was Rapp, but we’re not sure.”
Rickman’s battered body tensed and he yelled, “Did you do anything right?”
“That is not fair, Joe. We knew from the very beginning that this was going to be a very complicated operation. Your friend knew that as well.”
“I can’t believe Rapp is still alive and Hubbard is dead. You need to get men to Zurich. Rapp cannot get his hands on Obrecht.”
“I have already taken care of it,” Durrani lied. He had completely forgotten about the deception involving the Swiss banker. With Rapp dead, he was going to be a crucial witness to Rapp’s corruption. It was Rickman’s way of muddying the water. “You are still alive,” Durrani said. “That is what’s important. You are free, and you are rich beyond your dreams.”
With each passing revelation Rickman was feeling less than stellar about his situation. “And Mitch Rapp is still alive and he’s going to hunt my ass down and kill me.”
“He will never find you. My plans are intact. Once you undergo the surgery, no one will ever know.”
Rickman’s thoughts returned to Hubbard. “How did Hubbard die?”
“We’re not sure . . . other than the fact that Mr. Hubbard did not make it to his rendezvous point.” Hubbard had in fact made it to the warehouse in Jalalabad, and that was where he was killed, but that information would only serve to upset Rickman. Durrani knew what was best for him. Things would be much smoother this way.
“So he might be alive?”
“We don’t think so. There was a shootout . . . things are a little sketchy, but it sounds like Rapp killed him.”
“Sounds like . . . so you’re not sure.” Rickman was becoming extremely agitated. “If Hubbard is still alive, you and I are as good as dead.”
“Well,” Durrani said, trying to think of a way to calm Rickman down, “he is most certainly dead. I’m just being cautious.”
“Cautious! You should have been more cautious about making sure Rapp was killed. Fuck.” The word was filled with despondency. “I told you killing Rapp was crucial. I’ve run all the calculations. Mitch Rapp is the last man I want looking for me. You don’t know him like I do. He won’t stop until he finds me, and that means you, too.”
“They all think you’re dead,” Durrani said dismissively.
“Most of them will, because that’s what they want to believe. But Rapp doesn’t operate that way. It’s not a matter of what he wants to believe or doesn’t want to believe. He’s a human bullshit detector. He’s going to sniff out the cracks in our plan and he’s going to start hammering away until the entire thing collapses and then he is going to hunt our asses down.” Rickman moaned and then added, “I went through all of that pain for nothing.”
“You exaggerate the abilities of your former colleague.”
&
nbsp; “I exaggerate nothing. I’ve worked with him for over twenty years. He’s the fucking Energizer Bunny of covert operatives. He just keeps killing and killing, and if you want to stay alive, you’d better figure out a way to kill him, and you’d better do it quick.”
Rickman was overreacting. “I want you to calm down. There is far too much to celebrate.”
“I can’t calm down as long as that man is above ground.” Rickman started coughing, and it wasn’t long before a trickle of blood began to run down the corner of his swollen mouth.
Durrani couldn’t believe the doctor wasn’t here. “Just one minute,” Durrani said, holding up a finger and retreating from the room. He ignored Rickman’s coughing and moved quickly down the hall and into the living room. “Get Dr. Bhutani here immediately. I am extremely disappointed that you ignored my orders.”
Kassar looked up from his magazine and said, “He refused to let me call a doctor, and he was doing fine until you got here and upset him.”
“One of these days,” Durrani said, shaking his fist, “you are going to push me too far.”
“You may get rid of me any time you like.”
“Just get Dr. Bhutani and get him fast.”
Kassar set down the magazine and stabbed out his cigarette in the large copper ashtray in the middle of the table. He stood and said, “I will get Dr. Bhutani, but as I said, I like the man. If you decide he is a liability at some point you will have to find someone else to do your dirty work.”
“Fine,” Durrani snapped. “Just get him.”
“And I heard what you two were talking about.”
“What?”
“Rapp.”
Durrani was exasperated. He didn’t want to talk right now, he wanted Kassar to get the doctor. “What about him.”
“Put it out of your mind.”
“Put what out of my mind?”
“Killing him, or at least asking me to kill him.”
“I don’t know when you got the idea that we were equals. I give the orders and you follow them.”
Kassar gave a nod of mutual understanding. “You have made that clear. I am a contract employee. You have me on a retainer and if at any point you are not satisfied with my performance, my contract will be terminated. That goes both ways.”
