by Vince Flynn
There were so many things that Durrani wanted to say, but instead he stuffed a cigarette between his two lips and nodded in agreement. Kassar appeared, standing at the edge of the sunken living room. “Vazir,” Durrani said, “you remember Larry?”
“Of course,” Kassar said with a nod of recognition.
Durrani took in several deep drags, which in a strange way seemed to settle his breathing. After exhaling a big cloud of smoke, he waved for Lee to follow him. As they walked down the hallway, Durrani began talking in a quiet voice. “What I’m about to show you is a real tragedy. I have another American friend, who was savagely beaten by a group of street thugs in Rawalpindi. I have arranged for him to recover here where he will be safe. It is embarrassing the way my countrymen treat our greatest allies at times.”
“Not everyone is so rude. Your behavior alone, General, helps a great deal.”
“Why, thank you.” Durrani stopped outside the closed door and said, “Give me a moment alone with him and then I’ll call for you.”
“Of course.”
Durrani slid into the room and closed the door. He approached the bed, still not used to the ugly sight before him. “Are you awake?”
Rickman was lying with three pillows beneath his back. He let his head fall to his left and said, “Yes.”
“Good . . . I see you can almost open one of your eyes.”
“The nurse has been making me ice it every hour. It’s torture.”
“But that’s good . . . isn’t it?”
Rickman ignored the question and said, “You’re going to kill her, aren’t you?”
“Why must you always assume the worst in me?”
“Because you have a history of killing people when they no longer serve your plans.”
“Oh, that,” Durrani said with a smile, refusing to let Rickman’s sour mood spoil this special moment. “And you are such an angel, my friend. We both do what we must do. That is why we work so well together.”
“The nurse?”
Durrani sighed. “What about her?”
“Why do you have to kill her?”
“Stop it. We have more important things to discuss. I need to show you something.”
“What?”
“You will see.” Durrani was back at the door. He opened it a foot and signaled for Lee to join him. He held his finger to his lips and said, “We must speak softly.”
Durrani walked back to the bed with Lee at his side.
“My God,” was all Lee could manage to say.
“I know . . . it’s horrible.”
“Kids did this?”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that. Grown men, really.”
Lee’s face was a combination of shock and revulsion. “Who is he? Have I met him?”
“I’m fairly certain you have never met.” Durrani looked at Rickman. “Joe, have you ever met this man?”
Rickman craned his head back and through a narrow slit in his right eye, he took in a blurry image of the man. He gave his answer through his swollen, Vaseline-laden lips. “No,”
“Was he in a bad neighborhood?” the Kansan asked.
“You could say that. That is why I’ve warned you that you must be very careful.”
“This is horrible. Have you contacted the police?”
“No.” Durrani shook his head. “We don’t need to get them involved. My men will handle things.”
“And his family?”
A devilish smile creased Durrani’s lips. “Ah . . . like you, he has no family.”
“Where is he from?”
“Denver, I think. Is that right, Joe?”
Rickman sounded bored. “Yes.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Lee asked with genuine concern.
“As a matter of fact there is,” Durrani said with a huge smile. He glanced over his shoulder and gave the signal to Kassar. Looking back at Lee, he made an apologetic face and said, “If you would die, it would be a huge help.”
Lee’s face twisted into a confused frown.
Kassar had put on his gloves while they were talking and had casually unfolded the plastic bag. In one fell swoop he pulled the bag over Lee’s head and yanked it tight around his neck. Kassar had learned this little trick many years ago. The key was to wear gloves, because the victim always scratched and clawed at your hands. One time, though, a very uncooperative victim had been smart enough to shred the plastic covering his face. It had turned out to be an ugly, less-than-professional kill, as they ended up rolling around on the floor. Kassar had used the remnants of the bag to strangle the man but had not walked away unscathed. His slightly crooked nose was a constant reminder that he needed to continue to refine his craft. The trash-bag manufacturer Glad solved his problem when they came out with their tear-proof ForceFlex bags.
This particular American was easy to handle. He was neither violent nor physical, and all Kassar had to do was keep him from breaking some of the furniture. He kept a firm grip on the bag and danced the man around in the ample space between the bed and the door. The script was nearly identical every time: the wild arms swinging, the body twisting, both hands clutching to pry his hands loose, then one hand dropping as fatigue set in, and then the other until the victim was spent and simply collapsed.
Kassar lowered Lee to the floor gently, as if he was laying him down for a long nap. He knelt beside the body and kept the bag tight for a ten count. When he was confident that Lee wasn’t about to jerk back to life, he yanked on the two red strings, tied them off, and stood.
“Well done,” Durrani said with respect.
“Thank you.” Kassar was pleased with his steady heart rate.
“What do you think?” Durrani said, turning to Rickman.
Rickman was no stranger to murder, but this little orchestrated event seemed particularly absurd to him. He stifled a cough and said, “I have no idea what you are up to.”
“He is a gift to you. He is your new identity. Look at him.” Durrani pointed at the floor.
Rickman didn’t bother lifting his head. “He has a bag over his head.”
“Hmm.” Durrani rubbed his upper lip and then said, “Never mind. He is the same height as you and he has the same hair color. I found him over a year ago and made him a business partner on several very lucrative deals. I am building him a house on the property next to this one. It is beautiful. It is where you will stay.”
Rickman’s head hurt and he could sense that the OxyContin he’d taken four hours ago was beginning to wear off. “So I will assume this man’s identity?”
Durrani clapped his hands together. “Exactly! You will have a life and you will be hiding in plain sight. The Americans will never figure it out.”
“The plastic surgeon?”
“He will be here in two days.”
The scope of Durrani’s new twist was starting to sink in. “You will make me look like him?”
“Yes,” Durrani said excitedly. “You will study his past. I have compiled a detailed dossier for you, with photographs and every imaginable detail. His parents are dead and his only relative is a sister in Hawaii whom he has no contact with. He is, what do you call a fellow American who leaves your country?”
“An expatriate.”
“Yes . . . that is it. He is an expatriate. For the few people who know him I will let them know that he was set upon by thieves in Rawalpindi and suffered a savage beating. It will explain your surgery and the swelling for the next few months, but best of all you will now have a past.”
“A legend.”
“Excuse me?”
Rickman was thinking. “In the business, we call it a legend.”
“Yes . . . well, whatever you call it, this will give you more freedom, and if your former employers ever dig into your new identity, they won’t find anything suspicious.”
Rickman had to admit that it was a very good tweak to their plan. The plan had been for him to get a new face and take on a fake name. They reasoned if he kept a low-enough p
rofile the CIA would never notice, but this was even better. “I must applaud you, General. This is an improvement.”
“You are welcome,” Durrani said with a short bow. Then, directing his attention to Kassar, he said, “Take him through the tunnels to the garage and then when it’s dark out, take him to the incinerator.”
“Hold on a minute,” Rickman said with a sinking feeling. “I thought Vazir was supposed to be handling my problem in Zurich.”
“He is. He will leave first thing in the morning.”
Rickman was gripped with panic and began cursing himself for taking the pain pills. “I told you the banker had to be dealt with immediately.”
“Calm down. Vazir needed to take care of this first, and now he is going to rid you of your problem.”
“But I told you it had to happen immediately. If Rapp discovers him, we are going to have some serious problems.”
“I have heard that Mr. Rapp has some other problems he is dealing with.” Durrani sounded very pleased. “That information you sent the FBI agent has worked. The agent is running an investigation on Rapp. Now when Vazir kills the banker it will make Rapp and the CIA look that much more guilty. I have instructed Vazir to make the murder look sensational.”
“Bad idea.” Rickman suddenly felt as if he was dealing with an amateur. “If you want it to look like Rapp, put a single bullet in Obrecht’s head.”
“Front or back?” Kassar asked.
“Doesn’t matter, just so long as Obrecht is dead.”
“Nine-millimeter, .40, Sig, .45?” Kassar asked, wondering what caliber gun was Rapp’s preference.
“For something close like this he’d use a nine-millimeter.”
Kassar nodded with confidence.
Rickman was suddenly back in operation mode, wishing he was healthy enough to go along and direct Kassar and his men. “How many people are you taking?”
“I was planning on handling it myself. Smaller footprint. Easier to move.”
That was how Rapp liked to operate. “And on the off chance you run into Rapp while you are dealing with Obrecht?”
Kassar’s expression remained unreadable. “It depends on where I see him, but I assume I will have the advantage, as I know what he looks like but he doesn’t know me.”
A small laugh passed through Rickman’s battered lips. “It doesn’t matter. He will sense you. He’ll smell you from a mile away. I can’t explain how he does it. Must be some kind of genetic survival instinct going back to when his ancestors were running from dinosaurs and shit.” Rickman wished he could use his old contacts to find out what Rapp was up to.
Durrani folded his arms across his chest and flexed his knees. “I think you give this Mr. Rapp too much credit. You have built him into some mythical character.”
Rickman knew where this was coming from. “General, you are allowing your ego to interfere with reality. As much as I would like to see Rapp dead, I do not want your talented friend tangling with him.”
The general snorted. “Nonsense.” Turning to Kassar, he ordered, “If you run into Mr. Rapp I want you to kill him.”
Kassar accepted the order with a nod even though he was fairly certain he would disregard it. It was easy to kill a common fool like the one who was now lying at his feet, but a man like Mitch Rapp was an entirely different matter. A man like Rapp would be aware and he would fight back. Kassar looked at Rickman and said, “Maybe I should bring some backup.”
Rickman thought about that for a moment while Durrani stewed over the fact that his man was asking Rickman how to run his operation. Rickman slowly lifted a hand and scratched his chin. “I think that’s a good idea. Probably three men.”
Kassar turned to Durrani. “May I choose the men?”
“Yes,” Durrani said, even though he didn’t want to.
“And,” Rickman added, “if you see Rapp I want you to think seriously about aborting the operation. Especially if you have already taken care of Obrecht.”
“Nonsense,” Durrani scoffed. “If you see Rapp, I want him dead. Do you understand me? I am sick of this man. Rid me of this problem and I will reward you handsomely.”
Rickman was tired of all the bravado, and being relegated to the role of cripple only made it worse. Not being able to stand and argue his point was extremely frustrating. “Kassar, all the money in the world won’t mean a thing if you’re dead. Use your judgment and don’t underestimate Rapp. The man’s at the top of the food chain. If you have a clean shot and he doesn’t see you, go ahead and try your best, but if he gets even the slightest whiff of you, you need to run.” Rickman looked at Kassar through his slitted eyes. “You are a smart man, Vazir. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Kassar replied in his standard dispassionate voice. He did understand. Men like Rapp were exceedingly dangerous, not just because of their talent and instincts. The most impressive thing about Rapp was that he was still alive after everything that had been thrown at him. “What about the assassin . . . Gould?”
Rickman had been wondering how to handle that problem. He knew a great deal about the man, but Gould had no idea that Rickman had maneuvered him into the time and place where he’d been certain the former Legionnaire would settle his score with Rapp. Somewhere, Rickman thought, he’d miscalculated, or possibly he hadn’t. An idea suddenly occurred to him. To Durrani he said, “You told me you had General Qayem and his men on standby in case my assassin failed.”
“That is correct.”
Rickman sighed. “I should have known you would meddle in my plans.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You are so transparent. You were going to kill Gould when he was done with Rapp, weren’t you?”
Durrani sniffed and said, “I did not want any loose ends. He was a loose end.”
“And?”
“What do you mean?”
Pushing with his elbows, Rickman managed to sit up against the pillows. He was thankful that the pain was muted by the drugs that were still in his system. “If our partnership is going to work, you must stop going behind my back. Do you understand what you did? Gould is a professional. Obviously, he saw your men and knew that you were going to kill him, so the only avenue of escape that was left to him was to cross over to Rapp.”
Durrani scoffed at the idea. “Nonsense.”
“No, General, the only thing that is nonsense is the way you keep ruining my well-laid plans. You need to stop interfering, and there should be no more killing unless we absolutely have to.”
“I kill to protect us. Our secret is too valuable. We must keep our circle very tight.”
“It’s a bad policy. Killing is not the solution to every problem. What are you going to do about Vazir when he gets back from Switzerland? Are you going to kill him as well?”
“He is too valuable,” Durrani shouted. “I would never kill someone so loyal.”
Rickman knew that Durrani had killed plenty of loyal people, but he didn’t verbalize it. Kassar was listening to every word and he was no fool. The man had no doubt wondered when Durrani would tire of his services. “From now on, General, we need to consult with each other, or we are doomed.”
CHAPTER 48
RAPPAHANNOCK COUNTY, VIRGINIA
STAN Hurley arrived a few minutes before eight o’clock. The looming subject of his terminal diagnosis was not discussed for the simple reason that the old cuss had already told Kennedy they weren’t going to make a big deal out of it. He apparently mumbled something about the fact that we’re all dying, some just a little sooner than others.
Lewis made shrimp fettuccini and spinach salad for the group. Over dinner Rapp continued to press Kennedy, Hurley, and Lewis about Rickman. Rapp remembered that Rickman had an ex-wife and a daughter whom he rarely discussed. In fact Rapp remembered only one time when he’d heard Rickman mention them. It was at an old Soviet base in southern Uzbekistan just after the Taliban had had their asses handed to them by Ame
rican airpower, a couple of dozen U.S. Special Operations warriors, a few Clandestine Service guys, and a ragtag army of mostly Northern Alliance types. Rickman had been key in putting the whole thing together, and it was the first time since 9/11 that they felt like they had really hit back.
So it was time to celebrate, and with the Taliban in full retreat and running for the Pakistani border, the booze began to flow. Even back then, Rapp knew Rickman as a guy with a big brain who had a knack for putting together complicated operations while never losing sight of the various pitfalls. And he did it all with a calm focus on the endgame, something that was no easy thing, with so many moving parts and an uncooperative enemy. For reasons that Rapp didn’t fully understand, that night, a sloppy Rickman decided to unload his personal problems on Rapp. Rickman had a wife whom he’d never really loved, and he was pretty sure she’d never really loved him either. They had a daughter who had reached her teens and hated her father for being gone so much, yet when he was home he couldn’t get her to say as much as hello. It was all going down the tubes, and Rickman vacillated between thinking he should save it and being pretty sure it wasn’t worth saving. It was a classic one-person devil’s advocate, argued by a single drunken man for the better part of an evening. Rapp succeeded in changing the discussion multiple times, only to have Rickman steer it right back into the muddy ditch.
The next day it was not brought up and it was never discussed again. A few months later Rapp heard that Rickman’s wife had filed for divorce. It was not an unusual situation. During the best of times the Clandestine Service was hard on families. It took a unique spouse to be able to hold down the fort while you were off advancing America’s policies in the gutters of the world. The divorce rate was high before 9/11. After the attacks it skyrocketed. The CIA never stopped deploying, and the deployments lasted years, families suffered, and marriages fell apart. Now Rapp wanted to know if they’d ever had any discussions with Rickman about the divorce and the stress of his job.
Kennedy looked at Lewis and said, “We did have a discussion about bringing him back.”
