by Vince Flynn
“When was the last time this room was swept?” Kennedy asked.
Schneeman knew Kennedy’s expectations. “Less than thirty minutes ago.”
She gave a nod of satisfaction and asked, “How closely was Rick working with Darren?”
“The short answer is, I’m not sure. I mean, I’m out here most of the time. Darren runs the show from Kabul. Don’t ask me how, but I think he got the sense that I’m his replacement. He’s been a real prick the last five months. The good news is I’m lucky if I see him once a month. The bad news is he hasn’t been managing his people. I have no idea what he and Rick were up to.”
Kennedy gave him a small, disbelieving frown. Their business was to collect facts, but intermixed with the facts was often a lot of gossip and innuendo. “Brian, you can’t honestly expect me to believe that you haven’t heard a thing.”
“The guy’s my immediate boss, Irene, and he’s a real prick. Not to you, of course, but to most of the people who work for him, he’s insufferable.”
“I understand there’s a chain of command, but how do you people expect me to make good decisions when you keep me in the dark on this stuff?” Rapp had warned her that he thought Sickles was in over his head, but no one else had bothered to make so much as a peep.
“I don’t know what to say. We’re thousands of miles away. We deal with what we have as best we can. These are all decisions that get made way above my pay grade.”
Kennedy wasn’t going to push the point. Schneeman was right, of course. Going behind your boss’s back to say that he was incompetent without any real proof was a great way to torpedo your career. “This stays between the two of us. Darren is not going to be the station chief much longer.”
Schneeman wasn’t totally surprised. “How much longer?”
“I’m not sure he’s going to make it to the end of the day, but I need to get a few things out of him first, so we’ll have to see.”
Schneeman almost asked who was going to be his replacement, but thought it would sound too self-serving. Instead, he moved back to the earlier topic. “There were a few things that didn’t exactly pass the smell test.”
Kennedy folded her arms across her chest and asked, “Like what?”
“Over the last few months they seemed to really kick this program into high gear. They were handing out bags of cash to every asshole in the country. Most of them guys we’ve spent the last ten years trying to kill.” Schneeman shook his head in disgust and added in an acid tone, “Fucking Abdul Rauf Qayem . . . I told Darren I’d put a bullet in the guy’s head, and he could pocket the cash. Do you know what Darren did?”
“No,” Kennedy responded.
“He freaked out, and not about the bullet in the head. He gave me this big lecture about the inspector general’s office and how they were all over him. How they had controls in place to make sure every penny was accounted for.”
Kennedy was surprised, as this was all news to her. “The inspector general?”
“That’s right.”
For obvious reasons, Langley’s inspector general had a certain amount of autonomy; that was the idea, after all, an in-house group tasked with making sure the spooks were playing by the rules. The idea was almost laughable and had of course been foisted on the Agency by the politicians on Capitol Hill. The fact that they thought it would work was interesting in itself. If the CIA could penetrate the world’s top governments, how difficult would it be to recruit a few people who worked in the inspector general’s Office? The answer was simple—it wasn’t. Kennedy had people in the office who kept her informed of anything of consequence. It they had been looking into Rickman and this reintegration business Kennedy would have known. As a precaution, though, she would need to do a little double-checking.
“What about Hubbard?” Kennedy asked.
He gave a shrug. “He’s competent enough.”
“I’ve heard he became Rick’s go-to guy.”
“Yeah. If he needed any heavy lifting done he usually arranged it through Hubbard, although . . .” Schneeman’s voice trailed off. He was thinking about something he’d heard.
“What?” Kennedy asked.
“Rick was involved with a lot of bad characters. Always has been, but when this reintegration thing got going, he really started hanging out with a rough crowd. I picked something up from one of the SOG guys. More of a complaint, really.”
SOG stood for Special Operations Group. They were the paramilitary arm of the National Clandestine Service and were the men and women whom Kennedy used to conduct covert operations. “What did you hear?”
“Guy told me Rick’s security was dog shit. Couldn’t understand why he’d turned everything over to the natives. Said a guy like Rick should always have some American shooters with him. He had too big a target on his back to trust everything to a bunch of local mercenaries.”
“You passed this concern on to Darren?”
“Yep.”
This was the first Kennedy had heard of any of this. “So Rick’s normal detail . . .”
“They stayed at the air base and he used them from time to time when he needed to make a show of force.”
Kennedy considered the new information for a moment. In the aftermath of stuff like this, certain bits of information could take on oversized importance. She told herself not to get hung up on it. If it were important, she would revisit it later. “So we have no idea where Hubbard may be?”
“None, and we’ve talked to a ton of sources.”
“Okay.” She looked back toward the door. “Our number one priority right now is to find Hubbard. Number two is Qayem.”
“Understood.”
“Good. Now tell me what you and Mike have learned from our guest.”
Chapter 26
Nash had followed Kennedy’s orders to the letter. She wanted Gould treated with respect until she said otherwise. The injury to his shoulder wasn’t too bad. The bullet had gone clean through and left a dime-sized pucker on entry and a quarter-sized one on the back end. It was easy to pass Gould off as one of the CIA’s hired guns that they used for security. The medical officials at the base hospital had worked on people from every NATO country multiple times, and the CIA had a reputation for outsourcing. The doctors had learned to not probe too deeply with men who wouldn’t even admit they worked for the CIA, and instead threw out the generic acronym OGA, which stood for Other Government Agency.
The doctor cleaned and patched up Gould’s wound, gave him some blood, put him on some antibiotics, and at the urging of Nash sent him on his way. After leaving the hospital the previous evening, Nash and Schneeman brought Gould to the air hangar where they had a suite of rooms that doubled as an interrogation facility. It was nothing more than two soundproof rooms, one of them wired for sound and video and the other to receive and monitor.
The initial interrogation produced nothing more than the same story Gould had told from the beginning. He’d taken a contract and was instructed to fly to Kabul and await further instructions. He spent one night at the Grand Marriott and then received a text and was told to go to the office building across the street from the veterinary clinic. While waiting to take the shot, he received for the first time the photo of the man he was supposed to kill. That was when he discovered it was Mitch Rapp.
“Do you understand our history?” Gould asked Nash.
Nash was tired and his nerves were frayed. He probably should have played dumb, but Gould was giving him so little to work with he said, “You mean the fact that you killed his pregnant wife? Yeah, I’m well aware that next to child rapists, you’re probably the biggest piece of shit on the planet. So you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t believe a single word that comes out of your mouth.”
Gould sighed as if this man was so predictable and said, “I am telling you the truth.”
“Do you want to hear the truth?” Nash said, leaning across the table, his jaw rip tight with anger. “The truth is I don’t understand why Mitch spared your life.
I get why he couldn’t kill your wife and your kid, but you . . .” Nash shook his head. “It makes no sense, and I’m beyond trying to figure it out. He’s my friend, you caused him a shitload of pain, so I figure I should do him a favor and toss you in a Black Hawk, fly up to one of the remote ranges, and toss your ass out the door. No one would even know you’re gone. Your wife and kid would probably thank me.”
It was the only time Gould showed any emotion, but it lasted for only a split second. “You don’t want to do that,” Gould said, regaining his composure.
“And why not?”
“Because I can help you.”
Nash laughed at him. “We’ve been talking half the night and you haven’t said a single thing that has helped me.”
“I told you, I need to talk to Mitch.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you, so you’re going to have to deal with me.”
And so it went round and round for most of the night with Nash and Schneeman taking turns, neither of them getting any useful information out of the assassin. At four in the morning Nash called Kennedy midair and gave her a vague report covering what they had learned, which was pretty much nothing. Kennedy told Nash that she wanted all of them to get some sleep, and that included Gould. Despite his anger at the man, Nash didn’t stop Schneeman from giving Gould a bedroll, pillow and blanket. The door locked from the outside and they put one guard in the hallway and another one in the observation room to keep an eye on the prisoner.
They let Gould sleep until almost noon and then fed him and started again. Again Nash failed to learn anything of value. Gould refused to speak to anyone other than Rapp. With everything this clown had done, Nash could not understand why they weren’t taking off the gloves and slapping him around. He was thinking about what kind of rough stuff he’d like to try, when the door opened.
“Time for a break,” Schneeman announced.
“This is not personal,” Gould said to Nash. “I need to speak to Mr. Rapp.”
Nash pushed his chair back and stood. Schneeman closed the door and led Nash into the observation room where Kennedy was waiting.
“How’s it going?” Kennedy asked the question even though she knew they hadn’t learned a thing.
“Horseshit.”
Kennedy digested his coarse answer with a nod, then looked at the surveillance monitors. “So we’ve learned nothing of value.”
“That about sums it up,” Schneeman said.
“Erase everything.”
“Excuse me?”
“Erase everything you have of Gould. I don’t want a shred of proof that he was here.” When she noticed that they were hesitating, she said, “It’s of no value. Erase all the recordings and then turn off all the equipment.”
“What’s your plan?” Nash asked.
“I’m going to go in there and he’s going to tell me what I want to know.”
“Really,” Nash flashed a crooked grin. “You’re just going to ask him.”
“That’s right,” she said without undue confidence. “Now, if you’d please open the door for me I’d like to talk to him.”
Kennedy followed Nash back to the interrogation room, where he punched in the four-digit code on the cipher lock. Nash held the door open for his boss and then tried to follow her in.
Kennedy held up a hand. “I’ve got this.” Leaving a stunned Nash in the hallway she closed the door and turned to face Louie Gould. Kennedy took a seat and studied the face of a man she had spent more time thinking of than even she realized. He had a nice face. Nothing too sharp, and his mouth had an almost perpetual soft smile. He was an interesting contrast to Rapp, whose face was composed of sharp lines. Rapp knew how to blend in and hide the fact that he was a killer, but he had to put some effort into it. Gould was a natural. His soft eyes had a sadness in them that she was sure he’d used to get past more than a few bodyguards.
“You know who I am?” Kennedy asked.
Gould shook his head.
“You sure?” Kennedy said as she offered him a faint smile.
“Sorry.”
“Mr. Gould, I know more about you than you could possibly imagine.”
“I need to speak to Mr. Rapp.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”
“Why?”
“Because if I let him in here I’m pretty sure he’ll kill you.”
Gould let out a deep sigh and let his sad eyes drop to the tabletop. “I want to try to help him. I know I owe him.”
“Then why don’t you stop lying?”
“I am not lying.” Gould looked exasperated. “Why won’t anyone believe me?”
“You can’t be serious?” Kennedy asked more amused than upset. “I ask you a simple question . . . do you know who I am, and you can’t even answer that?”
“I did. I told you I didn’t know who you were.”
“And you are lying. You see, Mr. Gould, I know everything there is to know about you. Where you grew up, the units you served in when you were with the French Foreign Legion, and a good number of the people you have killed over the last fifteen-odd years.”
Gould shrugged. “I’m not impressed.”
Kennedy flashed one of those confident smiles that only a person who is holding all the cards can carry off. “I’m not trying to impress you, Mr. Gould. I’m simply trying to speed along this process and get you to drop your charade.”
Showing a hint of anger, Gould leaned forward and said, “If it wasn’t for me, Rapp and the rest of your men would be dead. Is there anyone around here who knows how to show some gratitude?”
“And if you don’t know who I am, how is it that you know they are my men?”
Gould shook off her question. “It was a lucky guess.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Kennedy said with absolute confidence. “We both know that you know who I am. What I’m trying to figure out is why you think denying that you know me will somehow help your cause.”
“This is a waste of time. Get Rapp in here. Until you do that, I’m not saying a word. I have done nothing wrong. I’ve helped you guys,” Gould said while poking himself in the chest.
“Maybe we could get your wife on the phone and you could try to explain to her what you were doing in Kabul?”
“Nice try.”
“Claudia and I spoke yesterday.”
“You’re full of shit. You think because you have a name you can scare me into thinking you’ve got something on me.”
Kennedy paused. She wasn’t sure if she admired the way he was sticking to his story or thought him a fool. She would discover her answer in the next few minutes.
Chapter 27
Rapp awoke from another slumber to find a new woman sitting at his bedside. There was a similar feeling of recognition, as if they had a common past, a collection of faint memories that he couldn’t access but nonetheless were there, just beyond his grasp. There was also something different. With Kennedy the sentiment had been one of safety and familiarity, almost as if they were relatives. With this woman there was an emotion that told him their history was very different from that of being siblings.
Rapp tried to come up with her name. She was in her early to mid-thirties, with raven black hair pulled back in a low, loose ponytail. She had beautiful dark almond-shaped eyes set atop high cheekbones and a strong jawline. She was all the more stunning because she wasn’t wearing any makeup. If Rapp was in love with her or lusted for her it was easy to see why.
His memory had been coming back in chunks, and even though he could not place this woman, he was confident that she meant something more to him than just a casual friend. He feigned familiarity, smiled and asked, “How are you?”
Sydney Hayek returned the smile and said, “I’m fine. You’re the one we’re all worried about.”
Rapp played it off like it was no big deal. “I’m a little sore, that’s all.”
“I heard you have some memory issues.”
Rapp didn’t notice an accent. Her diction was fla
t, like all the TV anchors. She was probably from the Midwest but she looked as if she’d been born in Amman or Beirut. Michigan popped into his head, giving him the first clue to her identity. “That’s what they tell me.”
“Well?” she asked in a non-prodding manner.
“Well, what?”
“How’s your memory?”
Rapp held up his hand and let it wobble back and forth. “It’s a little iffy.”
Hayek gave him a suspicious look. “What’s my name?”
Rapp smiled. “I know you’re from Michigan.”
“That’s correct.”
For reasons that he didn’t know at the time and couldn’t explain later, he reached out and grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry. I feel like you’re important to me. That we’ve shared something that could be important.”
It wasn’t easy to see Hayek blush with her smooth olive skin, but she was. Her lips formed a smile that was one part shock and the other part sheer flattery. “We work with each other.”
“And I get the feeling there’s a little something more to our relationship than just work.”
Hayek cleared her throat and laughed. She had sensed the tension between them but her history of work relationships was so bad that she had ignored it to the best of her ability. That didn’t mean, however, that she wasn’t attracted to him. She was very much so. To the point where she was worried that it had begun to affect her work. She had even allowed her mind to wonder what it would be like. Rapp was such a dynamic force, volatile but in a very predictable way, that he actually scared her at first. The man across from her now, however, was a new version of Rapp, where all of those walls had been stripped away. For a split second she was tempted to tell him that they were in a committed relationship and then she decided against it.
Instead her juvenile streak took over and she said, “We’ve been sleeping with each other for the last six months.”
Rapp’s eyes opened wide. “Really?”
Hayek burst out laughing and, unable to talk because she couldn’t stop laughing, she managed to shake her head. Finally after about ten seconds she said, “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. We’re coworkers . . . you’re my boss.”
