by Vince Flynn
Sanchez raised her fist again as if she might strike him. “I can’t seem to get it through your thick head—you are not in charge here. I am.”
“I am a federal—”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass who you are. You are not authorized to be on my floor.”
“But—”
“But nothing. You’ve got two strikes and that means you only have one more chance. Here comes the third pitch, and my guess is you’re gonna whiff on this one just like the first two.” Sanchez held up the stubby index finger on her right hand, started with the first man on her left and then continued around to her right, saying, “Do any of you have a warrant issued from a federal judge that specifically states that you can bully your way into an intensive care unit on this particular United States air base?” She continued her sweep, looking each man in the eye for a second time. When she made it back to Wilson, she said, “I didn’t think so.” She stepped forward, shooing the herd of men toward the staircase. “So get the hell off my floor right now, and don’t you dare come back until you have that warrant.”
Chapter 30
Jalalabad, Afghanistan
Kassar attempted to remain calm as he studied the twenty-three inch color monitor. The hostage was limp, his arms stretched above his head, his knees buckled, the two dimwitted interrogators trying to figure out what to do. Kassar looked calm, but inside his stomach was turning flips. If he botched this in any way he might as well put a bullet in his own head and save himself from the misguided hope that they might let him live. After calming himself with a few deep breaths, he pushed himself away from the table and grabbed his mask. Before entering the room he pulled it down to make sure none of his face was showing.
The door opened to reveal the two fools checking Rickman for a pulse. They had pulled their masks up so they fit like winter caps. They looked like a couple of common criminals in a Hollywood movie. Kassar filed past the camera and went straight to the extremely valuable Rickman. He shooed the other two men away and checked Rickman’s neck. He spent almost a minute searching for a pulse. Two separate times he thought he felt a weak pulse but then he lost it. Next he tried the wrist and there was nothing.
His anxiety growing with each passing second, Kassar finally placed his ear over Rickman’s heart. Again there was nothing. Kassar stepped away from the lifeless Rickman and looked at his men. The two simpletons couldn’t have looked more ashamed. “He was doing fine. The doctor said he could take more.”
“We didn’t hit him that hard,” the shorter one said.
Kassar was more nervous than angry. “I forbade you two from killing him, yet that’s exactly what you did.”
“We are sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am.” Kassar turned to leave and while facing the camera he drew his pistol from under his tunic. A long silencer was attached to the end. Kassar stepped to the side and spun around, facing the men. “I told you I would kill you if anything happened to him.” “I’m sorry,” the bigger one said in a pleading tone.
Kassar squeezed the trigger five times in quick succession and then turned the weapon on the other man, who was cowering with his hands over his face. Kassar was amused that this idiot thought covering his face could somehow stop a bullet. Kassar placed the tip of the silencer against the man’s palms and started pulling the trigger. He didn’t bother to count this time. He let his rage flow.
When the pistol was empty, Kassar turned to face the camera. They could still make it look as if Rickman was alive, at least for a while. All they had to do was release some propaganda on the Internet showing Rickman when he started to break. The Americans would fear the worst. Kassar kept telling himself that it would work. He’d been telling himself the same thing for days, even though he had his doubts.
He would have to move quickly, though, or all would be lost. Kassar swung his empty pistol at the camera, knocking it to the floor. The camera broke into several pieces, the red light blinking several times and then going out. Kassar stuffed his pistol back in his waistband and yanked off the stifling black hood. He walked from one wall to the other and back, going over what had to be done. With his nerves calmed just enough to carry on, he approached Rickman and with a knife cut the rope that was holding him up.
Kassar caught the body over his left shoulder, and after moving him around a bit he had him balanced just right. The stench of urine and feces was awful. Kassar almost retched twice before he even got him out of the room. He stopped in the next room and closed and unhooked the laptop that had recorded all the sessions. He then started up the stairs and again almost vomited.
Kassar was about to lay Rickman on the floor and then he thought of the long drive ahead. There was no way he could stand the smell, and if he was stopped by the police or border agents the smell alone might cause them to search the vehicle. So, instead of tossing him on the floor, Kassar carried him down the hall to the back of the house and laid the body in the bathtub.
He checked his watch and wondered how much time he could spare. He decided ten minutes wouldn’t make a difference. Kassar turned on the water and used his knife to cut Rickman’s foul smelling boxers from his body. Once the underwear was disposed of it was relatively easy. A little bit of soap and a washcloth and the body was clean enough for the journey. Kassar dried Rickman as best he could and then carried him to the bedroom, where he dressed him in some loose-fitting clothes. The only problem they had now was the bloody and battered face. Kassar would lay him in the backseat and cover him with a blanket. If he were stopped he would tell them that he was bringing his brother home to be buried. In the West it might have seemed strange, but here in Afghanistan, morticians were not so common.
Kassar had to take care of one more thing. He sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the laptop. His fingers glided over the track pad until he had what he wanted. He had edited the video earlier in the day. Rickman had spoken a few lies, but he had also given up some valuable secrets. The Americans would lose their minds when they saw this. Kassar was smiling as he posted the video on a popular jihadist website. Like a pebble in a lake, the video would ripple across the World Wide Web. There was no way the Americans could hope to contain it.
Chapter 31
Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan
Wilson was back down in front of the main desk, and the pimple-faced airman was trying to figure out how some uneducated Latino woman could deter nine special agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation from doing their job. The only reason he wasn’t yelling at his overpaid, overqualified entourage was that he’d been unable to get past her as well, and he was in charge.
Wilson hadn’t gotten to where he was in this world by simply quitting every time an obstacle was placed in front of him. No, Joel Wilson was better than that. If this Air Force bitch thought she could defy his authority, she was in for a rude lesson. Tapping the reception counter with his knuckles, he demanded, “Who’s in charge of this place?”
“I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to be more specific.”
“This place,” Wilson repeated and waved his arms around. This further cemented Wilson’s belief that the military had become the great dumping ground for America’s dimwitted masses.
“Brigadier General Earl Kreitzer, sir.”
Wilson filed that one away. “What about this hospital?”
“Overall is Colonel Wyman, sir. He’s the task force medical commander, but Lieutenant Colonel Brunkhorst is the medical chief of staff.”
“Are either of them here right now?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Brunkhorst is, sir. May I ask what this is about?” The man snatched the handset out of the cradle. “She’s going to want to know.”
“It’s about that rude woman you have in ICU . . . Something, something Sergeant Sanchez.”
The eyes on the young man from Kansas grew large with recognition and he placed the handset back in its cradle. “Command Master Sergeant Sanchez.”
“That’s right.”
The
Kansan looked over both shoulders. “Technically, sir, Lieutenant Colonel Brunkhorst is senior in the chain of command, but truth be told, Command Master Sergeant Sanchez runs this place.”
“Shit.” Wilson slapped his hand on countertop.
“I hope you didn’t do anything to upset her, sir.” Then he leaned forward and whispered, “She’s not someone you want to get on the wrong side of.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” Wilson was on the verge of really losing it, when the most surprising sight caught his eye. Coming down the hall toward him was one of his former FBI special agents, Sydney Hayek. They had a deeply complicated relationship that Hayek had ruined. According to Wilson’s very credible information, she was now working for the CIA. Wilson stepped away from the desk. “Sydney,” he shouted with a friendly wave. “You’re the last person I expected to find here.”
Hayek, normally good at masking her emotions, was incapable of doing so. Joel Wilson was the sole reason she had decided to leave the FBI. “Why are you here?”
Wilson flashed the boyish grin that he was so proud of. “I’m the one asking the questions around here.” He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she took a quick step back. Wilson tried to cover and said, “You look good.”
Hayek crossed her arms, her eyes glancing at the men behind Wilson. “Why are you here?”
“Well, it’s good to see you as well, Sydney,” Wilson said in an easy tone. “It’s too bad I had to fly to the other side of the planet to run into you. Do you have time to grab a cup of coffee?”
There was no answer. Hayek couldn’t process what she was hearing. Standing before her was a man who had tried to destroy her life. A man who had sexually harassed her and made her actually contemplate suicide. He knew all these things, yet here he was, standing in front of her, acting as if they were old friends.
“We’re not going to have coffee,” Hayek said, remembering how her therapist had told her she needed to be firm and unambiguous.
“That’s too bad, because I could really use your help on something. I hear you’re out at Langley these days.”
“What I do is classified. None of your business.”
Wilson laughed heartily. “You must not be aware of my new job at the Bureau. I’m running the Counterintelligence Division. You know . . . who watches the watchers, and all that stuff.”
Hayek shrugged in an effort to convey what she was thinking, which was: I don’t give a shit what you do.
Wilson leaned forward and with a suave smile said, “So your business actually is my business.”
Hayek wanted to crawl out of her skin. She took a step to the side and said, “I need to be someplace right now.” Two steps later he grabbed her arm.
“Slow down there, missy.”
Hayek pivoted and came back at Wilson with her left fist cocked. “Take your damn hands off me!”
Wilson let go and put his hands up in the air. “You need to calm down. Striking a federal agent will land your pretty little ass in jail.”
“How about sexually harassing a federal agent and stalking her?” After having kept it pent up for years, and thinking she was free from this imbalanced egomaniac, she could no longer keep her feelings bottled up.
Wilson had handled her before and he could handle her now. “I see that Arab temper of yours hasn’t gotten any better.”
“I’m half Lebanese, half American, you arrogant WASP.”
Under his breath, but loud enough for several of them to hear, he said, “Hell hath no fury like a spurned woman.”
“Is that what you tell yourself? You think stalking your subordinate and making up fake excuses to be alone with me and me shutting down your perverted attempts at getting me into bed somehow adds up to me wanting you?” Hayek had been over and over all of this in therapy with Dr. Lewis, the CIA’s resident shrink. Hayek had been raised in a culture in which she was a disappointment. Her father, a Lebanese immigrant, had wanted her to be nothing more than a nurse. Women had their place in this world and it didn’t involve a gun, a badge, and chasing down bad guys. He wanted to marry off his beautiful daughter at eighteen to one of his friend’s sons. It was all arranged. She was supposed to begin providing grandchildren immediately. Without her knowledge a date had already been set at St. Maron’s Church. Hayek, a gifted student, had caught the eye of her high school’s guidance counselor. By the time her father announced his grand plans, Hayek had already been notified that she had not only been accepted to the University of Chicago, but she was going on a full ride.
Her entire world fell apart in just a few days. She defied her father and he in turn threw her out on the street. In a classic I-will-show-you showdown, neither Hayek nor her father backed down. The years ticked by and the distance grew and Hayek found out she could survive without her family. Her classmates at the University of Chicago became her new family and the FBI became her life. Hayek became a force of independence, promising herself that she would never be a victim. That she would never allow a man to dictate her life. She had done just fine until the deceitful and manipulative Joel Wilson came along.
During the seemingly never-ending therapy sessions, Dr. Lewis helped her see that she had built up some very unhealthy coping mechanisms. The most obvious was that she rarely let her feelings be known. She simply put her head down, kept her complaints to herself, and moved forward. When Wilson began twisting her into knots, her silence only made things worse.
Well, there’s not going to be any more silence, she told herself.
“I’d hoped you got some help after you washed out of the Bureau. But it doesn’t look like it.”
“You asshole. No one can manipulate the facts like you.” Hayek turned back toward the other men, some dressed in dark suits, others in more casual base attire. “Do any of you actually like working with this jerk?” They all stared at her stone-faced. “Well, don’t trust him. Never . . . not for a second, because you don’t mean a thing to him. You see, he’s the only honorable man in all of D.C. That means all of you are expendable.”
“That’s enough,” a red-faced Wilson snapped. “Your psychological issues aside, I’m here in an official capacity and you are going to answer some questions.”
“Pound sand, asshole. You want to talk to me, you call my lawyer and set it up.”
Wilson grinned. “You already have a lawyer. You must have something to hide.”
Hayek had said her piece. She was shaking from the release of all the things that she should have said years ago. “Let’s hear it,” Hayek said forcefully, for all to hear. “Ask your questions. Let’s go.”
Wilson wasn’t quite ready for this level of vitriol. In his mind he had been nothing but supportive of Hayek’s career. They were two extremely attractive people, and it seemed natural for them to indulge in a physical relationship. In his mind at least, he was in an open marriage. “Nice try. This is a highly classified investigation. Why don’t you take a ride with us and we’ll discuss.”
“What in the hell is going on here?” The icy voice cut through the air. It wasn’t loud or forceful, but it had a tone of absolute authority.
Wilson watched his sea of agents part to reveal CIA Director Irene Kennedy and a group of men who made his gaggle of FBI agents look like a bunch of pussies. Her security detail looked a bunch of mixed martial arts fighters carrying machine guns and lots of ammunition. “Director,” Wilson said, trying to sound calm, “you’re just the person I wanted to talk to.”
Kennedy stood her ground, like a predator trying to decide if this was worth the physical exertion. After an uncomfortable silence, she said, “I find that hard to believe.”
“What’s that?” Wilson said casually.
“That you wanted to talk to me.”
“Come now, Director, I always enjoy catching up with you.”
“How could I be just the person you wanted to talk to when you didn’t even know I was here?”
Wilson smiled awkwardly while he tried to come up with an answer. Kennedy was
no fool. “It’s not every day the director of the CIA lands in Bagram. Word travels quickly on these bases.”
Kennedy appraised him with cautious eyes. She didn’t believe him for a second. “I think it’s far more rare to have the FBI’s acting head of Counterintelligence so far from home.”
“We go where we must.”
Normally Kennedy would have been more diplomatic, but with one of her men dead, two missing, a fourth in the hospital and the entire Afghani government screaming for blood, she was in no mood for whatever Wilson was up to, so she cut to the heart of the matter. “What did you want to question Agent Hayek about?”
Wilson hesitated for a second. “I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to discuss matters pertaining to an ongoing investigation.”
“You think so?” Kennedy said, taking two steps forward. “I want you to think long and hard about how you answer this next question. Are you aware of the protocols you are to follow if you want to question one of my people?”
“Of course I am.”
“So you went through all the proper channels?”
“Agent Hayek and I go way back,” Wilson said, as if the entire thing was being blown out of proportion. “It was going to be simple off-the-record discussion.”
Kennedy nodded slowly and then walked across the lobby until she was just two feet from Wilson. She gestured with her finger for him to come closer so they could speak in confidence. Wilson bent forward at the waist and offered Kennedy his left ear.
“I am well aware of your history with Agent Hayek. Stay the hell away from her, or I will make your life miserable in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.” Kennedy took a step back and in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear said, “Now, in the future, Special Agent Wilson, if you would like to conduct an interview with any of my people you will contact my office to coordinate. Are we clear?”
