by Vince Flynn
“I think he’s sleeping, sir.”
“And where are you?”
“I’m at the gym.”
“Well, you are going to go wake his insubordinate ass up and you are going to call me back and put him on the phone. Have I made myself clear?”
Patterson stepped off the treadmill. “Crystal clear, sir.”
“If I don’t hear back from you in ten minutes, your career is over.”
“Sir?”
“What?”
“I need your number.”
“I’ll text it to you. Call me back in ten minutes.”
Patterson was about to respond but the line went dead. He noted the time on his watch and stuffed his phone and his earbuds in the zippered pockets of his running shorts. He grabbed his sweatshirt and started running. The trailer where Wilson was sleeping was only two minutes from where he was, but Patterson wasn’t about to take any chances. It was getting light outside as he broke into a near sprint. People were already out doing their morning PT and Patterson got more than a few strange looks as he blew down the street as if he was running for his life, which he basically was. There was a moment of near panic when he couldn’t locate the specific trailer. They all looked alike. On his second try he found the right place and as he burst through the door he found one of his fellow agents drinking coffee and staring at his iPad.
“Where’s Wilson?”
The agent pointed with his coffee mug toward the back of the trailer. “Sleeping.”
Patterson pulled out his phone and was relieved to see the text from Hargrave. He tapped the number as he moved down the hallway, passing the smaller bedrooms on his left and right. He was tempted to knock on the door, but when he heard Hargrave answer, he decided not to stop. He flung the door open and marched right to the bedside. Wilson looked up, dazed and confused by the light spilling in from the hallway.
“Here he is, sir.” Patterson placed the phone in front of Wilson’s face and said, “It’s an emergency.”
Wilson took the phone and said, “Hello?”
“I have been trying to call you for the past sixteen hours.”
Shit, Wilson said to himself. Hargrave was the last person he wanted to talk to. “Ah . . .sorry, but I’ve been a little preoccupied.” Wilson rolled onto his side and looked at his watch. “What do you need?”
“I need you to follow through on your promises. Remember a few days ago when you woke me up in the middle of the night to get permission to go on this little excursion of yours? Do you remember what you promised me?”
“Not really,” Wilson yawned. “You’re going to have to cut me some slack. This time change has me a little off. You woke me up.”
“Have you been asleep for sixteen hours? Because that’s how long I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”
“No, it’s just that things have been kind of complicated since we landed. Listen, why don’t I call you back in thirty minutes and give you a briefing.”
“You’ll do no such thing. Before you left, we agreed that you would call me every day and give me a progress report. You have not called me once. I received a call from Director Kennedy. She wanted to know why, in the midst of the extremely serious problems she’s trying to deal with, you decide to show up and start questioning her people.”
“Sir, there’s a reason for that.”
“Stop talking. I get the feeling every time I hear your voice you’re lying to me. I need you to listen and listen carefully. Because you decided not to return my calls I was not able to return Director Kennedy’s calls. She is so incensed by your poor timing and self-important behavior that she decided to go over my head call our boss. The director of the FBI, remember him? As the old saying in this town goes, shit rolls downhill. I was attempting to enjoy a nice evening with my wife when the director called me and asked me if I’d lost my mind. I had a sneaky suspicion it involved you and your asinine behavior and the director confirmed those suspicions. Director Kennedy told him about some stunt you pulled at the base hospital . . . trying to bully your way onto the ICU so you could interrogate one of her people who had barely escaped an assassination attempt.”
Wilson was standing now. “I did not try to bully my way—”
“Don’t speak. I’m not done talking. Before you left I told you how I expected you to behave. I explained to the director the scope of your investigation. That you told me that you were going to be there to offer assistance in finding Rickman, and if along the way you saw that any laws had been broken you would consult me before moving the investigation in a new direction. You lied to me.”
“I did not.”
“You sure as hell did, and that’s how the director sees it as well. What I can’t figure out is how you thought you were going to get away with this. You already have a reputation as a duplicitous bastard. People are watching you. And your timing is awful, by the way. The CIA is in the middle of a shitstorm and you show up and start poking them with a stick. Do have any idea the respect that Irene Kennedy garners in this town?”
“I think a better word is fear.”
“You’re a fool, and I’m wasting my time trying to help you. The director wants you back here immediately, and just so you have something to think about on your long flight, it looks like he’s going to order an official inquiry into just what in the hell you’ve been up to.”
Wilson had already been through one of those and it had almost killed his career. He doubted he would survive a second one. “Sir, you’re making a big mistake.”
“The only mistake I made was letting you go in the first place.”
“That’s not true, sir. There are some things you don’t know.”
“By all means, please enlighten me, and keep in mind, I’ve learned my lesson with you. This call is being recorded, so don’t think you can sell me another pile of lies and then feign ignorance later.”
Wilson was thinking as fast as he could, trying to find a way to give Hargrave as little information as possible and still convince him that he should be allowed to not only stay in Afghanistan, but also increase the scope of the investigation. “I have reason to believe that Joe Rickman and Mitch Rapp have been stealing millions of dollars from the U.S. government.”
Hargrave laughed at him. “Reason to believe . . . that’s the best you can do, Joel?”
“Sir, you’re going to have to trust me on this.”
“I am going to have to do no such thing. You have burned your way through all the trust I have. You have precisely one minute to convince me that you deserve the latitude to go digging around one of our country’s most secretive institutions.”
Wilson saw no other choice. “I have the account numbers, the amounts, when the transfers were made, and a sworn affidavit from the banker who says Mitch Rapp came into his bank and set up the account.”
“Where’s the bank?”
“Zurich.”
“And how long have you had this information?”
In truth Wilson had possessed the information for eighteen days, but telling Hargrave that in his present state of mind would do him no good. “About two weeks.”
There was a long silence and then, “You’ve had this information for two weeks and you didn’t bring it to me.”
“I wanted to make sure it was real before I brought it to you.”
“And just how did you come to possess this information?” Wilson knew how this was going to sound, but he also knew that sooner rather than later he would have to present a chain of evidence. If there were any inconsistencies the former judge would eat him alive.
“The information was provided by an anonymous source.”
“Good God,” Hargrave yelled. “How long have you worked in Counterintelligence? Do you have any idea how many times the Russians alone have tried to turn us against ourselves with this little trick?”
“I am well aware, sir. That’s why I followed up and met with the banker.”
“And you’ve fully vetted this banker? You know fo
r a fact that he’s not a foreign asset?”
“I’m in the process of doing that right now, sir.”
“You don’t think you should have done that first?”
“The abduction of Rickman forced me to move up my timetable.”
“So you thought you should lie to me and then jet off to Afghanistan so you could ambush Rapp. Do you understand that he was almost killed? He’s in ICU . . . he can barely remember his name.”
“How convenient.”
“Do you have any common sense? Do you understand that the CIA is our sister agency? That we are supposed to work together?”
“I thought we were supposed to keep them honest, Sam.”
“When the evidence dictates . . . yes, but that doesn’t mean running off half-cocked because of an anonymous tip, and by the way, how did you receive this anonymous tip?”
“I received a package.”
“Where . . . your house or the office?”
“What does it matter?”
“Answer my question.”
“The office.”
“Postmark?”
“Zurich.”
“And let me guess . . . the lab didn’t find any fingerprints, or DNA, or anything that could help us find this anonymous source.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
There was a long sigh of frustration and then, “You’re done. Pack up your team. You have precisely two hours and that jet is going to be in the air and during those two hours you are not to speak to anyone from the CIA. Am I clear?”
“Oh, I’m reading you loud and clear.” Wilson was sick of being kicked around by this old fool. “Are you still recording our conversation, because I want to make sure you get this part. I didn’t tell you any of this because I can’t trust you. Because the entire Counterintelligence Division knows that you’re too close to Director Kennedy, and based on what I’ve experienced the last few days I’m inclined to believe those rumors. So you better get ready for your own board of inquiry.” Wilson spun around and whipped Patterson’s phone against the wall. “Fuck.” He collapsed on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, trying to figure out how everything had gotten all twisted around. Hargrave was an idiot. The Clandestine Service was filled with crooks—Rickman, Rapp, and probably dozens of other officers. Senator Ferris had shown him the numbers; almost a billion dollars in cash had passed through the Clandestine Service and into the hands of all of these corrupt warlords, drug dealers, and politicians. The system was rife with corruption and Wilson had the evidence to prove it. There was only one reason why Hargrave would do this, and it was to protect Kennedy. Wilson had no choice but to return to D.C., but he wasn’t going to do it quietly. Senator Ferris was no slouch. They shared a belief that the CIA had been given too much power and not enough oversight after 9/11. That was going to change. Once the people found out that these crooks were stealing taxpayer dollars, Hargrave, Director Miller and all the other assholes would get dragged up to Capitol Hill and have to explain how they interfered with his investigation, and then the Senate would clean house. After that, Wilson could write his own ticket and they could all kiss his ass.
Chapter 35
Kennedy caught Rapp’s doctor just as he was about to start his morning rounds. Major Nathan was a thirty-five year old neurosurgeon who spent two weeks of every month at Bagram and the other two at Sloan-Kettering in New York. He had a surprisingly affable bedside manner, for a brain surgeon. “Good morning, Major. Do you have a second to chat?”
“I was just heading to see Mr. Cox.” The major smiled. “I don’t suppose that’s his real name?”
In a rare moment of honesty, Kennedy shook her head. “I was wondering if you could tell me how he’s doing?”
“Much better. According to his recent scars, there’s been a drastic reduction in swelling.”
“Do you think he’s ready to fly?”
Major Nathan winced and shook his head, “These head cases are tricky, they’re all unique. Some patients bounce back after a few days, some people never bounce back.”
“So he could fly if he had to?”
The major sighed. “If he absolutely has to, yes, but I’d like to give it a few more days.”
Kennedy frowned.
“What’s the problem?”
“I can’t really talk about it, but let’s just say Mr. Cox is extremely good at his job and we need him.” Kennedy wanted him back, but she also wanted to put Rapp somewhere where Joel Wilson couldn’t get his hands on him.
The major had immediately recognized Kennedy when one of the nurses had brought her into his office the day before. She explained politely that his newest patient was one of her top operatives. Nathan had already guessed that Mr. Cox was no mere analyst. It was standard procedure for the staff to cut the clothes off emergency patients since they only got in the way. Mr. Cox had no open wounds, but Nathan counted three bullet holes and a scar that looked like it had come from a knife. Even the nurses commented. His battle scars, combined with his rock-hard physique, made the deduction simple. Nathan had rotated in and out of Bagram for nine straight months. He had pretty much seen it all. Or at least he thought he had. Mr. Cox was something of an anomaly.
Nathan understood that Kennedy held a unique position. If he could, he would try to help her. “Why don’t we go see how he’s doing, and then we can reassess.”
They found Rapp sitting up in his bed with a tray of food in front of him, watching an episode of Justified. After some brief pleasantries the doctor looked his chart and asked, “How do you feel this morning, Mr. Cox?”
“Better,” Rapp said, moving his head around. “No headache, and I’ve got my appetite back.”
The doctor scribbled a few notes on the chart. “That’s good. How’s your memory?”
“Pretty good.” Rapp pointed at the TV. “I know that I’ve seen this episode before and I remember most of the characters . . . Dewey Crowe, Boyd Crowder, Raylan Givens, Art Mullen and Dickie Bennett.”
“Good show?” Nathan asked, without looking up.
“I think I’m the wrong guy to ask, Doc. I really don’t have much to compare it to.”
Nathan laughed. “And your recall in general?”
“Seems like it’s getting a lot better.”
“All right, where’d you go to college?”
“Syracuse.”
Nathan rattled off the same questions he’d given Rapp late yesterday. Mother’s maiden name, grade school, high school, childhood best friend, and on and on. Unlike yesterday, he got them all correct today. Nathan decided to expand the list. “First job out of college?”
Rapp gave Kennedy a strange look and then told Nathan he didn’t know.
“Current job?”
“I think I’m an assassin.” Rapp watched his doctor look up with wide eyes. “I’m just kidding, Doc. I work for the CIA and if I tell you any more than that, I’ll have to . . .”
“Kill me,” Nathan finished the sentence for him.
“Exactly.”
Nathan glanced sideways at Kennedy. “Is he always this funny?”
Kennedy was relieved that he was coming back. She smiled and shook her head. “He’s never had much of a sense of humor.”
Before Rapp could comment, Nathan asked, “Favorite color?”
“Blue . . . I think.”
“Wife . . . kids?”
The smile fell from Rapp’s face and his entire bearing changed. He didn’t answer for a long time and then he looked at Kennedy for help.
Kennedy had been dreading this. It was hard enough to live through it once. It couldn’t be easy learning it for a second time. It was obvious from the pained expression on his face that he remembered something about the tragedy. “Your wife,” Kennedy started and then stopped.
Nathan picked up on the mood and nodded for Kennedy to continue. “All memories are important . . . the good ones and the bad ones.”
“I remember,” Rapp said, his voice almost disembodied. “
Her name was Anna and she was pregnant.”
Kennedy nodded slowly.
Caught up in the story, Nathan asked, “How did she die?”
“I don’t think we want to talk about this right now.”
Rapp looked up and said, “She was murdered.”
“I’m sorry,” Nathan answered softly.
There was a long silence and then Rapp began to frown as if something was occurring to him for the first time.
“What is it?” Nathan asked.
Kennedy thought she knew what it was and she stepped forward. “I think this is enough for now.”
Rapp shook his head as if trying to free a jumbled thought. “There’s a face. A man I know, but I can’t remember his name. He has something to do with my wife, but I can’t make it connect.”
Kennedy chastised herself for not consulting with Dr. Lewis. Thomas Lewis was their in-house psychologist. He had worked very closely with Rapp over the years, and it was likely that he could offer insight about how they should handle this unique situation. Between Rickman, Hubbard and Wilson showing up, she’d simply forgot to call Lewis. Her fear that Rapp would kill Gould was not unfounded, and she wasn’t even sure she would object to it, but Major Nathan had warned them that Rapp didn’t need any undue stress until he his condition was stabilized.
There was a knock on the doorframe and she turned to see Coleman with a welcome expression. The retired SEAL had blond hair, blue eyes, and dimples, which gave him a boyish look at times. This morning, however, his sharp jaw was set in a way that she had seen many times before. He had news that she was waiting for.
“Please excuse me for a second.” Kennedy left the room and stepped into the hallway with Coleman. “Wilson?”
“Yep. We had both his phones dialed in but he wasn’t using them. We found out which trailer he was staying in and bugged it while he was at dinner last night. I’m still trying to get my hands on his laptop, but no luck so far. About thirty minutes ago one of his agents wakes him up and hands him a phone. It was Hargrave on the line and although it’s a one-sided conversation, it’s pretty obvious Wilson is getting his ass handed to him.” Coleman held up his iPhone. “I’ve got it all right here for you. Would you like the highlights first?”
