by Vince Flynn
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 for 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 al most 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?”
“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?”
“Please.”
“Wilson claims to have received an anonymous package at work that contained evidence that Rick and Mitch were siphoning off cash and putting it into personal accounts in Zurich.”
Kennedy frowned. With Rickman it was a possibility, but not Mitch. No way. The man had his own money. He didn’t need to steal cash from Langley.
“It sounded like Hargrave pressed Wilson pretty hard. Wilson claims to have account numbers, dates of transfers and a sworn affidavit from the banker who says Mitch came into his bank and set up the account.”
“Do we know who this banker is?”
“Not yet, but we’ll keep digging. There’s one more thing. Wilson’s been recalled, and he didn’t take it well. He told Hargrave that everyone knows he’s too close to you and when he’s done proving that Rick and Mitch were stealing funds, he’s going to make sure Hargrave goes down.”
Kennedy was thinking about Hargrave. Sam was a good man. Trying to manage an ego like Wilson was going to drive him to an early grave. “When is he leaving?”
“About two hours, from the way they’re talking. He’s really throwing Hargrave under the bus to his people. I mean the type of shit that could land his ass in some serious hot water.”
“Maybe we’ll send an anonymous package of our own.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“Any chance you can get your hands on his computer before he leaves?”
Coleman thought about it for a second. “I’ll try, but it’s unlikely. I’m not worried, though. Marcus can do this shit in his sleep.”
Kennedy nodded. “Have Marcus start poking around their data base. See what he can find out.”
“Will do.”
Both Kennedy and Coleman looked up to see Hayek coming down the hall. She was moving at a good clip, and as she drew to within a few steps she shook her head and said, “I screwed up.”
Chapter 36
Operating in the field always presented a unique set of problems, but a good number of them were predictable. There was a mark that they were all aware of, or at least were supposed to be aware of it-seventy-two hours into any crisis, the effectiveness of the team dropped off considerably. The Agency wasn’t the only group that had studied the issue. Every branch of the military looked into the issue with a need to understand combat effectiveness. Battlefield commanders needed to know how long they could keep a unit in the fight without sleep, with food and water and without food and water. The FBI, CIA, and any other federal agencies that dealt with crisis or catastrophe all conducted their own studies and they all pretty much found the same thing-seventy-two hours was the limit. After that, your people became almost worthless. Cognitive skills were drastically reduced, hallucination set in, and the body began to shut down. As with everything, of course, there were a few exceptions.
Elite warriors, like the ones produced by Delta Force and the SEAL teams, could push beyond the seventy-two-hour mark in extreme circumstances, but not much further. They taught their men to grab an hour or two of sleep whenever they could-even during a prolonged firefight. If the manpower was available, it was crucial to rotate teams. Three teams were ideal, each one working an eight-hour shift, but Kennedy didn’t have that luxury. As it was, the Go Team that had been assembled was barely sufficient to operate in two twelve-hour shifts, and that was to handle the Rickman crisis. That team was weakened when she pulled people off it to start looking for Hubbard. Then she had to deal with the aftermath of the police shooting and now with the release of Rickman’s interrogation, more of her attention was put into damage control. It was no longer just about Joe Rickman.
Even though it felt like it, Kennedy knew from the start that it had always been about more than just Rickman. Rickman’s brain possessed hundreds of names and those names represented real people who were assets of the CIA. Some of them were Americans, deepcover operatives who were operating in foreign countries without the aid of diplomatic cover. If these people were exposed,
the likelihood was that they’d be killed. And then there were the agents-the men and women who worked for foreign governments. They came in every stripe from politicians, to bureaucrats, to scientists, to financiers, to military personnel, to intelligence operatives and janitors and secretaries.
More than any satellite or listening device, these men and women were the eyes and ears of the CIA. They offered snippets of information that when pieced together aided Kennedy and her people in understanding the intent of their foes and sometimes, when needed, the ability to predict their next move. These assets were the lifeblood of the CIA. Without them, the Agency would cease to become an effective intelligence agency. If Rickman continued to crack, Kennedy would have no choice but to begin pulling out her network of spies. It would take at least a decade to rebuild the network, possibly longer.
Despite the urgency Kennedy knew what had to be done. Hayek looked tired. They all looked tired. They understood what was at stake, so they were all eager to prove the doctors wrong and push past the seventy-two-hour mark. Kennedy held up her palm and stopped Hayek’s rambling apology. “When was the last time you slept?”
The question caught her off guard and she took an unfocused look at nothing and tried to recall the last time she’d closed her eyes for more than a few seconds. “I think I got an hour or two last night.”
Kennedy looked at Coleman and asked the same question. “As much as possible, I’ve stuck to a schedule. Ten on and two off.” Kennedy thought of Coleman’s six-man team. “Starting when?” “From the very beginning. I made sure everyone grabbed at least four hours on the flight over.” He shrugged. “There wasn’t much for us to do until we landed.”
Leave it up to the retired SEAL to maintain discipline in the midst of chaos. He’d done this countless times. Kennedy was embarrassed that she hadn’t maintained better discipline over the schedules.
“I’ll be honest,” Coleman said, “I could use some sleep. I’ve been up for thirty-plus hours straight. With everything that went down two days ago and losing Reavers, that put me down one man and I didn’t bother to reshuffle the schedule.”
