by Vince Flynn
Dumond looked at the small screen. “Some of them don’t have a dollar amount.”
“Kills he didn’t get paid for,” Rapp answered.
“Sick fucker,” Coleman added. “You keep track of your kills?” he asked Rapp.
“No.”
“The only guys I ever knew who did were the twisted ones.”
Dumond’s phone rang and he walked out into the hallway to take it. Rapp looked at Coleman and said, “Gazich lied to me on the plane.”
“About?”
“How things went down.”
“And that surprises you? This guy has a black heart. I wouldn’t trust anything that comes out of his mouth.”
Rapp frowned. “I believed him. You know how you get a feel for these things after you’ve been through enough of them?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he had no incentive to lie. He’s a one-man operation. Whoever hired him was in the process of trying to kill him when we showed up.”
“What did he lie about?”
“He told me he received a call right before the attack that told him the target was the second limo.”
“Yeah,” Coleman said.
“I talked to Rivera yesterday, and she told me they didn’t shuffle the limos.”
“What does that matter? He was trying to take both of them out, wasn’t he?”
“No.” Rapp shook his head. “He claims he was only trying to hit the second limo.”
Coleman leaned against the Formica countertop. “So he was probably trying to hit both cars.”
“Which means he lied about the phone call.”
“Well, don’t get yourself too worked up. Skip called me this morning. He’d also like you to give him a call.”
“He’ll have to take a number.”
“He says he’s under a lot of pressure. Gazich volunteered for and passed a lie detector test. Skip said they had the Bureau’s best guy running the machine, and this fucker beat it.”
Rapp smiled. “This is just too perfect.”
“Yeah. Skip says Justice is freaking out, State is freaking out, and even some of the boys at the Bureau are starting to waiver.”
“He say anything about the media?”
“He said the phone is ringing off the hook. The press is digging hard.”
“Good.”
Dumond came back in the break room with a big grin on his face.
“What’s got you so excited?” Rapp asked.
“I just found out who our guest is.” Dumond pointed at the floor.
“The Russian?” Coleman asked.
“Yep, except he’s not Russian.”
36
WASHINGTON, DC
No one spoke. Not in the elevator. Not in the lobby. Ross wanted to speak, wanted desperately to speak, but didn’t dare until he was away from the Secret Service agents and Gordon. They were halfway between the main door and the waiting limousine when Garret reached out and grabbed Ross’s elbow. The two men stopped and then Gordon stopped and then all six agents stopped. Only one agent looked at the protectee. The other five adjusted their positions to shield Ross as much as possible. The men did not look comfortable. They’d been trained to move people from one secure area to the next. No loitering in between. Forty feet away was a brand-new armored limousine engineered to handle twice the explosion that had torn apart the older model limousine that fateful day back in October. All six Secret Service agents fought the instinct to literally grab Ross by the collar and throw him headfirst into the limo.
Special Agent Brown approached Ross and Garret. “Excuse me, sir. It’s not good to stop in the open like this. Could you please get in the limo?”
Garret ignored the agent, while Ross shot him a withering look. “This was an unscheduled stop. No one knows I’m here. Relax and back off. I want some privacy.”
Brown concealed the anger he felt toward Ross. It had been building up ever since he took over for Rivera, and it had peaked in Switzerland the previous weekend. The guy was a power-hungry son of a bitch. What did it matter to him if they talked in the back of the limo or here on the street? Brown backed away, stayed calm, signaled for his men to spread out, and made a mental note to add the incident to the file. The hell if he was going to take a fall like Rivera’s.
Gordon was checking e-mail on his BlackBerry and began drifting back toward his boss and Garret. Garret put out his hand and said, “Why don’t you go make a few phone calls?”
Gordon stopped and looked up at Garret. He was yet again the odd man out. Saturday couldn’t come soon enough. Gordon thought he might even offer to drive Garret to the airport himself.
As soon as Gordon was out of earshot, Garret moved within a half foot of Ross and in a hushed voice said, “This is too good to be true.”
“I know. Now I can go out there and really clean house.”
“I don’t give a shit about the CIA. I’m talking about the fact that they got the wrong guy.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“Give me one good reason why Rapp would refuse to come in. He knows he fucked up. He’s not going to come back here and face scrutiny. He’s gonna run, or who knows he might even try to frame this guy to save his own ass.”
“So what do we do?”
“Pour gas on this thing.”
“Huh?”
“We light the match and fan the flames. We get you out in front of this thing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Even if this is the guy, and that’s looking pretty iffy at the moment, Speyer told me there is absolutely no way he can be traced back to us. You’re a statesman now. You come out hard on this thing. Very law-and-order. What Rapp did was wrong. Excessive force. The U.S. doesn’t condone torture and will not tolerate it. Then you make some statement demanding an inquiry.”
Ross shook his head. “Too strong right now. I think we’d be better off taking a position off the record.”
“With Tom Rich from the Times.”
“Yep. That way we drive the story and then when the other shoe drops we ask for Rapp’s and Kennedy’s head.”
“I like it.” Garret glanced over each shoulder. “These damn agents make me nervous. You go on without me. I need to make a few calls. I’ll see you back at the hotel for lunch.”
Ross watched Garret leave and then started for the limo. Gordon was standing next to the open rear door replying to an e-mail with both thumbs. Ross could see that he was unhappy with being excluded and a thought occurred to him. It was something he’d been thinking about since Garret had arrived at the airport on Sunday. The vice president–elect climbed into the back seat and waited for Gordon to settle in.
“Jonathan, have you noticed any strange behavior from Stu lately?”
The expression on Gordon’s face seemed to say, “Are you kidding me?” He put his BlackBerry away and took off his reading glasses. “I’ve always found Stu to be a bit strange.”
Ross smiled. “I know. The man is a real pain in the ass, but he’s extremely good at what he does. He’s short-term. You’re long-term. Long-term friend and confidant. Please don’t ever forget that.”
“I won’t. Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome.” Ross smiled. The vehicle started to move. He glanced out the window and said, “So back to Stu. Any odd behavior lately?”
“Sir, to put it bluntly the man is an asshole. And I mean twenty-four-seven, so it’s hard to judge, but I at least expected him to relax this week.”
“Me too.”
“This is our time to celebrate. People are lining up to hand him retainers. Hell, I have people calling me to see if I can set up meetings for them.”
“The victory was very good for his business.”
“And I have no problem with that. I’d think, though, that the guy would let his hair down a little bit, but instead he has been an even bigger jerk than usual this week.”
“I agree. It’s almost like he’s preoccupied with something else.�
��
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” A practiced perplexed expression fell across Ross’s face. “I don’t know how to put my finger on it, but something is bothering him. It seems like he’s worried about something.”
Gordon looked with concern at his boss. “Do you want me to do some checking?”
Ross hesitated like he was thinking long and hard about the question, and then shook his head. “No. I’m sure it’s nothing. We’ve put up with him this long. What’s five more days?”
37
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Facial recognition software was not a precise science. The programs could be tricked, people’s appearances often changed over time, many people shared the same facial features, and in the end the programs were often limited by the quality of the photograph itself. Beyond that you had to actually have a photograph on file that you could compare to the new image. The search for the identity of the mystery man in the converted bomb shelter of Coleman’s warehouse had been complicated by three facts. The first was that the man had easily gained over a hundred pounds since his last official photo, the second was that he had many of the common features associated with the Slavic peoples of Eastern Europe, which dumped him into a large pool of candidates, and the third was that he was not Russian.
Rapp read the dossier thoroughly, as did Coleman and Dumond. An analyst at Langley had made the discovery after talking to his contacts at French intelligence and Interpol. The analyst factored in the weight gain and broadened his search to include intelligence officers in Ukraine, Belarus, Poland, Bulgaria, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, and Romania. The man, it turned out, was Belarusian. He had never worked for the KGB, but he had worked for the Belarusian KGB or BKGB as it was known among intel types. The BKGB was KGB’s little brother. Where many of the former Soviet Republics had gone on to establish real independence Belarus by far maintained the closest relationship with Mother Russia. The man had worked for the state security service for nearly a decade. During that time it was suspected that he also worked on the side for a former high-ranking communist official who was waging a violent war to become the mob boss in Minsk.
His real name was Yuri Milinkavich. French intelligence had started a file on him back in 1996 when he was running a counterintelligence team in Minsk. Three French business executives had traveled to the Belarusian capital to bid on a contract to build a hydroelectric dam. The bids were to be presented in person over a two-day period. The French executives were arrested on the way to present their bid and detained under suspicion of espionage for three full days and then let go with no explanation. French intelligence suspected, but could not prove, that the German company that won the contract had paid to have the French team taken out of the picture. During his tenure with the Belarusian Security Service four more similar complaints were filed. One more by the French, two by the Italians, and one by the Japanese. Interpol eventually started a file on Milinkavich and they now suspected that he was now working for the Belarusian mafia.
Rapp considered all of this carefully. The information fit, which was a big hurdle to get past. Rapp believed without a shadow of doubt that the man in the bomb shelter was in fact Yuri Milinkavich. Now the question was, why in the hell had he been trying to kill Gazich? Rapp ordered Dumond to begin pulling everything they had on the Belarusian mafia. Russia and its former states were far from Rapp’s area of expertise. His was Europe, and more specifically, the Middle East and Southwest Asia. Rapp had followed Russia’s demise nonetheless. With the collapse of the centralized government, former regional party officials became crime bosses overnight, stepping in to fill the power vacuum. The ensuing battles that erupted between vying interests made Chicago’s infamous mob wars of the 1920s look like a schoolyard fight.
Rapp struggled to put it all into context. How brutal was Milinkavich? To some this might seem ancillary at the moment, but for Rapp it was a crucial question. There was no ticking bomb to be dealt with. No lives to be saved by pulling answers out of the large man. The need for torture was not pressing. For the moment Rapp decided he would limit the interrogation to a simple Q&A. Give Milinkavich a chance to tell the truth and explain why he was trying to kill Gazich. He had already proven himself a liar by claiming to have worked for the KGB, but the Russians and the other Slavic people were funny when it came to the truth. Absolutes were a rare thing. There were more often than not degrees of honesty. In Milinkavich’s mind, saying he worked for the KGB might not be a lie. He was more likely to see it as a partial admission. He had worked for the BKGB, but not its better-known big brother. But the bigger distinction was that he claimed he still worked for them. Gazich had been right back in his office when he laughed at Milinkavich’s claim that he worked for the KGB. Gazich had known back then that Milinkavich worked for the mob. That was after spending only a few minutes with him. That meant the two possibly knew each other from a previous job.
The task as Rapp saw it was to give Milinkavich a chance to come clean. To explain what he really did for a living, and then they could move onto the bigger question. Just what in the hell was the Belarusian mafia doing working with Arab terrorists, and who in particular had paid for this operation?
Rapp descended the stairs to the bunker with a general outline in his head of the questions he would ask, and how he would handle things if Milinkavich continued to lie. At the bottom was a small six-by-four-foot landing with a rusty floor drain in the middle. Above the heavy metal door to the right was a small TV. On the screen Rapp could see Milinkavich reclined on the cot. He was a big man. Rapp guessed six foot three and pushing three bills. Rapp, at six foot and a hundred eighty pounds, just might provide a tempting target for the big man and part of Rapp was hoping for just that. As much as Rapp did not like torture, he also wasn’t a patient man. There were too many things to do, and he wasn’t about to waste a week trying to get inside this guy’s head.
There was no handle on the door. Just a bolt. Rapp extracted a key from his pocket and slid it into the bottom of the large padlock. He hung the padlock on a hook next to the door, checked the TV one more time, and then opened the door. Milinkavich instantly sat up on his elbows. Rapp took one step into the room and closed the door behind him, leaving it cracked just slightly. Rapp watched Milinkavich’s eyes register the fact that the door was not locked. Other than the bed, there was a small port-a-potty in the corner, which smelled of disinfectant. A single light fixture was bolted to the ceiling and encased in a protective steel cage. There was no blanket or pillow on the bed. No sheet. Just a thin mattress. Milinkavich would have made a queen-size bed look small. The twin looked ridiculous under his girth.
Rapp moved over to the side of the door, leaned against the wall, and folded his arms across his chest. He’d taken off his suit coat and tie and left his gun in Coleman’s office. His dark eyes studied Milinkavich for a second. They’d stitched up his nose and ear and although they hadn’t taken X-rays, they were pretty sure his jaw was broken.
Rapp pointed to a book on the floor and asked, “Have you found time to read?” Rapp had left a copy of George Orwell’s 1984 in the cell in hopes that the prisoner might read some of the torture scenes.
Milinkavich glanced down at the book and shook his head. “I do not need to read this book. I lived it.”
Rapp smiled. “Unfortunately, you were on the wrong team.”
“What do you mean?”
“You told me you worked for the KGB.” There was a doubtful tone in Rapp’s voice. “If you worked for the KGB, you were on the wrong team.”
“Not every person who worked for the KGB was a bad person.”
A true enough statement, Rapp supposed.
“We are not so different, you and I.” The big man placed one foot on the floor and sat up.
Rapp noted that he moved with difficulty. The combination of stress, confinement, and his sheer size would have left his muscles stiff. They had taken his shoes away as well. If he tried to make a move with
his socks on he would find it difficult to get traction on the smooth cement floor.
“You know who I am?” Rapp asked with an amused expression.
“American…probably CIA. Maybe Defense Intelligence Agency. Definitely special forces training.”
Rapp was happy to hear that Milinkavich only had a generic guess as to who he was. He was tempted to tell him he worked for the Israelis. It was an old ploy that often put the fear of god into godless communists. Especially Belarusians, who had been cruel to the Jews.
“Maybe…maybe not.”
Milinkavich looked around the room. “Where are we?”
Interrogation 101: Confuse and disorient the subject. Rapp had tried to put himself inside Milinkavich’s head. He’d been drugged for most of the transport from Cyprus to Baltimore. There was a chance he sensed that they had landed midway in between, but there were no windows for him to look out. The most obvious conclusion he would draw was that they were back in America, but he would also think there was a chance that they had taken him from Cyprus to an Eastern Bloc country for interrogation, possibly even Belarus. It was no secret that the U.S. government outsourced some of the less gentile aspects of the war on terror to the former Soviet satellites.
“We are someplace very private. Someplace my own government knows nothing about. Just the two of us. I would prefer, as I’m sure you would, to solve this problem in a very unofficial way.”
Rapp watched as Milinkavich’s eyes darted to the unlocked door and then quickly away. He would be weighing his chances of escape.
“I did not know we had a problem,” Milinkavich said in an upbeat voice. “Our two countries are no longer enemies.”
Rapp seized his opening. “I’m sorry. I forgot. Which country did you say you are from?”
“Russia.”
“And you used to work for the KGB?”
“Yes.”
“And you are sure about that?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“And you want to be my friend?”
