Act of Treason

by Vince Flynn

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “And you seek to win my friendship by lying to me,” Rapp said casually.

  “I am not lying to you,” Milinkavich said with great conviction.

  “I want you to think long and hard about this, because I’ve got a lot of questions for you. You tell me you worked for the KGB, which means you know how this works. There is an easy way to do this and the hard way. If you want to do it the easy way you need to be absolutely honest with me. If you want to keep lying to me we’ll do it the hard way. Which means I’m going to have to string you up by your ankles and play baseball with your nuts.”

  The Russian brought his hands together, clapped them, and said, “No problem. I only speak the truth to you.”

  Rapp cocked his head to the side and his left eyebrow shot up. “I’m going to say it one last time. This is not a game and I’m not amused by your reassurances. You have two choices. You either tell me the absolute truth, or I will make things extremely painful for you.”

  “Absolutely. I speak only the truth.”

  Rapp wondered if maybe he hadn’t broken the man’s jaw. He was speaking without too much difficulty. “Where were you born?”

  “Moscow.”

  Probably a lie, Rapp thought, but not absolutely provable at the moment. “Where did you grow up?”

  “Moscow.”

  Most likely a lie. “And you work for the KGB?”

  “Yes,” the big man said as he slid his other foot off the bed. “I have already told you that.”

  Rapp watched him shift his weight and inch toward the edge of the bed. “I guess we’re going to have to do this the hard way.” Rapp turned over his left shoulder and pressed a white button on a gray intercom box. “Bring down the car starter and the alligator clips.”

  Milinkavich sat up a little straighter. “What do you mean, car starter?”

  “It looks like we’re going to have to run some electricity through your brain and see if it helps jog your memory.”

  “No.” The man stood, waving his hands as he took a step toward Rapp.

  “Sit back down,” Rapp said in a firm but calm voice.

  “I speak only the truth.” He took another step.

  Rapp pushed himself away from the wall and got ready. The only question left was whether Milinkavich would go straight for the door or try to take Rapp out first. Rapp was betting that the man would be misled by his size advantage.

  “Sit back down right now, or you’re going to get hurt.”

  Milinkavich, only six feet away, made his move. He charged straight at Rapp, his left arm out in front of him, reaching to grab hold of something, and his right arm cocked and ready to deliver a forceful blow. Time slowed down for Rapp. Everything so far was expected. Big men always attacked this way. They came in high thinking they could smother their opponent. The only problem was they left their legs and midsection open. Milinkavich had a hell of a tire around his waist. Rapp had noted this and knew that in these tight quarters it would be difficult to get enough force behind a blow to have much effect. That left two knees and two testicles. Rapp decided on the right knee.

  The big man’s right arm came in straight like a battering ram. Rapp stepped quickly to his left and swept his right arm up and around in a clockwise motion grabbing Milinkavich’s right elbow. Using the man’s own momentum Rapp pulled him closer and turned him away at the same time. He brought his right leg up and then sent his foot crashing down on the completely exposed outside of Milinkavich’s right knee. There was hideous crunching noise as ligaments snapped and the knee collapsed inward. Milinkavich hopped once on his left leg and then fell to the floor screaming in agony.

  Rapp stood over him, ready to strike another blow, his jaw clenched in anger. He was pissed that this idiot had forced them to go down this road. “Where were you born?” Rapp yelled.

  “Minsk. I was born in Minsk.”

  “And who do you work for?”

  “The KGB.”

  Rapp kicked him in the bad knee and the Belarusian howled in pain. “You mean the BKGB.”

  “We are one and the same.”

  “The hell you are.” Rapp kicked him in the knee again. “I’m done fucking around with you, Yuri.” Rapp bent down and looked him in the eye, noted the shocked expression on his face. “That’s right, you dumb fucker. I know your name. I know all about you. I know you’re not Russian. I know you never worked for the KGB, and I know you were one corrupt motherfucker when you worked for the BKGB. My friends at the KGB told me you got fat working for the Minsk mob.” Rapp mixed facts with suppositions to build his case and chip away at Milinkavich’s confidence.

  “I need a doctor,” the man wailed in pain.

  “You aren’t going to get shit until you start answering my questions.” Rapp stomped on the bent knee, and shouted over Milinkavich’s cries, “Who do you work for?”

  “The Minsk mob!”

  “And who do you answer to?” Rapp brought his foot up and held it in the air.

  “Aleksandr Gordievsky.”

  Before this morning Rapp would not have recognized the name, but he’d just read it in the file Langley had sent over. Aleksandr Gordievsky was none other that the former communist party chairman of Belarus and the current mob boss of the entire country.

  “And why were you on Cyprus?”

  “To kill the man.”

  “Which man?”

  “Deckas. The Greek.”

  “Why?” Rapp yelled.

  “I don’t know.”

  Rapp lifted his foot.

  “I swear.” Milinkavich put his hands up. “I do not know.”

  Rapp’s foot came crashing down. “Bullshit!”

  Milinkavich screamed in agony and tears began spilling from his eyes.

  “You want me to kick you again?”

  “No!”

  “Then tell me why you were sent to kill him.”

  “All I know,” the big man gasped for air, “is he was hired to do something and he fucked up.”

  “He was hired to kill someone,” Rapp wanted to be clear on this.

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “I do not know.”

  “You want me to kick you again?”

  “No!” he screamed. “No, please I have no idea.”

  “When did your boss start doing business with the Arabs?”

  A look of real shock fell across Milinkavich’s face. “Arabs?”

  “Arabs…Islamic Radical Fundamentalist…terrorists.”

  “Mr. Gordievsky would never work with such people.”

  The look on his face was believable, but the words weren’t. “Bullshit.” Rapp stomped on his knee again.

  Milinkavich screamed and then began sobbing. “I am serious. He is Eastern Orthodox. Very involved in the church. He thinks Islam is the invention of Satan. He would never do business with them.”

  All Rapp’s senses told him Milinkavich was telling the truth, but it didn’t add up with what he already knew. Rapp needed to be careful. If he began asking blind questions, he could end up weakening his position. The better thing to do at the moment was to leave and try to confirm what he’d just been told. Then if he found out the man was lying to him, he would come back and the interrogation would begin with renewed vigor.

  “I’m going to call my friends in the KGB and find out if you’re telling the truth. And you’d better hope they corroborate your story, or I’m going to come back in here and things are going to get real ugly. In fact when I come back, you are going to tell me from start to finish everything you know about Deckas. And I mean everything. When you first heard of him. How many jobs he’s done for you. Everything. You do that, and I’ll get you set up with painkillers. You decide to lie to me some more and I’ll snap your other knee.”

  Rapp stepped over Milinkavich and closed and locked the heavy door. He climbed the steps up to the main floor and then walked past the break room and up to Coleman’s office. When he entered Cole
man was on the phone signaling for Rapp to stay quiet.

  “Irene,” Coleman said, “I have no idea where he is.” He listened for a bit and said, “I’ll have him call you as soon as I hear from him. I have to go now.”

  “What did she want?” asked Rapp. “She all pissed off about Gazich?”

  “No. I asked her that. She said she’s not worried. She knows he’s the guy.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “She says she has something she needs to show you.”

  “What?”

  “She wouldn’t say. All she said was it was very important that she see you as soon as possible.”

  “She didn’t even tell you what it was about?” Rapp asked.

  “All she said was that it might cause you to look at something in a different way.”

  Rapp took a second to guess what that might be.

  “What are you going to do?” Coleman asked.

  “I’ll call her back.”

  “When? She was pretty adamant.”

  Rap looked at his watch. It was almost noon. “This afternoon. I need to call an old contact at the KGB, and then I want to see just how full of shit this Milinkavich is.”

  “What about Dr. Hornig?”

  Rapp had already thought about getting her involved. She was a shrink the CIA used to interrogate high-value prisoners.

  “This guy might be a pathological liar, Mitch.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Pathological liars were the most difficult people to interrogate. Plus Rapp didn’t have the stomach to keep kicking the crap out of the guy. “I’ll talk to Irene about it this afternoon, and then I’ll let you know.”

  38

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Mark Ross strolled down Peacock Alley, where Washingtonians and visitors went to see and be seen. The Willard Hotel had been a Washington landmark since before the Civil War. Ross basked in the recognition of the dozens of people who were enjoying afternoon tea. It was a walk that had been done by the likes of U.S. Grant, Mark Twain, and many other famous and infamous figures. Digital cameras snapped, people reached out just to touch him, and a few of the really brazen stopped him for a photo. The prize for sheer audacity, though, went to a woman in a blue dress with a ridiculous red hat topped with a white feather plume. She stepped in front of Ross, blocking his path and waving her cell phone. Her daughter was on the phone, and she was a huge fan of the soon-to-be vice president. Ross disguised his irritation and played along. His Secret Service detail looked on disapprovingly from fifteen feet away. Ross had been forced to give them another lecture after having already snapped at them earlier in the day. They needed to give him some freedom. No one was looking to assassinate a vice president–elect.

  The party’s faithful were taking over the town. Planeloads, trainloads, and busloads were arriving by the hour. The first official function was tonight and then it was a whirlwind of breakfasts, lunches, and balls. The big affairs were reserved for Saturday night: eleven separate black-tie balls. There wasn’t a hotel room in town that wasn’t booked. It was really going to happen. He was going to be vice president of the United States of America. Ross could hardly believe it. He couldn’t remember the first time he’d dreamt of rising to such political heights but he’d been young. Usually the dream focused on the top job, but he did remember a time when he was away at boarding school and he read a book about Teddy Roosevelt. There was a man of destiny. T.R. was one of the greats. He remembered a fellow democrat criticizing the old Bull Moose president for being a bully. Ross responded by telling him, “Bully or not, his face is on Mount Rushmore.”

  History favored the decisive. Those who weren’t afraid to grab power and use it. Ross had decided long ago that he would create his own opportunities and when the time came he would seize the reins of power without hesitation. Like the great Teddy Roosevelt he would leave little to chance. He would use the press to shape his image and dispose of his enemies, and just maybe he’d get lucky like T.R. and get promoted early. Josh Alexander was young and healthy, but stranger things had happened.

  The possibility brought a smile to Ross’s face. He shook a few more hands and stopped briefly at the entrance to the Round Robin Bar, waving to the faithful who were well into happy hour. The crowd around the circular bar began whooping and hollering. Ross thought it would be fun to join them for a drink, but he needed to get upstairs for a meeting. He smiled and pumped his fist to the crowd and then retreated. Four agents joined him in the elevator. He’d cut Gordon loose to grab some downtime. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him; it was simply that he didn’t want the right hand to know what the left hand was doing.

  An agent was posted outside the door to the Oval Suite. The party had secured the room for him to do interviews, hold meetings, and stay there if he wanted, although Ross owned a 4,200-square-foot condo that overlooked the Potomac. Alexander was in the opulent Abraham Lincoln Suite and his father-in-law was in the spacious Capitol Suite. Without being consulted Ross had been forced to settle for the hotel’s third nicest suite. He was mildly irritated by the oversight, but there were more pressing issues at the moment.

  Ross entered the suite and found Stu Garret sitting in the oval shaped living room with Tom Rich of the New York Times. Just like the real Oval Office, two couches faced each other with a small table in between. Rich was of average height and slender with the exception of a small pouch around his midsection. He had a youthful head of brown hair that he liked to show off by avoiding regular visits to the barber. He looked close to forty but in truth he was actually fifty-one. National security was his beat and he had a reputation for being very critical of the CIA and the way they waged the war on terror.

  Rich stood. Garret didn’t. Ross extended his hand. “Tom, thank you for coming to see me.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  “Please, call me Mark when we’re in an informal setting like this.”

  Rich nodded but kept his game face on. He was wearing a blue, button-down oxford, a gray and black tweed sport coat, a pair of jeans, and brown Timberland boots. He looked at Ross in his expensive blue suit and tie. “I apologize for my appearance. I was at home working on a story when Stu called. He told me to get down here right away. He said he had something that couldn’t be discussed on the phone.”

  Ross nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid he’s right. Before we get started, may I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well, have a seat.” Ross unbuttoned his suit coat and sat on the couch across from Garret and Rich. “I assume you’ve been following the story about the arrest that was made in connection to the motorcade attack.”

  Rich nodded enthusiastically while reaching in to his sport coat and retrieving a notebook and pen. “I’ve got a piece running in the morning.”

  “What’s your angle?”

  “Angle?” Rich looked either surprised or offended.

  “What’s your story about?” Garret asked in his typical no-nonsense way.

  Rich hesitated and then said, “I’m hearing rumors. Grumblings…really.”

  “About?” Ross asked.

  “That the case against this guy isn’t as strong as the FBI claims.”

  Ross and Garret shared a knowing look and then Ross said, “Off the record.”

  “Of course.” Rich wrote the word Off across the top of the page.

  “What have you heard so far?”

  “Basically that this guy was dumped in the FBI’s lap with some very weak evidence.”

  Ross nodded. “Continue.”

  “There are some major problems with the case. The FBI and Justice are fighting, and neither of them is happy with the CIA. The Greek government is going to file an official complaint with the UN in the morning and supposedly no one knows where to find Mitch Rapp, who my sources tell me ran the team that grabbed this guy.”

  “You’ve got the broad brushstrokes down, but there’s a lot more. Rapp not only ran the team, he was the one who identifi
ed, grabbed, and tortured the suspect.”

  “Did you say torture?” Rich looked up with wary eyes.

  “What would you call shooting a man once in each knee and then in both hands?”

  “He kneecapped him?”

  “And shot him in both hands.”

  Rich kept his eyes on Ross while his right hand flew across the page. “Let me guess…he tortured a confession out of the guy?”

  “No one knows.”

  “What does Rapp say?”

  “No one knows because Rapp has been AWOL for three days now.”

  “AWOL?”

  “Absent without leave. Rapp had his team bring this guy back from Cyprus and he has yet to report in. We literally have nothing on this guy other than Rapp’s word. The Greek government is furious. The State Department is outraged. The Justice Department says they have no case against this guy and then here’s the kicker. The guy volunteered to be polygraphed.”

  “And?”

  “He passed with flying colors.”

  “So this might really be the wrong guy?”

  “That’s a distinct possibility, and even if he is the guy, Rapp screwed things up so bad by torturing him that I don’t think there’s any chance of convicting him.”

  Rich wrote frantically. This was going to be a huge scoop. The type of story that could win him his second Pulitzer. After a moment he gained control of his escalating euphoria and remembered that he was a journalist. He looked up at Ross and asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

  Ross was prepared for this question. “When I was director of National Intelligence, I warned President Hayes that Mitch Rapp was a malcontent. I told him, ‘Sir, sooner or later he’s going to do something that will permanently damage America’s international standing.’” Ross sat back and crossed his legs. “And now, here we are. President Hayes is on his way out, and we’re on our way in. Well, I’m not going to allow this administration to pay for his poor leadership.”

  “I assume you mean President Hayes.”

  “Yes. And, Tom, I can’t stress it enough. This is off the record. Way off the record.”

  “I know,” Rich said, as he scribbled frantically. “So this is Hayes’s fault?”