Pursuit of Honor

by Vince Flynn

  With moist eyes and a pleading voice he said, “Mitch, please don’t do this. There are things you don’t know. You have to give me a chance to explain myself. I haven’t done anything for Sidorov. I only—”

  Johnson never finished the sentence because Rapp unleashed a backhanded slap that caught him flush on the side of the face. In the relative quiet of the alley it sounded like a thunderclap. “Shut up and listen,” Rapp said. “If I hear another fucking lie come out of your mouth I’m going to kill you right here.” Rapp pointed at the ground. “Right here in this frickin’ alley with ratshit all over the place and God only knows what else.”

  “But . . . people saw me leave with you. You can’t . . .”

  Rapp raised his hand again, and it was enough to silence Johnson. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but people are a little more concerned about getting hit by another terrorist attack. Nobody gives a shit about you. You’re a retired rent-a-cop who was whoring himself out to a Russian billionaire.”

  “That’s not true. I have friends,” he stammered, “who I was working with. Important people who will want to know what happened to me.”

  Rapp wanted to mention Glen Adams, but didn’t. “You’re a fucking traitor and a liar and you’ll say whatever you think will save your miserable ass, but you’ve got one problem, Max. I don’t need a polygraph to figure out if you’re bullshitting me. Unlike you, I’ve spent my entire career in the field. I don’t have a support staff and the latest and greatest technology to get the job done.”

  “I don’t have anything against you. I’ve always admired you.”

  “See, now that’s an interesting example right there,” Rapp said to Coleman. “He didn’t lie, but he didn’t tell the truth. He may not have anything against me specifically, and he probably has a grudging respect for some of the things I’ve done. But I’ll bet you my entire pension that he thinks I’m a cowboy, and that I don’t give the other people at Langley enough credit.”

  “Which is a true statement,” Coleman said.

  “Exactly, but he’s either too afraid to say it because he thinks I’ll hurt him or he’s a pathological liar, in which case we’re all wasting our time. So which is it?” Rapp asked Johnson.

  Johnson was confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “Are you too big a coward to tell me the truth, or are you a pathological liar?”

  “I . . .” he stammered, “I’m neither. I’m just really, really scared right now. This isn’t fair.”

  “There is no fair in espionage, you asshole. This field shit isn’t as fun as it looks, is it? A little easier hanging behind the secure perimeter of Langley where you’re the only sheriff in town, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not how it looks. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

  Rapp wanted to reach out and choke him. Tell him to hand over the tapes that he’d made from Lewis’s office, but he needed to keep that ace buried in the hole for a while. Maybe forever. His voice dripping with sarcasm, Rapp said, “Really? I’m sure a good-looking billionaire like Sidorov is hanging out with you because you’re a real hit with the ladies, right?”

  Johnson didn’t answer.

  “Tell me . . . did you bother to inform Langley about your new friend?” Rapp knew he hadn’t, but asked anyway.

  “I’m not in bed with him.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “I told certain people . . . but nothing had been put in writing. I was waiting to see how serious things got.”

  Rapp glanced at Coleman and then without bothering to make eye contact with Johnson, he unleashed another vicious backhanded slap. Johnson yelped like a kid. Rapp slid his 9mm Glock from his holster and began screwing the black cylindrical silencer onto the end. “Here’s how this works. Left foot . . . right foot . . . left knee . . . right knee. Most guys pass out when you get to the first knee. You . . . I don’t think you’ll make it past the second foot.” Rapp pointed the gun at Johnson’s left foot and took aim.

  “Wait!” Johnson screamed. “I was working for him, all right? But it was all background stuff. Nothing that had anything to do with National Security.”

  “Again, a half truth,” Rapp said. “You were working for him, but don’t try to make it sound like you were doing anything remotely legal.”

  “I never said legal.”

  Rapp looked down. Took aim and fired the weapon. A small hole appeared on the outside of Jonson’s left foot. A second later, blood began oozing out of the puncture and then Johnson started screaming. One of Coleman’s guys had a rag ready to go and he shoved it into Johnson’s mouth.

  Rapp checked his watch. All four men stood there watching Johnson writhe in pain. Fifteen seconds later Rapp pulled the rag out of Johnson’s mouth. Before he could ask another question Johnson began blabbing. Rapp listened to a good minute of it. Johnson had been doing nothing even remotely legal for Sidorov, and if the power players in Washington found out what he’d been up to they would gladly pay Rapp every penny in their war chests to have the problem dealt with in a very final way.

  Rapp took the rag and shoved it back into Johnson’s mouth. He walked to the rear of the van and Coleman followed him. “Take him to the Quarry, put him in a cell, and give him a notepad and a pen. Have him write it all down. Chapter and verse. Everything he’s done for Sidorov.”

  “Can I dangle a carrot?”

  “Hell, yeah. Dangle it all you want. Hit him over the head with it. I don’t care.”

  Coleman looked doubtful. “Can I dangle it in good conscience?”

  “Hell, yeah. This little snake has some talent. If I can trust him, I’d rather have him working for us than freelancing.”

  “Shooting him in the foot may not have been the best way of recruiting him.”

  Rapp shook off the concern. “I shot him through the outside of the foot. No permanent damage. In two weeks he’ll be completely healed.”

  “Still . . .” Coleman gave him a disapproving frown. “I still might kill him, so don’t go all Naval Academy on me.”

  “A lot of people saw you tonight. If he vanishes, there will be questions.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time, and once people find out what he was doing, they might not look so hard to find him.”

  “Should I call Doc?”

  “No.” Rapp shook his head. “I want to keep him out of it for now. Have Johnson write down everything he can think of. Every single time he’s strayed off the reservation.”

  “You think there’s more than just this Sidorov thing and the job he was doing for Adams?”

  “Who knows, but this could be a gold mine. Tell the boys to give him a little Vicodin. Just enough to take the edge off, but keep him awake. I’ll be back out there a bit before seven and I want him edgy.” Rapp leaned back and looked around the corner of the van. Johnson was balancing on one foot and crying. Rapp shook his head in disgust and said, “And if he’s dumb enough to hold back on the little dirty op he was running with Adams . . . well, then you’re going to have a hard time talking me out of killing him.”

  CHAPTER 46

  FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA

  RAPP woke up at five-thirty, looked around his Spartan bedroom and thought of his dog. He supposed most therapists would tell him that was progress, since his deceased wife wasn’t the first thing on his mind. Time really was the great healer. Not that he was healed, but he was at least coping better. Before Anna, he never remembered waking up and feeling alone. He’d never really been that attached to anyone. Now waking up in an empty house, even one that she had never lived in, didn’t feel right. Hence missing Shirley the mutt.

  More often than not the border collie mix stayed with the Kennedys where Irene’s son Tommy would take care of her. Rapp paid him at first, but after a while Tommy wouldn’t let him. He’d grown too attached to Shirley and with Rapp’s awkward travel schedule she stayed with Tommy more than she stayed with him. She was a great dog. Smart as hell and very loyal. Rapp wished people were more like
her.

  Rapp really wasn’t one to lie around and wallow in his own misery, and he had a lot to do, so he rolled out of bed and hit the floor. The first ten pushups were always slow. He had to get the blood moving through the shoulders first. This morning he had the added thrill of a throbbing skull. The next forty were done at a precise clip. Every time he lowered his chest and hit the bottom, the pain in his left temple peaked and he was reminded of the big Russian who had almost knocked his head off. Rapp smiled, though, because as bad as he felt, the bouncer would be far worse this morning. That was the way of the competitive mind. As long as you came out on top, all pain was manageable.

  After the pushups, Rapp flipped over and rattled off a hundred situps and then he was off to the shower. He stood under the hot water barely moving for five minutes, the day’s events cascading through his mind like the water down his back. It was often the clearest five minutes of his day. Oxygenated blood coursing through his brain. Hot water warming his muscles. The sound of the water falling on the tile. No phones, no radios, no TV, no internet, no one around to interrupt his thoughts. It was the perfect way to start any day, and especially this one.

  He had stopped by Kennedy’s house on the way home. She wasn’t much of a sleeper, and he knew she’d be waiting to hear about the meeting with their French and British allies. Rapp realized that was probably why he’d woken up with Shirley on his mind. She’d sat next to him while he filled his boss in on the high points and conveyed George Butler’s concerns about his man in Cuba. Kennedy had been in the same spot many times. Countless hours and resources went into recruiting well-placed sources. Once compromised, they were out of the game, never to be used again in a future conflict. Those experiences made her not so willing to share information with agencies that might not treat it with the delicacy it deserved. They agreed to sit on it for a day or two and see if they could come up with a plausible solution. Rapp was already thinking of one, but it was too half-baked to share it with Kennedy. He’d have to let it cook for a while. Then, when he got up to leave, Shirley ran back into Tommy’s room and he remembered standing there for a brief moment feeling jilted. Looking back on it this morning it made him smile. Tommy was a good kid and Shirley was a lucky dog. Now, standing under the hot water, he was trying to punch holes in his own plan. As with anything in his business there were certain risks. The question was, were they worth it? After he’d fleshed it out a bit more he decided to table the idea and get back to it later. He was going to be doing a fair amount of driving today and after he made it through a busy morning he’d have some time later to devote to it. The first item to be checked off, however, was Max Johnson. And if the idiot knew what was good for him, he’d already have filled a notepad with his professional sins.

  The rock quarry was situated thirty odd miles west of D.C. Few people knew of its storied history, and for the people who now used it, that was just fine. It was a relic from the Cold War—one of the few places that hadn’t been declassified and leaked to the press, and that was due solely to the fact that it had never been on the books to begin with, and no politician in the last thirty years had been informed of its existence. It also helped that even at the height of the Cold War the place was rarely used. Due to poor planning, the site was at the convergence of two underground streams, which meant that it flooded frequently. Some upgrades had been made in recent years. More sump pumps were installed as well as several dehumidifiers and a backup generator, but even so, the place was like a concrete petri dish. The men who worked there liked to joke that they didn’t have to worry about Congress blowing the whistle on them, it was OSHA who would shut them down for unhealthy working conditions. Fortunately, the men and the women of the clandestine service were used to working in less than ideal situations.

  The place was laid out like an old World War II command bunker, with hallways branching out like a network of arteries. Rapp found Coleman napping in one of the bunkrooms and woke him with a firm shake and a cup of coffee. Coleman swung his feet onto the cold floor and took the mug from Rapp. After a few sips he scratched his blond hair and began to fill Rapp in on what had been an interesting night. One of the guys fetched the notepad and handed it to Rapp, while Coleman hit the high points.

  Rapp tried to decipher the chicken scratch. “What about bugging Doc’s office?”

  Coleman grinned. “I didn’t push him on it. I thought you’d want to save it for the shock value.”

  Rapp nodded. He did.

  “He noted it, but it’s pretty lame. All he says in there is that he’s done a little consulting for Langley’s inspector general.”

  “Is he aware that Adams supposedly left the country?”

  “No.” Coleman went on to fill him in on a few more things.

  Rapp continued to speed-read his way through the notes. After about ten pages, he looked up at Coleman and said, “He’s been a busy beaver.”

  “I’d say so. You gotta hand it to him. He’s pretty good at this surveillance game. My guys tell me his equipment is out of this world. Shit they’ve never seen before.”

  Rapp thought about that and filed it away. Maybe the idiot was worth saving. He checked his watch and said, “Anything else before I go in there? I’m on a tight schedule.”

  “I went to bed around five, but up until then it was a full-blown pity party. He definitely sees himself as the victim. He’s really upset about being shot. He was in a lot of pain. I think he’d probably crawl out of his own skin for a painkiller right about now.”

  “Good. Where are they?”

  Coleman walked over to a metal file cabinet, yanked it open with a screech, grabbed the red bottle, and handed it to Rapp. Rapp took the pills and a bottle of water and went down the long hallway to the cells. He punched in the code for the cipher lock on the door and pulled it open. There were two cells on the left and two on the right with heavy steel doors that looked as if they might have been salvaged from a battleship. The place was not permanently wired for audio and sound. The humidity wreaked havoc on the a/v equipment, so Rapp carried his own device. It was only a precaution, in case he missed something and needed to play it back later. More than likely, though, he would trash the recording the second the meeting was over.

  Rapp stopped at the first door on the left and pulled back the heavy slide on the peephole. Johnson was sitting back with his bandaged foot on the table. In front of him was another yellow legal pad and a pen. Rapp threw the dead bolt on the door and opened it. Coleman’s guy left without saying a word. Rapp set the bottle of water on the table and shook the container of painkillers back and forth to get Johnson’s attention.

  “You ready for another one of these?”

  Johnson held out his hand. “Yes.”

  Rapp looked at the sweat on his upper lip and said, “In a minute.”

  Johnson started to squirm and looked at his foot with deep concern.

  “We just have to go over a few things first.”

  Johnson moaned and banged his fist on the table. “Come on. Just give me a pill.”

  Rapp stared him down and asked, “What do you know about me?”

  “I know you shot me in the foot last night for no good reason. That’s what I know about you.”

  Rapp could see what Coleman meant now by the pity party thing. “In the broader sense, Max, what is my reputation as you know it?”

  He looked around the room nervously and shrugged his shoulders.

  Rapp took off his suit jacket and draped it on the back of the chair. He rested his hand on his gun and said. “It’s not a trick question, Max. Honesty is what’s important this morning. I don’t care if you insult me, just tell me the truth. That’s the only way I’ll let you walk out of here. Do you understand me?”

  “I don’t know. This is so fucked up.”

  “There’s nothing to think about,” Rapp said a bit more forcefully. “The truth is the truth and a fucking lie is a fucking lie, and if I think you’re lying to me, we’re going to start up that gam
e again.”

  “What game?” Johnson said in genuine confusion.

  Rapp drew his gun for effect and said, “Left foot, right foot, left knee, right knee.”

  Johnson buried his face in his hands.

  “So remember,” Rapp said, “the truth. Now for the second time . . . What is my reputation?”

  Johnson shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know . . . you’ve killed a lot of people.”

  Rapp tried to be objective. “All things considered I guess that would be a true statement.”

  “And after last night,” Johnson added quickly, “I don’t doubt it for a moment. I mean what the hell . . . I was at Langley before you were. I put in my twenty-five years. I served. What you did last night was wrong. I mean, that’s no way to treat a fellow professional.”