The Survivor

by Vince Flynn

  “And the ISI went in personally instead of calling in a drone?”

  “He said they wanted to take Qayem alive so he could be questioned.”

  “That worked out well,” Rapp said sarcastically. “Ten bucks says Qayem knew too much. Maybe it wasn’t just Durrani who ordered that hit on me. Maybe it went higher and people at the ISI didn’t want me to catch up with him.”

  “It’s something I’ve considered.”

  “Well, then I’ve got another ten bucks that says he was inside Pakistan. Probably Lahore. The S Wing is moving more and more terrorists into the cities to give them cover from our air strikes. About all that’s left in the countryside are the groups that they can’t get a handle on. We kill the people who are a danger to them and then they publish pictures of the aftermath to whip up anti-American sentiment.”

  “Ahmed and President Chutani are trying to get control of the ISI.”

  “And I’m supposed to feel good about that?”

  She held up a hand. “Right now the only thing that matters is that, for better or for worse, Qayem is dead. That leaves Leo Obrecht as our only window into the Rickman situation.”

  “So?”

  He knew that Kennedy could have just emailed those images to the Farm. But she hadn’t. That meant she had something on her mind other than Qayem. Something that demanded a face-to-face meeting. It wasn’t hard to guess what it was.

  She reached for a mug at the edge of her desk and took a sip from it. Twinings Earl Grey, he knew from the dossier he’d created on her when he was just starting out. When she was under a lot of stress, she went with the decaf version.

  “Where do you stand with Louis Gould, Mitch?”

  “I haven’t killed him yet, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Do you think he can help you get to Obrecht?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But he’s good. Even by your standards, yes?”

  Rapp didn’t answer.

  She held the cup in both hands as though she was trying to warm them. “I’m sorry, Mitch. I don’t want to have this conversation any more than you. But if we don’t do something, the situation is going to get worse. Good people are going to die.”

  “He’s a sociopath, Irene. He doesn’t care about anything or anyone but himself.”

  “Sometimes sociopaths aren’t that difficult to control. You just give them what they want.”

  “Yeah. But what exactly is that?”

  “His life? To be returned to his family?”

  Rapp wasn’t so sure, but he’d already decided he had no alternative to bringing Gould in on this. What he was in no mood for, though, was sitting around the seventh floor talking about it. He stood and started for the door.

  “I’m going down to see Marcus. If you get anything else from Rickman, you know how to reach me.”

  CHAPTER 11

  ISI HEADQUARTERS

  ISLAMABAD

  PAKISTAN

  AHMED Taj sat behind his massive desk, staring at the wall. The headphones covering his ears were plugged into a secure laptop and the voice of the late Akhtar Durrani was audible above the hiss of static.

  “Now, you have many stories to tell me.”

  “Not yet,” Joseph Rickman replied.

  “You made a promise. I have arranged everything. You are safe in my country. I have even gone so far as to arrange a new identity for you. You must follow through on your side of the bargain. I want the names of the American spies.”

  “When Vazir gets back from Zurich, we will see how things are, and then I will decide when and how I will begin sharing that information.”

  “That was not our deal!” Durrani shouted, and the low growl of Rickman’s Rottweiler became audible.

  “The deal has changed. You did that when you decided to interfere with Louis Gould’s assassination of Rapp. Now we will have to wait and see.”

  “I could have you killed,” Durrani hissed. “Or better yet, I will nurse you back to health and have you beaten to a pulp again. How would you like that, you stupid American? You think you are so smart . . . well, you are not so smart. I hold all of the cards here. I am the one who decides if you will live or die.”

  Rickman’s laughter had a distinctive gurgle to it. Undoubtedly the result of his self-inflicted injuries. “You think you have me by the balls, General?”

  “I could have you killed right now.”

  “Yes, you could, and then in a month or so you would die as well.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You are so naïve, General. Do you think I’m foolish enough to put my life in your hands and not have an insurance policy?”

  “You are bluffing.”

  “No, that’s not my style. I plan, I don’t bluff. I have taken certain precautions. I’ve hired a law firm and given them very specific instructions that if they don’t hear from me at prearranged intervals they’re to begin emailing files to Director Kennedy and a few other select people.”

  “What kind of files?” Durrani said, cautiously.

  “Very detailed information that, among many other things, implicates you in all this.”

  “What could you possibly be thinking? That is reckless . . . what if these lawyers take a look at the information?”

  “It’s encrypted, and don’t worry, they are people I trust. You have nothing to worry about as long as you honor our agreement.”

  “You are the one who needs to honor our agreement. Senator Ferris says he needs the information so he can move against Rapp and Kennedy.”

  “Let’s see how things go in Zurich.”

  “You are a fool.”

  “Really,” Rickman answered in an amused tone. “I think it is actually very pragmatic of me.”

  “I’m talking about giving such valuable information to people I cannot trust. It’s foolish.”

  “It’s actually very smart, although probably not all that smart considering your history.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s pretty obvious that you have a habit of killing the people you work with.”

  “That is an exaggeration.”

  “Not really, so the fact that I took a few precautions is just common sense. It’s not particularly smart.”

  Taj reached for his keyboard and shut down the recording, returning it to its encrypted folder. There were hundreds of hours of audio from the listening devices in Durrani’s home, and he’d allowed no one—not even his personal assistant, Kabir Gadai—to listen to them. In the intelligence business, the control of knowledge was all.

  While there was a great deal of interesting information on the tapes, this brief passage was by far the most critical. When he’d first heard it, he’d thought Rickman’s threat was entirely credible and immediately began looking into law firms the man could have used. Now he had confirmation that his investigation had been worthwhile. That very morning Taj had received proof that Rickman was telling Durrani the truth about his “insurance policy.”

  The ISI’s network had picked up chatter about an email Rickman sent to the FSB exposing a high-level agent stationed in Istanbul. This had been confirmed by a rendition attempt thwarted by Mitch Rapp that left two Russians dead. Most critically, the email had been sent after Rickman’s death.

  Taj smiled thinly. It was hard not to appreciate the man’s brilliance. From beyond the grave, he would set fire after fire, running Kennedy and her people ragged. It was a plan that had gotten off to a rousing start. Even if that whore prostrated herself in front of the director of the FSB, the already tense relations between America and Russia would further worsen. There was little doubt that plans for reprisals were in the works at the Kremlin.

  It was tempting to just let Rickman’s strategy play out. To sit on the sidelines and watch the CIA blow itself apart. Tempting, but impossible.

  Rickman’s plan for revenge against his former employer was akin to an IED—powerful, but indiscriminate. If Taj could possess the
-information—particularly if he could do so without Kennedy knowing—it could be transformed from an explosive to a scalpel. With it, he would not only ferret out every traitor in his own government, but co-opt the Americans’ entire network. Under the threat of exposure, he could quietly turn the CIA’s most sensitive assets and monitor or kill the others. Critical spies they believed to be loyal would in fact be working for the ISI. They would provide him with an endless stream of information about U.S. intelligence efforts while feeding back a carefully formulated mix of truth and lies. He wouldn’t just blind the world’s most powerful spy agency, he would enslave it.

  Kabir Gadai was personally leading the team trying to track the law firm Rickman had spoken of but the task had proved difficult. The CIA man hid his activities with incredible care and also created countless false trails, each of which had to be diligently followed. Now that he was dead, though, Rickman’s maze had stopped expanding. The picture began to clear.

  There was a knock on the door, and Taj took off his headphones before closing the laptop on his desk.

  “Come.”

  Kabir Gadai strode in and closed the door behind him. Most people were unaware that they were second cousins, and looking at them would offer no hint of the relationship. Gadai was good-looking, well dressed, and outwardly accomplished. He was truly devoted to his three gifted sons and portrayed the necessary fondness for his daughter. His wife was beautiful and charming but, more important, willing to overlook his extramarital affairs in return for a life of privilege. It was an immoral lifestyle that Taj had learned to tolerate in light of -Gadai’s competence and loyalty.

  Of course, like all men, Gadai had weaknesses. While his infidelity was problematic, his egocentric need for those around him to be aware of his accomplishments was far worse. Taj excused it as the exuberance of youth, but until Gadai matured, he would have to be watched with extra care.

  “Do you have news about Rickman’s attorney?”

  They had traced the Sitting Bull information dump to the general area of Rome, but that left hundreds of individual firms to investigate.

  Gadai laid a dossier on Taj’s desk and the ISI director opened it. He immediately recognized the name of the Italian law firm.

  “We already looked into them, no? They were helping Rickman create anonymous financial trusts with money he’d siphoned off from the CIA’s Afghanistan operation. To benefit his children, if I recall correctly.”

  “You do,” Gadai said. “After we confirmed that his connection with the firm related to personal affairs, we moved on.”

  Taj felt his grudging admiration for the CIA man grow further. More of Rickman’s complex web. He hadn’t hidden his personal activity as carefully as he could have, calculating that anyone who found the firm he used would assume that it wouldn’t also be involved in his plot against the Agency.

  “Then you have him? You know the identity of the lawyer?” Taj said, trying to keep his voice even despite the excitement he felt.

  “I’m afraid it isn’t that easy, Ahmed. It’s a very large firm, and Rickman didn’t use the same lawyer that he used for the trusts.”

  “What about the managing partner? Can we interrogate him?”

  “He’s a very public and very well-connected man in Italy. Also, I very much doubt he would know anything. While we understand the importance of the files, this arrangement would be unremarkable to the firm. Essentially just a schedule of electronic documents to be sent if certain criteria are met. It’s unlikely the attorney handling the details would even know that his client is dead. And it’s almost certain that he would be in the dark as to the contents of the files.”

  This time, Rickman had displayed his cleverness by taking a page out of Taj’s own book. Make everything too commonplace to attract attention. It was infuriating. He was within a hair’s breadth of closing his fist around Irene Kennedy’s delicate throat.

  “So, you’re telling me that we have to investigate hundreds of individual lawyers whose careers are predicated on confidentiality in hopes that they left some clue about a client they never met? That’s unacceptable, Kabir.”

  The younger man smiled, his eyes shining with an arrogant light that Taj was very familiar with. Gadai knew something but had withheld it for effect.

  “Don’t make me wait, Kabir. I’ve indulged your sense of drama in the past, but my patience is at its end.”

  “My apologies, Director. Our research suggests that this firm has a dedicated division that handles these kinds of arrangements—-scheduling, payments, requests for information, notifications . . .”

  “How many people are in this division?”

  “It’s largely automated. Most of the work is done by computer or—”

  “How many!”

  Gadai opened the dossier again, shuffling to a photo of a plump woman with dyed blond hair. “Isabella Accorso runs the entire enterprise with a single administrative assistant.”

  Taj picked up the photo and examined the woman’s face. She was probably in her mid-thirties, wearing a blouse that clung to her breasts in an obvious attempt to facilitate the faceless, nameless sexual -encounters so enjoyed by Western women.

  It was hard to believe that this female had the keys to America’s heavily guarded intelligence apparatus. That she unwittingly possessed more information on the CIA’s operations than anyone outside Langley’s executive offices.

  “What do we know about her?”

  “She’s divorced. Clean. No drugs or illegal activity. No affairs or significant financial problems.”

  Taj just glared at him. Again, his assistant’s expression suggested there was more.

  “She does have a daughter, though. A sixteen-year-old who attends public school. Quite an attractive young woman.”

  “Can I assume she’s accessible to us?”

  Gadai smiled. “Easily.”

  CHAPTER 12

  THE FARM

  NEAR HARPERS FERRY

  WEST VIRGINIA

  U.S.A.

  DID you get it put back together?” Rapp said as he walked into the Farm’s basement bar.

  Hurley was standing next to the pool table with the ubiquitous drink in his hand while Scott Coleman was beneath the elaborate scale model with a screwdriver.

  “Just finishing,” the old man said, lighting a cigarette. “The little twit outdid himself.”

  He was right. It was an impressive effort even by Marcus Dumond’s standards. The computer genius had used a drone-mounted camera to take more than a thousand high-definition photos of Leo Obrecht’s property. After stitching them together in Photoshop, he’d fed them to the railroad-car-sized 3-D printer at Langley.

  Rapp had been expecting a two-foot-square monochrome model with enough detail to make some general strategy decisions. What he’d gotten was a full-color model so large it had to be cut into three sections to jam it down the elevator shaft. Resolution was detailed enough to differentiate individual plants in Obrecht’s garden.

  The portion of the model that represented the house was built in detachable layers so that each floor could be removed in order to examine the layout of the one beneath. The only thing missing was furniture—an omission that Dumond seemed genuinely embarrassed about. He still hadn’t been able to crack the banker’s encryption and tie into his security cameras.

  “Voilà,” Coleman said, connecting the last section and crawling out from under it.

  Rapp let his eyes drift from the mansion grounds out to the mountainous forest surrounding it. Every tree and rock, every road and stream, was faithfully represented. While he was normally suspicious of technology, this was an advance he could get used to.

  Hurley set his drink down on a section of open meadow already covered with rings from his glass. “I remember when we’d have planned this op on the back of a napkin.”

  “The world moves forward, Stan,” Coleman said, stepping back to admire the model.

  “You’re wrong,” the old man replied, cigarette
smoke rolling from his mouth as he spoke. “The world stands still. All that changes is the window dressing.”

  “That’s why I’ve always liked you, Stan. Your sunny disposition.”

  “What do we know about the place?” Rapp said before Hurley could formulate an expletive-laced response.

  “The estate itself is about a hundred acres, and beyond that is a whole lot of rugged, heavily forested public land,” Coleman said. “I have Wick over there watching the place, and I can tell you that we’d be better off trying to break into Fort Knox.”

  “Does the public use the area for recreation?”

  The former SEAL shook his head. “No trail system. What you see on the model are just game trails or natural features.”

  “The good news,” Hurley said, “is that Obrecht is no different than all the other royalty wannabes. He doesn’t want to mix with the unwashed masses. It’s miles before you get to his first neighbor.”

  Coleman agreed. “There’s just the one road. It’s twenty-one miles long from where it turns off a two-lane rural highway. Obrecht’s at the end. The nearest house is nine miles south, and the owners aren’t using it right now. One caretaker. Guy’s older than Stan and just as deaf.”

  “Fuck you,” Hurley said.

  Rapp returned his attention to the model of the banker’s property. It was a common mistake made by men like Obrecht. The best security was to be packed in with a hundred neighbors who knew the rhythms of the area and would notice any change. Those kinds of densely populated subdivisions also tended to have solid police coverage with short response times.

  “What’s the story with the fence?” Rapp said.

  “It’s more of a wall,” Coleman replied. “A little less than a foot thick, constructed of cinder blocks covered with adobe. We talked to the contractor who built it and he said the whole thing is reinforced with concrete.”

  “Height?”

  “About twelve feet. One main gate about fifteen feet wide and one small delivery door. Both look like they could stop a tank. Add to that floodlights, cameras, hardened positions along the wall, and you’ve got the makings of quite a party.”