The Survivor

by Vince Flynn

  “That’s right. Who are you?”

  “My name’s Mitch. I’m an old friend of your mother’s. You and I met once, too, but you were just a baby.”

  “I don’t remember stuff from when I was a baby.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Are you coming with us to the beach? You’re not dressed.”

  “I don’t think so. I just need to talk to your mom for a couple of minutes.”

  “I’m going to see if Ben wants to make castles. He’s really good at it. He can even make the things that look like teeth on top of the walls.”

  “Merlons.”

  “What?”

  “The teeth are called merlons and the gaps between them are called crenels.”

  “Are you making that up? How do you know that?”

  The sad truth was that it was because he was an encyclopedia with only one chapter: things that could be used for war.

  “I saw a TV show on it once.”

  “I’m going to ask if Ben knows that.”

  Rapp watched her run out before turning back to Claudia.

  “Beautiful girl.”

  “I don’t deserve her.” She motioned around the house that Irene Kennedy was paying for. “Or this.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes. What matters is that we try to make up for them.”

  He dug an iPhone out of his pocket and handed it to her. The display had a screenshot of a mutual fund statement. “We consolidated all of Louis’s accounts into this one. It’s all clean and the taxes have been paid. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  Her eyes widened. “There’s almost thirty million dollars here.”

  Rapp nodded. “The account is under the name Claudia Dufort. We’re working with the French government to get you a new passport, a legend, and everything else you’ll need to stay off Louis’s enemies’ radar. Irene got you permanent residence in South Africa, and she used some of your money to buy you a house in the wine country. I think Anna will like it. There’s a good school close by and plenty of space for a horse or two.”

  The tears finally came. She threw her arms around him and began to sob. “I’m so sorry, Mitch. I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done to you.”

  CHAPTER 36

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  U.S.A.

  IRENE Kennedy pushed her reading glasses onto her forehead, tying to chase the image of Stan Hurley from her mind. There would be time to mourn him later. Right now her only responsibility was to ensure that no more of her people ended up like him.

  The handwritten list on the desk in front of her had been pulled almost entirely from her impeccable memory. It looked as innocuous as a guest list to one of her son’s birthday parties, but in fact it was the most sensitive catalog of names ever put to paper.

  It included every significant spy or informant currently controlled by the CIA from the Middle East to China to Europe. Even South America and Australia were represented.

  Three numbers accompanied each name. The first ranked the likelihood that Rickman would be aware of that individual’s existence on a scale of one to ten. The second used an inverse scale to rank each operative’s importance to America’s security. Finally, the third number was the sum of the first two.

  The twenties—people who were low level and unquestionably known by Rickman—were already being prepared for extraction. Too much risk for not enough reward. The twos—critical personnel that Rickman would likely be unaware of—would be staying where they were. The question was, how far down did she go with extractions? Fifteens? Tens? How many lives would she jeopardize in the interest of America’s intelligence efforts?

  Once again, Hurley intruded on her thoughts, this time whispering in her ear. You took this job, Princess. Suck it up and do it.

  There was a knock on the door and Mike Nash poked his head in. “Bad time?”

  She flipped the list facedown on her desk. “A welcome interruption. Are you bringing me good news?”

  He entered but didn’t respond to her question.

  “I’ll take anything at this point, Mike.”

  “Coffee machine’s fixed.”

  Kennedy smiled. She still wasn’t sure about Nash, but her view of the man was evolving. She’d been doing some detailed research into his background and discovered that he’d always been the charismatic charmer. Voted most popular in high school, class president in college, and the beneficiary of almost fanatical loyalty from the marines he’d led in combat.

  It was a gift that few people had and one that couldn’t be taught. Kennedy had many competent people working for her, but their personalities often left a bit to be desired—mostly insufferable wonks, slick politicians, and swaggering cowboys. Then there was Mitch, who wasn’t exactly a favorite on Capitol Hill. At best, he elicited nervousness from Congress. At worst, fear and hatred.

  Kennedy didn’t exempt herself from her clear-eyed evaluation. She was largely seen as an icy intellectual alone in a sea of people who made decisions based on their gut instead of their head. It was a trait that made people question whether there was anything she really believed in. The answer was that there was. She believed in getting the job done.

  Nash could be a bit of a handwringer, but admittedly an extremely intelligent one. He’d performed well since Rapp had forced him out of the field and behind a desk. He was good at handling the overblown egos on the Hill and a near prodigy at motivating people. While she and Nash were very different, who was to say that her approach was right and his was wrong? As her mentor, Thomas Stansfield, had been fond of saying, there was more than one way to skin a cat.

  “Unfortunately, I’m a tea drinker. Where are we on finding the people disseminating the Rickman files?”

  “Let’s just say we’re moving generally forward,” he said, sitting in one of the chairs lined up in front of her desk. “Everyone agrees with your idea that he’d go to an attorney, but the category Every Ambulance Chaser on the Planet is a pretty big one.”

  “Is the NSA producing?”

  “That’s the problem. Their AI’s ability to filter out the junk is less impressive than they let on. We’re getting everything from a bunch of lawyers in D.C. who won an intermural softball game to a London firm that signed on to represent J. K. Rowling in a plagiarism suit.”

  “Nothing useful, then.”

  “We thought we had something with a break-in at a firm in Buenos Aires, but it turned out to be a drug addict who got caught two days later pawning their laptops. We have people working around the clock sifting through all the hits. Anything that looks even vaguely interesting gets sent to me.”

  “What about Marcus?”

  “He’s working on the next step under the assumption that the NSA will eventually turn up something we can use. He figures that the files are being released by some kind of hacker—someone crooked enough to be willing to decrypt and send out classified material but smart enough to keep it from being traced back to him. Finding a guy like that should be right in Marcus’s wheelhouse.”

  Kennedy took a sip of her tea, not sure how much to say. It was in her nature to keep secrets, but if things went as badly as she expected, Nash would need to be aware of her suspicions.

  “We have even less time than you might imagine, Mike. I believe that we’re not just in a race against Rick, but that we’re competing with another organization.”

  Nash nodded. “The Pakistanis.”

  She was pleased that he’d come to the conclusion on his own. “Please go on.”

  “It’s hard to believe that Akhtar Durrani was the only person in the S Wing who knew about Rick’s files. And if they’re aware they exist, they want them something awful. Depending on how much Rick knew, the ISI could co-opt our entire network in the Middle East. Maybe worldwide.”

  “But who?” Kennedy prompted.

  “One of Durrani’s men? If you work for the ISI, getting hold of the CIA’s throat wouldn’t exactly be bad for your car
eer.”

  It was a reasonable hypothesis—maybe even the right one—but she was concerned Nash was thinking too small.

  “What about President Chutani?”

  Nash’s expression turned thoughtful. “There’s no question that Chutani would like to take a peek at Rick’s files and hold some of them over us, but I’m not sure he has that kind of penetration into the S Wing yet.”

  “I tend to agree. Have you considered Ahmed Taj?”

  “Yeah. He’s a lot more interesting.”

  “How so?” Kennedy said, wondering if Nash recognized he was being tested and just wasn’t letting on. She hoped that was the case.

  “I’ve met the guy a couple times and I’ve read all the files we’ve got on him. Everything points to him being weak. I’m starting to wonder, though. Durrani’s death would have created quite a power vacuum at the ISI. We should have seen a lot of fireworks but we didn’t. I’ve seen successions in my kid’s Boy Scout troop go harder than that.”

  Kennedy remained silent, taking another sip of her tea.

  “So do you think I’m totally off base here, Irene? Maybe Chutani’s got a better handle on the ISI than I’m giving him credit for.”

  “No. Unfortunately, I find myself nursing the same suspicions. Our analysts have been telling me for years that Taj is too feeble to control the ISI, and in the same breath they tell me that the ISI is becoming increasingly effective. Somewhere there’s a disconnect between theory and reality. If you discard the conventional wisdom that Taj is just a figurehead, it’s amazing how quickly the picture comes into focus.”

  “I hope you’re wrong,” Nash said. “Because I’d rather see those files in the hands of al Qaeda than the ISI.”

  Before she could respond, an alarm sounded on her laptop. She felt her heart rate accelerate. That particular chime was set to sound only when an email arrived from Joe Rickman.

  “Rick?” Nash said, noticing her sudden pallor.

  She nodded and opened her inbox as he moved to a position where he could look over her shoulder.

  The attachment was another video. Kennedy felt her mouth go dry when she started the playback.

  “Hello, Irene. I’d say it’s good to see you but I can’t see you because you had me killed.”

  He was sitting with his boots on the desk again, wearing the same clothes he had in the last communiqué. Knowing Rickman, he’d recorded these all in one caffeine- and amphetamine-fueled push.

  “I hope it drives you nuts trying to figure out how I got all this intel. Take my advice and don’t bother. I’m just smarter than you.” He paused dramatically, letting the seconds tick by. “Freaking out yet, Irene? Want to know what I’ve got? ’Cause this one’s way bigger than Sitting Bull. I mean, who really gives a crap about the Russians? Nothing but a bunch of vodka-swilling losers.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I wish I’d been there when Mitch splattered this prick’s brains all over the wall,” Nash said.

  Kennedy motioned for silence.

  “Okay, I guess you’ve waited long enough,” Rickman said. “I sent the Iranians a detailed file about how their ambassador to the U.K. is on your payroll. Names, dates, bank account numbers. Even a few nice glossy eight-by-tens.” He smiled and reached for a remote on his desk. “Have fun.”

  “Is that true?” Nash said when the image went black.

  Kennedy was too stunned to answer. It was absolutely true. Kamal Safavi was their highest-placed Iranian asset, a man well versed in both his country’s fledgling nuclear weapons program and its increasingly severe political power struggles.

  “What time is it in London, Mike?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Around midnight.”

  Kennedy shut down her email and pulled up Safavi’s information. She clicked on the text button and sent him an innocuous message that he would recognize as a warning. The contingency plan they’d created was for him and his family to immediately proceed to a safe house, where they’d be met by her London station chief. The question was whether Rickman had left time. Would he have seen it as more destructive to let the United States take the man and weather the -inevitable Iranian demands for his return? Or would he want the ayatollah to take him and extract everything he knew about the CIA’s Iranian operations?

  “Where’s Mitch?” Kennedy asked.

  “We still don’t know. He said he had some personal business to deal with and took one of the Gulfstreams we have hangared in Europe.”

  “During this?” Kennedy said, letting a rare flash of anger show. “You’re supposed to keep track of him, Mike. And the Agency’s planes aren’t his private limousines.”

  “Then that’s a conversation you should have with him, Irene. Because sometimes he gets a look on his face like he’s trying to decide whether it would be more efficient to argue with me or just kill me. As far as I’m concerned, he can do whatever he wants with those planes.”

  Kennedy’s line buzzed and she picked up. Ken Barrett, her London station chief, was on the other end. He’d been copied on the text she’d sent.

  “I have people on the way to the safe house, Dr. Kennedy. Do you want me to send anyone to the ambassador’s residence?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. Maybe Rickman had timed this to provoke a confrontation between the CIA and the Iranians on -London’s streets. What she didn’t need to do was to create a violent incident in the backyard of America’s strongest ally.

  “Quietly,” she said finally. “No one does anything but watch unless I give the order. And call Charlie. We need to bring MI6 in on this.”

  Kennedy hung up and dialed Mitch Rapp’s cell number. Until now, she’d left him alone. He rarely disappeared like this, so it stood to reason that what he was doing was important to him. She couldn’t wait any longer, though. Wherever he was, his vacation was over.

  Her stomach tightened with each ring but finally the line clicked and Rapp’s voice came on.

  “Yeah?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Greece.”

  “Get to London. Now.”

  CHAPTER 37

  IRANIAN AMBASSADOR’S RESIDENCE

  LONDON

  ENGLAND

  KAMAL Safavi remained as still as possible, trying not to wake his wife in bed next to him. It was just after midnight and he’d been lying awake for almost two hours. The meeting at the Foreign Office that day had gone predictably badly. MI6 had reports—correct as far as he knew—that Iran had just accepted a delivery of advanced centrifuges from North Korea.

  Based on his country’s history with America, he could understand and sympathize with his masters’ paranoia regarding the West. The affronts that so consumed them, though, now existed only in history books. They needed to be concerned the future. They needed to acknowledge that the nuclear program they believed would keep Iran safe was strangling the country’s economy. Paralyzed by their misguided fears of an American attack, Iran’s government was dooming its population to a death by a thousand cuts.

  So much foolishness and hate served no purpose. Iran was a -rational and stable island in a region that was in the process of tearing itself apart. Only the shortsightedness of their respective politicians prevented the two countries from laying the foundations for an era of cooperation.

  It was a sentiment that Irene Kennedy shared. She was an eminently reasonable woman who saw the potential of normalizing relations between Tehran and Washington. She understood that Iran’s youth had little memory of the shah or the revolution. They wanted freedom and prosperity. They wanted to occupy a place of respect in the world.

  There was a static-ridden cry from his nightstand, and he glanced over at the baby monitor as it went silent again. His young daughter was dreaming. But about what? A future of unbounded opportunity? A life in a society that treated her as an equal? Peace and security?

  Probably not. That was his dream. For her. For all of his people.

  A moment later, a more urgent sound emanated from
the direction of his nightstand. For a few seconds he was disoriented by the shrillness, unable to remember what it meant. His confusion didn’t last long, though, and he snatched up his phone to scan the text on the screen.

  “Get up!” he said, throwing the covers to the floor and leaping from bed.

  In the dim glow of the alarm clock, he saw his wife’s eyes flutter open.

  “What is it?” she said, reaching for the lamp by her side of the bed. “Is it Ava? Is she awake?”

  He grabbed his wife’s wrist before she could get to the switch. “Don’t turn it on. Just get up and put your robe on. Quietly. We’re leaving.”

  “Leaving?” she said, alarmed. “What are you talking about?”

  He had never told her or anyone else about his relationship with Kennedy. He’d thought it was safe. That it was important. Now all he could feel was guilt for what he’d done. His family was in danger. And for what? The idealism that his father had warned him about so many times as a youth.

  “There’s no time to explain,” he said in a harsh whisper. “We have to leave. Now!”

  Safavi ran in bare feet to his daughter’s room, finding her fast asleep. He lifted her carefully. They had to be silent. Their staff consisted only of a woman who did the cooking and cleaning, and an aging security man who spent most of his time shuttling them around the city. He could afford to wake neither.

  “Kamal, you’re scaring me,” his wife said, appearing in the doorway. “What’s happening?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” he whispered. “Now we have to get to the car. It’s parked right out front.”

  “But I need to get dressed. I don’t even have shoes. We—”

  Fortunately, his daughter was still small enough to hold in one arm, and he clamped his free hand around his wife’s bicep. The apprehension on her face turned to fear when she felt the force of his grip.

  “Kamal, you—”

  “Silence!” he whispered as he dragged her toward the stairs.

  Light from the courtyard filtered through the windows, providing enough illumination to navigate through the furniture arranged in the entryway. Kennedy had warned them in time. They were going to make it.