Act of Treason (13 page)

G
roin injuries could be really messy. Lots of blood, and lots of pain. Since the Russian could barely keep his mouth shut as it was, Rapp assumed the lout would scream like a stuck pig if he pierced one of his testicles with a ball of lead. Rapp was not one to make empty threats, and the Russian’s inability to keep his mouth shut and follow a simple order was pushing him to the brink. He was one of these irritants who liked to think out loud. The type who gives a running narrative of the obvious. He alternated between muttering to himself and attempting to bribe Rapp with riches, his volume increasing with each passing moment.

Rapp was on the phone with Coleman, giving him a quick situation report. They were less than a minute out. Rapp told him to have Brooks drop him off in front. If anyone tried to stop him from going upstairs, he should tell them he was going to meet Alexander Deckas from Aid Logistics Inc. The Russian jabbered during the entire conversation.

Rapp had already frisked Gazich, and now he was rifling through the assassin’s desk as he finished giving Coleman instructions. Everything was going fairly well except the Russian. The man simply wouldn’t shut up. Finally, Coleman asked Rapp who was making the racket. Rapp reached his boiling point. He raised his pistol and squeezed the trigger. A round spat from the thick suppressor and imbedded itself in the wood seat of the chair a mere two inches in front of the Russian’s crotch.

The Russian’s eyes opened wide with fear and his mouth hung slack with shock.

Rapp muted the phone, walked over, stuck the smoking barrel into the Russian’s groin, and growled, “Shut the fuck up!”

The Russian closed his eyes, whimpered for a second, and then slammed his mouth shut.

Rapp took the phone off mute and said, “Hurry up. I need some help up here.” With that he jabbed the red end button on the phone and considered his next move. He walked over to the door and leaned out into the hallway to check on the old man. All he could see was a dark mass on the floor at the far end. Rapp paused for a second while he did the time conversion. Ten o’clock in Cyprus meant it was four in the afternoon in DC. Kennedy could be anywhere. Rapp decided to call her secure mobile. He punched in the country code, area code, and then the number. It started ringing almost immediately.

The Science and Technology people at Langley provided the top echelon of employees with the most secure phones available, and then installed special encryption software. They issued new phones at least once a year if not every six months. Rapp’s phones never left the box. He didn’t trust them, and it wasn’t because he feared the Russians or the Chinese. It was his own agency and the National Security Agency that he feared most. The full capabilities of the NSA and what they could do with their satellites, listening stations, and eight Cray supercomputers that they kept deep underground in a vast cooled chamber, was known to only a select few. What Rapp did know was that they collected an unbelievable number of foreign calls made into the U.S. every day. Those calls emanating from the Middle East received special attention. The NSA acted like a big fishing trawler. They threw out their nets, reeled them in, and then decided what fish to keep. Except with them it was phone calls, e-mails, and other electronic transmissions. These were prioritized by criteria. Like fishermen who throw the worthless fish back into the sea, the NSA was getting more efficient at maximizing its resources.

At the heart of their mission was code breaking. It always had been and always would be. These billions of intercepts were worthless if they couldn’t decipher them. Rapp knew there were elite teams of brainiacs within the NSA whose sole job was to defeat encryption software. As good as the folks at Langley’s S&T were, the truth was they were no match for the talent that the NSA employed. From a patriot’s perspective, one would think none of this should matter. After all they were all on the same team—the CIA, the NSA, the Pentagon, the Department of Justice, the FBI—all Americans working to defeat global terrorism.

The reality was far more complicated. Just because one administration advocated a certain policy, it didn’t mean the next one would, or that some opportunistic politician on the Hill wouldn’t seize the chance to grab the limelight by calling for an investigation into any one of a dozen things Rapp had done in the last year. What a veteran of the Clandestine Service deemed appropriate action was often very different from what a lawyer at the DOJ might think. And then there were budgets and interagency turf wars. In many ways the domestic side of the business was more dangerous than the operating abroad. At least when he was in the field Rapp knew who his enemies were. At home, politics and personalities were thrown into the mix and any sense of a unified mission was lost.

The climate had gotten so bad that Rapp couldn’t trust his own people at Langley. The CIA’s own Inspector General’s office had gotten into the game of leaking things to reporters. Senior officers were contributing to politicians’ campaigns, spouses were serving on advisory committees for candidates, and admin types were regularly dining and rubbing shoulders with journalists, lobbyists, and political strategists. Add to that Amnesty International and a dozen other human rights groups and you had a climate that was about as unfriendly to someone in Rapp’s position as you could imagine. He couldn’t even trust his own employer to hand him a secure phone, for at the end of the day, the Inspector General’s Office could be recording everything he said. In Rapp’s mind, there was no such thing as a secure line, so he went with the odds. Practically every month he bought a new phone from a major carrier and got a new number. And every time he went on a mission like this, he picked up a phone that rarely lasted the length of the mission. Even with all of the precautions he took, he was still very careful about what he said. He gave only the vaguest information and spoke in generalities.

When Kennedy finally answered, Rapp did not bother with greetings. He simply said, “I need a plane.”

There was a brief pause. “What kind of plane?”

“The plane.”

Almost as if on cue, the Russian started his running narrative again. Rapp looked at him, the gun in one hand and the phone in the other, his palms up and his arms out from his body a couple feet. The expression on his face seemed to say,
You have got to be kidding me.

The Russian said, “I work for the KGB.”

Through his earpiece, Rapp heard Kennedy ask, “Who is that?”

Rapp said, “Give me a second.” He pressed the mute button on the phone and moved around to the side of the Russian. “I told you to keep your mouth shut, you stupid fucker.”

“I am Russian Intelligence. Former KGB. We are on the same side now. America and Russia.”

Gazich was immobile on the floor and no doubt in a great deal of pain as the adrenaline wore off and he was left with the searing pain of four gun shot wounds to extremely sensitive areas of his body. Despite his less than humorous situation, he started to laugh and said, “You work for the Russian mob.”

“I do not!” the Russian shouted.

Gazich laughed harder. “You are a bitch for the oligarchs and nothing else.”

Rapp was standing midway between the Russian and Gazich. If he didn’t need to talk to these two morons, he would gladly shoot them both in the head, just to shut them up. The Russian was craning his neck looking up at Rapp, babbling on about his distinguished career with the KGB. Rapp took another step, putting himself off to the Russian’s left side about three feet away. Rapp pointed across the room and asked, “You see that computer over there?”

The Russian looked away from Rapp and fixed his attention on the large off-white monitor sitting on the desk.

Rapp turned to the side and shifted all of his weight onto his left foot. His right leg came up and his torso leaned away from the Russian. Rapp’s leg hung in the air for a second; his hands were pulled in tight gripping the phone and the gun, his forearms and fists providing a shield for his upper torso and face. He did it out of habit, not out of fear of being hit. It was years of training. A simple side kick. Done properly it could be delivered with more force than any other blow. Done poorly it still provided quite a punch. Rapp hadn’t delivered a poor side kick in more than fifteen years. The toe of Rapp’s heavy soled shoes was drawn up toward his shin. His eyes were locked on the Russian’s chin like the three green dots on the sights of his Glock.

In a flash, Rapp’s leg straightened—his one-inch, layered, leather heel striking the large chin of the Russian. The directed force of the blow broke the Russian’s jaw. The speed of the kick caused the Russian’s head to move laterally so quickly that his equilibrium was thrown completely out of whack. The effect was the physiological equivalent of turning off a light switch. The Russian’s entire body went limp, and he slumped forward in the chair, unconscious, his bound hands the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor.

Satisfied with the results, Rapp took the phone off mute and said, “Sorry about that.”

“What is going on?” Kennedy asked a bit irritated.

“Nothing you need to worry about.” Rapp looked at Gazich and said, “Just get me the plane.”

There was a long pause and then Kennedy asked, “You found him?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“One hundred percent. Go see Marcus. Tell him he was right about the Bosnian. He’ll fill you in on the rest.”

“Where are you?”

“Limassol, Cyprus.”

“I think the plane is in Eastern Europe. Let me make sure, and I’ll get back to you with an itinerary.”

“Make it quick. I need to get off this rock fast.”

“What have you done?” asked a worried Kennedy.

“I haven’t done anything, but there’s a third party involved and some of their boys got hurt.”

“How bad?”

“Body bag bad.”

“I see.” This was followed by more silence and then Kennedy skeptically asked, “And you had nothing to do with this?”

Rapp never liked to be second-guessed by people who spent their days sitting in comfortable leather chairs behind large, important desks while he risked life and limb. “Watch your step,” he snarled. “I don’t need this shit. I’m over here with a fucking rookie, and Blondie and his boys have been stuck in airports all day. What I need is some serious support right now. I need the plane, and I need it ASAP, and then I’m going to need a follow-up team to come in here and do a little cleaning.”

Kennedy should have known by his tone that it was a mistake to question him while he was still in the field. They’d been down this road dozens of times and it never ended well. She relented by saying, “I’ll get back to you with an answer in ten minutes or less.”

“One more thing. Our friends on the other side of the pond…they have a base close by. That would be best. No customs. Freight delivery to the back gate. Make the transfer in a hangar. Real private. No do-gooders shooting video.”

“Absolutely. I’ll arrange it. Anything else?”

“For now that should be enough.”

“Good. Great work! Give me a few minutes to get the pieces moving, and I’ll get right back to you.”

“Thanks.” Rapp disconnected the call and looked down at Gazich. He’d lost a bit of his color and he was starting to shake a bit. Rapp knew he hadn’t hit any major arteries, both by his aim and the lack of blood on the wood floor. Nonetheless, shock was fast approaching. Gazich’s body would be trying to shut certain things down to stave off the excruciating pain. Rapp had no fear of losing him. Gazich was young and fit. He could take it, and he honestly deserved this and a whole lot more.

Rapp squatted down on his haunches and looked Gazich in the eye. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who hired you?”

T
he plane was big. Bigger than they needed, but Rapp wasn’t complaining. It was a Lockheed Martin TriStar. She was designed to carry up to 400 passengers, or 88,000 pounds of cargo. This one, with its wide body and three big engines, was configured for cargo. She was a sister ship to the venerable DC-10. As far as aviation went, she was a little long in the tooth. From the outside the plane looked like any other international freight carrier. There were no windows other than the ones in the cockpit. The skin was painted a generic white, and the name
Worldwide Freight
ran along the back half of the fuselage in large blue letters. The CIA had more planes than some small air forces, but thanks to a politically motivated hack in the CIA’s Inspector General’s Office Rapp couldn’t go near them. At least not for something like this.

A little over a year ago, this same bureaucrat took it upon herself to tell a reporter that the CIA was ferrying terrorists around Eastern Europe in a Gulfstream 5 and a Boeing 737. Many of these terrorists were high ranking al-Qaeda operatives. They were taken to undisclosed locations and put in uncomfortable situations until they decided to talk, which all of them eventually did. The information they provided proved invaluable in picking apart al-Qaeda’s operational and financial infrastructure. That single leak had crippled one of Langley’s most important operations in the war on terror. Yet again, Rapp was forced to stay one step ahead of his own government.

The strategy with the planes was not very different than the one Rapp used with his mobile phones. The worldwide aviation market was a vast and intricate association of sellers, resellers, leasers, and lessees. Carriers were constantly updating their fleets, replacing older models with newer, more fuel efficient ones. That left a surplus of unused aircrafts. These planes were often kicked down the line, leased and subleased a half dozen times until they either broke down or crashed flying in and out of some war-torn country in Africa. The big Lockheed TriStar was still in good shape. She had been leased for one month through a company in Seattle. The company specialized in subleasing planes on a short-term basis. Their business model was simple. As power companies sold excess power to other utilities, these guys leased planes that weren’t being used during slow times of the year. They had no idea the CIA was their client. Everything was done through an attorney’s office in Frankfurt. The pilots were a couple of old U.S. Air Force colonels who liked cash and knew how to keep their mouths shut.

Rapp stood on the tarmac next to a battered gray Royal Air Force hangar. The big TriStar was inside. The sky in the east was showing the first signs of morning. The humid, salty Mediterranean air rolled in across the flat expanse of the base. There was nothing but asphalt, concrete, dirt, and scrub brush for miles in every direction. About fifty feet away Scott Coleman was talking with a British officer who had met them at the back gate fifteen minutes earlier. Coleman handed the officer something and the man took it. Then they shook hands and the RAF officer jumped in a Land Rover and sped off. Coleman walked over slowly shaking his head. A grin on his face.

The retired Navy SEAL said, “God, I love the Brits.”

Rapp nodded. “They know how to keep their mouths shut.”

“He gets off in a couple hours. He said he’d leave the van in the airport garage with the keys under the mat. All we have to do is call the rental company.”

“Good. And the plane?”

“Refueled and cleared for takeoff.”

“Good. Let’s get out of here before the sun comes up.”

The two men turned and walked into the shadowy hangar. Where Rapp was dark-haired and olive-skinned, Coleman was fair-haired and fair-skinned. Rapp fit in pretty much anywhere in the Middle East. Coleman, with his blue eyes and blond hair, would have looked more at home in Sweden or Norway. Probably Iceland as well. He had the high cheekbones and the stoic demeanor of the Northern Tribes. The stoic part worked well with Rapp. Less was almost always more, especially when it came to conversation. Coleman, like Rapp, was not one for idle chatter.

After Coleman had arrived at Gazich’s office, he and Rapp had taken a moment to figure out a plan of action. Neither liked the idea of staying put. If the police showed up, they would have to explain two dead Russians, another Russian who looked like some African tribe had gotten hold of him, and a Bosnian with four bullet holes in him. Marching everyone out of the café in the middle of a busy Saturday night would also not work. Sitting tight until the place closed was the best option. In order to do that, though, they would need the old man to cooperate. Sooner or later someone was sure to come looking for him.

They untied the old man and sat him down for a talk. The big Russian was still unconscious and Gazich remained silent on the floor despite the obvious pain of his wounds. The man’s name was Andreas Papadakos, and he was the owner of the building. He had met Alexander Deckas five years ago. The man paid his rent in advance every six months. He traveled frequently and had never been a problem. That was until the Russians showed up a few days earlier looking for him. They told Papadakos that Deckas was a hired gun. An assassin. They told him they worked for the Russian State Police and they were there to arrest Deckas and bring him back to Russia for trial.

The old man asked the Russians for identification. They told him not to worry, so he said he would call the local cops. That was when things got ugly. Papadakos had five daughters who worked for him. He had grandchildren coming and going all day. Sixteen of them. The Russians had already cased the place and told him if he called the authorities, or warned Deckas, they would dismember his grandchildren one by one.

Up until this point, the only real opinion Rapp had formed of the big Russian was that he was an irritant. He even felt a little sorry for the guy now that his face looked like one of those latex masks costume shops sell around Halloween. After hearing that he had threatened to cut up little children, all of Rapp’s sympathy vanished.

Over the years Rapp had done a lot of interrogations. They ranged from the mundane, like talking to a street vendor in Damascus about something he may have seen, to threatening to blow a man’s head off. All those years of experience had led to an ability to pretty much tell from the start when someone was being either forthright or deceptive in their answers. Papadakos denied any knowledge or involvement with Deckas. Furthermore, there were the five daughters and the sixteen grandchildren. Why would he endanger them by getting into business with a guy like Gazich?

In the end, the situation dictated what they needed to do. Involved or not involved, Papadakos did not want the cops snooping around. If Rapp found out later that the man and Gazich were full business partners he would come back and get him. Papadakos had spent his whole life in Limassol. He was not going to simply disappear and leave his business and grandchildren behind. So a deal was struck. Once the café was closed, Rapp would get rid of the bodies and the old man and his family could go on living their lives as if nothing had ever happened.

Rapp followed Papadakos downstairs and kept an eye on him. The rest of Coleman’s men showed up a few minutes past 11:00. All three were former SEALs who had served under Coleman. Wicker and Hacket casually walked up to the sedan with the dead Russian in the front seat. Wicker climbed behind the wheel and Hacket got in back. Wicker started the car, put it into drive, and slid out of the space. Fifteen minutes later they found a nice dark alley a little more than a mile away. Hacket got out and walked it from one end to the other, just to make sure it was deserted. Wicker circled back around, drove halfway down the dark canyon, and turned off the car. The dome light was extinguished and the trunk popped.

Hacket was waiting at the rear bumper snapping on a pair of disposable latex gloves. When the trunk lid came up, he reached in and yanked the clear plastic cover off the light casing. He flicked the cover into the recesses of the trunk and pulled the small bulb out of its slot. With darkness restored, Hacket walked around to the front passenger door and opened it a few feet. The body began to fall out of the car. Hacket placed his left hand on the head of the dead man, opened the door the rest of the way and then grabbed the limp body under both armpits. He dragged him out of the car and back to the trunk. Wicker stood on the other side of the car, his head slowly turning from one end of the alley and then back. The Russian was at least 200 pounds, but Hacket was a solid 225. He hefted the torso into the trunk face down and then picked up the legs, and twisted and bent the body the rest of the way in. Hacket softly closed the lid and they drove away.

By the time they got back to the café, the place was nearly empty. Parking was not a problem. Brooks was across the street packing and sanitizing the hotel room. Coleman and Stroble were treating wounds, securing the prisoners, and going through Gazich’s stuff looking for information. Both the big Russian and Gazich were given morphine. Rapp sat at the bar, drank a glass of wine, and kept an eye on Papadakos. As business slowed and the place began to empty, the old man joined Rapp at the bar and ordered a bottle of red. He drank three glasses in under thirty minutes and ordered another bottle. He was clearly anxious to be done with the entire drama.

At 1:00 in the morning the last two patrons were shown the door. They stumbled off, weaving their way down the sidewalk in search of the nightclubs a few blocks over. By 2:00 a.m. the street was pretty still. Brooks stood watch at one end of the block and Wicker the other. The big Russian was marched down the stairs under his own power. The dead Russian and Gazich needed to be carried. They debated wrapping them up in tablecloths, but decided the better route was to make it look like they were drunk. Hacket and Stroble carried Gazich out first, the two former SEALs book-ending the Bosnian, one under each arm, like three drunk sailors on shore leave. They stuffed him in the back of the van and then went back for the dead Russian. He was carried down in the same fashion and placed in the backseat of the car that Wicker had driven earlier.

Wicker came back from his post at the end of the block and climbed behind the wheel of the car with one dead Russian in the backseat and another one in the trunk. He pulled away from the curb with Hacket following him in the rental car they had picked up while they waited for their luggage at the airport. They were headed back to the same alley. The dead Russian in the backseat would join the dead Russian in the trunk, and then Wicker would abandon the car in a nice shady spot, where with any luck the stench would go unnoticed for a few days. After that they were to head up to Gazich’s house in the hills where they would search it from top to bottom.

Rapp said good-bye to Papadakos and thanked him for his cooperation. The old man asked Rapp what would happen to Deckas. Rapp lied and told him he wasn’t sure, even though he knew exactly what he was going to do with him. He was going to squeeze every last bit of information from him and then he was going to give him a death befitting a man who set off car bombs in the middle of an urban neighborhood. He needed to be made an example of. Rapp could tell the old man was worried so he told him that people way above his pay grade would be sorting the whole mess out. If Rapp had only known how accurate that statement was he probably would have finished off Gazich right there on Cyprus.