The Last Man (36 page)

Director Miller looked at him with pure disgust. “Maybe you’d gain a little more perspective from our field office in Bismarck, North Dakota.”

Chapter 46

Virginia

The house was forty minutes northwest of Langley, just past Dulles International Airport. A couple who had retired from the Clandestine Service after putting in thirty-plus years were listed as the owners of the sprawling property. They were now consultants for the CIA, and continued to be paid a generous salary, but they rarely made the commute to the George Bush Center for Intelligence. Their job was to manage the forty-seven-acre compound and its various buildings. The place was low-key, concealed behind rows of trees, a fence, and nothing more than a single gate. There were no guard dogs or men wandering the perimeter with machine guns.

Even to the more discerning eye there was very little to see. The perimeter security was all microwave trip wires and heat sensors and miniature cameras. The system itself was automated, with a software program that could distinguish a deer from a man to limit false alarms. The bulk of the security was in the house. All the windows were fixed, bulletproof Plexiglas, and the interior had been demolished to the studs. Because of the lessons learned from overseas embassy attacks, the walls were now reinforced with ballistic fabric and the doors were all titanium covered in wood veneer. The basement contained two holding cells, an interrogation room, and a panic room as a last and unlikely resort, should the security on the first floor be breached.

Rapp was in the study on the main floor, sitting in a black Herman Miller lounge chair. A man in an identical chair sat six feet away on the other side of the fireplace hearth asking questions and taking notes. The man, Dr. Lewis, was the resident shrink for the CIA’s Clandestine Service. He had known Rapp for a long time. He adjusted his glasses at the corner and said, “Your wife.”

“What about her?”

“How much do you remember?”

Rapp remembered all of it, or at least he thought he did. It was a strange process to relive it all for a second time and it wasn’t all bad. The good memories came back as well as the bad ones. Rapp recognized that might be a good thing to share with Lewis. To a certain extent you had to share with the man, or he simply deemed you unfit for the field, and the only thing more unnerving to a Clandestine officer than a therapy session was being confined to a cubicle at Langley. There was also a feeling of trust with the doctor. It was similar to way he had felt with Kennedy when he’d awakened in the hospital. There was also a feeling that he was not typically a very trusting person.

“At first it was just the pain . . . the bad memories . . . the loss . . . the feeling that I would never be able to recover. It all came flooding back.”

“And how did that feel?”

Rapp laughed defensively. “Like shit . . . how do you think it felt?”

Lewis nodded and scribbled a quick note. “No, I would imagine that was not an enjoyable experience.” He stopped writing. “And then what happened?”

“The good memories came back. Meeting each other, dating, falling in love . . . that didn’t take long, and then the wedding. We were really happy. I was really happy.” Rapp looked into the fire for a moment and said, “I don’t think I was ever happier.”

Lewis nodded. “I would say that’s probably true.”

Rapp pulled his gaze away from the fire. “Did you know her?”

“I only met her once, but I’ve watched you grow up in this business. I did your original psych evals twenty-some years ago. I’ve watched you through the good and the bad and you definitely had an extra bounce in your step during the time you just described.”

Rapp’s gaze fell back to the fireplace. “In a strange way I want that again.”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“What Anna and I had. I want to find that again. How have I been since she was killed?”

Lewis did not like vague questions. “Could you be more specific?”

“As a person, did I change? Was I the same? What was I like?”

“I would say your grieving process was not untypical.”

“You’re holding something back,” Rapp said, putting a hard stare on Lewis.

Lewis thought of Kennedy and the way she described how Rapp could look right through her at times. “You were understandably angry.”

“Violent?”

“Yes,” Lewis said with a nod, “although violence is a part of this business.”

“But I was more violent than before?”

“Yes . . . you lacked patience. Not that you ever had a great deal of it to begin with, but after Anna’s death you seemed to lose any tolerance for dissent.”

“Did it interfere with my work?”

Lewis thought about that for a long moment and then said, “As far as I know, it did not, but I think you should ask Irene.”

“You’re holding back again.”

“There was some concern that you were growing a bit too reckless. Taking too many chances. Always pushing ahead even when it made more sense to pause and regroup.”

That sounded familiar to Rapp. He remembered the rage, he remembered killing certain people and feeling satisfaction that the person would never take another breath. It was actually gratifying. Rapp had spent some time trying to remember all of the people he’d killed. It was like a photo album of assholes. The Who’s Who of terrorists, assassins, arms dealers, corrupt financiers, and intelligence operatives. The trip down memory lane was devoid of guilt.

“Back to the good memories,” Lewis said in an effort to steer the conversation back to a point of interest. “How did they make you feel?”

“Good,” Rapp shrugged. “That’s why they call them good memories.”

Lewis laughed and scratched another note.

Rapp frowned as a distant memory came back to him. “Didn’t I tell you once that I don’t like you taking notes?”

Looking as if he’d been caught, Lewis set his pen down and said, “Yes, you did.”

“And we came to some kind of an agreement.”

Lewis nodded.

“If I would be more open, then you’d stop taking notes.”

Lewis coughed slightly and then said, “That’s correct.”

“So what gives?”

“It’s a habit,” Lewis said sheepishly.

“Were you trying to test my memory?”

“A little bit.”

After pointing at the note pad, Rapp pointed at the fire. Lewis tore out the top three pages and tossed them into the fire. “Now,” Lewis said, “back to the good memories for the third time. Tell me about them.”

“I was happy.” Rapp got a far off gaze in his eyes, “I remembered how close we were. How it was hard to be apart, and when we were together, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”

“And you remember making love?”

“Jeez, Doc,” Rapp said, fidgeting in his chair. “Come on. Can’t I keep some of this shit to myself?”

Lewis smiled, “Yes, you may. I don’t need to know everything. It’s just good to know that you’re no longer repressing those memories.”

“I did that?”

“Yes. I tried to get you to talk about her on several occasions, but you became so enraged that I had to drop it.”

“Did I threaten you?”

The question caught Lewis so off-guard, he began to laugh nervously.

“What?”

“Your mere presence is a threat to many people.”

“And to you?”

“No.” Lewis shook his head. “I’ve known you a long time and you’ve never threatened me, but you need to understand that you are very good at what you do and you have some anger issues. After your wife was murdered, there was a bit of fear that you had become more volatile.”

Rapp didn’t like that sound of that. “Like I couldn’t control myself?”

“Yes.”

“Did I ever cross that line?”

“Mmmm . . . no.”

“But I came close.”

“Yes.”

This didn’t sound good. “I think I need a drink.”

“Why?”

Rapp grimaced. “I don’t like hearing this.”

Lewis took this as a good sign. Progress with Rapp was rare and should be celebrated. “I could use a drink as well. Come on . . . follow me.”

The two men left the study and moved down the hall to the open living room and kitchen. Rapp was surprised to find Kennedy in the kitchen, a series of files spread out on the table in front of her.

Kennedy looked up and asked, “How’s it going?”

Rapp shrugged, not feeling that it was his place to judge his progress or lack thereof.

“It’s going well,” Lewis said.

Kennedy could tell by the tone of Lewis’s voice that he was sincere, which got her wondering. “How is his memory?”

“Good. A lot of things are coming back.” Lewis grabbed a bottle of cabernet and started searching through drawers. He found a corkscrew in the third drawer and opened the bottle. He grabbed two glasses and held one up for Kennedy.

“Please.”

Rapp had filled a tumbler with ice and was standing in front of a bar cart in the living room, his right hand dancing over the tops of the bottles. “Would one of you please remind me what it is that I like to drink?”

A look of distress washed over Kennedy’s face, and she shared a look of concern with Lewis.

“I’m just kidding,” Rapp announced. “Vodka, occasionally scotch or whiskey, gin and tonic in the summer, margaritas when I eat at a Mexican restaurant, a little high-end tequila when I’m south of the border, and I think I got sick on Campari once.” Rapp started pouring some Grey Goose into a glass. “That was years ago, of course. I think it was Stan’s fault.”

“That’s more than I knew.” Lewis shot Kennedy a raised eyebrow.

“I do remember hearing something about you not being able to hold your liquor.”

Rapp came back to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. “I think my problem was that I was dumb enough to think I could go for drink for drink with Stan.” Rapp’s entire body convulsed at the thought. “Not a fun memory.”

“Speaking of memories,” Kennedy said as Lewis handed her a glass of wine. “Thank you. Speaking of memories, how do you feel about Switzerland?”

Rapp took a sip of vodka and said, “Switzerland . . . nice country. Could you be more specific?”

“Banking . . . bankers, actually. Do you remember doing any business with Swiss bankers over the years.”

“Of course. Herr Ohlmeyer and then his sons. This isn’t about his granddaughter, Greta, is it?” Rapp had had a relationship with the woman years ago.

“No . . . not that I know of. Is there something you’d like to tell me about Greta?”

“Not very professional,” Rapp said with a disappointing shake of the head.

“How’s that?”

“Just because I had this little knock in the head, that doesn’t mean you guys get to go on a fishing expedition through my memories.”

“It was worth a try,” Lewis said with a shrug. “I’ve never found him to be this cooperative.”

“I agree,” Kennedy said, as if Rapp wasn’t present. “Is there a chance he’ll stay like this?”

Lewis made a great show of pondering the possibility and then shook his head. “I think he’ll be the same old combative, ill-tempered man he always was.”

“His authority issues?”

“Can’t say for sure, but it stands to reason that those will reemerge as he regresses to his old ways.”

“You two are hilarious. Why don’t we ever spend any time talking about your issues?”

Kennedy and Lewis looked at each other and at the same time said, “Because we don’t have any.”

As they laughed at their own joke, Rapp looked on with a deep frown. “Bankers . . . we were talking about bankers.”

“Sorry,” Kennedy said as she took a sip of wine. “Bankers.” She set down the wineglass, grabbed a blue folder, spun it toward Rapp, and opened it to reveal a photograph of a man who looked to be in his mid-fifties. “Does this man look familiar to you?”

Rapp shook his head. “I’ve never seen him.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Could it be a blind spot? Maybe it’ll come to you later?”

“That’s not how it’s worked so far. When you show me photos or tell me something it triggers something that helps me remember. This guy,” Rapp waved his hand over the photo, “there’s nothing. No sense that I’ve ever met him or know anything about him.”

“Interesting.” Kennedy pulled the file back and flipped through a few pages. “What about these photos?” Kennedy laid out a photo of an office building and another one of a house.

“Nothing.”

“He works at a second-tier bank . . . Sparkasse Schaffhausen, located in District Five, Gewerbeschule Quarter.”

“I know where that is.” Why do I know that place? Rapp asked himself. His mind was filled with visions of a dark street and a gunfight. “I think I killed someone not far from there.”

Kennedy gave him a blank stare for a long moment and then said, “That’s correct. Two people, actually. You killed them not far from there and then fled to the Gewerbeschule Quarter.”

“I remember.” Rapp grabbed the file from Kennedy and held up the photo of the banker. “Tell me about him.”

“A Herr Obrecht. We don’t know much about him. I’ve made a few discreet calls, but our people don’t seem to run in the same circles as he does.”

“Is this the banker who claims I’m stealing money?”

“Yes.”

“And Rick as well.”

“That’s right. Director Miller showed me the affidavit. The banker claims to have met you twice and Rick on five separate occasions. Each time the man says the two of you converted cash into bearer bonds and placed them in a safety deposit box.”

“And how did this Agent Wilson come across Herr Obrecht?”

“An anonymous tip.”

“Come on.”

Kennedy nodded. “I know . . . it’s ridiculous.”

“This is bullshit.” After looking into his drink for a long moment, Rapp said, “Hypothetically, if I was going to steal money from Langley, wouldn’t I be a little better at covering my tracks? I mean, we have five accounts in Switzerland that we use to fund various operations. Right?” Rapp asked, not trusting his memory.

“That’s correct.”

“So why use some second-tier banker who I don’t know and can’t trust?”

“I’m afraid that’s a question we’re going to have to ask Herr Obrecht.”

The excitement on Rapp’s face was obvious. “Please tell me we have him.”