The Last Man (5 page)

Wilson had been fairly certain this was how this little drama would play out, but in order to make it convincing he needed to follow his script. He blurted out the name. “Carl Ferris.”

Hargrave nearly choked. “You mean to tell me you launched an investigation based on innuendo from one of the biggest partisan hacks to ever serve in the United States Senate?”

Wilson played dumb. “I have no opinion on the man, sir. When a sitting U.S. senator asks for a private meeting I take it very seriously.”

“Good God, you fool,” Hargrave said haltingly. “I don’t believe for a second that you are that naïve.” Hargrave was on his feet pacing now—his brain struggling for a way to unwind this potential mess before it saw the light of day. Carl Ferris was a master manipulator of the media and the supposed facts they reported.

Wilson offered an additional piece of information. “He told me you had it in for him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Senator Ferris told me that you didn’t like him. He wouldn’t get into specifics, but he said it had something to do with your days on the FISA bench.”

Hargrave turned to Wilson and said, “The issue he is alluding to is sealed and not up for discussion, but I can tell you that the senator did not comport himself well.”

“I don’t want to get in the middle of a pissing match between you two. What happened is none of my business.”

“There is no pissing match.” Hargrave didn’t like the way Wilson had turned this into a personal matter. “What’s at issue here is that you have once again failed to keep me informed of what you are up to and now you are about to get on a plane with one of my Go Teams and insert yourself into an extremely delicate situation.” Hargrave grabbed the back of one of the chairs and said, “Let me ask you something. Have you bothered to think of how our friends at the CIA are going to react when you show up and start sticking your nose in the middle of this mess?”

“Personally, I could care less what those Neanderthals at Langley think.”

Hargrave had encountered this type of behavior in others before and he knew how destructive it could be. “We are on the same team,” he said flatly.

“And my job is to make sure we stay on the same team.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“In my department no one is above suspicion. My job is to stop the enemy from penetrating our national security apparatus, and the easiest way for the enemy to do that is to get one of our people to turn on us.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m implying nothing. The facts are that Joe Rickman is one of the darkest spooks this country has. He’s a walking, breathing encyclopedia of things that are so wrong it’s ridiculous. If he has been kidnapped it is our duty to offer Langley our capable assistance if for no other reason than that we need to get a handle on the breadth of the damage. We should be the coordinating agency, because God knows Langley will want to admit only a fraction of the possible damage. We need a full accounting of our exposure.”

Hargrave didn’t want to but he had to concede the point. Six months from now it might look very bad if he forced Counterespionage to sit this out. “I see where you’re coming from, but I want you to play nice.”

“I will be there to offer assistance in finding Rickman, and if along the way I see that any laws have been broken I will consult you before I move my investigation in a new direction.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Wilson smiled. There was no need to report his other concerns at this point. As Senator Ferris had already warned him, Hargrave wouldn’t believe them anyway. Wilson stood, saying, “Thank you, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get moving.”

“One more thing, Joel. I want you to check in with me every day. I need to know what you’re up to.”

“I was planning on it, sir.”

Hargrave walked Wilson to the door and watched him leave. He didn’t believe for a second that Wilson was planning on keeping him informed, and he found it even less believable that Wilson was planning on simply aiding the CIA in finding Rickman. All things considered, though, he had to let him go. Rickman was a valuable asset and the FBI needed to make sure the broader national security interests were being looked after. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else going on here. Something that Wilson was keeping from him.

Chapter 5

Jalalabad, Afghanistan

Hubbard was clearly agitated. He’d gone over to the window to watch Zahir and his men leave. Rapp ignored him and took a moment to discuss something he wanted Coleman to follow up on. Rapp was just finishing his point when Hubbard approached them.

Hubbard blinked several times and asked Rapp, “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

“I think so,” Rapp replied calmly.

“I’m not sure you do. That man is crazy.” Hubbard pointed toward the door as if Zahir was still there. “I have to work with him. What in the hell were you thinking?”

Rapp remained cool and said, “You can’t bribe a guy like that. He’ll screw you over in the end. Every time. The only way to deal with a guy like Zahir is to make him fear for his life.”

Hubbard was incredulous. “Darren is going to flip when he finds out. He’s worked nearly a year to bring Zahir back into the fold.”

At the mention of Sickles’s first name Rapp began to lose his grip. “Darren is an idiot.”

“Idiot or not, he’s my boss and the Agency’s top guy here in Afghanistan.”

“Are you done?” it was more of a warning than a question.

“No . . . I’m not done. I’m far from done. You’re going to be here for a week or two at the most and then you’ll head back to the States and I’ll have to deal with him. You don’t know shit about Zahir. He’s a ruthless son of a bitch. He’s probably going to kill me.”

“Then kill him first,” Rapp growled.

Hubbard looked at Rapp as if he’d lost his mind. “Darren’s his handler . . . I can’t kill him.”

“I’ll deal with Darren. In the meantime you need to grow a set of balls. The way you let him walk in here and talk to you. What the hell is wrong with you? You work for the damn Agency, Hub, not the State Department. Start acting like it, or find another job. Shit . . . you’ve got mercenaries, former Taliban, Northern Alliance, former coalition Special Forces . . . they’re all hanging out looking to make a buck. You could have gone to Rick, given him ten or twenty grand, and found fifteen guys that’d be willing to shoot the prick in the head when he left his house in the morning.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Really?” Rapp asked, his jaw clenched with anger. “Well, then I must be frickin’ Superman, because I’ve lost track of how many scumbags like Zahir I’ve plugged over the years. It’s not fuckin’ rocket science,” Rapp said, poking Hubbard in the chest.

“Darren would lose his mind,” Hubbard said in his own defense.

“I just told you, I’ll deal with Darren.” Rapp couldn’t wait to get his hands on the pencil-pushing prick. “Right now I need you to work every source you have. Start shaking the trees and find out what happened to Rick, and if you run into Zahir and he so much as looks at you the wrong way I want you to call me. Do you understand?”

Hubbard slowly nodded, knowing it was unwise to continue to push the point with Rapp. “Yeah, I’ll get on it.”

“Good, and remember we need to move fast.” Rapp heard his name called from upstairs. He looked at the staircase and then back at Hubbard. He slapped the taller man on the shoulder and said, “Remember who we are, Hub. Don’t take any crap . . . especially for the next forty-eight hours. If we don’t get Rick back, Zahir is going to be the least of our problems.”

Hubbard moved toward the door. Coleman stood at Rapp’s side, his .45 caliber H&K hanging loosely at his side. When the junior operative was gone, Coleman said, “I’m not sure he’s cut out for this job.”

Rapp wasn’t sure either, but he couldn’t be mad at Hubbard. “If Darren Sickles had been my boss God only knows how I would have turned out.”

Coleman kept his blue eyes focused on the door and said, “If Darren Sickles had been your boss, you would have killed him. Hell, Stan was your boss and you almost killed him and he’s one tough bastard. Sickles is a pussy.”

Rapp thought of Stan Hurley, the man who had trained him. Pound for pound, Hurley was the toughest man Rapp had ever known—one mean son of a bitch. That was more than twenty years ago, though. More recently, Hurley had begun to show his age. His mind was still sharp as hell, but he was looking frail. “They don’t make ’em like Stan anymore.”

Coleman cracked a smile. “They sure don’t, but you’re not too far off.”

Rapp feigned insult. “Are you trying to say I’m some crotchety, set-in-his-ways old man who drinks and smokes too much and still chases women like I’m in my twenties?”

“You’re more like him than you’ll ever admit. If he was here the two of you would have gotten in a fight over who got to stick a gun in that terrorist’s face.”

Rapp laughed. “Yeah, and he would have won and then he would have flown up to Kabul and done the same thing to Sickles.”

“Well, the day’s far from over. I’d say there’s a better than fifty-fifty chance you and Sickles will have it out.”

Rapp cursed under his breath. One more thing to deal with, he thought to himself. He heard his name called again and walked to the bottom of the stairs, stepping around the dead bodyguards. He looked up the flight of stairs and said, “What’s up?”

A brunette poked her head around the corner and said, “I think you should come up here. There’s something you need to see.”

Rapp started up the stairs, keeping his feet near the wall so as to not step in the trail of smeared blood. Sydney Hayek was the newest member of Rapp’s team, and it had been Kennedy’s idea to have Hayek fill a vacant spot. Rapp had been less than enthused for several reasons. The first was pretty straightforward—his line of work didn’t lend itself toward trusting people. The room for error was thin and the stakes were so high that Rapp preferred running an op with an understaffed team over risking a new recruit who might get the entire team killed. The second reason for his apprehension was obvious—Hayek had come to them from the FBI.

Rapp hit the top landing and asked, “What’s up?”

Like the rest of the team, Hayek was wearing an olive drab field jacket, the pockets stuffed with the various tools of the trade. As directed by Rapp, she wore her flak jacket under her field jacket to draw less attention. She was also wearing a pair of jeans, a pair of Merrell hiking boots, and a blue Detroit Tigers baseball cap with a light and a small fiber optic camera clipped to each side of the visor. She looked at Rapp with her almond eyes and asked, “Scott told you about the safe?”

“Yeah. Any sign of forced entry?”

“No. I’m afraid it looks like it was opened by Mr. Rickman.”

Rapp frowned. “Let’s not jump to any unfounded conclusions.”

Hayek shrugged. “I never met the man, but I assume he was the only person within a couple thousand miles who had the code.”

It was more like seven thousand miles, but Rapp didn’t bother to correct her. Hayek had grown up in Detroit, the only daughter of Armenians who had emigrated from Lebanon. She was fluent in Arabic and, most important, she could walk down the streets of nearly any Middle Eastern city without anyone giving her a second glance. In response to her accusation, Rapp said, “He was the only one with the code.”

“Well, the safe was opened using the code. There was no tampering with the locking mechanism and as best I can tell it wasn’t hacked.”

“You’re sure.”

“As sure as I can be after being here less than an hour.”

Rapp tried to picture how it had gone down. “So he was forced to open the safe at gunpoint.”

“I didn’t know the man, so I can’t say.”

After working with her for seven months Rapp was starting to get a sense of how Hayek operated. It was more what she didn’t say than what she said. “You have some concerns.”

“I always have concerns.”

“Share them.”

“Some things don’t make sense.”

“Such as?”

She hesitated and then said, “Come here and I’ll show you.” They started down the hall. “Careful where you step.”

Rapp looked down and stepped around a sizable pool of blood. That was when he noticed the splatter on the wall. “What’s this?”

Hayek looked over her shoulder. “One thing at a time. I want to show you the office first.” She entered the room and walked behind the desk. There were no windows, the walls and ceiling were covered with acoustic foam, and the floor was covered with a series of rubber squares. Behind the desk, a narrow door covered in foam was open. Behind it was the open safe.

“What am I looking for?” Rapp asked.

“Nothing.” Hayek turned off the lamp on the desk and then hit the UV light on her visor. She looked down at the floor in front of the safe and then expanded the area, sweeping the light back and forth. “No blood. Not a drop.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“Come here.” She walked across the room and stepped into the hallway. She hit the light switch and extinguished the hallway lights. The UV light on her visor lit up splotches and splatters of blood. “Lots of blood out here, but none in there. Now, I don’t know Rickman, but I’ve heard he was a pretty serious man.”

“Your point?”

“I’ve been around you long enough to guess that someone would have to beat you to a bloody pulp before you’d even think of opening that safe.”

Rapp nodded.

“There’s no blood in the office.”

“The rough stuff could have started anywhere . . . down in the kitchen.”

Hayek shook her head. “And there would be blood in that office . . . even if it were just small traces, but there isn’t any.”

Hayek’s theory was slowly sinking in. “What else do you have?”

“This mess.” Hayek pointed at the blood on the wall. “Best guess is it belongs to one of the bodyguards downstairs.”

“The one missing half his face?”

“Yeah.” Hayek edged closer to the wall. She pointed at a gooey chunk. “I have samples of everything and I’ll be able to test them for verification when we get back stateside, but I’m 99 percent sure this is brain matter with a little bit of bone and blood. Consistent with the gunshot wound received by John Doe number four downstairs.”