The Survivor (28 page)

“And the next one is scheduled for when?”

“Tomorrow.”

Taj nodded thoughtfully. It was difficult not to speculate what that dispatch contained. What damage it would do to the country that believed it had the right to rule the world.

“Unfortunately, we have no choice. You have my authorization.”

R
OME

I
TALY

T
HE
sun was up by the time Mitch Rapp’s Gulfstream landed at the private airport in Rome. It had barely rolled to a stop when a black BMW with heavily tinted windows pulled alongside. Rapp jumped out of the plane without lowering the stairs and walked briskly across the runway. Inside the car, Mike Nash leaned over the seats and threw one of the back doors open. Rapp slid inside and a moment later they were accelerating toward the highway.

“Your suit and tie are in the garment bag,” Nash said. “There’s a passport in the breast pocket with the name Mitch Kruse. The entry stamps have you arriving last night. You were on a Turkish Airlines flight out of Dulles.”

Typically thorough but, ironically, Rapp wasn’t the problem on that particular day. His operations on Italian soil had all gone relatively smoothly. Nash, on the other hand, had been betrayed during a rendition in Sicily a few years back and was now a wanted man in Italy. This little excursion must have been important if Kennedy was willing to risk sending him to Rome.

“Who are you?” Rapp asked, unzipping the garment bag.

“Michael
Blake, aka a guy who’s very anxious to finish this little errand and get out of here.”

Rapp started stripping off his clothes as they merged into traffic. The suit was his, one of a few he kept in a locker at Langley. So was the Glock 19 and the custom shoulder holster that contained it. A silencer hung from the side opposite the weapon, as did a spare magazine. Hopefully, neither would be necessary. The heat coming down on the CIA from enemies and allies alike was starting to take its toll on ops all over the globe.

“Where are we going?”

“To see an attorney. Our luck might finally be changing. We had DaisyChain searching for mentions of law firms—”

“You got the NSA involved?”

Rapp didn’t trust those tech freaks. He spent more time worrying about them monitoring his communications than he did about foreign intelligence agencies.

“No choice, Mitch. We just don’t have that kind of computer firepower.”

London had already put him in a dark mood, and the involvement of Fort Meade wasn’t making it any better.

“We’ll talk about that later,” Rapp said, pulling the partially buttoned dress shirt over his head. “What did they come up with?”

“More stuff than I want to remember. All complete crap until they turned up an obituary from an Italian newspaper. A woman named Isabella Accorso was killed in a car accident along with her daughter.”

“How is this interesting to me?”

“Well, first, she worked at a large law firm managing trusts and payments to clients. She’s the person who’d administer the kind of scenario we think Rick set up. We figure he’d check in with someone like her on a given schedule, and if he didn’t, she’d start sending the files he gave her.”

“That’s it?” Rapp said.

“No. The crash was a head-on with a truck that crossed into her lane. The driver was an undocumented Pakistani immigrant.”

“Thin.”

“It
gets better. Irene strong-armed the Italians into giving us the rec-ords from the law firm’s Internet service provider. We found heavily encrypted files going out the day before the Rickman stuff hit the streets.”

“Is he alive?”

“Who?”

“The Pakistani driver.”

“Yeah.”

“Can we get to him?”

“Well, he’s in an unguarded hospital room if that’s what you mean.”

“I take it that’s not as good as it sounds.”

“He apparently wasn’t wearing a seat belt and the part of his brain you’d want to communicate with is still on the inside of the windshield. So we’re on our way to talk to the managing partner of Accorso’s firm.”

Rapp finished dressing and did the best he could to smooth his unruly hair. The reflection in the side window suggested that despite the month’s salary he’d spent on the suit, it didn’t have the power to make him look respectable. His grooming was aimed more at being able to walk around Kabul unnoticed than blending into American boardrooms.

He sat back and watched the ancient buildings pass by. Italy had always felt like a second home to him. He’d spent many happy—if infuriating—months living there with a fashion designer who had a way with ice picks. Probably not the right woman for him, but also not entirely the wrong one. She understood and accepted the life he’d chosen, neither judging him nor worrying every time he didn’t make it home for dinner. On the other hand, he’d never been able to sleep well lying next to her. There was no question that there was a price at which she’d turn that ice pick on him. A high price, to be sure, but he’d still found himself habitually searching the bed for hidden weapons while they were having sex.

He’d resigned himself to the fact that another Anna Reilly would never come along. Trying to find a replica of her would only make him and the poor woman he ended up with miserable.

Anna had been everything to him, but as time went on he could start to see the flaws in their relationship. She’d come to terms with what he did but had never become comfortable with it. He could see now that the dissonance had been slowly driving her insane. Anna believed strongly that people were fundamentally good and that violence inevitably led to disaster. He’d developed a somewhat different philosophy.

It was time to change his life before it was too late. Shaking off the habits he’d picked up from Hurley was a good start, but there was going to be a lot more to it than that. Selling the burned husk of his and Anna’s home would have to finally happen. And getting out of the dank apartment he’d landed in wouldn’t hurt, either. Most of all, though, he needed to figure out how he could be in a relationship that didn’t end with an ice pick in the ear or his partner having a nervous breakdown.

For now, though, he had to shove all that into a dark corner of his mind. If he didn’t stop Rickman, his elaborate plans for self-improvement wouldn’t be necessary. More than likely, he’d end up the subject of a very public witch hunt led by the politicians who had spent the last two decades demanding his protection.

Rapp didn’t realize he’d dozed off until the BMW glided to a stop in front of a building with a series of flags hanging over the entrance. He stepped out, looking up at the six-story glass structure.

“Irene says I’m supposed to take the lead. We’re not dangling anyone out of windows today,” Nash said.

“They don’t open.”

Nash wasn’t sure whether that was meant as a joke and flashed a nervous smile before starting toward the lobby. Rapp dragged his feet behind. He hated lawyers and was dreading the meeting. If Kennedy really didn’t want him to do anything, why was he here? Clearly she expected results and wasn’t certain that Nash’s honey tongue was enough to get them.

There was no security beyond a friendly woman who used her broken
English to give them directions. Nash looked a little apprehensive as they rode the elevator to the top floor—an emotion the former -marine never displayed when getting shot at or blown up. He was still transitioning into his new job and wasn’t yet comfortable with his role as management. Also, the knowledge that Rapp and Kennedy were watching his every move wasn’t doing much to calm his nerves.

Two men were already waiting for them in a conference room -nestled in a quiet corner of the executive floor. Nash strode in with an easy smile.

“Mike Blake,” he said, shaking hands with the older of the two men. “It’s good to finally meet you, Mr. Cipriani.”

“Please, call me Marcelo,” the man said with a light accent. “May I present my attorney, Dante Necchi?”

Nash’s smile broadened while Rapp’s own expression darkened. The lawyer they’d come to see had a lawyer. Outstanding.

“Good to meet you, Dante.” He motioned behind him. “This is my colleague Mitch Kruse.”

Rapp sat in an empty chair and stared straight ahead, unwilling to shake hands with either man. He just wanted to get what they were here to get and head back to the plane. Maybe after a quick stop for a plate of carbonara. He hadn’t eaten anything for almost twelve hours.

“What is Mr. Kruse’s role in this meeting?” Necchi said, looking a bit bemused. “To intimidate us?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nash said. “He’s part of our legal team.”

Neither man seemed convinced, but they let it go. Necchi laid a cell phone on the table.

“I assume you won’t object to this meeting being recorded?”

Nash continued his valiant effort to be disarming. “Not at all. Now we have—”

“And by ‘we’ you’re referring to America’s Central Intelligence Agency.”

“I’m referring to the U.S. government in general. Now, may I continue?”

“By all means.”

“We
have reason to believe that classified information stolen from us has been given to your firm.”

Both men looked a bit startled, and Nash raised his hand before that surprise could turn to indignation. “Unknown to you, of course. We are not suggesting any impropriety on your part. It would be in the form of a series of encrypted files that you would be asked to release if you aren’t contacted by your client on a given schedule.”

Rapp kept his gaze locked on the managing partner, who in turn kept his on Nash so as to avoid eye contact.

“We have many clients who have many schedules for many things,” Necchi said. “All completely legal.”

“Again, I’m aware of your firm’s sterling reputation and that you would have no way of knowing what’s in these files.”

“I assume that you’re not just here to tell us this? That you want something from my client?”

“In the past weeks your firm has been responsible for releasing information that’s compromised our national security and gotten a number of people killed. For obvious reasons, we’d like to see that stopped.”

“And how would you know what files this firm has released?”

“I don’t think that’s important right now.”

“Does this have anything to do with the Internet video of your Joe Rickman being tortured?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant to our discussion, either.”

“I, however, believe it is. And I find it odd that a group of jihadists would use a law firm to administer a series of schedules and triggers. Why wouldn’t they just release the information into the public domain?”

“Hard to say.”

“Do you understand what you’re asking, Mr. Blake? I presume your legal counsel Mr. Kruse does. You’re asking us to completely ignore our legal obligations in regard to this matter. In light of that, your equivocations are rather insulting.”

Rapp took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was willing—-actually anxious—to let
Nash handle this. But there was a limit to how long he was going to sit there and listen to this bullshit.

“If that’s the case, Dante, I apologize. I certainly didn’t intend to give offense.”

“I have to wonder . . .” Necchi said, warming up to the subject. “Since I think we all agree that jihadists hiring this firm is absurd, who might have? Is it possible that Rickman himself is responsible? Perhaps he was afraid he was being targeted by your organization and was using the threat of releasing these secrets to protect himself?”

“That’s an interesting piece of speculation, but we seem to be ranging pretty far from the subject, don’t you think?”

“Is Mr. Rickman dead?”

“I don’t know Rickman’s status.”

Necchi clearly wasn’t buying that. “The CIA may be all-powerful in the United States, Mr. Blake. But not in Italy. We have laws.”

Rapp couldn’t help laughing out loud, and everyone turned toward him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking about the scientists you put in jail for not predicting an earthquake and the fact that your former prime minister spent most of his time screwing underage hookers. But by all means tell us more about the integrity of your legal system. This meeting’s finally starting to get entertaining.”

Necchi lost his train of thought for a moment but recovered quickly. “For all we know, your organization murdered Mr. Rickman because he was trying to expose your illegal activities.”

Rapp leaned back in his chair and when he did, Cipriani fixated on the bulge in the side of his jacket.

“Is this man armed?” he said, alarmed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nash said, still trying to remain civil. “It’s just bad tailoring.”

“This meeting is over,” Necchi said, standing. “If you want to speak to us further, you can make a request through the appropriate political channels.”

“Isabella Accorso was handling the files, wasn’t she?” Nash said.

Cipriani had started to stand but at the mention of her name sank back into his seat. “Why do you say that?”

“Because she’s dead.”

“It was a traffic accident.”

Nash shook his head. “Since you’ve taken your shot at speculation, let me have a turn. Someone contacted Accorso and demanded that she give him copies of those files. She was scared, so she did it. Then, when this person got what he wanted, he had her killed. One of the reasons you’re fighting us is because you don’t want to admit that you’ve lost those files. Right now, you’ve got your tech people searching for them in your backups but they’re coming up empty.”

“That’s absurd!” Necchi said. “Isabella and her daughter died in a car accident. We are not as gullible as the American people, Mr. Blake. You can’t come in here and wave an American flag, expecting us to roll over. Using the deaths of these two women to further the CIA’s agenda is outrageous! More than that, it’s disgusting!”

Rapp had given Nash every opportunity to resolve this and he was getting nowhere. These idiots had let the Rickman files fall into the hands of one of America’s enemies, and if he had to listen to another ten seconds of their fake indignation, someone was going to get pistol-whipped.