The Survivor (8 page)

He’d been watching Rickman long enough to know that the man was aware of the possibility of his own assassination and had made provisions to protect the information he’d so carefully compiled. That witch Kennedy was undoubtedly devoting her organization’s entire capability to locating it but she was at a significant disadvantage. The CIA was just starting its search while Taj’s men were nearing the completion of theirs.

CIA H
EADQUARTERS

L
ANGLEY,
V
IRGINIA

U.S.A.

T
HE
intercom on Irene Kennedy’s desk buzzed and she picked up immediately.

“Dr. Kennedy, Senator Ferris just arrived.”

“Thank you. Tell him I’ll be just a moment.”

She pulled up the security feed of her outer office and examined the man walking awkwardly toward a wing-backed chair. The notoriously tardy politician was right on time, and the large taxpayer-funded entourage he normally traveled with was conspicuously absent.

Carl Ferris had been consolidating his power in the Senate since she was in college, finally rising to the chairmanship of the Judiciary Committee. Surrounded exclusively with yes men and lobbyists, his ego had expanded to proportions unusual even by congressional standards. It gave him a gift for pontificating convincingly on any subject, ingratiating him with his constituents who tended to prefer simplicity and certainty to the more nuanced arguments of experts. The intelligence and military communities, though, saw him for what he was: an ignorant and ultimately dangerous blowhard.

He sat staring straight ahead, forgoing his normal demands from her staff for everything from coffee to the removal of a spot from his tie. It
was a side of the influential senator that she had never seen, but that wasn’t entirely unexpected.

Ferris had spent the last two years building a web of disgruntled CIA, FBI, and State Department employees to help him in his quest to bring the Agency under his control. Combined with information fed to him by a contact high up in Pakistan’s ISI, he had been attempting to assemble enough damning evidence to hold public hearings designed to raise his own stature at the cost of America’s security. Those plans had come to a grinding halt when she and the FBI had wiretapped one of his little cabal’s meetings and arrested a number of his co-conspirators.

“How does he look?”

She glanced up at Mitch Rapp, who was sitting at one end of the conference table centered in her office. “Nervous. But reasonably healthy.”

His eyes narrowed. The CIA possessed information on heart problems that the increasingly overweight senator was keeping quiet in hopes that he would be his party’s next presidential nominee. She was convinced that the first thing Rapp did every morning was check his newsfeeds in hopes of finding a story about Carl Ferris dropping dead.

“I’m going to say again that I’d rather you weren’t part of this meeting, Mitch. Based on what we’ve learned about the Rickman situation, it’s time for a deescalation between us and the senator.”

“I’m staying.”

Kennedy sighed quietly. Ferris was scared, and that was something she could use. Panic, though, was a very different emotional state. It could create an environment where the politician turned desperate and unpredictable.

She reached for the intercom, resigned to the fact that nothing she could say would change Rapp’s mind. “Please send him in.”

Ferris entered a moment later, but froze when he saw Rapp. “What’s he doing here?”

“Please close the door behind you, Senator.”

“Are
you crazy? He threatened to kill me! He said he was going to sneak into my house and—”

“Senator!” Kennedy said, allowing the volume of her voice to rise slightly. “Close the door.”

He hesitated, but finally recognized that he had no choice. Kennedy indicated toward the conference table and Ferris kept a wary eye on Rapp as he took the chair farthest from him.

For her part, Kennedy remained at her desk. It would be seen by the politician as the same power play he himself used daily, but the truth was simpler. She was repulsed by the man and preferred to maintain physical distance whenever possible.

Kennedy didn’t immediately speak, letting the politician sweat for almost a minute. He had undoubtedly gone over this meeting in his head a thousand times by now, crafting an exhaustive script of the lies and spin he was so well known for.

“I’d like you to tell us about your relationship with Pakistani intelligence,” Kennedy said finally.

“I don’t have one!” he protested. “This is ridiculous.”

“Then you’re telling me the emails we found on your maid’s computer were hers? That she was corresponding with Akhtar Durrani, the deputy director of the ISI’s external wing?”

“No, of course not. But I’ve never met the man. I swear. He started a dialogue with me and made a number of accusations about illegal CIA activity.”

“And you lapped them up,” Rapp said. “Figured they’d sound great on TV.”

“Absolutely not! But there were too many allegations to ignore.” Ferris finally conjured enough courage to look directly at Rapp. “Money diverted into Swiss bank accounts, people murdered . . .”

Rapp leaned forward over the table. “You sit there on Capitol Hill and tell us to set up a coalition government in Afghanistan. You completely ignore our warnings and force us to bring in every scumbag terrorist, warlord, and drug dealer in the region. If it stays together, you’ll
take the credit. But if it blows up in everybody’s face like we’ve been telling you, you’ll act shocked and hold hearings to deflect the blame.”

“The CIA must work within the law!” Ferris almost shouted. “You answer to the government. The elected representatives of the American people.”

“My ass,” Rapp said. “You’re like a four-year-old. When you’re scared, you cling to my leg, crying and demanding that I protect you by whatever means necessary. But when I succeed, you start to feel safe again. Then you want to show everyone how brave and independent you are.”

“This is a country of laws!” Ferris exclaimed, obviously unable to come up with anything more original or to the point.

“Why didn’t you come to me with these suspicions?” Kennedy asked, hoping to regain control of the meeting. Rapp looked like he was about to explode and that wouldn’t be constructive. Not yet.

“What?” Ferris said, having trouble tracking for a moment. “Why? Because some of your people were implicated. I was concerned that you might lack objectivity.”

“I see. In that case, can I assume you discussed this with the president?”

He looked down at the table. “My inquiry hadn’t progressed to the point that it would be worth the president’s time.”

She nodded. “I see. And what do you know about Akhtar Durrani, Senator?”

“He was a respected member of the Pakistani intelligence community and has served with distinction at the ISI for—”

“So you’re not aware, for instance, that he was the man responsible for hiding Osama bin Laden from us?”

Ferris fell silent and just stared at her with a stunned expression. Obviously, the mental script he’d prepared didn’t include a response to that particular piece of information. “I . . . I don’t believe you.”

Rapp slid a file across the table with enough force that Ferris was barely quick enough to stop it from slamming into his stomach. He
opened it and paged through, hands shaking visibly. “Why have you kept this secret? Why haven’t you told—”

“Because we were going to hold it over his head, you moron,” Rapp said.

“But—”

“I have to admit that the tone of your emails isn’t particularly skeptical,” Kennedy said. “In fact, you seem to be strongly siding with Durrani. I wonder what the American people would think of your close relationship with one of al Qaeda’s strongest supporters?”

Ferris closed the folder but remained silent. For the first time in his long career, he seemed to have run out of things to say.

“It’s my understanding that you’re going to be part of an upcoming congressional fact-finding mission to Pakistan.”

“In preparation for the state dinner,” Ferris muttered.

He was referring to a reception hosted by the Pakistani president in honor of a new billion-dollar humanitarian aid package to his country. Ferris, along with Secretary of State Sunny Wicka, would be two of the American dignitaries attending.

Normally, the senator would consider this kind of preparatory trip beneath him and it seemed likely that he had been planning to use it as an opportunity to meet personally with Durrani. Now that the man was dead, Kennedy couldn’t figure out why Ferris hadn’t canceled. She’d considered ordering him not to go, but then decided she could learn more by giving him a bit of rope.

“Who are you scheduled to meet with, Senator?”

“No one in particular,” he said a little too emphatically. “I’m just following the itinerary set up by the State Department.”

Kennedy considered revealing more of what she knew about his activities, but it seemed unnecessary at this juncture. Her point had been made. Maybe including Mitch Rapp in the meeting had been beneficial after all.

“You’ve had a long and illustrious career, Senator. But continuing to escalate your vendetta against the CIA is dangerous to both the country’s security and to you personally.”

He gave a contrite nod.

“Then I can look forward to an improved relationship with your office?”

“Of course. My only concern is the safety and prosperity of America and my constituents.”

Rapp laughed out loud but she remained serene. “Then enjoy your trip to Islamabad, Senator.”

He was unaccustomed to being dismissed and just sat there with a confused expression until Rapp spoke.

“She means get the fuck out, dipshit.”

That set him into motion. He stood, took one last look at the file on the desk, and then hurried to the door. Rapp waited until it was closed to speak again.

“I looked at the official schedule for his trip. Just another excuse for a bunch of congressmen to ride around in limos and go shopping.”

“Maybe.”

“You think it’s more?”

“He’s a man used to power, Mitch. Is his ego really going to allow him to subordinate himself? To admit that he’s lost this battle?”

“If he’s smart it will.”

“But he’s not—he’s a good politician. Like you’re fond of pointing out, there’s a difference.”

“If we’re going to make a play for him, we should do it while he’s over there. It’ll be easier to cover up. We could make it look like a heart attack.” He paused and smiled in a way that made even her feel a little uncomfortable. “Or we could go for irony. Make him the victim of a phony terrorist attack.”

“I didn’t hear any of that.”

“No? Well, hear this, Irene. If you want to watch him and try to turn him into your lapdog, fine. Right now Carl Ferris is just a pathetic joke to me. But when I stop laughing, he stops breathing.”

T
HE
F
ARM

N
EAR
H
ARPERS
F
ERRY

W
EST
V
IRGINIA

U.S.A.

O
NCE
again, Mitch Rapp found himself standing in front of the cell holding Louis-Philippe Gould. And once again, Stan Hurley was watching.

“Want me to hold on to your gun?”

It was a noticeable change in his friend’s attitude. A few days ago, he’d have paid money to walk in there and execute the Frenchman. Now they needed him. Hurley perhaps more than anyone.

“Turn off the cameras, Stan.”

“Irene was pretty specific about that. She says they stay on.”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, old man.”

Hurley swore under his breath and took a seat in front of a computer terminal at the end of the corridor. He wasn’t exactly from the digital era, and it took him a few moments with the mouse to find the right application. Finally, he turned back to Rapp.

“I’ve still got the image, but it’s not recording. You need to leave him alive, Mitch. But if you can’t, do it close range and sloppy. That way we can tell Irene he went for your gun.”

Rapp reached for the door, trying to shut off his emotions as it
swung open. This wasn’t about him or his past. It was about his job and the countless people who would die if he failed to do it.

The former French Foreign Legionnaire was sitting sideways on the cell’s only cot, his back against the concrete wall. He was just a bit shorter than Rapp with longish dark hair tucked behind his ears. The bruising on his face from their last meeting had mostly faded but a line of stitches was still visible on his right cheek.

“Are you here to kill me?”

Despite being a French national, there was no hint of an accent.

“That’s up to you.”

“Are Claudia and Anna all right?”

His wife and daughter. The reason Rapp hadn’t put a bullet in the man years ago.

“What do you care?”

The calculatedly disarming smile Gould always wore faded. It seemed likely that he didn’t want to go too deeply into the subject of family—the thing he’d stolen from the armed killer standing in front of him.

“I care,” he said finally.

“When I had a gun to your head, you told me you were getting out. That you were going to be the husband and father I couldn’t be.”

“I needed the money,” he said reflexively.

“Don’t lie to me, Louis. We track your bank accounts—even the ones you thought were so well hidden in the UAE. You wanted back in the game and now you sit there and tell me you care. Did you think about what would happen if you screwed up? Did it ever occur to you that the men who hired you would go after your family? Or did you overlook that?”

He remained silent. Glaring. Inside, Rapp was daring him to get off that cot. Hurley was willing to lie but it would be so much easier if Gould really did make a move.

“Irene had to track them down in New Zealand and put them in protective custody in Greece,” Rapp continued. “If she hadn’t, your wife and daughter would be dead now.”

Gould gave a submissive nod. “Thank you.”