The Survivor (25 page)

Rapp looked out over the ocean, his thoughts turning again to Stan Hurley. In many ways, he’d been a great man. Brave, loyal, patriotic. One of the only people Rapp had ever met who he never even considered worrying about. There was nothing the world could throw at Stan that could knock him off target.

Having said that, it would be a mistake to romanticize him. He’d left three ex-wives, and only two of his five children would take his calls. He’d lived his life at the very edge of control with little concern for himself or those around him. He was probably the best friend Rapp ever had, but also self-destructive, violent, and, as Anna had pointed out on numerous occasions, a bad influence.

Rapp’s love-hate relationship with the old man had started out more hate-hate. He could still remember saying that he’d put a gun in his mouth if he ever found himself turning into Stan Hurley.

Yet there he was, living alone in a crap apartment near D.C., smoking and drinking too much in an effort to mask the rage lurking just below the surface. And breathing audibly walking up a hill that he should have been able to do at a full sprint.

The old man was dead. Anna was dead. Gould was dead. His past felt like it had been suddenly stripped away. The question was what he was going to do about it. Would he allow himself to become even more disconnected? To lose even more of who he was? Or would he hit the reset button? At forty-four, there could be a lot of years left.

Rapp wadded up the pack and threw it into the trees before starting up the road again. Strangely, his breathing didn’t sound quite as loud. Even with Hurley’s death, the inevitable blowback from the Obrecht op, and the impending release of the next Rickman file, he felt a little lighter. Might as well enjoy the illusion while it lasted.

When the farmhouse came into view he slowed, assuming that there was at least one set of crosshairs tracking his head. The building
was constructed from stone and white stucco, with blue window frames and a cheerful red roof. It was isolated and easy to protect, but close enough to a tourist town that foreigners went unnoticed. The landscaping was mostly natural and littered with toys—everything from a pink Big Wheel to a dollhouse faded by the sun.

A man appeared on the north side of the house, walking purposefully but keeping a tree between him and his unannounced guest. His plaid shorts, T-shirt, and straw hat looked right at home in the resort area. The expected flip-flops were the only thing missing—replaced by a pair of shoes built for stability and speed. A long-sleeve shirt that hid the veins mapped across his biceps and forearms would have been preferable, but it was a minor oversight.

Hurley had found him in Afghanistan attached to the Green Berets. Rapp recalled that he was an unusually smart kid with a sense of determination that made up for unspectacular natural athletic ability. Bob something. No. Ben. Ben Carter.

“Hello?” the man called out.

His hand was nowhere near the gun he undoubtedly had holstered in the small of his back, but he looked scared. In fact, he looked terrified.

Confused, Rapp started reaching subtly for his own weapon but then stopped when he recognized the problem. Carter had become fond of the woman and child he’d been charged with protecting.

“That’s not why I’m here, Ben.”

The former soldier let out an audible breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rapp. No one called ahead to tell us you were coming.”

“Is she inside?”

“Yes, sir. With her daughter.”

Rapp went up the gravel walkway, stepping over a sandy boogie board and knocking on the door.

The woman who opened it was as beautiful as he remembered. At thirty-six, her round face was still smooth and dominated by bright, almond-shaped eyes. Her dark hair was a little longer now, and the smile was something he’d never seen. It quickly faded into the deep
sadness he recalled from last time. When he’d had a gun pressed to the side of her head.

“Are you here to kill me?” Claudia Gould said in accented English.

His reputation was well deserved, but sometimes he wished it didn’t follow him so closely.

“No.”

“You’re here to tell me something about Louis.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes closed for a moment and he could see that she was concentrating on not crying. When they opened again, she stepped aside to let him enter.

“Can I get you something?” she said, speaking on autopilot.

“No, thank you.”

She was wearing a two-piece swimsuit with a sheer sarong tied around her hips. Rapp didn’t allow his eyes to linger.

“Tell me,” she said.

The last time he’d visited her home, he’d spared her husband’s life. It had been obvious even then that it was a serious tactical error, but he didn’t regret it. It happened at a time in his life when he’d needed to regain some of his humanity.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Rapp nodded.

Claudia switched to her native French. “Did you kill him?”

“No.”

Her eyes turned misty, but still there were no tears. Maybe she understood that she was better off. Or maybe she was just tired of crying over the man.

“After what happened to your wife,” she said. “After you spared us, I thought it was enough to make him see clearly. I was stupid to believe that he’d quit. I let myself be blinded.”

“It’s not your fault, Claudia. He had everything. It just wasn’t enough.”

“Was it . . .” Her voice faltered. “Was it quick?”

“He
never knew what hit him,” Rapp lied. There was no reason to make her suffer any more than she already had.

“Bonjour!”

Rapp turned and managed a smile at the sight of a girl skidding to a stop on bare feet. She was seven now, with disheveled sun-bleached hair and a swimsuit similar to her mother’s. The sunscreen on her face hadn’t been completely rubbed in, leaving a white streak across her nose that smelled like coconuts.

“Bonjour,” Rapp said. Claudia had named the girl after his wife and he found it hard to say aloud. “You must be Anna.”

“That’s right. Who are you?”

“My name’s Mitch. I’m an old friend of your mother’s. You and I met once, too, but you were just a baby.”

“I don’t remember stuff from when I was a baby.”

“Me neither.”

“Are you coming with us to the beach? You’re not dressed.”

“I don’t think so. I just need to talk to your mom for a couple of minutes.”

“I’m going to see if Ben wants to make castles. He’s really good at it. He can even make the things that look like teeth on top of the walls.”

“Merlons.”

“What?”

“The teeth are called merlons and the gaps between them are called crenels.”

“Are you making that up? How do you know that?”

The sad truth was that it was because he was an encyclopedia with only one chapter: things that could be used for war.

“I saw a TV show on it once.”

“I’m going to ask if Ben knows that.”

Rapp watched her run out before turning back to Claudia.

“Beautiful girl.”

“I don’t deserve her.” She motioned around the house that Irene Kennedy was paying for. “Or this.”

“Everyone
makes mistakes. What matters is that we try to make up for them.”

He dug an iPhone out of his pocket and handed it to her. The display had a screenshot of a mutual fund statement. “We consolidated all of Louis’s accounts into this one. It’s all clean and the taxes have been paid. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

Her eyes widened. “There’s almost thirty million dollars here.”

Rapp nodded. “The account is under the name Claudia Dufort. We’re working with the French government to get you a new passport, a legend, and everything else you’ll need to stay off Louis’s enemies’ radar. Irene got you permanent residence in South Africa, and she used some of your money to buy you a house in the wine country. I think Anna will like it. There’s a good school close by and plenty of space for a horse or two.”

The tears finally came. She threw her arms around him and began to sob. “I’m so sorry, Mitch. I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done to you.”

CIA H
EADQUARTERS

L
ANGLEY,
V
IRGINIA

U.S.A.

I
RENE
Kennedy pushed her reading glasses onto her forehead, tying to chase the image of Stan Hurley from her mind. There would be time to mourn him later. Right now her only responsibility was to ensure that no more of her people ended up like him.

The handwritten list on the desk in front of her had been pulled almost entirely from her impeccable memory. It looked as innocuous as a guest list to one of her son’s birthday parties, but in fact it was the most sensitive catalog of names ever put to paper.

It included every significant spy or informant currently controlled by the CIA from the Middle East to China to Europe. Even South America and Australia were represented.

Three numbers accompanied each name. The first ranked the likelihood that Rickman would be aware of that individual’s existence on a scale of one to ten. The second used an inverse scale to rank each operative’s importance to America’s security. Finally, the third number was the sum of the first two.

The twenties—people who were low level and unquestionably known by Rickman—were already being prepared for extraction. Too much risk for not enough reward. The twos—critical personnel that
Rickman would likely be unaware of—would be staying where they were. The question was, how far down did she go with extractions? Fifteens? Tens? How many lives would she jeopardize in the interest of America’s intelligence efforts?

Once again, Hurley intruded on her thoughts, this time whispering in her ear.
You took this job, Princess. Suck it up and do it.

There was a knock on the door and Mike Nash poked his head in. “Bad time?”

She flipped the list facedown on her desk. “A welcome interruption. Are you bringing me good news?”

He entered but didn’t respond to her question.

“I’ll take anything at this point, Mike.”

“Coffee machine’s fixed.”

Kennedy smiled. She still wasn’t sure about Nash, but her view of the man was evolving. She’d been doing some detailed research into his background and discovered that he’d always been the charismatic charmer. Voted most popular in high school, class president in college, and the beneficiary of almost fanatical loyalty from the marines he’d led in combat.

It was a gift that few people had and one that couldn’t be taught. Kennedy had many competent people working for her, but their personalities often left a bit to be desired—mostly insufferable wonks, slick politicians, and swaggering cowboys. Then there was Mitch, who wasn’t exactly a favorite on Capitol Hill. At best, he elicited nervousness from Congress. At worst, fear and hatred.

Kennedy didn’t exempt herself from her clear-eyed evaluation. She was largely seen as an icy intellectual alone in a sea of people who made decisions based on their gut instead of their head. It was a trait that made people question whether there was anything she really believed in. The answer was that there was. She believed in getting the job done.

Nash could be a bit of a handwringer, but admittedly an extremely intelligent one. He’d performed well since Rapp had forced him out of the field and behind a desk. He was good at handling the overblown egos on
the Hill and a near prodigy at motivating people. While she and Nash were very different, who was to say that her approach was right and his was wrong? As her mentor, Thomas Stansfield, had been fond of saying, there was more than one way to skin a cat.

“Unfortunately, I’m a tea drinker. Where are we on finding the people disseminating the Rickman files?”

“Let’s just say we’re moving generally forward,” he said, sitting in one of the chairs lined up in front of her desk. “Everyone agrees with your idea that he’d go to an attorney, but the category Every Ambulance Chaser on the Planet is a pretty big one.”

“Is the NSA producing?”

“That’s the problem. Their AI’s ability to filter out the junk is less impressive than they let on. We’re getting everything from a bunch of lawyers in D.C. who won an intermural softball game to a London firm that signed on to represent J. K. Rowling in a plagiarism suit.”

“Nothing useful, then.”

“We thought we had something with a break-in at a firm in Buenos Aires, but it turned out to be a drug addict who got caught two days later pawning their laptops. We have people working around the clock sifting through all the hits. Anything that looks even vaguely interesting gets sent to me.”

“What about Marcus?”

“He’s working on the next step under the assumption that the NSA will eventually turn up something we can use. He figures that the files are being released by some kind of hacker—someone crooked enough to be willing to decrypt and send out classified material but smart enough to keep it from being traced back to him. Finding a guy like that should be right in Marcus’s wheelhouse.”

Kennedy took a sip of her tea, not sure how much to say. It was in her nature to keep secrets, but if things went as badly as she expected, Nash would need to be aware of her suspicions.

“We have even less time than you might imagine, Mike. I believe that we’re not just in a race against Rick, but that we’re competing with another organization.”

Nash nodded. “The Pakistanis.”

She was pleased that he’d come to the conclusion on his own. “Please go on.”

“It’s hard to believe that Akhtar Durrani was the only person in the S Wing who knew about Rick’s files. And if they’re aware they exist, they want them something awful. Depending on how much Rick knew, the ISI could co-opt our entire network in the Middle East. Maybe worldwide.”

“But who?” Kennedy prompted.

“One of Durrani’s men? If you work for the ISI, getting hold of the CIA’s throat wouldn’t exactly be bad for your career.”

It was a reasonable hypothesis—maybe even the right one—but she was concerned Nash was thinking too small.

“What about President Chutani?”

Nash’s expression turned thoughtful. “There’s no question that Chutani would like to take a peek at Rick’s files and hold some of them over us, but I’m not sure he has that kind of penetration into the S Wing yet.”