The Survivor (38 page)

“I’m clear in here,” Rapp said into his throat mike. “Get those people inside.”

“Roger that,” Coleman responded. “Can I send Wick for Marcus?”

“Yeah. Bring him here.”

A hand closed around Rapp’s ankle and he turned to see Pavel Katdsyn looking up at him. “Thank you.”

In acknowledgment of his gratitude, Rapp brought his silencer to within an inch of the Russian’s forehead. “Good people are dead because of you, you son of a bitch.”

Katdsyn tried to pull back, but Rapp followed with his weapon.

“Please!” he whimpered.

“What did he want?”

“The . . . The encryption key to some files.”

“From a law firm in Rome?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“He was letting my friends freeze to—”

Rapp hit him across the cheek with his silencer.
“Did you give it to him?”

“Yes! Yes, I gave it to him. I had no choice.”

The door opened on the ground floor and Rapp heard footsteps on the stairs. A moment later Marcus Dumond appeared. His hair was dusted with snow and he was shaking a bit, but otherwise he didn’t look much worse for the wear. Spotting the computer, he went directly for it, kneeling in front of the keyboard and ripping off his mittens.

“Katdsyn says he gave up the encryption key,” Rapp said.

“Yeah, I see it here. And there’s a thumb drive. Looks like Rickman’s files are on it.”

“How many?” Rapp said, leaning over the younger man’s shoulder.

“Two hundred and three.”

Rapp let out a long breath. The number was higher even than the worst-case scenario he and Kennedy had come up with.

“Let’s see if it works,” Dumond said.

He chose a file at random and was prompted for a password. A moment later, Rapp was reading a detailed account of a series of assassinations that had taken place in the UAE without the local government’s knowledge.
He himself had pulled the trigger on two of them and as near as he could tell all the information was accurate.

“Did he send it anywhere?”

“Sorry, Mitch. The key went out a couple of minutes ago via email.”

“Can you intercept it?”

“No way. It’s gone.”

Rapp swore under his breath. “Where?”

“A Gmail account. There’s no way to know who it belongs to. I doubt even Google does.”

There was a quiet chime from the computer and Dumond leaned into the screen. “Hold on, we’ve got a response.”

“What’s it say?”

“Key received and fully functional. Well done. Destroy everything.”

Rapp stepped back and stared out the window at the storm. Two hundred and three files. Ops, agents, informants, and God knew what else. Endless scenarios were churning through his mind, each one more catastrophic than the last.

“Do you want me to reply?” Dumond said.

“Just say ‘understood.’ ”

Dumond typed the word while Rapp went to the man on the floor and rolled him onto his back. He was breathing, but in shallow gulps that barely provided enough oxygen to keep him conscious.

“Who did you send it to?”

The Pakistani actually managed a strangled laugh. “The CIA is done,” he gasped. “We have your entire network.”

It wasn’t bravado, Rapp knew. The Rickman files would contain enough fodder for years of grandstanding hearings by the self-serving political hacks back home. They would portray the Agency as being completely out of control and, now with its network compromised, completely useless.

“Marcus. Can you get me a secure video link to Irene?”

“Yeah.”

“Do it.”

Rapp knelt next to the man on the floor. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Who did you send that email to?”

He tried to spit on Rapp but didn’t have the strength and ended up just drooling down his cheek.

“Link’s up, Mitch.”

“Irene, can you hear me?”

“Barely,” came the crackling response over the computer’s speakers. “What’s your situation?”

Rapp grabbed the man by the bulletproof vest and dragged him toward the webcam above the monitor. The pain from his damaged chest stopped his breathing again, leaving him silently opening and closing his mouth as he struggled not to asphyxiate.

“Can you see?” Rapp said. “Get a screenshot and run his face through our computers.”

Kennedy’s image was badly pixelated by the weather’s effect on the sat link but he could see her shake her head.

“I don’t have to, Mitch. That’s Kabir Gadai. Ahmed Taj’s personal assistant.”

Rapp let the man go and he collapsed to the floor next to Pavel Katdsyn.

“Do you have the encryption key?” Kennedy asked.

“Yeah, but I’m not the only one. Gadai emailed it out before I could get to him.”

There was a long pause before she responded. “Then you’re saying Taj has access to the files?”

“All two hundred and three of them.”

“That many?”

She raised her hands to her temples, rubbing them in slow circles as the image broke up.

“Marcus. Send her the files and the encryption key.”

At least now they wouldn’t have to guess. She could start damage control and try to get ahead of the ISI. Not that it was likely to do much good. A little like putting a Band-Aid on a severed limb.

“We’ve . . . We’ve won,” Gadai said weakly. “The ISI will dominate the
world intelligence community for the next half century. And it was all made possible by your work and your dollars.”

Rapp wanted nothing more than to leap into the air and land with both feet on the man’s broken sternum, but he held back.

“God rewards His servants,” Gadai continued. “And He punishes His enemies.”

Rapp stepped back and looked down at the man, finding him willing—maybe even anxious—to lock eyes.

Everyone had a weakness. For some it was intolerance to pain. Others had a faith that was less unshakable than they imagined. Gadai’s was suddenly clear: arrogance. Despite the agony speaking must have caused, he continued to gloat. To demonstrate his superiority. Deep down, he wanted to talk. He wanted the Americans around him to know how thoroughly and easily they’d been beaten.

“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself,” Rapp said. “We have access to the files now and Taj doesn’t know it. We’ll pull in the people we need to and the others we’ll watch. We’ll tie the ISI up in so many knots you won’t trust your own mothers.”

“You’re a fool,” Gadai gasped. “When I don’t come back, Taj will assume you have the information. We’ve outsmarted you at every turn and he will continue to do so.”

Rapp glanced up at Kennedy and she gave a slight nod, indicating that she’d heard. Gadai had just unwittingly confirmed that Taj was behind this.

“The CIA’s network will be destroyed and after tomorrow night, there will be nothing you can do about it,” Gadai continued. “Run. Both of you. Before your own politicians set out to destroy you.”

Rapp smiled and pressed his foot down on Gadai’s damaged chest. Not hard, but enough to silence the man. “Tomorrow night. What happens tomorrow night?”

The surprise on the Pakistani’s face was easy to read. He realized he’d said too much.

The door downstairs opened again, followed by the sound of footsteps running up the stairs. Dumond retreated against the wall as Rapp
aimed his pistol toward the landing. He lowered it when Scott Coleman appeared.

“Where do we stand?” Rapp asked.

“All the people are inside. Wick and Bruno are working on them. The easiest way out is going to be the snowcat these guys came in on. We can bring in a plane that can better handle the weather and rendezvous with it in Ukhta.”

Rapp nodded and pointed to Gadai. “Take him.”

The Pakistani couldn’t walk and he let out a gurgling cry when Coleman lifted him into a fireman’s carry. Rapp pointed to Katdsyn and Dumond took the hint, helping the man to his feet and following Coleman out.

Rapp waited until he was alone before he turned back to the image of Irene Kennedy. “Tomorrow night is President Chutani’s reception for the secretary of state, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Sunny’s already arrived in Islamabad with a congressional delegation led by Carl Ferris.”

“But why kill her? Or a bunch of congressmen? What good would that do? As far as I’m concerned, he’d be doing America a favor if he gets rid of Ferris.”

“I don’t think he’s after our people, Mitch.”

“Then what?”

She stared intently out from the screen. “If President Chutani were killed at that function, it wouldn’t be hard for Taj to convince Pakistan that we’re responsible. It’s already one of the most anti-American places on earth.”

Rapp had to admit that there was a certain twisted logic to it. Coups were the national pastime in Pakistan and the timing was perfect. Taj could run the CIA ragged with Rickman’s files while he took control of the country and its nuclear arsenal.

“So you think we should warn Chutani?” Rapp said.

Kennedy remained silent. Her expressions were always hard to read, but the poor image quality made it impossible.

“What?” Rapp said.

“In the
context of that region, Chutani is a reasonable man. But I don’t think either of us has any illusions about him. He’s a violent, power-hungry dictator who allies himself with us because it’s in his best interest. If he gets Taj, then it’s likely he also gets the files. I’m not sure I want to spend the next twenty years being blackmailed by him.”

“Agreed.”

“How fast can you get to Islamabad?”

“Figure eight or so hours to get to Ukhta and then flight time.”

“Do it. And extract as much as you can from Gadai en route. I’ll try to determine our next step from here.”

I
SLAMABAD

P
AKISTAN

I
T
was after midnight and Ahmed Taj was still hunched over his desk. Behind him, large windows looked out on the well-lit campus of ISI headquarters. The traffic beyond the gate was light as it always was this time of the morning and armed guards patrolled in the same pattern they always did. The familiarity of it was little more than an illusion, though. Everything had changed. Everything.

The goal he’d constructed his life around was less than twenty-four hours from being achieved and Taj knew he should be attending to the myriad last-minute details. It was impossible, though. He couldn’t tear himself away.

The ISI director clicked on another of Rickman’s files and scanned through its contents. This one had no taunting video attached, only reproductions of handwritten CIA reports from Ukraine. It seemed that a man high up in the Russian separatist movement had been lining his Swiss bank account with American dollars.

Only when his eyes could no longer focus did Taj finally slide his chair back and turn away from the screen. There were still well over a hundred files he hadn’t yet examined. What secrets did they contain? How devastating would their impact be?

Allah had provided so much more than his faithful servant could have imagined. Tomorrow, Saad Chutani would die. His last breath would mark Taj’s inevitable rise to rule Pakistan and eventually the Middle East. These files would not only accelerate his plans, but expand them in ways he never could have imagined.

Taj stood and began pacing across his dimly lit office. The scale of what he would accomplish was just beginning to settle its weight on him.

The brilliant Joe Rickman had been planning this attack for years. He’d put together files not only on the Middle East, but on China, Russia, and countless U.S. allies. There was damning intelligence on American politicians, descriptions of unsanctioned assassinations, and detailed accounts of unlawful domestic operations carried out by CIA operatives.

Taj would use this information to create a worldwide outcry for the dismantling of America’s spy network, and Carl Ferris would be the perfect tool to lead that effort. Taj now had much more than just money to offer the man. He had classified information on many of -Ferris’s political opponents. The combination of the two would almost certainly be enough to put him in the White House.

With Ferris leading America and Taj pulling his strings, the country would quickly go from the most powerful in the world to completely dysfunctional. A nation distrusted by its allies, blind to the activities of its enemies, and reviled by its people.

He returned to his desk and started a video from one of the file folders still open on-screen. He’d seen it before but the excitement in the pit of his stomach was even more intense upon the second playing.

Joe Rickman was wearing a cowboy hat and holding a beer bottle in one hand. He stared directly into the camera, eyes glistening and wild.

“Howdy, Irene. Thought we’d go for a change of pace on this one. I figured I’d help you out and tell you that I’m about to release proof that your buddy Ben Friedman at the Mossad is the one behind the destruction
of Iran’s nuclear research facility a few years back. And that it was Mitch who came up with the BS cover story you fed the world. Add that to the fact that Kamal Safavi’s probably spilled everything to the ayatollah by now, and I’m thinking that Alexander’s little Iranian lovefest isn’t going so well. May I suggest a fruit basket? In my experience, those always seem to smooth things over.”

The video faded to black and Taj wiped at the perspiration building on his flushed cheeks. The temptation to give the files to a team of ISI analysts was overwhelming but impossible. It was far too sensitive to allow anyone else access to. He would have to personally sift through all of the information, cross-referencing it with the ISI’s data banks and determining how it could be used to generate the maximum impact.

There was little question that Irene Kennedy and Mitch Rapp would end up in an American prison. It was a sweet irony that two patriots who had so brilliantly defended their country would die in cages fashioned by the very people they had dedicated their lives to protecting.

These were largely trivial matters, though. The Rickman files generated far grander questions that Taj was just now daring to ask. Was there enough information to provoke a military confrontation between America and Russia? Or, even more devastating, China? Could the former Soviet bloc countries be turned away from the West? Could he gain enough sway over Middle Eastern oil producers to create an oil shock that would collapse the American economy?