The Survivor (20 page)

“She's afraid of you, Senator. She understands your power and your patriotism. That you won't allow her to subvert everything America stands for.”

Despite his lifelong devotion to Allah, this was the first time Taj had been absolutely certain he was seeing God's hand at work. What other explanation could there be? His impending takeover of Pakistan, the Rickman files, the billion dollars that the Americans were about to transfer into his pocket. And now Allah had delivered this simpleton who had a very real chance at becoming the president of the United States.

Ferris swilled from his glass, nostrils flaring with anger. “What do you want to bet that even President Alexander doesn't know about this? That she and Rapp assassinated one of your top people and an American citizen with no authority at all?”

“I think it's very likely,” Taj responded calmly.

Men like Ferris—ones with delicate egos that had swelled to these proportions—became almost comically easy to manipulate. Undoubtedly, he told himself that he acted out of a love for his country's pathetic Constitution, but that was a lie. The truth was that Irene Kennedy simply hadn't bowed and scraped sufficiently before him. All this was nothing more than the personal vendetta of a feeble little man.

“I doubt she had any admissible evidence against Rickman,” Taj said. “Much more likely he knew too much about her and Rapp, and she needed to silence him. It's just the kind of thing that your committee is set up to prevent, no?”

Ferris responded by letting out a long string of expletives.

“To change the subject somewhat, Senator, what are your own lawyers saying?”

Ferris had the potential to become a very useful tool but not if he was under Kennedy's thumb. Recently implemented campaign financing rules were easily subverted and the ISI would be able to quietly funnel as much anonymous money to America's politicians as it pleased.

The cycle of corruption was delicious. Taj used American aid to buy American politicians, who then approved more aid in order to increase the amount of money the ISI had to fill their campaign coffers.

“The lawyers say I'm on solid ground,” Ferris said. “As far as they're concerned, a foreign official lodged a confidential complaint about illegal activity by the CIA and I investigated it. The fact that I didn't bring it to the attention of the Intelligence Committee is a procedural issue more than a legal one. I can play it off as being concerned that Senator Lonsdale is in Kennedy's pocket.”

“Then your problems are solved.”

Ferris looked at him like he was a slow child. “Wake up, Ahmed. It's not that simple. Winning a criminal case keeps me out of jail but
fighting it ends my career. I need an army of political consultants to start shaping my message. With the right people, I can come out of this looking like a hero. Those people aren't cheap, though.”

“But this shouldn't be difficult,” Taj said, feigning naïveté. “You
are
a hero, Senator. You're protecting your country's freedom.”

Ferris laughed. “Truth has nothing to do with American politics, Ahmed. Voters are idiots who do what they're told. I just have to make sure it's me—and not that bitch Kennedy—who's doing the telling.”

“Of course, I would be happy to contribute to your effort.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that, Ahmed. Five million ought to get us off to a good start.”

“U.S. dollars?” Taj said, eyes widening.

In fact, the amount was insignificant. Beyond the money flowing in from the U.S. government, the American people provided hundreds of millions annually by purchasing his Afghan-grown heroin.

“Like I said, people like these don't work cheap.”

Taj nodded submissively. “You're a good friend to my country and have done nothing but support our efforts to eradicate the terrorist threat. I'll have my people begin preparations immediately.”

“That's good, Ahmed. Tell them to work quick, okay? I don't trust Irene Kennedy any farther than I can throw her. We need to slap her down and we need to do it hard and fast.”

“Of course. But in the meantime, I think there's more I can do to help you. Information you might find useful.”

The man's eyebrows rose. “What kind of information?”

“What if I told you that Rickman is releasing videos damaging to the CIA?”

Ferris waved a hand dismissively. “We all saw the video of him being tortured and talking about Agency assets, Ahmed. It was on YouTube, for God's sake.”

“There have been subsequent videos that Kennedy is keeping from your government.”

“You said Rickman was dead.”

“He is. But he knew that his life was in jeopardy. He feared that
Mitch Rapp would discover that his kidnapping was fake and begin looking for him. Somehow he set up his scheme to survive him.”

“What's in these videos?” Ferris said, starting to sound interested.

“We're only aware of one so far. It resulted in Mitch Rapp killing a number of Russian agents in Istanbul. We anticipate further releases in the future.”

A broad smile spread across Ferris's face. “Can we prove it?”

“Perhaps soon. It seems like a story your new image consultants would be interested in, no? Kennedy losing control of Rickman as he flooded Afghan warlords and drug dealers with American money. Sloppy security that allowed him to learn far more than he should have. And you trying desperately to stop it while she blackmails you with lies.”

Ferris didn't seem to be listening anymore. His eyes stared blankly past Taj, undoubtedly seeing himself crushing Irene Kennedy and then rising meteorically to the Oval Office.

Taj glanced at his watch. “I know you have another commitment in half an hour, Senator, and I fear that traffic will be difficult at this time of day.”

That snapped the man out of his trance. He put down his drink and extended a liver-spotted hand. “Good talk, Ahmed. And I look forward to hearing from your people about those contributions.”

Taj nodded. “Perhaps we can find time to speak privately when you return with Secretary Wicka's delegation.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

Taj walked Ferris to his office door, standing by respectfully as the politician barked at his handlers and headed for the exit. Only when he'd disappeared down the hallway did Taj return to his desk.

It was impossible to believe that the culmination of years of planning was only a week away. The assassination of President Chutani at his banquet for the Americans would be a trivial matter. Shaping the aftermath, though, would be more delicate.

The people of Pakistan and the Middle East would have to be made to believe that the United States was responsible. The story was admittedly
clumsy. Why would the Americans kill such a steadfast ally? Like in U.S. politics, though, truth was unimportant. People believed what they wanted to believe, and the hatred of America was incredibly powerful in his country.

Following the president's death, Taj would waste no time. Using Shirani's army and his own influence with the Taliban, he would take control.

Pakistan, now a failing patchwork of competing factions, would become a monolith. And the world would tremble.

N
EAR
L
AKE
C
ONSTANCE

S
WITZERLAND

I
CAN'T
believe it was so easy,” Gould said, his gun still trained on Rapp's head. “Either you're slipping or your reputation came right out of the CIA's marketing department.”

Rapp remained completely still, eyes locked on the Glock 17. Tom Lewis's psychological profile of Gould portrayed him as a narcissistic sociopath. Once again, the shrink's insights proved correct. The Frenchman had already managed to completely suppress the past, unable to admit that he could ever have been bested. Now he was busy building himself up into the legend he believed he deserved to be.

It was a weakness that could be exploited, but even with that possibility, Rapp recognized that this was about as deadly a situation as he'd ever faced. Nutcase or no, Gould wasn't going to miss at this or any other range. The merc in Rapp's peripheral vision had a crimson puddle growing around his left foot but the blood loss and pain weren't preventing him from holding the MP5 rock steady. Finally, the man who'd shoved Hurley through the door was undoubtedly still standing right on the other side of it.

The old man looked like his head had cleared but that didn't do anything about the fact that he was well past his sell-by date. Unlike
Rapp, though, physical talent and the ability to instantly analyze tactical situations weren't what had made Stan Hurley one of the most effective killers of his generation. He operated entirely on rage, and based on the expression on his face, the decades hadn't dimmed it.

“What are you waiting for?” Gould taunted. “You think Scott's going to rescue you? That knoll's completely surrounded by Obrecht's men. If Coleman's not dead already, he will be soon.”

“Mitch, Stan. If you can hear this, get ready. Things are about to get a lot less subtle.”

Hurley's fake hearing aid had been taken, making it impossible for him to hear Coleman's warning.

“Scott might just surprise you,” Rapp said to get the old man's attention.

He made a subtle motion toward Gould with his thumb. Hurley had the better angle on the Frenchman. That left Rapp tangling with a badly injured, no-name merc while an octogenarian with a freshly replaced hip took on one of the best contractors in the world.

The thermobaric charge worked as advertised, creating an eardrum-splitting explosion and shaking the mansion violently enough to cause Gould's pistol to dip.

Rapp dove toward the mercenary, hoping to draw both men's fire. Surprise and blood loss delayed the merc's reaction, but not Gould's. His shot struck Rapp's flak jacket just above his navel, flipping him onto his side next to the Glock still lying on the carpet. Behind, Rapp could hear the muffled sound of Gould's weapon firing repeatedly. He couldn't worry about that, though. It was Hurley's problem.

The MP5 opened up, stitching holes in the floor as it arced toward him. The statue was still blocking his line of sight to the man's head so Rapp snatched up his Glock and pumped a round into the man's other foot. This time he went down, losing control of his weapon and cutting through the plaster ceiling. Still lying on his side, Rapp lined up on the underside of the fallen merc's chin and blew the top of his head off.

Rapp immediately rolled onto his back and aimed at the door. Predictably, it was thrown open by the man who had captured Hurley.
Rapp squeezed the trigger and put a round through the man's mouth, sending brain tissue, teeth, and shards of skull spraying out into the hallway.

It was only then that he could turn his attention to Hurley and Gould.

They were pressed together face-to-face. Gould's gun was shoved into Hurley's stomach and he was emptying it into the man. The back of Hurley's shirt was torn and wet with blood from numerous exit wounds. His face was buried in the side of Gould's neck but Rapp didn't understand why until his old friend finally collapsed to the floor.

Gould slapped a hand to the side of his throat but it did no good. Bright red arterial blood was flowing through his fingers and from his mouth. He swung his gun toward Rapp and pulled the trigger, unable to process the fact that it was empty. When the Frenchman finally realized that the weapon was useless, he lurched right, stumbling toward the door. He bounced off the jamb and was gone.

The sound of automatic gunfire was starting outside as Rapp crawled to where Hurley was lying on the blood-soaked carpet. His friend stared up at him and for one of the few times in his life, Rapp's emotions made it difficult to speak. “What happened to the belt buckle knife you've been bragging about for the last twenty years?”

Hurley laughed, ejecting a sizable chunk of Gould's neck from his mouth. “Got stuck. Can you believe it? I'm gonna get that old bitch who made it for me.”

Rapp stared down at the man, feeling a constriction in his chest that he told himself was the result of Gould's bullet. “I'm sorry, Stan. This was my op. My failure.”

Hurley managed to press a bloody hand against Rapp's shoulder. It might have been the first overt display of affection in their long relationship. “No. It was perfect.”

And then Stan Hurley—a man who had survived everything from the Soviets to the rise of Muslim extremism—died.

Rapp stood and slipped through the door with his Glock held out in front of him. The scent of chemical explosive was mixing with the
gunpowder haze hanging in the air, creating an environment that he'd become all too familiar with. Outside, it sounded like Obrecht's men had regrouped and were hitting Coleman's force hard. The former SEAL would just have to hang on.

The trail wasn't particularly subtle and Rapp followed it down the hallway until it turned into a bedroom on the right. He found Gould sitting on the floor propped up beneath a window. The Frenchman clawed for the empty gun next to him but didn't have the strength to pick it up. His other hand was still clamped weakly to his neck but the entire left side of his body was drenched in blood.

Rapp took aim, thinking of Anna and his unborn child as the assassin struggled to focus. A moment later, he lowered his pistol and went for the door. Even after everything Gould had done to him, this was the old man's kill.

S
COTT
Coleman was in a prone position at the bottom of a shallow impression in the dirt. The bushes were dense enough to make him invisible from the mansion but he'd cut away a few to give him a view of the chaos he'd created.

The smoke had dissipated to the point that he could see the massive hole in the wall surrounding Obrecht's property, but not enough for the cameras on Marcus Dumond's drone to provide a reliable overhead feed. Flames were licking the blackened edges of the breach, and burning cinder blocks dotted the ground almost to the tree line.