The Survivor (25 page)

Hurley was sitting in a chair with a drink in one hand and a cigarette frozen between the fingers of the other. Ice had collected on his eyebrows, hanging down over closed eyes. His suit jacket had been pulled closed to the degree practical but the bloodstained shirt beneath was still visible.

Nash draped a blanket over her shoulders, but she didn't acknowledge it.

“I'll give you a minute,” he said, and she heard his footsteps retreat back into the kitchen. For some reason, she could feel neither the cold nor the weight of the blanket. Other than Hurley sitting in front of her, all she could sense was the buzz of the overhead light and the hum of the refrigeration unit.

Her father had been a CIA operative and most of her youth was spent in the Middle East. She'd been no older than six when she'd first met Stan Hurley. He'd come through Baghdad for what she now knew was an extraction in Libya. When her father had been killed in Beirut, his old friend Hurley had done his best to step in. He'd called when he could, made sure she had enough money, and convinced her to pursue her PhD. It had been him who had convinced her to apply to the Agency and he had watched over her career until she became director.

Kennedy approached and put a hand on his arm. “Goodbye, Stan.”

When she finally walked out of the freezer, Nash was sitting at the kitchen table. He stood, a sincere expression of concern on his face. Despite being a former Recon Marine with more combat commendations than she could be bothered to count, there was a certain gentleness
about him. It was most visible when he was around his family but it came out at times like this, too. She and Rapp saw it as weakness despite his impeccable ops record, but now she wondered if she'd rushed to judgment. He was a difficult man to dislike and that could be a very powerful weapon in their business. Sometimes more powerful than the gun.

“Are you all right, Irene?”

She wasn't sure. Handling stress was part of the job, but even she had limits. Rickman's files were still out there, Leo Obrecht was scheduled to be buried later that week, and she was responsible for the death of her oldest friend.

Nash seemed to read her mind. “It would have destroyed him if you hadn't sent him, Irene. If you lost confidence in him. Take it from me, this is better.”

She nodded numbly. “What happened, Mike?”

“Gould. Obrecht's people were expecting them.”

“How? We had Gould. There was no way for him to communicate.”

Nash slid a newspaper across the table and tapped a want ad circled in highlighter. “This newspaper was the only information he got from the outside while we were holding him. Our guys went over it with a fine-tooth comb and found this. It basically outlines the plan. There are similar messages in periodicals and websites worldwide.”

“How did Obrecht die? Was it Mitch?”

Nash shook his head. “Looks like one of his guards.”

It was what she was afraid of. This went higher than the Swiss banker. Someone had gotten to his security team and given instructions that Obrecht was not to fall into the hands of the CIA.

It had been a mistake to send Gould. She'd underestimated his mental instability. As she had Rickman's. Now was not the time to start questioning her own judgment, but she could feel doubt creeping in. How could it not?

Again, Nash seemed to be able to hear her thoughts. “Sometimes you just have to roll the dice, Irene. Mitch agreed with you that this was our best
shot to get to Obrecht and shut down Rickman's machine. We all did.”

She leaned back in her chair and tried to work through what was happening. Obrecht would never talk but at least his death provided confirmation that someone was pulling his strings. Someone very well informed and very well funded.

Once again she came back to Pakistan and the ISI. The simple answer was that it was one of Durrani's deputies covering his tracks. But with a new operations director in place, would anyone in the S Wing have sufficient support to pull off something like this? The answer was as clear as it was terrifying: not without Ahmed Taj's blessing.

“Has there been any progress on the lawyer angle?” she asked.

There was no hard evidence that Rickman would use a law firm to release the information he possessed, but the more she considered it, the more the theory made sense. Terrorists and criminals could be useful, but reliability wasn't one of their more prominent qualities. No, if you needed something done confidentially and efficiently, a lawyer was the most straightforward solution.

“Nothing yet,” Nash said. “Marcus is working with the NSA on it. Their ability to crunch data is almost unlimited now that they have DaisyChain up and running at their Utah facility. If anything unusual happens at a law firm anywhere in the world and anyone so much as tweets about it, we'll know.”

DaisyChain was a quiet—though in this case entirely legal—system that scoured the Internet twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It cataloged every news organization website, online magazine, blog, and government site worldwide. Then it translated the pages into English and used artificial intelligence to analyze the information based on whatever search parameters were put into the system.

She'd authorized soliciting the NSA's help but wasn't particularly happy about their involvement. They had an incredible infrastructure in place for this kind of investigation, but the organization had been too much in the spotlight lately. The kind of technology they used was
just coming into its own, and they were a bit like a toddler with a new toy. If that toy was a chain saw.

“Then it's a waiting game,” she said. “We sit here until another one of Rick's videos is released and another one of our operatives is compromised or killed.”

Nash nodded. “For now, I'm afraid so.”

N
EAR
C
HANIA

G
REECE

T
HE
tiny rental car was struggling with the grade, forcing Rapp to keep one eye on the engine's temperature gauge. When it finally touched red, he parked at the edge of the empty dirt road.

There was no wind at all when he stepped out, only the heat of the Greek sun on his back and the vague scent of chemical explosive still clinging to his hair.

The yellow grass that covered the hill glowed in the light, making the deep green of scattered olive trees seem almost black. Far below, he could see the city and the ocean beyond. Many people considered it paradise and on that particular day, it was hard to argue.

He continued on foot, retrieving a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He raised a lighter to it but then noticed an unusual sound in the still air around him. His own breathing.

Rapp stopped, squinted up at the winding road and then down at the cigarette. The grade was no steeper than fifteen percent and his elevation above sea level was low enough that he could pick out individual sailboats below.

Two years ago, he'd led a thirty-mile trail-running race through the Colorado mountains, finally turning off a half mile before the finish
line in order to avoid the cameras set up to capture the winner. He wouldn't have to worry about anyone snapping his picture or asking for an interview now. Full gas, he'd be lucky to break the top five in a race like that.

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.”