The Survivor (3 page)

Rapp nodded. “Tie me into Bebe.”

Coleman flipped a switch on the console in front of him and held out the microphone that had been clipped to his collar. The heavily encrypted radio signal didn't travel very far, so Rapp felt comfortable being more direct than he would be on the phone.

“Bebe. Slow down when you start to approach the square. I don't want you anywhere near this when it goes down.”

“Thanks, Mitch.” The relief in her voice was obvious even over the static. “I'll keep eyes on the subject as long as possible and let you know if anything changes.”

Rapp handed the microphone back to Coleman and went forward, slipping into the passenger seat. “All right, Joe. Let's roll.”

I
SLAMABAD

P
AKISTAN

D
R
. Irene Kennedy scrolled through an email on the tablet in her lap, skimming over the details of the Istanbul situation. Sitting Bull's life or death, once one of the CIA's top priorities, was now largely irrelevant. What mattered was that his situation was more evidence that her worst-case scenario was playing out. More and more it seemed to be the way the world worked. What could go wrong, inevitably did. Horribly, catastrophically wrong.

She shut down the tablet and set it on the seat next to her, staring straight ahead at her own hazy reflection. The limousine's bulletproof glass was heavily tinted, cutting her off from the driver and turning the sunny streets of Islamabad to a dim blur. She knew that there were two cars in front and no fewer than three behind, all filled with well-armed and well-trained men. The streets had been partially cleared for her motorcade and a Bell AH-1 Cobra attack helicopter was flying close enough overhead that the thump of the rotors vibrated the vehicle around her.

The modern state of Pakistan had been established in 1947, carved from the Muslim regions of British India. In the decades since, it had become the sixth most populous nation in the world, with more than
180 million citizens. But while India had worked to modernize and democratize, its neighbor had toiled for much of its history under the rule of dictators and religious extremists.

Now the massive country was on the verge of being a failed state. Powerful fundamentalist currents were undermining the government, countless terrorist organizations had moved in, and control of the north had been almost completely lost.

With the economy in shambles, terrorists growing increasingly violent, and paranoia about India reaching a fevered pitch, it was hard to blame the Pakistani people for seeking order and stability from any organizations willing to peddle such hollow promises.

Unfortunately, those organizations were the army and the Pakistani intelligence apparatus. Both had grown in influence to the point that it was nearly impossible for the civilian government—and indeed the United States—to keep them in check. The chaos in Pakistan was becoming an impossible situation. A looming disaster that Kennedy no longer believed could be averted.

Normally, the circumstances would cause her to push Washington toward a policy of containment. For a number of reasons, that was impossible in the case of Pakistan. Movement of American men and matériel through the territory was critical to the war on terror. The country had one of the largest and most poorly controlled armies in the world. But both those issues paled when compared to the fact that the Pakistani government possessed more than a hundred nuclear warheads.

In many ways, it was a textbook example of the unintended consequences of America's foreign policy. The United States had funneled billions of dollars into the country to fight the Soviets during their invasion of Afghanistan, but in its anticommunist fervor, it hadn't paid attention when much of that money was diverted to Pakistan's WMD program.

It was a self-destructive behavior that persisted to this day. America continued to pump money into the country that had created—and still quietly supported—the Taliban. A country that had sold nuclear
technology to Libya, Iran, and North Korea. A country that had hidden Osama bin Laden and now hosted the most dangerous terrorist organizations in the world.

The simple truth was that the increasingly dysfunctional men and women in Washington weren't interested in making the difficult choices necessary to win the war against extremism. Pakistan would continue to demand U.S. dollars under the auspices of keeping its nuclear arsenal secure, and the American politicians would continue to blindly hand it over, hoping that it would be enough to keep the lid on the pot long enough to get them through the next election cycle.

But
was
it enough? The danger posed by Pakistan's nuclear program now came from every angle: an accident that India could mistake for an attack, one of the many local terrorist organizations acquiring a warhead, or even a coup that put the entire arsenal in the hands of a fundamentalist government.

And at the center of it all was the organization headquartered behind the nondescript gate her motorcade was approaching. Pakistan's Inter-Services Intelligence, or ISI.

Her driver didn't slow as they headed for a group of men with dogs and low, mirrored carts meant to check for explosives. Instead of being alarmed by the vehicles barreling toward them, they moved back and offered a sharp salute as Kennedy passed. Undoubtedly, this would be portrayed as a courtesy—an acknowledgment that an American of her stature was above normal procedures. In actuality, it was an admission that slowing could make her vehicle vulnerable to a rocket attack.

Once inside the walls, Kennedy rolled down her window and looked out over the manicured lawns, fountains, and carefully maintained adobe buildings. It always struck her that the facility looked more like a university campus than the headquarters of one of the most dangerous and secretive intelligence agencies the world had ever known. Maybe someday one of her successors would come here to find it inhabited by young people with backpacks full of textbooks. She hoped so. But right now that idyllic world seemed a thousand years away.

Her lead cars broke off and the limousine pulled up in front of a large, modern building with a lone man standing in front of it. He hurried to open her door, nodding respectfully as she stepped out.

“Dr. Kennedy. Welcome. I'm General Taj's assistant, Kabir Gadai.” He held out a hand and she took it. His grip had a practiced feel to it, as did the warmth of his smile. According to his CIA file, Gadai was an extremely well-educated moderate Muslim who had just celebrated his thirty-fourth birthday. A top college cricket player, he'd spent five years in the military after graduation, two with the special forces. To top it off, his wife was stunning and his children earned perfect marks. An overachiever in every sense of the word.

With the exception of his still-solid physique, Gadai's military background was no longer evident. His suit looked like Brooks Brothers, his stylishly cut hair was just a bit over the ear, and his admittedly handsome face was devoid of the mustache favored by many of his colleagues.

“If you could please follow me,” he said, leading her into a massive circular lobby with a single security guard who seemed unwilling to even look in their direction. Gadai's voice echoed slightly as he spoke about the building's architecture, the founding of the ISI by a British army officer in the late 1940s, and the organization's importance to what he optimistically described as Pakistan's continued success.

Of course, he was careful to keep the history lesson non-controversial, a light entertainment for his guest as the elevator rose toward the top floor. He didn't mention that the massive expansion of the organization had been funded with dollars that were supposed to have gone to supply the mujahideen's resistance to the Soviets. Or the S Wing, a loose confederation of largely retired ISI operatives in charge of liaising with terrorist groups. And he certainly didn't touch on the fact that the power of the ISI had grown to such proportions that a former Pakistani president had once referred to it as a state within a state.

The elevator doors opened and Gadai led her through a richly appointed hallway that had been cleared for her arrival. Ahmed Taj's suite was at the far end and Gadai led her through the outer office.

“It's
been a pleasure meeting you,” he said, before opening the ISI director's door for her. “I hope to see you again soon.”

Kennedy smiled politely before stepping across the threshold. Ahmed Taj immediately rose from his desk and strode toward her with a hand outstretched.

“It's wonderful as always to see you, Irene. I thank you for making the journey. I trust it wasn't too tiring.”

“It was nice to get away from the office, Ahmed. I imagine you're one of the few people who can understand.”

“Indeed,” he said sympathetically and then motioned toward a group of couches set up in front of one of three stone fireplaces. The office was an opulent affair entirely at odds with the modern architecture of the building. At least four times the size of her own, its walls were covered in rich wood paneling. Numerous bookcases were arranged with photos and other memorabilia, but few actual volumes.

“Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Kennedy examined Taj as he poured. The man was a stark contrast to the imposing surroundings, which she knew to be the work of his predecessor. At the Pakistani president's urging, Parliament had chosen the ISI's new director not for his ruthlessness or cunning but for his spectacular mediocrity.

Taj's gift for military supply logistics, as well as his ability to navigate the egos and agendas of his superiors, had allowed him to rise to the rank of air force general. When compared to even his own young assistant, though, Taj came up wanting. His suit was of average quality, he stood barely five six, and his stomach seemed to expand a little more every time she saw him. He had never been an athlete, and his grades had been good, but far from spectacular. Most notable, though, was the fact that whereas Gadai met her eye and spoke in a clear, confident tone, Taj had a tendency to mumble and look at the floor.

At first, she had been surprised when he'd been named and thought that it was perhaps meant as a tacit apology for the Osama bin Laden fiasco. What she'd
come to learn, though, was that Taj possessed the one quality that the country's president needed. He was controllable.

Whether this was a good thing or not was, like everything related to Pakistan, a complicated matter. The ISI was heavily factioned. It wasn't unusual for one branch to be hunting a particular terrorist group while another funded it. That incohesiveness weakened the organization and benefited the civilian government, but it also contributed to the dangerous chaos Pakistan was descending into.

Mitch Rapp summed up the ISI situation as a simple question of whether organized crime or disorganized crime was preferable. In his words, would she rather deal with the mafia or a bunch of shiv-wielding junkies?

“I'm glad you agreed to come,” Taj said as he finished pouring and took a seat across from her. “I think a face-to-face meeting is better to put this matter behind us.”

“So do I.”

She picked up her cup and took a sip, making it clear that she wasn't inclined to offer more.

“In our last meeting you made a number of accusations.”

“ ‘Accusations' seems like a strong word, Ahmed. I would say ‘concerns.' ”

His dull eyes fell to the coffee table. “Concerns, then. I'm afraid they were largely justified.”

“Indeed?” she said, keeping her expression passive.

“Yes. I've been authorized to tell you everything we've been able to determine about your man Joseph Rickman.”

She didn't respond, letting the silence draw out between them until he felt compelled to start speaking again.

“He did not die in the video released on the Internet.”

She let the surprise read on her face, despite knowing that Rickman had met his end like so many before him: at the hands of Mitch Rapp. “I'm sorry, I don't understand.”

“He was, in fact, transported to Pakistan. Specifically, to Akhtar Durrani's private compound.”

“The
deputy director of your external wing? To what end?”

“His death video was a ruse to ensure that both you and I would stop looking for him. He was transported to General Durrani's home and held there to give Akhtar time to extract everything Rickman knew about the CIA's operations.”

“And you're telling me you had no knowledge of this?” Kennedy said, making it a point to allow a bit of skepticism to creep into her voice.

“None,” Taj said emphatically. “It seems likely that Durrani wanted to use this information to inflate his own power and unseat me as director.”

Of course that is how he would see it. In truth, Durrani had been a thug. Not a stupid man per se, but hardly clever enough to be behind this scheme. No, Rickman had been in charge the entire time. He would have allowed Durrani the illusion of control while he used the man and his organization to carry out his plan of gutting the CIA's worldwide operations.

“Can I assume you'll be turning Rickman over to me immediately?”

Taj's dark skin took on a pallor. “I'm sorry to inform you that he's dead.”

“As is Durrani,” Kennedy said. “The press release I read said a heart attack.”

“In fact, both appear to have been shot by Durrani's man Vazir Kassar, who gained access to his compound with an unknown accomplice. Of course, we'll turn Rickman's body over to your embassy as soon as we can make arrangements.”

Kennedy brushed her dark hair behind her ear and leaned back into the sofa. Taj's story explained his forthrightness. The operation against Durrani was highly professional and he had been unable to identify Kassar's accomplice. He would have no choice but to consider the possibility that the CIA had been involved and that she already knew about Durrani's plot. Better to confess and place the blame on a dead man than be caught in a lie that could implicate the entire ISI.