The Survivor (34 page)

“The Secret Service is taking this very seriously,” Kennedy said. “And, as you can imagine, the Pakistanis are putting their top people on President Chutani's detail. Again, though, if you're asking for guarantees, I can't provide them.”

President Alexander glanced at his watch, hinting that the meeting was coming to a close. “I'm disappointed that we weren't able to accomplish more here today. Does anyone have any other questions?”

“About a thousand,” Ferris said. “But it seems that Dr. Kennedy can't answer any of them.”

“I'm confident that she'll be able to soon,” Barbara Lonsdale said.

Alexander stood. “Thank you all for coming. Irene, could I have another moment of your time?”

Lonsdale leaned into her as she passed. “Chin up, Irene.”

Alexander went to his desk and sat but didn't offer Kennedy a chair. “That didn't go well.”

“No, sir, it didn't.”

He spun a piece of paper on the blotter in front of him and slid it in her direction. It was immediately recognizable as the letter of resignation she'd signed on her first day as DCI.

The president could accept it anytime he chose but instead he pulled it back and put it in a drawer. Point made.

“I'm behind you, Irene. Your job is like mine. Pretty much impossible. You have thousands of people working for you and some of them aren't the most stable or cooperative in the world. It's a miracle things like this don't happen more often.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, sir.”

“Don't thank me too quickly. I'm not going to lie to you, Irene. This is bad. If I could think of a single person who could run the CIA better than you, you'd be looking for a job right now.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Then fix it, Irene. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Do it now.”

S
OUTH OF
A
NNAPOLIS

M
ARYLAND

U.S.A.

M
ITCH
Rapp eased his Dodge Charger into the trees at the side of the dead-end road. He grabbed a pizza box and a six-pack of Coke from the passenger seat but then couldn't bring himself to open the door. There was a reason he never came here. A lot of them.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there but finally he reached for the handle. Not so much because he was ready but because it was about time for Mrs. Randall to start her afternoon walk. She was a nice old lady, but the last thing he needed was a woman in a tracksuit cooing sympathetically at him.

Seven years of wind and rain had cleared out the loose ash, leaving only the blackened skeleton of what had once been his and Anna's home. The second floor was gone, as was most of one side, but there were still enough upright two-by-fours to conjure memories of what it had once been.

Rapp headed for the only intact structure—a sooty brick fireplace standing against the cloudless sky. He chose a place behind it that would obscure him from the street, then unscrewed the top of a Coke and sat. Beer—maybe a whole case—would have been more appropriate
but it was time for him to give that up until he pulled his life together.

The afternoon sun reflected off the water of Chesapeake Bay, and he squinted at the dock extending into the water. It looked like one of his neighbors had cleaned it up and taken over maintenance duties.

He used to run off the end of it in the early mornings and pound out a three-mile training swim. When he returned, he'd inevitably find Anna drinking coffee and reading through a teetering stack of newspapers. She'd feign surprise at how fast he was and then offer a less than heartfelt apology for not having started breakfast. That was usually followed by compliments about his cooking that were actually a thinly veiled effort to get him to whip up a couple of omelets.

Rapp grabbed a piece of pizza and took a bite. Before Anna died, they'd started building a new house on a secluded lot outside the Beltway. The foundations were poured and a few walls were framed, but that was all that had been done before he shut the project down.

The general contractor had been calling, offering to finish it for cost. He was a decent guy who was hit hard by Anna's death and had been having a great time figuring out how to integrate all of Rapp's security measures. Maybe it was time to return his calls.

The years had begun to run together in Rapp's mind. One crisis after another. Lost friends. Dead enemies. A lengthening list of wounds and injuries. Every day had become similar to the last. Every scenario a familiar twist on one of the horrors that preceded it.

But that might be about to change.

President Alexander was a pragmatist, which made him easier to work with than the ideologues on either side of the aisle. But he was also a politician. If he saw the CIA becoming a threat to him, he'd move to deal with that threat. It was entirely possible that Kennedy would be out by the end of the day.

If that happened, Rapp had decided that he would deal with the Rickman mess and then get out. Without her to insulate him from politics, he would have killed half of Washington by now.

That left a long and uncomfortably empty road ahead of him. What
reason would he have to get out of bed in the morning? Thanks to his brother's investment skills, Rapp had more money than he could ever spend, and his resume wasn't one you took to an employment agency.

There was no way he was going to hire himself out to one of the foreign governments that would undoubtedly come calling, and he couldn't picture himself protecting some celebrity or billionaire whom he'd just as soon shoot in the back of the head. While he didn't necessarily like what he did every day, at least it was quasi-legal and made a difference.

Going back to triathlons would be an interesting challenge, but he had to be realistic. The years and bullet holes would make it impossible for him to return to the top level. And that was less a life than it was a time killer.

The phone in his jacket began to vibrate and he pulled it out. Mike Nash. Rapp let out a long breath and picked up.

“Yeah.”

“She's out of her meeting with the president.”

“And?”

“Rumor has it that we're still gainfully employed.”

A sailboat came into view and Rapp followed it with his eyes. “I guess that's good news.”

“Might not last long.”

He and Kennedy had decided not to tell Nash about his role in their succession plans. He had enough pressure bearing down on him and they weren't sure how he'd handle more. There weren't many people better in combat, but running the Agency was different. Having someone shooting at you was, in many ways, the simplest of problems. You knew who the enemy was and you knew the issue was going to be quickly resolved in either your favor or the other guy's. Once you sat down in the DCI's chair, the shit came at you from every direction and it never stopped.

“Anything new with Rickman?”

“Maybe. A high-level asset disappeared in Venezuela.”

“No gloating?”

“No
email, no video. Rick would keep changing things up to keep us guessing. We think that's what we're seeing here.”

It seemed like a good bet. Rickman had been well connected in Venezuela through its membership in OPEC. Not that it mattered. He seemed to have had the ability to shine a light into any dark corner he wanted.

“What about Marcus's phishing emails?”

“They've been sent, but we haven't gotten any responses yet.”

“Do you think they're on to us?”

“Not likely. Marcus is monitoring the chatter and there hasn't been any mention of the emails. Hackers are a pretty secretive bunch, and for now that's working in our favor.”

“Yeah, but we're running out of time. Maybe Irene didn't get her walking papers today but she will next week. Or the week after that.”

“I understand, but there's nothing we can do but wait. This is our shot, Mitch. If it doesn't work . . .” His voice faded and Rapp understood why. They'd have to shut down virtually their entire network and walk away. In all likelihood, Congress would gut the CIA and piece out its duties to everyone from the FBI to the Park Service. All while America's enemies danced on the Agency's grave.

T
HE
W
HITE
H
OUSE

W
ASHINGTON,
D.C.

U.S.A.

C
ARL
Ferris looked at the White House through the windows of his idling limousine. Activity was limited, consisting primarily of Secret Service agents and dogs patrolling the grounds.

Dialing the satellite phone in the heightened security environment made him sweat a bit, but Ahmed Taj had assured him the encryption was unbreakable. Why doubt the man? The ISI had been playing America's intelligence agencies for fools for more than a decade.

Predictably, Taj picked up on the first ring. “I trust the meeting went well?”

Ferris confirmed that the barrier between him and his driver was sealed before responding. “Better than either of us expected. That icy bitch embarrassed herself more times than I can count. Rickman has her by the short hairs. I won't have to lift a finger. The great Irene Kennedy is going to get taken down by a corpse.”

“The president didn't ask for her resignation?”

“No. But he will soon. For some reason he still has confidence in her but he's not going to commit political suicide. No one has any idea what's in these files and he knows he could be one release away from a scandal that will break his administration. Plausible deniability will
only get you so far. When the American people see the CIA for what it really is—a bunch of psychotics who think they're above the law—he'll want to be as far from her as he can get.”

“I'm disappointed that she's still at Langley, but I trust your judgment,” Taj said. “With that woman and Mitch Rapp in place, we'll never be able to forge a relationship of trust and friendship between our two countries. I sincerely believe that it will be you and President Chutani who are remembered by history for laying the groundwork for peace in the region. I look forward to seeing you when you arrive with Secretary Wicka's delegation.”

The line went dead and Ferris put the phone back in his briefcase. The American people were tired of endless war and Homeland Security overreach. It was the right issue at the right time. Along with the Pakistani money quietly flowing into his campaign coffers, this was the platform he needed to take the leadership of his party and gain the presidential nomination. Once in the Oval Office, he'd pull the CIA's teeth one by one. America and Pakistan would stop their clandestine war against each other and join forces. Their fledgling partnership would allow him to do what his predecessors never could—stabilize the Middle East.

There was a tap on the glass in front of him and Ferris glanced up to see his driver motioning through the windshield at a woman walking down the White House steps.

Ferris threw open his door but didn't get out of the vehicle. “A word, Dr. Kennedy?”

She slowed, turning her dead eyes on him before managing an unconvincing smile. Of all the people Ferris had ever met, she was the one he hated the most. His uncanny ability to read people was the main reason he'd risen so meteorically through the political ranks. This woman gave away nothing. Even beneath the withering stare of the president of the United States—likely the only ally she had left—Kennedy portrayed only supernatural calm.

She indicated for her driver to wait. “Of course, Senator.”

“Perhaps we could talk inside?” he said, slipping deeper into his
limousine. She followed, closing the door behind her. Normally, he'd move in a little too close, using his superior bulk to intimidate her, but in this case it would work against him. The woman made him nervous, and her close relationship with Mitch Rapp amplified that nervousness to fear. It infuriated him that they could make him feel that way. He was likely the next leader of the free world and Rapp was nothing but an eighty-five-thousand-dollar-a-year thug.

“It seems that our fortunes have reversed,” he said.

Irene Kennedy didn't respond to the senator's statement. She'd known many men like him but very few whose pathological narcissism had reached this level. The lack of term limits allowed politicians to stay in their jobs long enough to be twisted by them, and Ferris was the current generation's best example of this. His ego had grown to the point that its tendrils had invaded every part of his mind. He'd come to believe that
he
was America. That what was good for him was good for the country. That the expansion of his own influence was critical to its survival.

Ferris could rationalize anything based on his all-encompassing belief that he—and no one else—must be in charge of every aspect of American life. The idea that he might be wrong or that opposing views might have some validity was so alien to him that he was sincerely baffled when anyone brought up the possibility. In his mind, there was no sacrifice that shouldn't be made in order to protect his privileged status. As long as those sacrifices were made by others.

“I've given copies of the emails between myself and Akhtar Durrani to my lawyers and new campaign consultants. The emails you threatened me with. None of them see any problem. A foreign official lodged a complaint against the CIA and I began an investigation. Now that I know you lied to me—that your man Rickman was in fact a traitor—it appears that my decision to look into the matter was well founded.”

“I assume this is going somewhere, Senator?”

He smiled. “I can call a press conference this afternoon, admit my relationship with Durrani, and then come after you with guns blazing. But since your ship's already sinking, I don't think you'll be able to take
much of that. And it sounded to me like the president's skirt is no longer available for you to hide behind.”