The Survivor (19 page)

“We’re copying this, Mitch.” Coleman’s voice over the comm.

Through his scope, Wicker had a good view of the knoll they’d abandoned. The wind was blowing gently along it, causing the tall grass to wave rhythmically. About halfway up, something caught his eye. A patch that wasn’t swaying to the same music as the rest.

“I have movement,” he said into his throat mike.

It was the reason they’d surrendered the high ground for this tactical and literal hole. Anyone planning an assault on Obrecht’s property
would want to take advantage of that knoll, but Gould’s anxiousness to put them up there had made Rapp suspicious. He’d expected a betrayal and that was exactly what he was getting.

A camo-covered arm came into view at the bottom of his scope image and then disappeared again.

“Confirmed. One man closing on our former position. I’m guessing there are more just out of sight.”

“Can you hit him?” Coleman responded.

If he had his Barrett, it would be no problem. That kind of artillery was impossible to handle in the stand, though. That left him with his M39. An excellent weapon but not exactly built for these kinds of ranges.

“Real low percentage, Scott.”

Scott Coleman glanced skyward, but couldn’t see the man in the tree above. When Wicker said low percentage, it meant “virtually impossible for the best shooters on the planet.” In the years they’d worked together, though, the diminutive SEAL had rarely missed.

“You’re my only failure, Mitch. I thought I’d forget about it as time went on but it just got worse.”

Coleman ignored Gould’s voice over the radio and activated his throat mike again. “What have you got, Bruno?”

“The guards are playing it cool, but they’ve all pulled back behind the wall. I have no targets.”

“Stan. You’re just in time to be the icing on my cake.”

Coleman confirmed McGraw’s report with the video being beamed from Dumond’s drone. There was no more time to screw around.

“Wick. Take the shot. If you can’t hit him, get close enough to put the fear of God into him.”

When those mercs made it to the top of the knoll and found no one, it wouldn’t take them long to locate his team’s tracks and descend on them. On the other hand, if they lost the element of surprise and found themselves under fire by an unseen sniper, they might retreat. Mercenaries tended to like to push things only so far. It was hard to cash checks with half your head missing.

The familiar puff of Wicker’s silenced rifle sounded and Coleman glanced pointlessly up into the tree again. “Report.”

“I think I winged him,” Wicker said, sounding genuinely surprised. “Yeah. Confirmed. I have blood on the grass. He’s still moving, though. Do you want me to try to finish him?”

“Negative. Let him bleed.”

A wounded soldier was almost always more damaging than a dead one. If the injury was serious, he might panic or start screaming in pain—two things that could quickly demoralize the most battle-hardened unit. Even if he held it together, his comrades would have to evaluate how bad he was and whether they were going to leave him or attempt a rescue.

“No new targets and the wounded man has taken cover,” Wicker said. “They’re good. No question of that.”

Coleman nodded silently. It’s exactly how his team would have reacted. Go still, evaluate the situation, and try to ID the sniper.

“If you get another reasonable target, take the shot. Hurt him bad but try not to kill him. Let’s give them something other than us to deal with.”

“Roger that.”

“Bruno?”

“Still nothing.”

Coleman returned to his pack and unstrapped the SMAW rocket launcher secured to its side. This particular unit fired a prototype thermobaric projectile that had been heavy as hell to carry but was guaranteed to make an impression. Its developer at Raytheon had actually laughed out loud when he’d been asked if it could penetrate a reinforced cinder-block wall.

Gould was still talking, but Coleman tuned him out and activated his mike again. “Mitch, Stan. If you can hear this, get ready. Things are about to get a lot less subtle.”

ISI H
EADQUARTERS

I
SLAMABAD

P
AKISTAN

S
ENATOR
Carl Ferris and his entourage all rose to their feet when Taj entered the outer office. The American politician strode toward the smaller man, enveloping his hand and smiling broadly.

“Good to see you, Ahmed. It’s been a long time.”

“Too long, sir. I’m honored that you took time out of your schedule to meet with me personally.”

“Deciding which chair Sunny Wicka’s ass is in while she drones on about our new aid package isn’t much of a priority for me.”

The program to be announced at next week’s state dinner was yet another example of the bribes that the Americans believed would keep Pakistan docile.

Not that Taj objected to the influx of Western money. He would see to it that only a tiny portion of that billion dollars ever found its way into the hands of Pakistan’s poor. The rest would be diverted to the military and the terrorist groups the Americans were so frightened by.

“Please join me in my office, Senator.”

Ferris waved at his people to stay where they were and followed the ISI director inside.

“Tea?”
Taj offered.

“I’m on a tight schedule, Ahmed.”

“Of course. I understand completely.”

Ferris had gained a visible amount of weight and was trying unsuccessfully to hide it with a creatively tailored suit. Undoubtedly it was the product of stress. The information given to the politician by Akhtar Durrani would have made for an explosive hearing—endless hours of Ferris hitting Irene Kennedy with specific dates, names, and places, while she stammered and equivocated. A bold first step toward his party’s presidential nomination.

Unfortunately, Durrani was dead and Kennedy had discovered Ferris’s relationship with the former ISI deputy director. She was keeping the information quiet for now, but the public release of evidence linking the prominent senator to Pakistani intelligence had the potential to devastate his political career.

“Let me say—” Taj started, but Ferris spoke over him.

“Kennedy told me that Durrani kidnapped her man Joe Rickman and was torturing him for information. That they’re both dead now.”

“Irene Kennedy is a professional liar.”

“And you’re not?”

“I was appointed to this position specifically
because
I’m not, sir.”

Ferris frowned, but there was no skepticism in his expression. Like everyone else, he saw Taj as weak. A pawn to be used and, if necessary, sacrificed.

“So you’re saying it’s not true?”

“That would be too simple, Senator. Kennedy mixes truth with lies to keep her enemies off balance.”

“Is that scotch?” Ferris said, pointing to a crystal service. Taj had his people bring it in specifically for this meeting.

“It is.”

Ferris poured himself a glass uninvited. “What’s
your
truth, Ahmed?”

“Durrani was little more than a thug. He was not capable of creating a plan this complex. I can assure you that it was entirely Joe Rickman’s
doing. He had become disillusioned with the CIA in a similar way that you have. He saw it as a corrupt and destructive organization that no longer answered to elected officials like yourself. Unfortunately, he was far more clumsy in his actions than you would have been.”

It was untrue to the point of being transparent. Rickman had been a brilliant strategist. He’d spent years devising a plan that had a very real chance of dismantling America’s intelligence apparatus. This partisan half-wit would be no more capable of comprehending Rickman’s complex machinations than Durrani was.

Of course, the senator didn’t see it that way and accepted the blatant flattery without a second thought. “How were they killed? Kennedy didn’t say what happened to Rickman and the reports said your man had a heart attack.”

“They were shot by one of Durrani’s men with the help of an anonymous American.”

“An American? Are you sure?”

“Yes. We have recordings of his voice. It’s impossible to prove because of the poor quality, but we believe it was Mitch Rapp.”

Ferris’s face twisted with hate and he stalked around the room for a few moments, processing what he’d heard. Finally he stopped short. “That bitch! She made me believe that Durrani had been playing me and murdered Rickman. She said she’d release the emails between us and make me out to be either a traitor or some naïve patsy. She threatened to have me arrested. Me!”

“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.