The Survivor (21 page)

“Come down and regroup around me,” he said, after killing the connection to Rapp again. “One way or another, we’re going to have to move fast.”

N
EAR
G
EORGETOWN

W
ASHINGTON,
D.C.

U.S.A.

I
RENE
Kennedy adjusted the lamp for the third time. Finally she was forced to admit that her inability to read the classified documents lying on her desk had nothing to do with a lack of illumination. Her normally unshakable ability to concentrate had simply failed her.

She took off her glasses and looked around the windowless office tucked away at the back of her home. Not that there was much to see. She’d left the overhead lights off, as was her custom.

The semidarkness was usually accompanied by a sense of security. Not that day, though. If anything, it magnified the anxiety and regret building in her. Joe Rickman’s files were still out there and it was her failure. She should have seen it coming. Rickman had always been unstable, but he’d also been brilliant. He could do things that no one else could and she had become reliant on—perhaps even blinded by—his talents.

There were no easy problems for the person running the Central Intelligence Agency. Those were dealt with well before they reached her office. Her world was an endless knife-edge balancing act. There were no wins, only scenarios where the rewards slightly outweighed the risks. In the current situation, her careful evaluation of the circumstances
had led her to the wrong strategy. Or, as Mitch would undoubtedly simplify it, she’d guessed wrong.

The secure phone next to her began to ring and she reached for it reluctantly. Another drawback to her job was that people rarely called her at home with good news.

“Yes.”

“They’ve blown the fence,” Marcus Dumond said. “The smoke’s blinding my drone.”

“Thank you.”

She hung up and felt the knot in her stomach tighten. The Obrecht operation had been authorized entirely on her own authority. Neither the Swiss government nor President Alexander knew anything about it. There hadn’t been time for debate, and “no” wasn’t an option. It would be easier to offer her resignation than ask permission.

Kennedy reached for the phone again but then withdrew her hand. She had a direct line to Scott Coleman, but it existed only for emergencies. She’d laid out the rules of engagement for this rendition and Coleman would follow her orders to the letter. Rapp and Hurley, on the other hand, would do whatever they wanted. There was no action she could take and no update that would matter at this point. The die had been cast.

Instead of the phone, she used her laptop to check her email account. Automatic notifications had been set up in case she received another communication from Rickman, so she knew she wouldn’t find anything. Still, it offered some small comfort to see the empty inbox.

It was just a matter of time, though. Rickman wouldn’t let something as trivial as death stop him. He was far too smart and obsessive for that. No, if he’d embarked on a plan this grand, he would have made it foolproof. Unstoppable.

Would she be the director who presided over the disintegration of America’s intelligence capability? Was she responsible for recruiting and training the man who would tear down her country’s defenses just when the world was at its most dangerous and unpredictable?

Afghanistan was in the process of returning into what Americans considered medieval chaos but the Afghans thought of as normalcy. Various terrorist groups would use the lawlessness and lack of cohesion as cover, but the Afghans themselves posed less of a threat than most people suspected. They didn’t much like outsiders and with a little prompting could be used to combat the terrorist groups wanting to use their country as a base.

Iraq was a far more dangerous situation, and one of the keys to the current instability in the Middle East. The truth was that little could be done to remedy the situation militarily and arming moderates in the region was a strategy almost certain to backfire. People who felt moderately about things tended not to fight with the same intensity as fanatics. More often than not, they handed over their American-provided weapons and ran. Or worse, they reacted to the brutality they saw by becoming fanatics in their own right. Sadly, the best answer was for her to insert a brutal pro-American dictator. With a little luck, that would create an environment in which the rest of the region could be stabilized.

Less visceral but perhaps more dangerous were the former and future world powers. Russia was trying to restart the Cold War in order to gain the respect it craved but was incapable of earning with its anemic economy and corrupt institutions. China was trying to take possession of every piece of territory it had ever laid claim to in a cynical effort to distract its people from slowing GDP growth and an environmental disaster that was beginning to bite.

And then there was Pakistan.

As it stood, the ISI was so compartmentalized that one division could be tracking down a particular terrorist cell while another division supported it. Infighting was the norm, with people actively hamstringing operations in order to discredit their rivals and advance their own careers. The director tended to set broad goals, but the real power lay with the deputies who protected their fiefdoms like a pack of wild dogs.

This, among other things, had made the ISI’s antiterrorist efforts
sporadic and often counterproductive. Problematic? Yes. Destructive to the region? Absolutely. A clear and present danger to the United States? Likely not.

The problem was that the ISI she had set up the CIA to handle was transforming at a pace she would have never thought possible. Nadeem Ashan, the eminently reasonable deputy general for analysis and foreign relations, was under house arrest. Akhtar Durrani, the violent but dull-witted head of the external wing, was dead. And Ahmed Taj had replaced both with men her analysts were unfamiliar with. The S Wing was evolving, too. At first, the CIA had seen the shrinking of the ISI’s clandestine division as a good sign. Now, though, it was clear that it was just shedding its weaker agents and stepping farther into the shadows.

She pulled up a photo of Ahmed Taj on her laptop, studying his dull, downturned eyes for a long time. He’d been chosen by Saad Chutani for his competence in logistics, moderate views, and lack of ambition. Beyond that, the CIA had uncovered little about the man. He’d grown up in a poor area of the country where written records were sparse and life expectancy was low enough that human intel about his childhood was little more than thirdhand innuendo. His father had been a pious and talented businessman who had provided Taj a life somewhat more privileged than those around him as well as a university education in America.

What hard data they possessed pointed to mediocrity in all areas of Taj’s life: his grades, his extracurricular activities, his military rec-ord. Ironically, it was this that had worried the CIA’s Pakistan experts most. Many had predicted the ISI fracturing even further with such a weak hand at the helm. And yet the opposite seemed to be true. Under the command of Taj and the ostensibly weak men he had recruited, the ISI seemed to be gaining the discipline it had always lacked.

She glanced at the report she’d been reading and closed the folder. It was yet another analysis of Taj’s ISI. More pages of the bizarre intellectual contortions necessary to explain Pakistan’s increasingly stable intelligence apparatus. The popular theory now was that it was being
held together by the middle managers whom, a few years earlier, the same analysts were blaming for the organization’s Wild West culture.

Everything the CIA knew about the modern ISI had been learned by viewing the organization through the lens of Taj’s weakness. And every prediction that lens produced had proved wrong. What if their most basic assumptions about the man were inaccurate? What if they were seeing only what he wanted them to see?

She picked up the phone and dialed a number for the third time that day.

“Senator Ferris’s office.”

“Is he in? This is Irene Kennedy.”

“I’m sorry, Director Kennedy, he’s not available. I’ve given him your messages but he just returned from Pakistan and his schedule’s full. Do you want me to tell him you called again?”

“No. It’s not important,” she said, disconnecting the call.

Her sources said that Ferris and Taj had met privately during his fact-finding mission in Islamabad. She was very interested in what the two men discussed.

In the end, though, the influential senator’s refusal to return her calls was more instructive than any of the half-truths he’d tell about his meeting. She had always known that her threats against him were only a temporary fix. Like many of his colleagues, Ferris would gladly destroy the CIA, the country, and perhaps even himself before he would allow anyone to get in the way of his ambition.

He had already hired a battery of Ivy League lawyers with PAC money that was impossible for even her to trace. Now he was in talks with some of the country’s top political operatives. There could be little doubt that he was looking to turn the tables on her and continue his march toward his party’s presidential nomination.

Normally this would be of great concern, but in this case Rapp was right. In the context of the Rickman Affair, this bloated, ridiculous man seemed almost comical. What concerned her more than Ferris’s growing army of attorneys and spin doctors was his relationship with
Ahmed Taj. Once again, this outwardly inconsequential Pakistani had appeared at the center of a dire situation.

A quiet knock wrenched her back into the present, and she deleted Taj’s picture from her computer screen. “Come in.”

The door swung open and she squinted at her seventeen-year-old son, backlit by the sun streaming through her house’s windows. She’d completely forgotten it was a beautiful morning.

“Why’s it so dark in here, Mom?”

“I have a bit of a headache.”

“Maybe that’s because you sit around in this closet all the time,” he said, playing the exasperated teen to hide his concern. “It’s awesome on the back deck.”

“You make a good point. Maybe I’ll try that.”

Tommy didn’t respond but also didn’t move from the door frame. He obviously had something to say and Kennedy stared silently at him for a few seconds, before admonishing herself. It was a tactic she used to draw information out of her opponents. This was her child.

“What’s on your mind, son?”

He looked at his shoes. “Is Mitch going to be at the game to-morrow?”

After their divorce, Tommy’s father had moved away and completely lost interest in his boy. Rapp had done a lot to fill that void over the years, taking Tommy to ball games, remembering every birthday, and teaching him the fine art of lacrosse.

“I don’t know. He’s out of town.”

“Where?”

“Surfing, I think.”

Tommy laughed and answered her obvious lie with a quote from
Apocalypse Now.
“Charlie don’t surf.”

He was an extraordinarily intelligent and insightful boy. Straight A’s with no effort, nearly a perfect score on his SATs, and every college from Harvard to MIT actively recruiting him. He was also extremely inquisitive, which wasn’t always a good thing. He’d made it his business to become an encyclopedia of the CIA, with a particular interest
in every bad decision, screwup, and unintended consequence in its long history. As forms of rebellion went, she supposed it was better than alcohol or drugs.

“So you think he might miss it?” Tommy said, sounding a little hopeful. “That he might not be back in time?”

“You seem relieved.”

Another brief examination of his shoes. “The guy’s, like, a lacrosse genius. Some people still think he’s the best player ever. Did you know he can remember where everyone on the field was at any point in a game? It’s like you guys installed a computer chip in his brain.” He paused. “You didn’t, did you?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“So, he’s basically Wayne Gretzky. And I’m just okay.”

His assessment was entirely accurate. In fact, the only reason he was even okay was that Rapp had been working with him since he was six. Kennedy admired people who could realistically assess their weaknesses and normally would wonder aloud about the best way for them to minimize the effect of those weaknesses. This wasn’t one of her -operatives, though.

“You’re too hard on yourself, Tommy. Mitch says you’re doing -really well.”

“Give me a break, Mom. He thinks I’m slow, inaccurate, and too passive.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because he told me I’m slow, inaccurate, and too passive.”

She made a mental note to talk to Rapp about that. “He just wants you to be the best you can be.”

“I know, Mom. But it’s a little . . .” His voice trailed off and she smiled sympathetically. What could the kid do? He’d inherited his parents’ four left feet.

“Is it fun?”

“Sure. The guys are great. And we have cheerleaders now.”

“Then go out there and have a good time, Tommy. Don’t worry about impressing Mitch. Worry about impressing those cheerleaders.”

N
EAR
L
AKE
C
ONSTANCE

S
WITZERLAND

R
APP
swung his Glock right, tracking motion at the end of the hallway. He lined his sights up on the head of the maid he’d seen earlier and watched her disappear back through the doorway with a strangled scream.

He continued moving along the hazy corridor, clearing rooms as he went. According to Coleman, at least one tango was in the attic with a sniper rifle. Another would be operating the Gatling gun, but there was no way to know if he was doing it directly or remotely. Rapp guessed the latter. When he’d started in this business, setting something like that up would have cost millions of dollars and required an army of engineers. Now it could be done by a couple of teenagers with an iPhone.

As he passed, Rapp closed the door to the room the maid was hiding in. Judging from her expression, she could be trusted to stay put until this was over. Hopefully, Obrecht’s other civilian employees were similarly holed up.