The Survivor (37 page)

“Mitch, I—”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He gave Dumond a full minute’s lead before starting out again. To his right, he could see Coleman pacing him. Wick and McGraw were out of visual range, but they would have stopped, too, in order to keep the intervals he’d stipulated.

Miraculously, the next ten minutes passed without any more problems. The wind had died down and the snow absorbed sound with startling efficiency. Beyond the hiss of his skis, the only thing audible was the occasional dull
whup
of snow dropping from overloaded tree branches.

Rapp came to an abrupt halt when the silence was broken by the faint echo of a gunshot. “Marcus, stop!” he said into his throat mike. “Crouch down on your skis and don’t move.”

There was no follow-up shot and all his men checked in safe. After staying motionless for almost a minute, it seemed clear that whoever had fired wasn’t aiming at them.

“Wick. Can you get a bearing?”

“Hard to say with the acoustics but I’m pretty sure it came from the village. It’s dead ahead less than five hundred yards.”

Rapp accelerated, stopping next to Dumond to pull him back into a standing position. “Stay. Just stand here and don’t do anything.”

“What?
Alone? Are you crazy?”

“You’ll be fine.”

“What if . . . What if something happens to you? What if you don’t come back?”

“That’s not going to happen, Marcus.”

“But what if it does?”

Patience wasn’t Rapp’s finest trait and what little he had was starting to fail him. “Then you’re probably going to die.”

He took off, staying in Wicker’s tracks and leaving a speechless Dumond to himself. Coleman was out of sight now, having headed southeast while McGraw went north. After a hard four-minute -effort, Rapp saw Wicker’s track disappear into a dense stand of snow-encapsulated trees. He released his bindings and covered his skis before half-crawling, half-swimming into a depression beneath trees.

He found Wicker lying partially buried with an eye to his rifle scope. The long silencer on the end of his barrel was covered in a silicone sleeve to prevent heat shimmer from interfering with the optics.

They were at the western edge of the village as planned. Its inhabitants—twenty-five or thirty in all—were in the middle of the street in various stages of undress. Most were on their knees being guarded by three armed men in white jumpsuits identical to the ones his team wore. The one exception was a child lying in the snow with half her head missing.

Of more immediate concern was the armed man running north, dragging along with him a man wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts. Pavel Katdsyn.

“What have we got?” Rapp whispered.

“Pakistanis,” Wicker said. “You can always tell by the mustaches.”

“Four tangos visible from our position,” Rapp said into his throat mike. “Three in the square and one running west with our potential target. Bruno, give me a sitrep.”

“I have eyes on your runners. They’re headed for the building at the end of the road and they’re going to make it before I can get an angle.
No other movement. Windows look clear but it seems unlikely that they don’t have anyone up there.”

“Scott?”

“I’m at the entrance to the village. One dead local and one armed tango. Judging by the tracks coming out of a snowcat, I make it six men total.”

That left one tango unaccounted for and it wasn’t hard to guess where he was. To his left, Rapp saw the two men disappear through a door in the building at the far edge of the village. It wouldn’t take Katdsyn long to access those files. Most likely a matter of minutes.

“Scott. Do you have a shot at the man guarding the entrance?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Take it and move into a position to cover the east-facing windows.”

“Give me a minute and a half. Two at the most.”

“Bruno. How long to get into position to cover the west-facing windows?”

“The same.”

“Do it.”

Rapp pointed to the men guarding the civilians in the street. “Can you take the two on the right, Wick?”

“No problem.”

Rapp slid the rifle off his back and lined up on the head of the man to the left. He was scanning the area for anything unusual, no longer having to pay much attention to his prisoners. The intense cold was doing his job for him. A number of the children had slipped into unconsciousness and their parents looked like they were on the verge of doing the same. Another fifteen minutes and they’d all be dead.

Coleman’s voice crackled over his earpiece. “Tango’s down and I’m in position.”

A few seconds passed before McGraw came on. “I’m ready.”

“Okay, then. On three.”

Rapp counted them off and then squeezed the rifle’s trigger. His target’s head exploded along with the head of the man next to him. Rapp
immediately dropped the rifle and vaulted the low snowbank. He made it to the street just as the third Pakistani was swinging his rifle into position. Rapp ignored the threat and sprinted up the road. A moment later the puff of Wicker’s silenced rifle sounded and he knew without looking back that there were no tangos left alive behind him.

Rapp retrieved his Glock from beneath his jacket and made it about a hundred yards before a cloud of snow and ice kicked up to his left. As anticipated, the Pakistani assault team had put a man in the upper floor of one of the buildings. Fortunately, the sniper had under-estimated Rapp’s speed and failed to lead him enough. Wicker had turned Rapp on to a pair of Dynafit ski boots that didn’t weigh much more than his running shoes. They allowed him to hold a faster pace on the hard-packed snow than many college sprinters could on a track.

The shooter wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, though.

The sound of shattering glass reached him as he continued to run along the fronts of the buildings. Coleman’s voice came over his earpiece a moment later. “Sniper’s down.”

Rapp slid on his hip, ending up behind a pillar bowing visibly under the weight of an overhang piled with snow. He crawled to the door the two men had disappeared through and found it unlocked. Before entering, he glanced back into the street. It was as if nothing had happened. The locals were still slowly freezing to death, watched over by three armed men in white jumpsuits. The only difference was that now those men were his.

Rapp would have liked to give the order to take at least the children to safety, but it was impossible. The man holding Pavel Katdsyn would be unlikely to miss something that obvious. If he looked out the -window—and he would—Rapp couldn’t afford for him to see anything but exactly what he expected to see.

G
ADAI
shoved his prisoner through the door and watched him fall to the floor. Pavel Katdsyn curled into a fetal position on the warm surface, pulling his hands to his bare chest in an attempt to warm them. His feet appeared to be completely numb, making it unlikely that he would try to escape.

“Your computers,” Gadai said, scanning the room and finding only telephone headsets set up on desks piled with paper files. “Where are they?”

“Up . . .” was all Katdsyn could get out. His teeth were chattering audibly and his shivering had become so violent that he appeared to be in the throes of convulsions.

Gadai forced the man to stand. He couldn’t walk on his own, making it necessary for the Pakistani to support much of his weight as they ascended a set of stairs. Normally, he would have made his prisoner go first as a shield. In this case, though, Gadai would have to rely on his skill and the bulletproof vest beneath his parka. Until the Russian decrypted Rickman’s files, he had to be protected at all costs.

Despite the darkness, entering the second floor with any stealth was made impossible by the whimpering man. Gadai dropped him on
the landing and slapped the light switch before stepping out with his Beretta held in front of him. The upper story was a single open space similar to the one below, but lined with computer equipment. He dragged Katdsyn to the nearest terminal and propped him in a chair.

“You’ve been decrypting and releasing a set of files sent to you by a law firm in Rome. Do you know the files I’m speaking of?”

Katdsyn managed only a weak nod and Gadai pressed his gun to the side of the man’s head. “Speak!”

“Yes!” Katdsyn said, his voice shaking with panic and cold. “I know them.”

“I want the encryption key.”

Katdsyn hesitated. “My people. You have to release them. Let them leave here and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Gadai had been through this scenario already with Maxim Durov and his patience had run out. He reached for a letter opener next to the computer but then hesitated. While it would be a pleasure to ram it into the man’s leg and start making threats, Katdsyn was already compromised by hypothermia. If he lost consciousness, it would accomplish nothing but cause further delays.

He pulled Katdsyn from his chair and forced him to the window at the far end of the room.

“Look!”

The Russian tried to turn away but Gadai shoved his face into the icy glass. The people of the village were just barely visible through the falling snow. A few were still on their knees but most had collapsed at the feet of the men keeping watch over them.

“They’re dying, Pavel. Not an hour from now. Not in ten minutes. They’re dying now. And you can stop it. Only you.”

“I—”

Gadai twisted the man’s head around and stared directly into his eyes. “I don’t care about you. I don’t care about your people. Give me what I want and you can go to them. You can get them to shelter and care for them. But do it now, Pavel. Because it may already be too late for the children.”

Katdsyn pulled away and this time Gadai allowed it. He watched the Russian stagger back to the computer and peck awkwardly at the keyboard with dead hands. It took an excruciating two minutes before the screen suddenly filled with a solid block of nonsensical characters.

“That’s it,” Katdsyn said. “That’s the encryption key.”

Gadai shoved him to the floor and sat, peeling off his jacket as the sweat broke across his forehead. He pulled a thumb drive from a pocket in his vest and inserted it into the computer’s USB slot. When he tried to open one of the Rickman files it contained, the screen prompted him for a password. He pasted Katdsyn’s key into the window and held his breath. A moment later, the individual documents appeared on the screen.

Gadai opened one, skimming a dossier relating to a CIA mole inside the Chinese defense ministry. A second file opened with similar ease and contained a detailed account of the illegal rendition of a French citizen living in Yemen.

His mouth went dry and he leaned back for a moment, staring at the screen. It was done. With the proper cunning and the unwitting help of Carl Ferris, there was no limit to the damage Taj could do to the Americans.

“I’ve given it to you!” Katdsyn said. “Have your men take my people inside.”

Gadai ignored him and opened a browser, navigating to Gmail on the village’s satellite link. He typed in the address Taj had given him and pasted the key into it. After pressing the
SEND
button, he leaned back in his chair again. Katdsyn was struggling to get to his feet, pleading in broken English, but Gadai was consumed by the words on the screen.

YOUR MESSAGE HAS BEEN SENT.

Praise be to God.

M
ITCH
, I’m getting really cold and freaked out.”

Marcus Dumond’s voice over his earpiece.

Rapp stayed in the shadows beneath the overhang, unbuckling his boots and sliding along the building’s wall until he reached the door. A gentle twist of the icy knob suggested it was open, but he didn’t immediately enter. The storm had kicked up again and the gusts were coming with a predictable rhythm. He waited a couple of cycles to solidify the timing in his mind and then used the roar to cover his entry.

“Mitch?” Dumond prompted again, the fear in his voice notching higher. “Are you still out there? Are you okay?”

Coleman responded. “Stay off the comm, Marcus. Everything’s fine. Just a few more minutes.”

Rapp crouched and swept his Glock across the room. No movement. Light was flooding down a staircase to his left and he could hear muffled voices at the top. There was no other way up, so he padded toward it in damp socks. The ancient wood looked like it was barely holding together, forcing him to test each step for sound before fully committing his weight.

He paused on the landing, listening for evidence that his approach had been noticed. Nothing.

Rapp swung around the wall and into the room with a single fluid motion. Pavel Katdsyn was trying unsuccessfully to stand, fear and pain etched deeply into his face. The Pakistani was carelessly sitting with his back to the entrance, staring intently at a computer screen in front of him.

Katdsyn spotted him and Rapp put a finger to his lips. Unfortunately, the Russian had been pushed well beyond the point where he could comprehend an instruction that subtle. He reached out with a shaking hand. “Help me!”

The seated man had made an amateur mistake by putting himself in that position, but the speed of his reaction suggested it was an aberration. He leapt to his feet, simultaneously spinning and kicking the wheeled chair backward. Rapp was forced to dodge right, but didn’t lose his line on the head of the Pakistani drawing a pistol from a holster strapped over his bulletproof vest.

Rapp’s finger tightened on the trigger but at the last moment he lowered his aim and fired three rapid shots into the man’s sternum. When he jerked backward, Rapp charged, knocking him to the floor and pinning the Beretta beneath his foot.

The man’s eyes and mouth were wide open but he wasn’t making a sound. The rounds Rapp was using hit like a Mack truck. His sternum would be broken, most likely along with a few ribs. Painful as hell, but probably not fatal. On the off chance he was unable to get in a breath and suffocated, at least his face was intact for an ID.

Rapp reached down and relieved him of his weapon, noting the burning hatred in his expression before rolling him over and looping a set of flex cuffs over his wrists.