The Survivor (4 page)

“What information did Rickman provide Durrani before their deaths? Was there anything beyond what we saw in the video?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea. All the computers were missing from Durrani’s house. I assume taken by Kassar and his man. An exhaustive search of his home turned up nothing of interest. Currently we’re working on his Internet usage, bank accounts, and known associates. Rest assured that we’re doing everything possible to dissect Durrani’s plan and determine whether he passed sensitive information to any of his people. I’m not aware of any additional revelations since their deaths and my assumption is that Rickman’s knowledge was limited to your network in Afghanistan. My hope is that this incident is behind us.”

Kennedy sat quietly on the sofa. Unfortunately his hopes and her own would be dashed. Rickman’s genius and years in the clandestine services had left him with knowledge far beyond his theater of operation. And the situation with Sitting Bull suggested that at least some of that knowledge had made its way into the wrong hands.

“I appreciate your forthrightness, Ahmed.”

“We understand the seriousness of this situation and acknowledge the friendship you’ve showed our country. We are entirely to blame for this incident and can only hope you understand that both I and President Chutani are doing everything we can to mitigate the damage.”

She decided to ignore what was undoubtedly meant as an apology, instead changing the subject.

“And Qayem?”

Lieutenant General Abdul Rauf Qayem had ordered an attack on Mitch Rapp that had led to the death of one of Rapp’s men as well as twenty-one Afghan police officers.

“We’re trying to locate him, but it will be difficult. My understanding is that he believes your Mr. Rapp is hunting him and because of that, he has fled to the mountains.”

Taj’s information paralleled her own. Rapp had Commander Abdul Siraj Zahir of the Afghan police looking for the man, but Zahir reported that the general had disappeared into the hinterland and abandoned all electronic communication. Of course, Zahir was a sadistic psychopath who had changed sides in the Afghan conflict more times than anyone could count, so who could say for certain?

“My problem, Ahmed, is that the Afghan police are blaming Mitch for attacking their men without provocation. Can I assume you’ll use your network to set the record straight? The rumors and animosity are making it difficult for my people to do their jobs.”

“Of course. We’ll begin spreading that message immediately.”

She doubted that was true but, at a minimum, his failure to grant her request would be something she could use against the ISI in their future dealings.

“I’d like to make something very clear—” Kennedy started but then fell silent when the door to Taj’s office opened. When she caught a glimpse of the man in the threshold, she immediately rose to her feet.

Taj did the same, but didn’t seem to share her surprise.

“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure,” President Saad Chutani said, shaking Kennedy’s hand and then indicating toward the sofa. “Please accept my apologies for intruding.”

She lowered herself back into the cushions. “No apologies necessary, Mr. President. I’m honored.”

Chutani was a head taller than his intelligence chief and seemed to dominate the man in every way.

“I don’t have much time, but I wanted to personally reaffirm my confidence in Ahmed.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

Chutani slapped him on the back, seemingly unaware that he’d spoken. “Could you excuse us for a moment? I’d like to speak privately with Director Kennedy.”

“Of course, sir.”

They both watched Taj retreat across his own office and close the door. When he was gone, Chutani took a seat across from Kennedy and appraised her. The intensity of his stare was both impressive and unsurprising. He’d been one of the country’s top generals for years before entering politics. Somewhat unusual for Pakistan, he had become president through an election and not a coup. Since then, he’d managed to marginalize the country’s prime minister and Parliament, gathering more and more authority for his office. In many ways, he had become little more than a dictator, but as pro-American a dictator as could be reasonably hoped for in this part of the world.

Kennedy just sat quietly. Some of the most powerful people in the world had tried to stare her down, and she found it was best not to react. Politicians were creatures controlled by passion and it was most effective to quietly absorb that energy without actually giving ground.

“I’d like to extend my personal apologies to you and to ask you to relate that to President Alexander.”

“Of course, sir.”

He smiled. “I’d heard that you’re difficult to ruffle, and it seems those reports are accurate.”

“Sir?”

“I’d like an honest assessment, Director Kennedy. How badly has this hurt our relationship?”

“I know that our secretary of state is going to be visiting Islamabad soon. I think she would be a more appropriate person to ask that question.”

“But you’re here now, so I’m asking you.”

It was a position Kennedy felt uncomfortable in. She wasn’t a politician and had no desire to be one. Having said that, refusing to answer a direct question from the president of Pakistan seemed impolitic.

“First
bin Laden, now one of your people kidnaps our top operative in Afghanistan and tortures him for information,” she started, careful to state only the public story. “It’s been a difficult time for U.S.-Pakistan relations. An era that I think we’d all like to bring to a close.”

“It has indeed been difficult. But you forgot to mention your CIA agents brazenly killing our citizens. And that your embassy is shielding Pakistani citizens accused of spying by your Joe Rickman. Also, there are the constant drone attacks. None of this is easy for me. I answer to the people of Pakistan.”

“President Alexander has been clear that our drone program could be significantly scaled back if you think it’s necessary.”

The politician’s smile lost a bit of its gleam. They both knew that he was using America’s drones to destroy fundamentalists targeting his regime and not those threatening the United States. It was another nuance that she’d found Congress impervious to understanding. Insofar as scoring political points went, one dead terrorist was as good as another to them.

“You’re not a naïve woman, Director Kennedy. You understand what I’m dealing with in trying to reinvent Pakistan as a modern country. Taj is very reasonable and more intelligent than you perhaps give him credit for. But many of our enemies aren’t reasonable. Indeed, many of the men working at this very organization aren’t reasonable. Unfortunately, men like Durrani and your Mitch Rapp are valuable in their ability to understand our terrorist enemies and, if necessary, to match their brutality.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, Mitch has never betrayed me or his country.”

“Then he’s a unique man. The skills he and Durrani possess usually come with ambition. Taj didn’t watch Durrani close enough. It’s a classic mistake, really—to judge others’ rationality based on one’s own. I assure you he won’t make it again.”

“I trust then that Durrani’s replacement will be easier to work with?”

Chutani frowned. “Concessions had to be made. The new man is
not as volatile as Durrani, but he’s still very strong. He has to be able to control certain elements within the ISI. Elements that it will take time to eradicate.”

“I’m certain he was an excellent choice, and I look forward to meeting him,” Kennedy said, making sure she sounded sincere.

“Cooperation and stability, Director. That is what will be good for both our countries. Pakistan needs economic growth and education. Those are the only things that will break the influence of the radicals. People with good lives are hesitant to jeopardize them. People who have nothing, on the other hand, are often no better than wild animals.”

She nodded and took a sip of now-lukewarm tea. “I’ll be happy to deliver your message to President Alexander, sir. I know how much he values your friendship and the friendship of your people.”

I
STANBUL

T
URKEY

V
ASILY
Zhutov skirted close to the building next to him, ignoring the dim display window full of electronics. The rain was coming down harder, but instead of pulling the umbrella from his briefcase, he just walked faster.

His masters in Moscow had thought he was insane when he’d volunteered to fill an open position in Istanbul. It was technically a demotion, but he needed a break if he was going to stave off the middle-aged heart attack suffered by so many of his colleagues.

Everything in Turkey didn’t revolve around vodka and heavy food, and his new position didn’t rate a car and driver. He’d mapped out this four-kilometer path home from his office the first week he’d arrived. It wound through an area that closed down by the time he got off and was thus devoid of pedestrians who could slow his pace. In less than a month, he’d lost two kilos and cut the time it took to cover the hilly course by almost two minutes.

He turned left into a cobblestone alleyway and glanced at the numbers counting down on his digital watch. It wasn’t a record speed, but considering the weather and descending darkness, it was respectable.

More important to his health than the weight loss, though, was
the fact that he was two thousand kilometers from the Kremlin, where career advancement was a universe unto itself. The job became not so much protecting the interests of Mother Russia as it was protecting one’s own interests. His days had devolved into a blur of questionable political alliances and elaborate plots to destroy his rivals while they hatched similar plots against him.

That was what had driven him into the arms of the Americans. Of course, Russia’s leaders would loudly condemn him as a traitor if they found out, but deep down they knew it was they who had betrayed their country. They who were turning it into a corrupt basket case barely kept afloat by natural resources gouged from the land.

There was no innovation, no plan for the future, no attempt to meaningfully engage the West. Only the occasional flexing of military muscle to stir the people’s nationalism and blind them to the fact that they had no more hope now than they did under the communists.

Zhutov was forced to divert around a van moving across the entrance to a square dominated by an empty playground. He looked through the rain at the rusting equipment and once again considered how it could be used to enhance his daily exercise routine. Would a pull-up be achievable before he was recalled to headquarters? His doctor had urged caution, but at forty-three it seemed in the realm of possibility.

The van began to move and Zhutov adjusted his trajectory to cut across its rear. When he did, the driver slammed on the brakes, fishtailing on the slick cobbles. The back doors were thrown open and he stumbled to the right, barely avoiding being hit by one.

Despite extensive training in his youth, Zhutov froze. He found himself unable to resist as a man leapt out of the vehicle and grabbed him by the front of his suit jacket. The Russian was nearly lifted from the ground as he was driven into the vehicle’s cramped cargo space. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the wet squeal of tires, but the sound seemed to disappear when he looked into the dark eyes of the man preparing to close the doors from his position on the street.

“No!” Zhutov shouted before he could be closed off from the outside
world. His heart rate, already elevated from adrenaline and his evening workout, shot up again when he managed to put a name to the face. “Stop! I haven’t betrayed you! I swear I haven’t!”

He tried to fight into a sitting position but someone behind him grabbed his shoulders and held him down. Zhutov looked up at the disarming grin and neatly trimmed blond hair of Scott Coleman. “Relax, Vasily. We’re the good guys.”

“Go!” Rapp shouted, slamming the doors. He was sprayed with water as Maslick gunned the van’s anemic engine and drifted it onto a winding street leading north. The safe house was less than three miles away and Coleman’s team would hole up there for a few days to debrief Zhutov and build him a new identity.

A more pressing problem was the similar van barreling down on Rapp from the other side of the square. Behind him, there was a narrow walkway between two buildings. It would be an easy getaway since he wasn’t aware of a single Russian operative who could even come close to keeping up with him on foot. It would also leave a lot of questions unanswered.

Too many, Rapp decided. Kennedy would just have to deal with the fallout.

He slipped his Glock 19 from beneath his jacket and sighted over the silencer toward the van now just over twenty yards away. The windshield wipers were running at full speed, giving him a clear view of the two men in the front seat. He aimed at the driver and squeezed off a round. The Winchester Ranger Bonded wasn’t his normal go-to ammunition, but it was ideal for this scenario. Subsonic to eliminate the crack caused by the round breaking the sound barrier but with excellent penetration capability.

A spiderwebbed hole opened directly in front of the driver’s face, but the bullet didn’t find its mark. It wasn’t entirely unexpected. The deflection of even a hard-hitting bullet could be significant. In his career he’d experienced everything from shots that went straight through to the target, to one that had veered so violently it had sheared off a side-view mirror.

The van swerved as the driver instinctively raised his hands to protect his face from the tiny shards of glass. Rapp fired a second shot at the damage made by the first. The softened glass reduced deflection and a spray of blood erupted when the driver’s forehead was torn away.

The vehicle slowed as the man’s foot went limp and Rapp moved left, bringing the side door into view. These tended to be three-man operations and that suggested the last team member was out of view in the cargo section. It was a prediction that was proved right when the door slid open and a bulky man with an unsuppressed Russian 9A-91 assault rifle started to leap out. Rapp blew the back of his skull off and watched as he pitched forward into the street. One of his feet got -tangled in a seat belt and he was dragged along, leaving a broad streak of blood and brain matter on the wet cobblestones.