The Survivor (30 page)

“So the people at the top are noncritical assets that Rick would definitely know about. At the bottom, you’ve got critical assets who he probably wouldn’t have had access to.”

She nodded. “I’m not sure it’s worth much, though.”

“Fahran Hotaki’s name is near the top. That proved right.”

“But
Sitting Bull and the Iranian ambassador are near the bottom. We still haven’t been able to determine how Rick got hold of their identities. On the surface, it seems impossible.”

“Certainty is hard to come by in this business. Particularly when Rickman was involved.”

“Do you see anything on that list you disagree with?”

“You’re thinking about pulling people out?”

“I’m not sure I have any choice at this point. We’ll start at the top and quietly work our way down.”

“You can’t pull them all. You’d do Rick’s job for him. You’d collapse our entire network. Where are you drawing the line?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

Rapp grabbed a pen off her desk and began going down the list. At the seventh name, he stopped and crossed it out. “Ghannam is a scumbag who’s gone through over a million dollars of our money and not given us shit in return. Let him burn.”

He stopped again halfway down. “Prifti’s given us some good intel, and I think he’s got a lot more in him. He controls a pretty serious organized crime outfit in Albania—petty stuff like tobacco smuggling and racketeering, but big money. Tell him to get back there until we straighten this out. His guys can protect him.”

He handed the list back to her. “The rest I agree with, but are you sure this is a good idea? The video of Rickman being tortured already spooked a lot of people and we’ve had a hard time keeping them from running for the nearest U.S. embassy. If it gets around that you’re extracting people, we could end up getting stampeded by every sewer rat we ever gave ten bucks to.”

“To answer your question, no,” she said. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Rick would have anticipated it. In fact, he might have been able to write out the list I just showed you verbatim. Every move I make, I have to wonder if I’m playing into his hands.”

She walked to a level-six shredder and fed the page into it. “We need to end this, Mitch. Now. Because tomorrow might be too late.”

C
ENTRAL
A
FGHANISTAN

T
HE
ancient stone window frame had only a few shards of glass still clinging to it. Probably the result of an American bomb, but that was by no means a certainty. It could have been shattered in the 1980s by a Russian rocket, or even decades before that in one of the tribal conflicts that predated either of Afghanistan’s most recent invaders.

Fahran Hotaki stood with his back pressed against the wall, looking down on the unpaved street below. The sunbaked car on the other side was well known to him—it hadn’t run in years. The pedestrians were equally familiar, moving back and forth at the strangely unhurried pace of people aware that their lives offered few options. In the facing building, families he knew well were taking advantage of the quiet afternoon to go about the business of survival.

The outward peacefulness of the scene was an illusion that would be short-lived. Joe Rickman had seen to that.

It had been five years since Hotaki’s family was murdered but his hatred for the men responsible wasn’t diminished. None of the killers were Afghan—they were mostly Saudi, with a few Egyptians and Lebanese.
These outsiders came to his country to tell his people how to live. How to worship. And they butchered anyone who resisted their twisted view of Islam.

Before al Qaeda had spilled over his country’s borders, Hotaki had been a simple farmer. He’d lived in a remote region of Afghanistan untouched by politics or technology or foreigners. He and his people had inhabited that place for more generations than anyone could remember.

What had been built over the course of a thousand years had taken less than an hour to destroy. He’d seen his sons beheaded, his wife and daughters raped and left to die from their wounds, and his village consumed by flames.

Hotaki had been bound and on his knees when they’d finally come to kill him. The gun had been pressed to the side of his head, but the trigger was never pulled. Instead they left him there among the blackened bodies of all those he had loved, the sound of their laughter ringing in his ears.

It was shortly thereafter that he had joined with Mitch Rapp and the Americans. Not because he believed in their futile and unwelcome efforts to turn Afghanistan into a modern democracy. No, he’d simply seen them as a powerful ally in his quest to kill the men responsible for taking away his life.

The Americans were a confused and naïve people, but generally the champions of peace and stability. Occupations were not in their nature. Unlike the fanatics who had converged on his country, the Americans could be counted on to leave.

A pickup truck appeared in the distance, slowing but continuing inevitably forward. The people on the street immediately recognized the armed men in the bed, as did he. Not foreigners, but almost as bad. They were members of a Taliban enclave who wanted to extend their influence over the tribal areas and subject Afghanistan to their fundamentalist stranglehold.

The steps of his neighbors quickened as they scurried back to their homes. Hotaki opened a wooden crate at his feet as the rumble of the
approaching vehicle mingled with the sound of people barricading their windows.

He put on the flak jacket he found lying on top and retrieved a silver Desert Eagle .44 Magnum that had been a gift from Stan Hurley. A bit garish but highly effective. Much like the man himself. He took the spare magazines but left the silencer and helmet. These men should hear the bullet that killed them. And they should see the face of the man who fired it.

A nearly identical pickup filled with similar young men appeared on the other end of the street but this one stopped. Clearly it was there to cut off the escape of the man they mistakenly thought was their prey.

Hotaki knew that there would be no help from the Americans. As angry as he had sounded, Mitch Rapp could be trusted to respect his wishes. He knew what it was to lose loved ones in this endless war. And more than any other American Hotaki had met, he understood what it was to be Afghan.

The first pickup continued forward, finally coming to a halt directly beneath his window. Was it arrogance or just complacency? The Taliban had elicited so much fear for so long, they had come to expect their targets to do nothing but cower and beg. On this occasion, they would be disappointed.

He could hear them arguing and used the time to ponder his strategy. The handgun was hardly an appropriate weapon when faced with a truckload of armed men. He had an AK-47, but even that would leave a great deal to chance. Certainly, he would kill or wound a number of them, but the rest would take up positions across the street and in the stairwell leading to his apartment. He would be trapped.

Finally, he selected a grenade. It was reported to have a seven-second delay and he wondered how accurate that was. The Americans were normally quite precise about such things but it didn’t really matter. He didn’t own a watch.

Hotaki pulled the pin and began counting. What was the word the Americans used when they did this? It was one of their states.
Mississippi.
Yes, that was it.

When he got to seven, he held the grenade out the window and let go.

Allah, in his infinite mercy, decided to smile on him. The explosive detonated just after Hotaki withdrew his hand behind the safety of the wall. It sent shrapnel raining down on the vehicle and the men in it, as well as disintegrating part of the window’s upper frame in a cloud of eye-stinging dust and smoke. Beyond being entirely deaf—a relatively trivial problem since it was unlikely he would survive another five minutes—Hotaki was completely unharmed.

He heard the spinning of tires on the south side of the street and threw himself out of the window. It was a three-meter drop, but the bodies in the truck’s bed provided a comfortable landing. He immediately leapt to the ground, pulling open the driver’s door and dragging the man from behind the wheel. He was bleeding badly from his head and neck as a result of shrapnel that had penetrated the roof. Hotaki slid into the seat and shoved the accelerator to the floor. The vehicle fishtailed into the road as the other pickup closed from behind.

The man in the passenger seat next to him suddenly regained consciousness and began asking what had happened in a panicked voice. He’d been blinded by the grenade and had no idea that his comrade was choking to death in the road behind them.

Hotaki leaned across and threw open the passenger-side door. He swung close to a cart full of hand-hewn cooking utensils and pushed the Taliban fighter out as they passed. The door caught the edge of the cart and nearly severed the man’s legs as he fell to the street. The door was ruined, so Hotaki used the side of a building to shear it the rest of the way off.

Automatic gunfire started behind him, and Hotaki swerved around a tight corner before skidding to a stop. He adjusted the mirror and pressed himself back into the seat, bracing himself as he waited.

A few seconds later, the pickup chasing him came drifting around the corner. The driver, focused on aiming a submachine gun through his open window, realized too late that Hotaki was stopped in the road.

The impact felt less powerful than expected, probably due to the
considerable weight of the bodies in the back. His vehicle was propelled forward a few meters, and he gripped the wheel as two men flew over the top of him and landed in the road.

Hotaki depressed the accelerator again, swerving in a lazy S pattern to run over the men as they tried to shake off the impact and rise to their feet. He hoped Allah would forgive him the intense pleasure he felt as they were pulled beneath his wheels.

CIA H
EADQUARTERS

L
ANGLEY,
V
IRGINIA

U.S.A.

I
RENE
Kennedy followed as Nash weaved confidently through the maze of cubicles. She’d never been in this part of the building and its inhabitants’ faces reflected that. At first, expressions ranged from mild shock to outright fear. By the time she neared the back wall, though, word had spread. Every head was down, focused on computer screens, phones, or whatever documents were at hand.

Apparently Marcus Dumond was starting to be affected by the pressure of the job he’d been tasked with and Nash felt that dragging him up to the seventh floor would make matters worse. The hope was that Dumond would be more relaxed on his home turf.

The office was what she’d expected—indeed what he’d asked for when he’d signed on. Nearly as big as hers but windowless, it looked a bit like a garage sale right before the doors opened. There was nothing that even vaguely resembled office furniture. Paper files and books were stacked on a sagging Ping-Pong table, vintage La-Z-Boys provided seating, and there was an unmade twin bed beneath a Washington Redskins poster in the corner. Mitch Rapp was sitting on a threadbare sofa next to what appeared to be a week’s worth of dirty clothes.

He didn’t look up from the Sports Illustrated he was reading when they
entered. Dumond, on the other hand, jumped to attention and began tossing stuff off a recliner centered in the room.

“That’s all right,” Kennedy said. “I can stand.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I’m told you’ve come up with a plan, Marcus.”

“I guess. I mean, yes . . . I have.”

She was glad she hadn’t insisted on him coming upstairs. Nash was right. She’d seen the young computer genius nervous before, but the deer-in-the-headlights look in his eyes was new.

“I’m anxious to hear it. You know we have nothing but confidence in you, right, Marcus?”

“Yeah. . . . Thanks,” he said before falling silent.

“Come on, big guy,” Nash prompted. “It’s a great idea. Tell Irene just like you told me.”

“Okay. I still have friends who are . . . well, hackers. I mean,
I
don’t do any of that stuff anymore. No way. But I’ve stayed in touch with a few people from back in the day.” His gaze fell to the floor. “You know. Here and there.”

Kennedy just smiled blandly. It was an outrageous lie. Just last week, Dumond and a few of these friends had broken into the Walt Disney Studios site and replaced the new Star Wars trailer with a vulgar—but beautifully produced—interpretation of their own.

As long as it was harmless fun and he covered his tracks, Kennedy wasn’t inclined to intervene. In a way, the competition and cooperation with other hackers helped keep his skills sharp. While people on her end of the spy business tended to benefit from their years of experience, time worked against the tech gurus.

Dumond’s comment got more of a reaction from Rapp, who finally looked over the top of his magazine. “Loved the Star Wars video, asshole.”

The young man froze. “You know about that?”

Rapp scowled and went back to his article. “Are we going to do this anytime this year?”

Nash leaned into Dumond and spoke reassuringly in his ear. The hacker gave a few jerky nods and continued.

“Rickman needed someone to send his files to the Russians or the Iranians, or whoever, right? He’d have to find someone good enough to cover their tracks, and since they’d have to decrypt the data first, they’d also have to be kind of lunatic fringe. Crooked enough not to care that the stuff they’re handling could get people killed and nuts enough to not care about pissing off the CIA.”

“Your point?” Rapp said.

“It’s a pretty short list—people smart enough to have a chance of keeping me off them and big enough jerks to get involved.”

“Do we have that list?” Kennedy asked.

He slipped a piece of paper from his back pocket and carefully unfolded it. Kennedy took the damp page and scanned down it. “There must be fifty names here. And probably thirty nationalities.”

“Yeah. But it’s better than seven billion names, which is what we’ve got now.”