"Two minutes okay?" Coleman pleaded.
"Sorry buddy, the train is leaving the station. I need to make sure these idiots don't all kill each other." Rapp walked casually through the lobby so as to not raise any unwanted attention. This was not difficult due to the fact that everyone was staring at the two bulls squeezing through the turnstile door. "Just stay on the line," Rapp said, "and I'll keep you appraised as best I can."
Rapp calmly smiled at the bellman as he reached the door. Out in front of the hotel one of the Russians was stopped in the middle of the street trying to get the attention of his friend sitting in the parked car. The other Russian was already across the street and yelling at the man to follow him. Rapp continued to give Coleman the tactical update as he waited for a car to pass. He watched as the Russians bullied their way through the crowd of people waiting to get into the cafe. Rapp moved to the left and crossed between a row of parked scooters. He avoided the dozen-plus people standing by the hostess stand. While all of the patrons were focused on the commotion caused by the two rude men shoving their way through the crowd, Rapp stepped over the sagging, faded, velvet rope that formed the perimeter of the patio. He discretely threaded his way through the tight tables and bobbed his head to avoid the corners of table umbrellas.
Rapp checked the patio to see if the old man was about, but he was nowhere to be found. This thing was going to go one of two ways. Either bad or good. Rapp was not exactly sure how he was going to proceed, but he had a rough idea what his rules of engagement were going to be. The Russians were now pressing through the front door of the restaurant. Through the large plate glass window Rapp watched them start up the stairs to the right. With a dose of caution he slid through the front door and resisted the urge to follow them. Going up a set of stairs blind like this was a good way to get shot, which Rapp presumed was exactly what was about to happen to them.
Straight ahead the old man was conversing with a table of customers, but it was obvious his concern was elsewhere. He kept looking up at the stairs. Rapp turned to his left. There were two tables between the bar and the front window. The bar ran a good thirty feet, taking up the front third of the restaurant. In the back and to his right there were more tables. The customers were stacked three deep at the bar and virtually every single person had a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The place was loud. Plaster walls, with a tin ceiling and tile floor. Wood tables and wood trim. Lots of hard surfaces.
As Rapp smiled, excused, and nudged his way through the crowd he kept an eye on the mirror behind the bar. Two shelves of liquor bracketed the top and bottom of the mirror, and in its reflection he could watch both the old man and the staircase. Rapp did not hear the noise, but he did catch the mirror and the bottles shake ever so briefly. No more than a second later the liquid in the bottles danced yet again. Rapp sighed and cracked his neck from one side to the other. As he thought about what had just happened upstairs he flexed his fingers, extended them and then scrunched them into the palm of his hands. One dead for sure, probably two dead.
His left hand slid over to his right wrist and without looking, he pressed the stopwatch function on his digital watch. Next came his breathing. It automatically settled into a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm. He was about ninety-nine percent sure the tremors were a result of the Russians hitting the ground one after the other as they'd been shot by Gazich. Was there a chance Gazich was already climbing onto the roof? Rapp doubted it. The way he'd stood next to the car after he'd killed the first man suggested he was too cool to turn and run. There were also the police to consider. Simply leaving the bodies lying around would mean the police would show up at some point. And they would have a lot of questions. Rapp's bet was that he would stay and clean up his mess.
Someone was still alive upstairs. In truth, any of the three would do, but Rapp wanted it to be Gazich. He was the man who had been standing on the street that day in Georgetown. Someone had hired him to do the job and now they wanted him dead. Rapp wanted that information, and playing it safe wasn't going to get it. In life there's the phrase, the calm after the storm. In war there is the letdown after the battle. Some people call it an adrenalin hangover. Elite soldiers train methodically in an effort to reprogram their biology to fight off this letdown. It is drilled into them to replenish spent magazines, clean weapons, and make sure they are battle ready before they so much as relieve themselves in a roadside ditch. Gazich was not an elite soldier. He was a sniper and an assassin. He would be focused on other things right now.
Rapp was going upstairs. That much he'd already decided. There'd been too much watching and waiting lately. The only real question was how long should he wait? At least a minute. That would allow for the post adrenalin hangover to kick in.
The old man started to move. Rapp watched him in the mirror. He came toward the front of the restaurant. One of the waitresses tried to ask him a question, but he ignored her and went straight for the staircase. Rapp checked his watch and casually pivoted away from the bar. He brought his right hand up, squinted his eyes, and covered his mouth and nose as if he was about to sneeze.
Instead of sneezing he said, "I'm going up to his office."
The steps were worn, checkered, linoleum tiles turned on their side so as to give the squares a diamondlike appearance. Black and white with a black rubber cap on the edge of each riser. To the left and right the tiles and cap were in good shape, but in the middle they were so worn the tan backing of the linoleum was beginning to show through. Rapp smiled at two women who were standing at the bottom of the steps. He placed his hand on the shoulders of one and slid around behind her. Rapp stayed to the right. Less noise and almost no chance of being seen until he made the turn at each landing. He moved quickly to the first landing.
Assumptions-more often than not that's what it came down to. Educated guesses based on real-life experiences were what gave you the edge in these situations. Rapp pictured what was going on upstairs as he placed each foot carefully on the treads. The old man was about five foot eight and weighed close to two hundred pounds. On top of that, he favored his right side when he walked. His hips and knees were probably shit from working on his feet all day and carrying an extra forty pounds around. He'd make it up one flight all right, but the second would really get his heart and lungs going. Add to that the stress of the situation and there was probably a pretty good chance that by the time he got to the third floor he'd be on the verge of cardiac arrest.
The first landing was no trouble. Rapp hugged the outside wall and kept moving, taking the turn and heading up the next flight to the second floor. The last thing he wanted was for one of the waitresses or bartenders to notice him and start yelling for him to come down. Back pressed flat against the wall, he stood completely still and listened. Below there was light music and loud conversation. Above there was darkness and silence. Rapp slid the pistol from its pocket. Three tiny green dots marked the tritium sights. Two in back and one in front. Rapp brought the pistol up and held it next to his face, the stubby suppressor pointing at the ceiling. The aroma of metal and oil mixed together to create a unique comforting smell.
There was one more choice to make. Rapp's pistol was currently chambered with a Federal Hydra-Shok 9mm hollow-point cartridge. The ammunition was subsonic, and near silent. It was perfect for taking care of business in a discreet way, but it had one significant drawback. The subsonic round had eighty percent less velocity than its supersonic cousin. Forget body armor; the bullet could be stopped by a thick leather jacket at about thirty feet. It was not the type of round you wanted to use in a gunfight. The problem with the supersonic rounds, though, was that they were not silent. They made a fairly loud snapping noise as they broke the sound barrier. Rapp glanced down the staircase and remembered how loud it was in the bar area. The scale in his mind weighed velocity and stopping power against stealth. Velocity won.
Rapp switched the pistol from his left hand to his right and hit the magazine release. The black magazine dropped into his left hand, and he stowed it in his right front pocket. Rapp turned the weapon on its side, placing the butt of the grip against his chest. He cupped his left hand over the ejection port and moved his right thumb up under the slide release. Using his fingertips and the meaty part of his palm, he gripped the slide and pushed back until he felt the cold brass of the chambered round fall into his cupped hand. At the same time his right thumb pushed up on the slide release and locked the slide in the open position. He dropped the loose round into the same pocket as the magazine and fished out a different magazine from his left pocket. Rapp took the first supersonic round off the top of the magazine and placed it between his front teeth. He then quietly slid the magazine into the grip using the palm of his hand to make sure it was locked into place. The gun was switched again to the left hand. Rapp carefully took the single round from his teeth, and while pointing the muzzle at the ground he dropped the round into the chamber. It was a bit like loading a torpedo into a launch tube. Grabbing the top of the slide with his right hand, he pulled back just enough for the slide release to drop and then slowly let the slide come forward until the breach was closed.
This wasn't Hollywood. Real shooters carried their weapons hot. That meant a round in the chamber. None of this racking the slide macho bullshit. All that did was slow you down and make a bunch of noise. Rapp's only alternative to this complicated process would have been a soft rack, which basically meant putting a fresh magazine in the grip and then carefully letting the slide come forward in a slow, controlled motion. The problem with a soft rack was that you risked an improperly chambered round, which was the last thing you wanted. Especially when you planned on getting off the first shot.
Rapp gripped the weapon with both hands and extended it, pressing both hands away from his body. His arms formed a triangle. He moved to his right, his weight perfectly distributed, his footfalls as light as a featherweight boxer's. He started up the stairs slowly, two steps at a time. When he reached the landing between the second and third floors he could hear voices. A swath of dim light shone on the wall up above. Rapp guessed it came from Gazich's office. He stared at the wall for a few seconds to see if he could make out any shadows. There were none. That meant no one was standing in the doorway to the office. Rapp listened. The voices were faint. Barely audible. He thought it was Greek.
Suddenly, the silence of the third floor was shattered by an unsettling scream. Rapp instinctively took a step back. His whole body coiled, his muscles tensed as he prepared to strike out. The scream was followed by a harsh but controlled voice. The language was definitely Greek. The Greek was followed by heavy breathing and Russian. Rapp immediately knew what was going on. He crouched low and moved forward two steps to get a view of the landing above. The first thing he noticed was that the office door was closed. The second thing he noticed was a dead man lying on the floor.
12.
R app moved halfway up the next flight until he was eye to eye with the dead body lying across the top landing. In the poor light, Rapp couldn't be sure, but he thought it was one of the Russians. The way the guy was positioned, Rapp figured he'd been shot in the right side of his head, spun ninety degrees, and then crumpled to the floor. Literally dead before his mass settled against the worn, dirty linoleum. His eyes were wide open, his left hand pinned under his body, one leg bent and the other straight. Rapp doubted the guy even had the time to register the pain of a piece of lead slamming into the side of his head. Not a bad way to go, all things considered. app moved halfway up the next flight until he was eye to eye with the dead body lying across the top landing. In the poor light, Rapp couldn't be sure, but he thought it was one of the Russians. The way the guy was positioned, Rapp figured he'd been shot in the right side of his head, spun ninety degrees, and then crumpled to the floor. Literally dead before his mass settled against the worn, dirty linoleum. His eyes were wide open, his left hand pinned under his body, one leg bent and the other straight. Rapp doubted the guy even had the time to register the pain of a piece of lead slamming into the side of his head. Not a bad way to go, all things considered.
Rapp paused to take a closer look at the body. It was definitely the second Russian, the one who had stopped in the middle of the street to yell at his friend. Gazich would have been hiding in the hallway to the right. He would have let the first guy pass. Let him open the door and then he would have shot them one two. Subsonic rounds from ten, maybe twenty feet max. First shot to the head of the second guy, second shot probably right into the first guy's right hip or maybe the knee if he was an exceptionally good marksman. The big Russian would have gone down hard. Gazich would have been moving after the first shot. He would have closed the distance for the most difficult shot of all. He wanted at least one of these guys alive, which meant he might have to shoot the gun out of the first Russian's hand if he didn't drop it after he'd been winged.
Rapp was practically lying on the steps now. His right hand was out in front of him, flat on the tread. His left hand held his gun. It was angles and inches now. He'd maximized his position of cover. Three quarters of the frosted glass office door lay in plain view. Shadows floated back and forth and at least two distinct voices could be heard, one much louder than the other. Rapp figured that had to be Gazich. He would be the one asking the questions. Staying on the stairs was not a good option. The position offered minimal cover, and left him vulnerable should someone wander up from the cafe. Tactically, that left two choices. Either rush the office, or move to the relative cover of the hallway.
Rapp made a mental picture of what the office was probably like on the inside. They were all pretty much the same. A desk, a few chairs, maybe a couch and some bookcases or a credenza. A guy like Gazich would never sit with his back to the door. That was for sure. It was also likely that his main work area would put him in a spot where he could not be seen directly from either window. Snipers were like that. They were always thinking angles and trajectory. Not just their own, but that of their most feared enemy-another sniper. With two windows facing the street that left pretty much one place for the desk. There was still the old man to consider, though. There was no way of telling where he might be when the door flew open. If he was directly between Rapp and Gazich he might have to be put down. The thought of having to kill a potentially innocent bystander pushed Rapp away from one tactic and toward another.
Hovering in no-man's-land was untenable, so Rapp made his decision. He moved to the top step staying as low as possible, and stepped over the dead Russian. Hugging the wall he moved down the corridor a few steps and settled against the outside wall of Gazich's office. The hallway was like a sewer culvert. The farther he went the darker it became. Rapp looked to the end. He could barely make out the dark wood frame of a door against the yellowed plaster walls. If the third floor was set up the same as the second floor, that was where the bathroom would be and maybe the access to the roof. There was one more door directly across the hall from him. That was the other office suite. Rapp had no idea who it belonged to. All he cared about was that the place was empty.
He was thinking of Coleman and was about to ask for an ETA when Gazich's office door opened, throwing a splash of light into the dark corridor. Rapp's pistol was up and aimed in the flash of a half second. He took three silent steps back, retreating farther into the darkness, both hands gripping the weapon. A solid immovable base. Three neon green dots lined up in a perfect row, the pad of his left forefinger resting gently on the trigger.
The old man appeared. He stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He stood there for a five count, his left hand still holding the doorknob, his chin slowly sinking until it rested on his chest. It was a posture of contemplation. He was a man trying to gather his thoughts before he decided what to do. He held the pose for just a second longer and then with a shake of his head, he bent over and grabbed the feet of the dead Russian. The first tug did nothing. The second tug moved the body maybe a few inches. The third tug was more of an all-out yank. The old man really leaned into it and the body started sliding across the worn linoleum floor.
Rapp matched him step for step, with little worry that he would be detected. The old man was preoccupied in thought and deed and probably mostly deaf from working an espresso machine his entire life. They retreated almost to the end of the hallway, where the old man gave up and dropped the Russian's lifeless feet. They thudded against the floor, one of the shoes falling partially off. The old man swore and bent over, placing his hands on his knees. He made no effort to put the shoe back on. He was too exhausted. He stayed where he was breathing heavily and cursing to himself.
Rapp silently slid the pistol into the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a folding knife from his belt. With one hand, he opened the knife and took a step forward. He hovered for a second, waiting for the old man to make his next predictable move. When he finally stood, Rapp lunged forward, clamping his right hand around the man's mouth while pulling him up and nearly off his feet. The knife hand came around and Rapp pressed the flat edge of the blade against the man's throat.
"Don't make a sound," Rapp whispered, his mouth only inches from the man's left ear, "or I'll slit your throat."
13.
R app had no idea how involved the old man was in all of this. He'd had ample time to think about it over the last day. He had obviously tipped off Gazich about the Russians and now he was helping him again, but this was not necessarily proof that he had been involved in what had happened in America back in October. Not by a long shot. Helping get rid of the bodies was in his own self-interest, regardless of any involvement with Gazich. He had to run a business, and in a resort town like Limassol, a few dead Russians found on your property could spell real trouble. app had no idea how involved the old man was in all of this. He'd had ample time to think about it over the last day. He had obviously tipped off Gazich about the Russians and now he was helping him again, but this was not necessarily proof that he had been involved in what had happened in America back in October. Not by a long shot. Helping get rid of the bodies was in his own self-interest, regardless of any involvement with Gazich. He had to run a business, and in a resort town like Limassol, a few dead Russians found on your property could spell real trouble.
Then again, he could be Gazich's business partner. Complicit in every action. Maybe he was the one who negotiated the contracts. Almost anything was possible, and until Rapp had proof, one way or the other, the old man would live. In no way, shape, or form was Mitch Rapp the picture of mental health, but through it all-the killings, the torturing, violence piled upon cruelty-he'd managed to stay relatively sane. The answer lay in the fact that he was different from the men, and yes, the occasional woman he hunted.
Many of them killed for an idea. Often, the idea was a perversion of Islam. These were all men. No women were allowed to join their crusade of intolerance. Yes, occasionally the Palestinians had used female suicide bombers, and so had the Chechens, but they were few. Others killed for a paycheck, like Gazich. Some of them, the ones who did their job with precision and avoided harming innocents, Rapp was indifferent toward. Gazich was not one of them. What he had done crossed the line by leaps and bounds. He was a terrorist not an assassin. He proved that when he set off the car bomb in Georgetown killing nineteen people, seriously wounding another thirty-four, and ruining the lives of who knew how many more. And who was the target in this case? Was it a corrupt arms dealer, a narco trafficker, a sponsor of terrorism? No, the target was two political candidates. And what was their crime? Did they preach death to Islam and the Arab world? Did they advocate the wholesale murder of every Palestinian? No. They did no such thing.
That was what the mullahs and clerics preached in places like Iran and Saudi Arabia. Death to America, the Great Satan. Death to Israel. Nuke the entire Zionist state and push the infidels into the ocean. These two liberal politicians, on the other hand, preached tolerance and acceptance every chance they got. They advocated real statehood for Palestine and sincere respect for religious diversity. And what did they get for it? They got some crazy Islamic fascist like Osama and his ilk putting a price tag on their heads.
Rapp still recalled the anger he'd felt while sitting in his hotel room in Calcutta months before. Sky News showed footage of the crater left by the car bomb. Rapp had been up and down that street at least a thousand times. From the size of the hole alone he knew it had been a powerful bomb. The death count was sure to be high. The next set of images provided by Sky News came from Muslim cities across the Middle East and beyond. They were all a slight variation on the same theme. Young men clogged the streets. Again, no women. American flags burned, Molotov cocktails were thrown at U.S. embassies, cars were torched, and men chanted, cheered, and danced. All in celebration that the Great Satan had been dealt a grievous blow.
The fact that so many could so brazenly celebrate such a barbarous act snapped Rapp back to reality. This clash of cultures trivialized his pain and anguish. The images on the TV that evening in Calcutta crystallized for him what was at stake. The only time you ever saw anything like this in America was when Detroit won an NBA title. And they were merely celebrating their home team's victory. Not the indiscriminate destruction of human life.
The old man would live. That was how Rapp was different from Gazich. He didn't simply eliminate innocent people because they were in the way of his objective. Yes, Rapp was capable of restraint when the situation called for it, but he was equally capable of committing acts of sheer, ruthless violence. Gazich would die. But before he drew his last breath he would talk.
"Down on your knees," Rapp whispered.
He kept his right hand on the man's mouth and the knife at his throat as the man got down on one knee and then the other.
"I'm going to take my hand off your mouth," Rapp whispered, "but the knife is going to stay at your throat." Rapp took the point of the knife and jabbed the tip into the fleshy skin just beneath the old man's Adam's apple. The steel point slid through the first two layers of skin, drawing a drop of blood.
"That's your voice box. Keep your mouth shut until I tell you to open it. If I see your lips begin to move, the knife goes all the way in, and I promise you whatever it was that you were going to say is going to die right there in your throat. Nod if you understand."
The old man did and Rapp decreased the pressure on the tip of the knife.
Rapp could feel the man breathing heavily through his nose. "Listen, I'm not going to kill you unless you give me a reason to. Just relax and take a few deep breaths."
Keeping the knife at his throat, Rapp used his right hand to reach down and grab a towel that was stuffed into one of the pockets at the front of the old man's apron. Rapp looked at it before bunching one end into a ball with his fist.
"Open your mouth wide," Rapp whispered.
The old man did as he was told and Rapp stuffed a third of the towel into his mouth. He then made the man lay down flat on his stomach and put his hands behind his back. Rapp cut the long ties off the apron and used them to hog-tie the man's ankles and wrists together. When he was secured, Rapp stowed the knife and drew the pistol.
Rapp showed the gun to the old man and whispered, "Any noise at all and I'll shoot you. Don't try to bang your feet against the wall or roll over. Otherwise you're a dead man. Do you understand?"
The old man nodded.
"How many people are in the office? Blink your answer."
The old man's eyelids opened and closed twice.
"Deckas and the big Russian?"
The old man nodded his head up and down.
"Is Deckas interrogating the Russian?"
Again he nodded.
"All right, sit tight." Rapp patted the old man's head. "This whole thing will be over in a minute."
Rapp sprang to his feet and started down the hallway, gliding along the right edge. Gazich would have used a silenced weapon. Most likely subsonic rounds, probably nine millimeter. The walls were old. Probably lattice covered with plaster. They would definitely stop a nine-millimeter round, subsonic or not. Maybe even a forty-five. Rapp again tried to visualize the layout of the office. Desk in the middle on the left and a couple of chairs or a couch on the right. Gazich would be standing and that meant he would have minimal cover. The Russian would not be a problem. He was either immobile from gunshot wounds or tied up. If Gazich was interrogating him he had probably switched to a knife. Options increased and techniques varied with a knife.
Rapp stopped one step short of the door. His mind was made up on a plan of action. It would be lightning fast. One, two, three, four. He listened for a moment. It sounded like Gazich was asking a question. The Russian pleaded with him in broken English, his voice much louder and more fearful than that of his inquisitor. Rapp took all of this as a good sign.
Reaching out, he placed his right hand on the doorknob and waited a second. As soon as he heard Gazich begin to speak, he twisted the old brass knob and flung the door inward with a good push. He was ninety percent sure Gazich was on the right, but he had to make sure he wasn't on the left first. Rapp hugged the door frame as his left hand and gun filled the void of the open doorway. The door sailed past ninety degrees, revealing the edge of the desk exactly where Rapp thought it would be. The gun came straight up and locked in a level position. The door continued its arc, swinging inward on its hinges, revealing an empty desk. Rapp started swinging the gun back to his right. At the same time he shifted his weight to his left while hugging the door frame and leaned just enough into the open doorway so his left eye could take in nearly the entire right side of the room while exposing only a fraction of his body.
Gazich came into view first. He was standing sideways, the Russian was in a chair directly in front of him, but Rapp wasn't worried about the Russian. Rapp's eye was locked on Gazich. A literal tunnel. His gun not quite there yet. Ninety-nine percent of his focus on the threat. He heard the door bang hard against something as his eye searched Gazich's hands. The Bosnian was turning toward him, his hands still at his side. He was expecting the old man. Some recess of Rapp's brain registered that the door had not opened 180 degrees against the wall so it had probably hit a bookcase or some other piece of furniture. The black finish of a gun and its long silencer against the faded denim of Gazich's pants caught Rapp's eye. The elevation of Rapp's left arm dropped immediately. Gun seeking out gun. A tenth of a second later Rapp squeezed the trigger, letting loose the first shot.
Gazich stood a mere fourteen feet away. The round caught him square in the back of his right hand, plowing its way through flesh, crucial tendons, and then bone. His hand clenched for a millisecond and then opened like a clamp with a broken spring. The brain made none of these decisions. It was simply mechanical failure. The gun dropped free-falling to the floor, but before it hit, a second round caught Gazich in the right knee and then a third in the left knee.
For two seconds time stood still. Nothing moved. Rapp waited, still concealed by the door frame, and watched the same way you would watch the demolition of a building. That strange moment of disbelief in the immediate aftermath. When the explosive charges have just blown out all the support columns, yet the building still hangs there for a second or two defying gravity. And then physics takes over and everything comes crashing to the ground.
Gazich's legs wobbled. His arms began to move away from his body in an effort to provide balance, but balance wasn't the problem. The problem was two shattered kneecaps. It was structural. He picked up his right leg to widen his stance and when he put it back down the limb folded like a cheap rental chair at a backyard wedding. Gazich went down hard, somehow managing to get his left hand out in front of him to prevent a face plant. He ended up on his side, his left hand stretched out a mere four inches from the pistol he had dropped.
Rapp stayed right where he was, completely aware of the proximity of Gazich's hand to the weapon. He watched as Gazich's eyes moved from the pistol to the stranger in the doorway. Rapp knew what was going through his mind, so he stepped partially into the doorway and started to lower his weapon. His eyes were locked on Gazich's. Rapp's pistol almost got to a point where it was perpendicular with the floor, but he saw the fingers on Gazich's hand open and reach for the weapon. Rapp's pistol came up and a fourth shot spat from the end of the silencer. It bored a hole through the center of the assassin's palm before it ever reached the gun. One, two, three, four. Just like Rapp thought it would be.
Rapp stepped into the room and kept his gun trained on Gazich's head. He walked over, placed his right foot on the gun and slid it back toward the doorway. Gazich started to move.
"Keep your hands away from your body, or I'll put a bullet in your head."
The Russian took all of this as a sign of his salvation, and exclaimed, "Thank god you are here."
Rapp looked at him with a furrowed brow. The guy's left ear had been partially carved away from his head and the tip of his nose looked like a filleted lobster tail. Blood cascaded down his face and onto his white shirt.
"Untie me, my friend."
Rapp didn't move.
"Untie me right now," the Russian demanded.
Rapp leveled the pistol at the Russian's groin. All three green dots in a row. "Shut the fuck up, or I'll blow your balls off."
14.
G roin injuries could be really messy. Lots of blood, and lots of pain. Since the Russian could barely keep his mouth shut as it was, Rapp assumed the lout would scream like a stuck pig if he pierced one of his testicles with a ball of lead. Rapp was not one to make empty threats, and the Russian's inability to keep his mouth shut and follow a simple order was pushing him to the brink. He was one of these irritants who liked to think out loud. The type who gives a running narrative of the obvious. He alternated between muttering to himself and attempting to bribe Rapp with riches, his volume increasing with each passing moment. roin injuries could be really messy. Lots of blood, and lots of pain. Since the Russian could barely keep his mouth shut as it was, Rapp assumed the lout would scream like a stuck pig if he pierced one of his testicles with a ball of lead. Rapp was not one to make empty threats, and the Russian's inability to keep his mouth shut and follow a simple order was pushing him to the brink. He was one of these irritants who liked to think out loud. The type who gives a running narrative of the obvious. He alternated between muttering to himself and attempting to bribe Rapp with riches, his volume increasing with each passing moment.
Rapp was on the phone with Coleman, giving him a quick situation report. They were less than a minute out. Rapp told him to have Brooks drop him off in front. If anyone tried to stop him from going upstairs, he should tell them he was going to meet Alexander Deckas from Aid Logistics Inc. The Russian jabbered during the entire conversation.
Rapp had already frisked Gazich, and now he was rifling through the assassin's desk as he finished giving Coleman instructions. Everything was going fairly well except the Russian. The man simply wouldn't shut up. Finally, Coleman asked Rapp who was making the racket. Rapp reached his boiling point. He raised his pistol and squeezed the trigger. A round spat from the thick suppressor and imbedded itself in the wood seat of the chair a mere two inches in front of the Russian's crotch.
The Russian's eyes opened wide with fear and his mouth hung slack with shock.
Rapp muted the phone, walked over, stuck the smoking barrel into the Russian's groin, and growled, "Shut the fuck up!"
The Russian closed his eyes, whimpered for a second, and then slammed his mouth shut.
Rapp took the phone off mute and said, "Hurry up. I need some help up here." With that he jabbed the red end button on the phone and considered his next move. He walked over to the door and leaned out into the hallway to check on the old man. All he could see was a dark mass on the floor at the far end. Rapp paused for a second while he did the time conversion. Ten o'clock in Cyprus meant it was four in the afternoon in DC. Kennedy could be anywhere. Rapp decided to call her secure mobile. He punched in the country code, area code, and then the number. It started ringing almost immediately.
The Science and Technology people at Langley provided the top echelon of employees with the most secure phones available, and then installed special encryption software. They issued new phones at least once a year if not every six months. Rapp's phones never left the box. He didn't trust them, and it wasn't because he feared the Russians or the Chinese. It was his own agency and the National Security Agency that he feared most. The full capabilities of the NSA and what they could do with their satellites, listening stations, and eight Cray supercomputers that they kept deep underground in a vast cooled chamber, was known to only a select few. What Rapp did know was that they collected an unbelievable number of foreign calls made into the U.S. every day. Those calls emanating from the Middle East received special attention. The NSA acted like a big fishing trawler. They threw out their nets, reeled them in, and then decided what fish to keep. Except with them it was phone calls, e-mails, and other electronic transmissions. These were prioritized by criteria. Like fishermen who throw the worthless fish back into the sea, the NSA was getting more efficient at maximizing its resources.
At the heart of their mission was code breaking. It always had been and always would be. These billions of intercepts were worthless if they couldn't decipher them. Rapp knew there were elite teams of brainiacs within the NSA whose sole job was to defeat encryption software. As good as the folks at Langley's S&T were, the truth was they were no match for the talent that the NSA employed. From a patriot's perspective, one would think none of this should matter. After all they were all on the same team-the CIA, the NSA, the Pentagon, the Department of Justice, the FBI-all Americans working to defeat global terrorism.
The reality was far more complicated. Just because one administration advocated a certain policy, it didn't mean the next one would, or that some opportunistic politician on the Hill wouldn't seize the chance to grab the limelight by calling for an investigation into any one of a dozen things Rapp had done in the last year. What a veteran of the Clandestine Service deemed appropriate action was often very different from what a lawyer at the DOJ might think. And then there were budgets and interagency turf wars. In many ways the domestic side of the business was more dangerous than the operating abroad. At least when he was in the field Rapp knew who his enemies were. At home, politics and personalities were thrown into the mix and any sense of a unified mission was lost.
The climate had gotten so bad that Rapp couldn't trust his own people at Langley. The CIA's own Inspector General's office had gotten into the game of leaking things to reporters. Senior officers were contributing to politicians' campaigns, spouses were serving on advisory committees for candidates, and admin types were regularly dining and rubbing shoulders with journalists, lobbyists, and political strategists. Add to that Amnesty International and a dozen other human rights groups and you had a climate that was about as unfriendly to someone in Rapp's position as you could imagine. He couldn't even trust his own employer to hand him a secure phone, for at the end of the day, the Inspector General's Office could be recording everything he said. In Rapp's mind, there was no such thing as a secure line, so he went with the odds. Practically every month he bought a new phone from a major carrier and got a new number. And every time he went on a mission like this, he picked up a phone that rarely lasted the length of the mission. Even with all of the precautions he took, he was still very careful about what he said. He gave only the vaguest information and spoke in generalities.
When Kennedy finally answered, Rapp did not bother with greetings. He simply said, "I need a plane."
There was a brief pause. "What kind of plane?"
"The plane."
Almost as if on cue, the Russian started his running narrative again. Rapp looked at him, the gun in one hand and the phone in the other, his palms up and his arms out from his body a couple feet. The expression on his face seemed to say, You have got to be kidding me. You have got to be kidding me.
The Russian said, "I work for the KGB."
Through his earpiece, Rapp heard Kennedy ask, "Who is that?"
Rapp said, "Give me a second." He pressed the mute button on the phone and moved around to the side of the Russian. "I told you to keep your mouth shut, you stupid fucker."