"I am Russian Intelligence. Former KGB. We are on the same side now. America and Russia."
Gazich was immobile on the floor and no doubt in a great deal of pain as the adrenaline wore off and he was left with the searing pain of four gun shot wounds to extremely sensitive areas of his body. Despite his less than humorous situation, he started to laugh and said, "You work for the Russian mob."
"I do not!" the Russian shouted.
Gazich laughed harder. "You are a bitch for the oligarchs and nothing else."
Rapp was standing midway between the Russian and Gazich. If he didn't need to talk to these two morons, he would gladly shoot them both in the head, just to shut them up. The Russian was craning his neck looking up at Rapp, babbling on about his distinguished career with the KGB. Rapp took another step, putting himself off to the Russian's left side about three feet away. Rapp pointed across the room and asked, "You see that computer over there?"
The Russian looked away from Rapp and fixed his attention on the large off-white monitor sitting on the desk.
Rapp turned to the side and shifted all of his weight onto his left foot. His right leg came up and his torso leaned away from the Russian. Rapp's leg hung in the air for a second; his hands were pulled in tight gripping the phone and the gun, his forearms and fists providing a shield for his upper torso and face. He did it out of habit, not out of fear of being hit. It was years of training. A simple side kick. Done properly it could be delivered with more force than any other blow. Done poorly it still provided quite a punch. Rapp hadn't delivered a poor side kick in more than fifteen years. The toe of Rapp's heavy soled shoes was drawn up toward his shin. His eyes were locked on the Russian's chin like the three green dots on the sights of his Glock.
In a flash, Rapp's leg straightened-his one-inch, layered, leather heel striking the large chin of the Russian. The directed force of the blow broke the Russian's jaw. The speed of the kick caused the Russian's head to move laterally so quickly that his equilibrium was thrown completely out of whack. The effect was the physiological equivalent of turning off a light switch. The Russian's entire body went limp, and he slumped forward in the chair, unconscious, his bound hands the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor.
Satisfied with the results, Rapp took the phone off mute and said, "Sorry about that."
"What is going on?" Kennedy asked a bit irritated.
"Nothing you need to worry about." Rapp looked at Gazich and said, "Just get me the plane."
There was a long pause and then Kennedy asked, "You found him?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"One hundred percent. Go see Marcus. Tell him he was right about the Bosnian. He'll fill you in on the rest."
"Where are you?"
"Limassol, Cyprus."
"I think the plane is in Eastern Europe. Let me make sure, and I'll get back to you with an itinerary."
"Make it quick. I need to get off this rock fast."
"What have you done?" asked a worried Kennedy.
"I haven't done anything, but there's a third party involved and some of their boys got hurt."
"How bad?"
"Body bag bad."
"I see." This was followed by more silence and then Kennedy skeptically asked, "And you had nothing to do with this?"
Rapp never liked to be second-guessed by people who spent their days sitting in comfortable leather chairs behind large, important desks while he risked life and limb. "Watch your step," he snarled. "I don't need this shit. I'm over here with a fucking rookie, and Blondie and his boys have been stuck in airports all day. What I need is some serious support right now. I need the plane, and I need it ASAP, and then I'm going to need a follow-up team to come in here and do a little cleaning."
Kennedy should have known by his tone that it was a mistake to question him while he was still in the field. They'd been down this road dozens of times and it never ended well. She relented by saying, "I'll get back to you with an answer in ten minutes or less."
"One more thing. Our friends on the other side of the pond...they have a base close by. That would be best. No customs. Freight delivery to the back gate. Make the transfer in a hangar. Real private. No do-gooders shooting video."
"Absolutely. I'll arrange it. Anything else?"
"For now that should be enough."
"Good. Great work! Give me a few minutes to get the pieces moving, and I'll get right back to you."
"Thanks." Rapp disconnected the call and looked down at Gazich. He'd lost a bit of his color and he was starting to shake a bit. Rapp knew he hadn't hit any major arteries, both by his aim and the lack of blood on the wood floor. Nonetheless, shock was fast approaching. Gazich's body would be trying to shut certain things down to stave off the excruciating pain. Rapp had no fear of losing him. Gazich was young and fit. He could take it, and he honestly deserved this and a whole lot more.
Rapp squatted down on his haunches and looked Gazich in the eye. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me who hired you?"
15.
T he plane was big. Bigger than they needed, but Rapp wasn't complaining. It was a Lockheed Martin TriStar. She was designed to carry up to 400 passengers, or 88,000 pounds of cargo. This one, with its wide body and three big engines, was configured for cargo. She was a sister ship to the venerable DC-10. As far as aviation went, she was a little long in the tooth. From the outside the plane looked like any other international freight carrier. There were no windows other than the ones in the cockpit. The skin was painted a generic white, and the name he plane was big. Bigger than they needed, but Rapp wasn't complaining. It was a Lockheed Martin TriStar. She was designed to carry up to 400 passengers, or 88,000 pounds of cargo. This one, with its wide body and three big engines, was configured for cargo. She was a sister ship to the venerable DC-10. As far as aviation went, she was a little long in the tooth. From the outside the plane looked like any other international freight carrier. There were no windows other than the ones in the cockpit. The skin was painted a generic white, and the name Worldwide Freight Worldwide Freight ran along the back half of the fuselage in large blue letters. The CIA had more planes than some small air forces, but thanks to a politically motivated hack in the CIA's Inspector General's Office Rapp couldn't go near them. At least not for something like this. ran along the back half of the fuselage in large blue letters. The CIA had more planes than some small air forces, but thanks to a politically motivated hack in the CIA's Inspector General's Office Rapp couldn't go near them. At least not for something like this.
A little over a year ago, this same bureaucrat took it upon herself to tell a reporter that the CIA was ferrying terrorists around Eastern Europe in a Gulfstream 5 and a Boeing 737. Many of these terrorists were high ranking al-Qaeda operatives. They were taken to undisclosed locations and put in uncomfortable situations until they decided to talk, which all of them eventually did. The information they provided proved invaluable in picking apart al-Qaeda's operational and financial infrastructure. That single leak had crippled one of Langley's most important operations in the war on terror. Yet again, Rapp was forced to stay one step ahead of his own government.
The strategy with the planes was not very different than the one Rapp used with his mobile phones. The worldwide aviation market was a vast and intricate association of sellers, resellers, leasers, and lessees. Carriers were constantly updating their fleets, replacing older models with newer, more fuel efficient ones. That left a surplus of unused aircrafts. These planes were often kicked down the line, leased and subleased a half dozen times until they either broke down or crashed flying in and out of some war-torn country in Africa. The big Lockheed TriStar was still in good shape. She had been leased for one month through a company in Seattle. The company specialized in subleasing planes on a short-term basis. Their business model was simple. As power companies sold excess power to other utilities, these guys leased planes that weren't being used during slow times of the year. They had no idea the CIA was their client. Everything was done through an attorney's office in Frankfurt. The pilots were a couple of old U.S. Air Force colonels who liked cash and knew how to keep their mouths shut.
Rapp stood on the tarmac next to a battered gray Royal Air Force hangar. The big TriStar was inside. The sky in the east was showing the first signs of morning. The humid, salty Mediterranean air rolled in across the flat expanse of the base. There was nothing but asphalt, concrete, dirt, and scrub brush for miles in every direction. About fifty feet away Scott Coleman was talking with a British officer who had met them at the back gate fifteen minutes earlier. Coleman handed the officer something and the man took it. Then they shook hands and the RAF officer jumped in a Land Rover and sped off. Coleman walked over slowly shaking his head. A grin on his face.
The retired Navy SEAL said, "God, I love the Brits."
Rapp nodded. "They know how to keep their mouths shut."
"He gets off in a couple hours. He said he'd leave the van in the airport garage with the keys under the mat. All we have to do is call the rental company."
"Good. And the plane?"
"Refueled and cleared for takeoff."
"Good. Let's get out of here before the sun comes up."
The two men turned and walked into the shadowy hangar. Where Rapp was dark-haired and olive-skinned, Coleman was fair-haired and fair-skinned. Rapp fit in pretty much anywhere in the Middle East. Coleman, with his blue eyes and blond hair, would have looked more at home in Sweden or Norway. Probably Iceland as well. He had the high cheekbones and the stoic demeanor of the Northern Tribes. The stoic part worked well with Rapp. Less was almost always more, especially when it came to conversation. Coleman, like Rapp, was not one for idle chatter.
After Coleman had arrived at Gazich's office, he and Rapp had taken a moment to figure out a plan of action. Neither liked the idea of staying put. If the police showed up, they would have to explain two dead Russians, another Russian who looked like some African tribe had gotten hold of him, and a Bosnian with four bullet holes in him. Marching everyone out of the cafe in the middle of a busy Saturday night would also not work. Sitting tight until the place closed was the best option. In order to do that, though, they would need the old man to cooperate. Sooner or later someone was sure to come looking for him.
They untied the old man and sat him down for a talk. The big Russian was still unconscious and Gazich remained silent on the floor despite the obvious pain of his wounds. The man's name was Andreas Papadakos, and he was the owner of the building. He had met Alexander Deckas five years ago. The man paid his rent in advance every six months. He traveled frequently and had never been a problem. That was until the Russians showed up a few days earlier looking for him. They told Papadakos that Deckas was a hired gun. An assassin. They told him they worked for the Russian State Police and they were there to arrest Deckas and bring him back to Russia for trial.
The old man asked the Russians for identification. They told him not to worry, so he said he would call the local cops. That was when things got ugly. Papadakos had five daughters who worked for him. He had grandchildren coming and going all day. Sixteen of them. The Russians had already cased the place and told him if he called the authorities, or warned Deckas, they would dismember his grandchildren one by one.
Up until this point, the only real opinion Rapp had formed of the big Russian was that he was an irritant. He even felt a little sorry for the guy now that his face looked like one of those latex masks costume shops sell around Halloween. After hearing that he had threatened to cut up little children, all of Rapp's sympathy vanished.
Over the years Rapp had done a lot of interrogations. They ranged from the mundane, like talking to a street vendor in Damascus about something he may have seen, to threatening to blow a man's head off. All those years of experience had led to an ability to pretty much tell from the start when someone was being either forthright or deceptive in their answers. Papadakos denied any knowledge or involvement with Deckas. Furthermore, there were the five daughters and the sixteen grandchildren. Why would he endanger them by getting into business with a guy like Gazich?
In the end, the situation dictated what they needed to do. Involved or not involved, Papadakos did not want the cops snooping around. If Rapp found out later that the man and Gazich were full business partners he would come back and get him. Papadakos had spent his whole life in Limassol. He was not going to simply disappear and leave his business and grandchildren behind. So a deal was struck. Once the cafe was closed, Rapp would get rid of the bodies and the old man and his family could go on living their lives as if nothing had ever happened.
Rapp followed Papadakos downstairs and kept an eye on him. The rest of Coleman's men showed up a few minutes past 11:00. All three were former SEALs who had served under Coleman. Wicker and Hacket casually walked up to the sedan with the dead Russian in the front seat. Wicker climbed behind the wheel and Hacket got in back. Wicker started the car, put it into drive, and slid out of the space. Fifteen minutes later they found a nice dark alley a little more than a mile away. Hacket got out and walked it from one end to the other, just to make sure it was deserted. Wicker circled back around, drove halfway down the dark canyon, and turned off the car. The dome light was extinguished and the trunk popped.
Hacket was waiting at the rear bumper snapping on a pair of disposable latex gloves. When the trunk lid came up, he reached in and yanked the clear plastic cover off the light casing. He flicked the cover into the recesses of the trunk and pulled the small bulb out of its slot. With darkness restored, Hacket walked around to the front passenger door and opened it a few feet. The body began to fall out of the car. Hacket placed his left hand on the head of the dead man, opened the door the rest of the way and then grabbed the limp body under both armpits. He dragged him out of the car and back to the trunk. Wicker stood on the other side of the car, his head slowly turning from one end of the alley and then back. The Russian was at least 200 pounds, but Hacket was a solid 225. He hefted the torso into the trunk face down and then picked up the legs, and twisted and bent the body the rest of the way in. Hacket softly closed the lid and they drove away.
By the time they got back to the cafe, the place was nearly empty. Parking was not a problem. Brooks was across the street packing and sanitizing the hotel room. Coleman and Stroble were treating wounds, securing the prisoners, and going through Gazich's stuff looking for information. Both the big Russian and Gazich were given morphine. Rapp sat at the bar, drank a glass of wine, and kept an eye on Papadakos. As business slowed and the place began to empty, the old man joined Rapp at the bar and ordered a bottle of red. He drank three glasses in under thirty minutes and ordered another bottle. He was clearly anxious to be done with the entire drama.
At 1:00 in the morning the last two patrons were shown the door. They stumbled off, weaving their way down the sidewalk in search of the nightclubs a few blocks over. By 2:00 a.m. the street was pretty still. Brooks stood watch at one end of the block and Wicker the other. The big Russian was marched down the stairs under his own power. The dead Russian and Gazich needed to be carried. They debated wrapping them up in tablecloths, but decided the better route was to make it look like they were drunk. Hacket and Stroble carried Gazich out first, the two former SEALs book-ending the Bosnian, one under each arm, like three drunk sailors on shore leave. They stuffed him in the back of the van and then went back for the dead Russian. He was carried down in the same fashion and placed in the backseat of the car that Wicker had driven earlier.
Wicker came back from his post at the end of the block and climbed behind the wheel of the car with one dead Russian in the backseat and another one in the trunk. He pulled away from the curb with Hacket following him in the rental car they had picked up while they waited for their luggage at the airport. They were headed back to the same alley. The dead Russian in the backseat would join the dead Russian in the trunk, and then Wicker would abandon the car in a nice shady spot, where with any luck the stench would go unnoticed for a few days. After that they were to head up to Gazich's house in the hills where they would search it from top to bottom.
Rapp said good-bye to Papadakos and thanked him for his cooperation. The old man asked Rapp what would happen to Deckas. Rapp lied and told him he wasn't sure, even though he knew exactly what he was going to do with him. He was going to squeeze every last bit of information from him and then he was going to give him a death befitting a man who set off car bombs in the middle of an urban neighborhood. He needed to be made an example of. Rapp could tell the old man was worried so he told him that people way above his pay grade would be sorting the whole mess out. If Rapp had only known how accurate that statement was he probably would have finished off Gazich right there on Cyprus.
16.
WASHINGTON, DC.
T he phone rang at 6:01 a.m. Kennedy noticed the time before she answered the phone. She was lying on her left side, and the glowing green numbers of her alarm clock were staring her straight in the face when she opened her eyes. She reached out with her right hand and grabbed the handset. Attempting to view the small caller ID screen without her glasses would be futile. The cord got caught on something, so she tugged. A magazine and the TV remote fell to the floor. For security reasons she did not own a cordless phone. She kept her head on the pillow and brought the sturdy beige handset to her right ear. he phone rang at 6:01 a.m. Kennedy noticed the time before she answered the phone. She was lying on her left side, and the glowing green numbers of her alarm clock were staring her straight in the face when she opened her eyes. She reached out with her right hand and grabbed the handset. Attempting to view the small caller ID screen without her glasses would be futile. The cord got caught on something, so she tugged. A magazine and the TV remote fell to the floor. For security reasons she did not own a cordless phone. She kept her head on the pillow and brought the sturdy beige handset to her right ear.
"Hello."
"Director Kennedy?"
"Speaking."
"Major Hansen...duty officer White House Situation Room."
"Yes, Major."
"POTUS has called a meeting for zero seven hundred." POTUS was the military's acronym for President of the United States.
"In the Situation Room?"
"No, the Oval, Ma'am."
"I'll be there."
Kennedy placed the handset back in its cradle and thought, So much for sleeping in on Sundays. So much for sleeping in on Sundays. She threw back the covers and laughed to herself. She was going to be out of a job pretty soon. Or at least this job, and whatever job came after this one would be undoubtedly less demanding. She could sleep in all the Sundays she wanted. She threw back the covers and laughed to herself. She was going to be out of a job pretty soon. Or at least this job, and whatever job came after this one would be undoubtedly less demanding. She could sleep in all the Sundays she wanted.
The tile on the bathroom floor felt cold on her bare feet. January in DC. Kennedy turned on the bathroom light and studied her face in the mirror. At forty-five she looked pretty good for her age, but at six in the morning with no makeup and bed lines on her face, she was frightening. Being a woman in this town wasn't easy. She turned on the shower to give it a chance to warm up and started brushing her teeth. With toothbrush in mouth she walked out to the kitchen and put on some hot water for her tea. On the way back she poked her head in her son's room to check on him. He was safe and warm beneath the covers.
Kennedy did not like being cold. She put her hair up and stepped into the hot shower. For five minutes she stood under the water, increasing the temperature until her skin turned pink. It took her five minutes to dry off and get dressed and another five to put on her face. By 6:33 she'd alerted her security detail of the meeting and was in the kitchen taking her first sip of tea and dialing the Global Ops Center at Langley on a secure line. The duty officer answered on the first ring. Kennedy asked him if there was anything worth reporting. He said it had been a pretty slow night. She was surprised by the answer and asked him if he was sure. He told her he was. The director thanked him and hung up.
Kennedy grabbed the warm mug with both hands, leaned against the kitchen counter and asked herself why the president was calling a 7:00 a.m. meeting on a Sunday morning. If the Global Ops Center was in the dark, the odds were the crisis had emanated at the Pentagon, or maybe Justice. With one week to go until the ax fell, Kennedy found herself strangely ambivalent about the whole thing. She took another sip of tea and wondered if this was good or bad. She'd been the consummate professional her entire adult life. She spent more than twenty years at Langley and she had given it her all. The job had even cost her a marriage. She thought about that for a moment and realized it wasn't fair to blame the failed marriage on Langley. It would have failed if she'd been a stay-at-home mom. Her ex was too selfish. He proved that yet again when his second marriage fell apart after nine short months. He was a decent man, but a mama's boy, which made him extremely high maintenance and Kennedy had neither the time nor the desire to give his ego the attention he desired. Plus, one-way relationships were never a good idea.
Kennedy climbed into the back of her Town Car and picked up the Sunday edition of the Post. Post. Maybe withdrawing from the job was her subconscious protecting herself from the inevitable disappointment of being shown the door. Anything was possible, she supposed. She did not want to leave Langley, especially after such a brief stint as director. She'd been there over twenty years. Practically her entire adult life. She would miss the people and the action that went along with running the world's most unfairly maligned spy agency. She wouldn't miss the hours, and she most definitely wouldn't miss the politics. She'd miss the place though. There was no doubt about it. Maybe withdrawing from the job was her subconscious protecting herself from the inevitable disappointment of being shown the door. Anything was possible, she supposed. She did not want to leave Langley, especially after such a brief stint as director. She'd been there over twenty years. Practically her entire adult life. She would miss the people and the action that went along with running the world's most unfairly maligned spy agency. She wouldn't miss the hours, and she most definitely wouldn't miss the politics. She'd miss the place though. There was no doubt about it.
When they pulled up to the first checkpoint, it was already 7:00 a.m. By the time she cleared security she was five minutes late. When she entered the Oval Office she found four men standing in a loose circle around the president's desk. They were the president himself, Attorney General Stokes, FBI Director Roach, and PresidentElect Alexander. Roach was in a gray suit and striped tie. The other three were wearing blazers, dress slacks, and open-collar shirts. At first glance she was surprised by the absence of several key players, the Secretaries of Defense and State, the president's national security advisor and his chief of staff. Then she remembered it was a Sunday morning with just six days left until the peaceful, democratic transfer of power. Very little got done this week. The career bureaucrats and professionals were busy running the government while the political appointees had either moved onto new jobs or were busy looking for one.
President Hayes stopped talking when he saw Kennedy and said, "There she is. The woman of the hour."
All four sets of eyes focused on Kennedy. She blushed slightly and asked, "And why would that be, Mr. President?"
"Always modest, this one," Hayes said to PresidentElect Alexander. "You'll figure that out soon enough. No offense to these two over here," Hayes gestured to Stokes and Roach, "They have done admirable jobs, but this one here...she's done an amazing job and she gets almost no credit for it. All of her victories and successes are locked up in a vault out at Langley. A hundred years from now they'll be writing about her in the history books."
Kennedy blushed. She stood motionless midway between the door and where they were standing. She was not used to such attention and looked uncomfortable.
Hayes smiled, gestured toward the furniture opposite his desk, and said, "Let's sit."
Two lengthy couches, big enough to comfortably seat four adults each, faced one another with a glass-topped coffee table in between. In front of the fireplace sat two blue and gold striped silk armchairs. President Hayes gestured for Alexander to sit next to him in front of the fireplace. The place of honor.
"Would anyone care for coffee or tea?" Hayes was hovering in between the two couches. He bent down and dropped a bag of Green Tea in a china cup and added hot water. His hand shook ever so slightly. "Irene." He placed the cup on a saucer and handed it to Kennedy.
Kennedy had not missed the president's unsteady hand. Even with the medicine he'd been taking for his Parkinson's, the tremors had grown in frequency and severity over the last few months. He'd lost nothing mentally, but she understood why he'd decided to not seek reelection. In this new media age the scrutiny would have been horrible. The other side would have attacked him as selfish for not stepping aside. Elements of his own party would have undoubtedly done the same, and with an approval rating in the low forties, his chances for victory were a crapshoot at best. With his decision not to run he had secured his reputation in the history books. He would be looked on as a wise, unselfish man. Kennedy agreed with that assessment. Robert Hayes had never lost sight of the fact that the office was bigger than the man.
The other three men took coffee and then Hayes settled in next to Alexander in front of the fireplace. He looked over at his replacement and asked, "Where are you staying this week?"
"The Willard."
"Ah," the president nodded. "A grand old hotel."
"Yes."
"They have you in a good room, I hope," Hayes grinned.
"The top floor."
"My offer still stands."
"Blair House," Alexander said in a dead voice.
"It's close, and very secure."
"Thank you, Mr. President, but there are simply too many people coming and going this week. The party has me booked from sun up till sun down."
"Thanking all the fat cats." Hayes nodded, having gone through the same thing four years earlier.
Hayes was turned sideways in his chair half facing his replacement. He barely knew the governor from Georgia, but it was obvious that he had changed since the attack on his motorcade. He seemed more distant. His eyes were not as full of promise as they'd been during the early months of the campaign. Hayes wondered if this would help him when he took over the reins of power. Make him more thoughtful and reflective. Or if he'd become jaded from his experience. The president felt sorry for him. This should be a week full of hope and promise. A renewal of sorts. Maybe the news he had for him would help bring about some closure.