The Survivor (28 page)

“Answer me, Ahmed!”

Taj frowned. He'd assumed the question was rhetorical and the fool would continue to shout endlessly while saying nothing of consequence.
A gift all politicians had but that this one excelled at in particular.

“Sir, there was simply no question that the press was going to cover this incident. I have the article you're concerned about in front of me and while it lays out the facts, I don't find it disrespectful to you or your administration. It—”

“Not disrespectful? Can you read, Ahmed? It makes me look powerless. How could this have even happened? It's your job and the job of the S Wing to control these events.”

It was an interesting choice of words. Not “prevent” but “control.” And indeed Taj did. He had personally planned and authorized the attack. It was all part of the delicate balance he was attempting to strike. While Chutani's assassination—ostensibly by the Americans—needed to be an event that stoked Pakistan's nationalism, the dead president couldn't be
too
popular. He needed to be portrayed as a good man who wasn't equal to the task. The people had to understand that Pakistan needed a stronger leader. Someone who could achieve the order that the democrats had so miserably failed to deliver.

“The death of Akhtar Durrani created a period of blindness, Mr. President. I assure you that his successor has now fully transitioned into his position. Making that transition completely seamless, though, was impossible and the Taliban knew it. They took advantage of the brief period of weakness.”

“Excuses!”

“I'm sorry,” Taj said, conjuring a hint of fearfulness. “I'm doing the best—”

“We have to deal with the reporter, Ahmed. Now. There's nothing we can do about your incompetence in letting the attack succeed, but we can certainly shape the aftermath.”

“The article has already been published, sir. There's no way to—”

“It's emboldening the other media outlets!” Chutani shouted. “In the last two days, there have been two articles critical of my involvement with the American drone attacks, and a newscaster has come out publicly
against secular education. Without consequences, there is no way to know what they'll say next.”

Chutani wanted to impress the West with a free press just so long as it was entirely supportive of his administration. And when it wasn't, he called the man he'd hired for his weakness, expecting him to suddenly transform into an assassin.

“What kind of consequences are you talking about, sir?”

“We don't need a press like the Americans have, Ahmed. One that spews lies and distortions twenty-four hours a day in search of profits. Pakistan needs fair and patriotic media outlets dedicated to moving the country forward. This recent activity sets a dangerous precedent.”

Taj smiled. Of course, the politician wouldn't give a specific order. He had to have deniability. Should the coercion of Pakistan's newspeople become public, he would need Taj and the ISI as a scapegoat.

“Private media is dependent on advertising dollars, Mr. President. I'll have my people speak to the companies that support these outlets and ask them whether it's in their best interest to encourage this kind of journalism.”

There was a long, disappointed silence. Chutani undoubtedly wanted the man dead and Taj completely understood. After he had closed his fist around Pakistan, a man like this would watch his entire family die before being exterminated like the animal he was. However, now wasn't the time to be pulled into something this controversial. He would need the Americans' unwitting support during his rise to power, and the assassination of a journalist could jeopardize that support.

“I assure you, this will be quite effective,” Taj continued. “No media company can afford to be painted as unpatriotic, and a large number of their advertisers have significant ownership by the army and ISI. They'll publish no more articles critical of you, and if we proceed carefully, I think we can coerce a retraction. Or at least a clarification that highlights the difficulties of stamping out terrorism and provides examples of how effective your administration has been thus far.”

“If this is your recommendation, I will accept it,” Chutani said, still
unwilling to make demands that could be traced back to him. “But I expect results, Ahmed.”

There was a knock on his office door and a moment later Kabir Gadai entered.

“I think you'll be quite satisfied,” Taj said, watching his assistant approach. “We should be able to resolve the situation without undue risk to you or your government.”

“Tomorrow morning, Ahmed. I want a briefing on your plan's specifics tomorrow morning.”

“I'll have my people schedule a meeting.”

The line went dead and Taj hung up the phone. “Our president can be quite the hysterical woman.”

Gadai smiled and took a seat.

“What news do you have for me, Kabir? Have you determined what was in the Rickman file that we released?”

“I believe I have, sir.” He held out a manila envelope containing a number of eight-by-ten photographs, and Taj began flipping through them. He recognized the city as London and two of the men behind the police barricade as being from MI6 and the CIA, but other than that, the images meant little to him.

“Those are stills from security cameras installed near the Iranian ambassador's residence. Our resources say that he and his family were taken by Iranian security in the middle of the night. They're being recalled to Tehran.”

“Was a threat made against him? This might have been done for his own protection.”

“That's what we thought at first, too.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Do you see the man in the black coat? The one whose face is always turned away from the camera? We believe that's Mitch Rapp.”

Taj spread out the photos in front of him and studied the man in question. It was difficult to determine detail but, in a strange way, that's what made the images stand out. In the middle of London, during a well-lit police operation, there wasn't a single definitive photo.

Taj leaned back in his chair and met his assistant's gaze. “So, you're saying that Kamal Safavi was on the CIA's payroll?”

“It seems likely. Since this occurred, there's been a huge increase in diplomatic traffic between Iran and the United States, including a reported personal conversation between the ayatollah and President Alexander. It's the first direct communication between the two men that we're aware of.”

Taj felt the perspiration break across his forehead. If he'd had an asset this highly placed, only one or two of his most trusted people would have known. Kennedy operated no differently. If Rickman had access to this level of intelligence, what else could be hidden in his files? What did he know about the Israelis? About America's politicians and allies? Indeed, what did he know about Pakistan?

“It's a massive blow to the U.S.,” Gadai said, sounding typically prideful. “The thawing of relations between Iran and America was one of the cornerstones of Alexander's Middle East strategy. He hoped to build a Shiite bulwark against the expansion of Sunni militias.”

“Don't be too pleased with yourself, Kabir. The loss of Safavi has harmed America but if we'd had access to this information instead of being forced to release it, we would have had the tools to turn one of the CIA's highest-placed assets. He was a well-liked moderate with political aspirations. Who knows how useful he could have been in keeping the Iranians in their place. This wasn't a victory, it was an opportunity missed. Don't ever forget that.”

“Yes, sir,” Gadai said, averting his eyes appropriately.

Taj needed to keep the young man's arrogance in check, and highlighting the negative side of the situation was a good way of doing it. Having said that, it was admittedly difficult not to revel in this particular failure. A partnership between Iran and America would significantly extend the West's influence in the Middle East. It was a natural alliance that had been made impossible by a powerful—but largely empty—animosity between the two countries. Now the flames of that fire would once again burn bright.

“The question I'm interested in, Kabir, is whether the file release got
us any closer to finding the man who can decrypt the files.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Gadai said, recovering quickly from his reprimand. “My people were able to trace it even farther than they originally thought. Perhaps as few as two more releases will lead us to his location.”

“And the next one is scheduled for when?”

“Tomorrow.”

Taj nodded thoughtfully. It was difficult not to speculate what that dispatch contained. What damage it would do to the country that believed it had the right to rule the world.

“Unfortunately, we have no choice. You have my authorization.”

R
OME

I
TALY

T
HE
sun was up by the time Mitch Rapp's Gulfstream landed at the private airport in Rome. It had barely rolled to a stop when a black BMW with heavily tinted windows pulled alongside. Rapp jumped out of the plane without lowering the stairs and walked briskly across the runway. Inside the car, Mike Nash leaned over the seats and threw one of the back doors open. Rapp slid inside and a moment later they were accelerating toward the highway.

“Your suit and tie are in the garment bag,” Nash said. “There's a passport in the breast pocket with the name Mitch Kruse. The entry stamps have you arriving last night. You were on a Turkish Airlines flight out of Dulles.”

Typically thorough but, ironically, Rapp wasn't the problem on that particular day. His operations on Italian soil had all gone relatively smoothly. Nash, on the other hand, had been betrayed during a rendition in Sicily a few years back and was now a wanted man in Italy. This little excursion must have been important if Kennedy was willing to risk sending him to Rome.

“Who are you?” Rapp asked, unzipping the garment bag.

“Michael
Blake, aka a guy who's very anxious to finish this little errand and get out of here.”

Rapp started stripping off his clothes as they merged into traffic. The suit was his, one of a few he kept in a locker at Langley. So was the Glock 19 and the custom shoulder holster that contained it. A silencer hung from the side opposite the weapon, as did a spare magazine. Hopefully, neither would be necessary. The heat coming down on the CIA from enemies and allies alike was starting to take its toll on ops all over the globe.

“Where are we going?”

“To see an attorney. Our luck might finally be changing. We had DaisyChain searching for mentions of law firms—”

“You got the NSA involved?”

Rapp didn't trust those tech freaks. He spent more time worrying about them monitoring his communications than he did about foreign intelligence agencies.

“No choice, Mitch. We just don't have that kind of computer firepower.”

London had already put him in a dark mood, and the involvement of Fort Meade wasn't making it any better.

“We'll talk about that later,” Rapp said, pulling the partially buttoned dress shirt over his head. “What did they come up with?”

“More stuff than I want to remember. All complete crap until they turned up an obituary from an Italian newspaper. A woman named Isabella Accorso was killed in a car accident along with her daughter.”

“How is this interesting to me?”

“Well, first, she worked at a large law firm managing trusts and payments to clients. She's the person who'd administer the kind of scenario we think Rick set up. We figure he'd check in with someone like her on a given schedule, and if he didn't, she'd start sending the files he gave her.”

“That's it?” Rapp said.

“No. The crash was a head-on with a truck that crossed into her lane. The driver was an undocumented Pakistani immigrant.”

“Thin.”

“It
gets better. Irene strong-armed the Italians into giving us the records from the law firm's Internet service provider. We found heavily encrypted files going out the day before the Rickman stuff hit the streets.”

“Is he alive?”

“Who?”

“The Pakistani driver.”

“Yeah.”

“Can we get to him?”

“Well, he's in an unguarded hospital room if that's what you mean.”

“I take it that's not as good as it sounds.”

“He apparently wasn't wearing a seat belt and the part of his brain you'd want to communicate with is still on the inside of the windshield. So we're on our way to talk to the managing partner of Accorso's firm.”

Rapp finished dressing and did the best he could to smooth his unruly hair. The reflection in the side window suggested that despite the month's salary he'd spent on the suit, it didn't have the power to make him look respectable. His grooming was aimed more at being able to walk around Kabul unnoticed than blending into American boardrooms.

He sat back and watched the ancient buildings pass by. Italy had always felt like a second home to him. He'd spent many happy—if infuriating—months living there with a fashion designer who had a way with ice picks. Probably not the right woman for him, but also not entirely the wrong one. She understood and accepted the life he'd chosen, neither judging him nor worrying every time he didn't make it home for dinner. On the other hand, he'd never been able to sleep well lying next to her. There was no question that there was a price at which she'd turn that ice pick on him. A high price, to be sure, but he'd still found himself habitually searching the bed for hidden weapons while they were having sex.

He'd resigned himself to the fact that another Anna Reilly would never come along. Trying to find a replica of her would only make him and the poor woman he ended up with miserable.