The Survivor (31 page)

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.”

“So let's say our guy is on that list,” Rapp said, putting down his magazine. “How do we narrow it down?”

“I send out a phishing email.”

Rapp's suspicion of technology had made him somewhat ignorant of it. In his mind, it was better to just stay away from things that evolved on an hourly schedule and could be grasped only by teenagers.

“Like the ones you get pretending to be your bank and asking for your password?”

“Exactly. We'd send a file from that Italian law firm's server to everyone on the list. The guy we're looking for would try to decrypt it, but I'd make it so it comes up corrupted. Whoever responds and asks for us to resend it is the person we're looking for.”

“And you'd be able to trace that email?”

“If I'm ready for it and you were serious about giving me access to a whole lot of the NSA's bandwidth, yeah. I can trace it.”

Kennedy was the first to raise an objection. “Fifty seems like a lot, Marcus. You hackers communicate, don't you? In private chat rooms and forums? Isn't
it likely that someone will mention getting this email? And that other people will say they did, too? Won't that raise suspicions?”

“It's definitely a risk. But it's the best thing I can come up with.”

“Why can't we narrow it down?” Rapp said.

Everyone looked over at him. “How?” Nash asked.

“Rick would pick the best one.”

“I agree,” Kennedy said. “But that's a subjective concept. What's ‘best'?”

Rapp stood and took the list from her, spreading it out on the Ping-Pong table before motioning Dumond over. “Rick never made a move without knowing all the angles. He researched everything to death and had more contacts in more places than anyone in the Agency.”

“I don't understand what you're getting at,” Dumond said.

“How many of these people are you friends with or have you collaborated with in the past? Rick would know we'd give you the lead on this, so it seems pretty unlikely that he'd hand the job to someone you're close to. Mark off all your friends.”

“Hey, Mitch . . . like I told you, the people on this list are pretty bent. I wouldn't hang out with guys who'd do something like this.”

Rapp turned toward Dumond and the hacker again let his eyes drift to the floor.

“Look at me, Marcus.”

“Mitch, I—”

“You know what kind of people I deal with every day?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he mumbled.

“Then you'll believe me when I say that I couldn't give a fuck about a bunch of people running around stealing credit card numbers. What I care about—all I care about—is you putting me in front of this guy.”

Dumond reluctantly pulled out a pen and began marking through names. It turned out to be more than Rapp would have guessed. When he was finished, there were only about twenty names left.

“Mitch is right,” Kennedy said. “But let's take it one step further. How many of the remaining people have you hurt, Marcus? Blocked,
stolen from, or made look foolish? How many hate you enough that they'd fight you every step if you ever tried to get to them?”

He scanned through the list. “Maybe four.”

Rapp tapped the page with his index finger. “Then that's where we start.”

•  •  •

Rapp followed Irene Kennedy into her office and closed the door behind him.

“What do you want to talk to me about?”

Normally Rapp avoided headquarters like the plague, and that day he'd been forced to take the full tour—public elevators, the basement, and more crowded hallways than he could count. As a man who valued anonymity beyond all other things, being gawked at and backslapped by half the Agency wasn't going down well.

“Please have a seat.”

He would have preferred to stay close to the door, but there was a weight to Kennedy's tone that suggested the meeting was going to be neither quick nor easy.

“What is it?” he said, doing as she asked.

“I have a meeting with the president scheduled for later this afternoon.”

“Let me guess. Kamal Safavi?”

Tensions between the United States and the Iranians continued to escalate, with accusations being flung from both sides. Tehran had completely shut down diplomatic relations, and President Alexander was talking about a new round of sanctions. In the meantime, the fledgling cooperation between the two countries with regard to controlling the Sunnis was dead in the water.