Rapp’s instinct was to pummel the big idiot for lying to him, but caution got the best of him, and he decided he should at least wait until they were back in the air. Even with the broken jaw, the Russian tried to speak. Rapp was running out of energy and patience. Brooks sensed this so she shot the Russian up with another dose of Thorazine and sent him back to la-la land. By the time they were wheels up, and pointed west toward home, Rapp was too tired to do anything other than sleep. That was over three hours ago.
Rapp unbuckled his seat belt and stepped into the aisle. The years of pushing his body to the limit were catching up to him. His lower back, his knees, his hips; everything ached. He was hit with a flash of vertigo and grabbed the leather seatback in front of him to steady himself.
Brooks was sitting in the seat, working on a laptop. She felt her seat move and looked up. “May I help you?” she said with a bit of attitude.
Rapp knew he’d been unduly hard on her, but he hadn’t decided yet if he was going to apologize. This was a hard business. The CIA in general was one thing. It was more like IBM than most people realized. But the Clandestine Service was a different thing all together. It was more like Wall Street. Timid artists and wilting flowers need not apply. If you needed a lot of positive reinforcement to motivate you to do your job, you were at the wrong place.
“Would you like some coffee?”
She stared at him for a long moment before she answered. “Sure.”
There was a small galley at the front of the cabin. Next to it were two sleeping berths. Stroble was sleeping in one, Coleman the other. Blue privacy curtains were drawn across each. Rapp quietly opened one of the metal cupboards and grabbed a packet of coffee. He dropped it in the top of the machine and pressed the green button. Rapp stretched and cracked his neck while he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. When it was done he poured two cups and brought one back to Brooks.
Brooks set her laptop on the seat next to her and took the white mug. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Rapp sat on the armrest of the seat directly across the aisle.
“You see, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“What?” Rapp frowned.
“Manners…I say thank you…You say you’re welcome.”
He rolled his eyes and said, “You know, you didn’t do a bad job over the last month.”
“Whoa…slow down there, partner.” She arched her brows in a show of mock surprise. “That’s a hell of an endorsement. Is that how you’re going to write it up in my file. ‘Didn’t do a bad job.’”
“Listen, you need to understand this is not an easy job. I don’t…”
“Stop!” Brooks put her hand up cutting him off. “This isn’t about me. That’s what I finally realized. When I threw the wine in your face I was still thinking about me. I was frustrated with the way you had treated me. The way you ordered me around like a little kid. Like I was some brainless rookie.”
“I did…”
“Let me finish. You’re Mitch Rapp. The living legend…bla…bla…bla. I was really impressed for the first month. Intimidated beyond belief, and then something clicked when we were on Cyprus. It wasn’t me. It was you.”
“You’re going to have to get a little more specific.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong other than the fact that I didn’t stand up to you earlier.”
“Listen…you have a lot to learn.”
“I wouldn’t disagree with you for a moment, but you need help.”
“What?” Rapp didn’t know if he should laugh or be offended.
“My dad was a little bit like you…well, no one is really quite like you, but he was similar in the sense that he was a horrible communicator. He was a fixer. He had to do everything himself. Never thought anyone could do as good of a job as he could.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy.”
“Yeah.” Brooks stared off into space for a second. “You would have liked him.”
“He’s not around anymore?”
“No. We lost him five years ago. Massive heart attack.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks. He was a good man. Very faithful to my mother and us kids. Just couldn’t communicate for shit. What about your dad?”
“Died when I was little.”
“Was he in the business?”
“No.” Rapp shook his head. “He was a suit. Good man, though.”
“You see, this is good.”
“What?”
“Talking.”
“Talking is overrated.”
Brooks smiled and her eyes lit up. “You’ve got some issues, and you’re not going to solve them by keeping things bottled up.”
“We all have issues.”
“You really have issues. Your wife died over a year ago, and I’ll bet you haven’t talked to a single counselor about it.”
Rapp’s face turned hard. “Watch your step. You never met my wife, and you don’t know me well enough to talk about this.”
“Fuck you.”
Rapp cocked his head to the side as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I learned it from you. No bullshit, speak the truth, and get the job done. That’s you. You don’t respect people who are incompetent, you don’t respect people who waste your time, and you really don’t respect people who are intimidated by you.”
“And?”
“I’m speaking the truth and you know it. You just don’t want to admit it. Big tough Mitch Rapp can’t go see a shrink and talk about his problems because that would be a sign of weakness and the one thing you despise more than anything in others is weakness. So your solution is to repress. To bury the pain and all you’re doing is making it worse.”
Rapp dropped his head into his right hand and mumbled, “Oh…fuck. My head hurts.” He’d had virtually the same conversation with Kennedy on Christmas Eve. “Why do you women always have to psychoanalyze me?”
“Because we all secretly want to be your mother or your lover.”
Rapp lifted his face out of his hand. “Huh.”
“I’m teasing…kind of. But let’s not get off the subject. You need to talk to someone about what happened to your wife.”
“You need to watch your step.”
Brooks defiantly shook her head. “No. What are you going to do? Hit me? Throw me out off the plane? I don’t think so. You need help. You’re just too scared to admit it.”
“I don’t need any help.” Rapp stood.
“Keep telling yourself that. You might actually believe it someday.”
18
R app opened the door at the rear of the cabin and stepped into the forward pressurized cargo area. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. The metal floor was streaked with dirt and grease where cargo had been pushed in and dragged out. A series of three overhead lights lit the space. It was empty except for one half-moon cargo container that was secured flush against the far bulkhead. Rapp looked at the shiny, dented aluminum container with a complete lack of enthusiasm. Subconsciously, he’d been hoping to put this off. Let someone else deal with it. Someone who was properly motivated. He was sure they could find plenty of Secret Service agents who would give up their badge for five minutes alone with Gazich. Maybe even the president-elect himself would like a private audience with the Bosnian.
Rapp tried to focus on his next step, but couldn’t get his mind off what Brooks had said. He’d allowed a twenty-something rookie to get under his skin to the point where he’d actually thought of hitting her just to get her to shut up. She’d driven him out of the windowless cabin and back into the cargo hold, simply because he didn’t want to hear another word. He was not well. He knew it. He just didn’t want to hear it. Especially from someone he barely knew.
With two hours left in the flight he could think of only one excuse to get away from her. The unofficial manual on interrogation was pretty straightforward when it came to a situation whe
re time was not critical. You softened up the detainee by stripping them of all sense of time and place, while at the same time building up a dossier on their history. Then you carefully crafted your plan of attack in the same way a prosecutor prepares to question a defendant at trial. Except in this situation there is no defense attorney to object and no judge to sustain the objection.
You start by asking only questions that you already know the answer to. That way if the detainee lies, you have grounds to make him uncomfortable until he tells you the truth. When he finally does, you move on to the next question. If he is honest, you move on again. If he lies, the pain/pleasure principle is put in to play. This continues until a pattern of honesty is developed and then you begin with the important stuff.
Usually twenty-four hours was the minimum time needed to properly disorient a subject. Gazich had been in the container going on thirteen hours. Not ideal, but then again the man had four gunshot wounds to very sensitive areas of the body. His last morphine shot had been delivered on the tarmac in Germany. Right about now, the drug would be wearing off and the pain would be hitting him in waves—increasing in frequency and strength.
Rapp approached the aluminum box and grabbed the handle. The front wall was basically two interlocking doors. Rapp was not worried that Gazich would be able to make any attempt at escape. He twisted the handle, spun it ninety degrees, and then swung the right door open. The inside of the door, as well as the rest of the container, was lined with gray acoustic foam. The box was five feet deep by eight feet wide. Rapp grabbed the other door and opened it as well.
Light spilled into the dark chamber throwing Rapp’s shadow onto Gazich’s body. The Bosnian was lying on a nylon field stretcher that sat only a few inches off the ground. His pants had been cut away so Stroble could clean and dress the gunshot wounds to his knees. Rapp looked at the bandages. They were clean and white. No sign of blood. Four wide straps secured Gazich to the stretcher as well as two wrist cuffs. Even if he were healthy he would have a hard time breaking free. With the wounds to his knees and hands it was hopeless.
Gazich squinted and turned his head just enough to look at the shadowy figure before him. “Is it time for my in-flight meal?”
Rapp laughed. “Yeah…filet mignon accompanied with a first-class Cabernet.”
“I prefer Bordeaux.”
“Great. So in addition to being a terrorist you’re also a wine snob.”
“No. I just hate America.” Gazich smiled showing off a slight gap between his top two teeth.
The fact that Gazich might harbor ill will toward the United States was something he had not considered. “So you have a beef with America?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“No. Actually we get along pretty well with most people.” As Rapp’s eyes adjusted to the change in light he could see that Gazich was sweating. “Would you like another shot of morphine?”
Gazich hesitated. He was not stupid. He had a fairly good idea how this game was played. “Not very sporting of you, the way you sneaked up behind me.”
“Back in Cyprus?”
“You hid behind that doorframe like a woman. The same way your pilots like to drop bombs from the sky.”
Rapp laughed. “Yeah, you Bosnians are famous for fighting fair. Is that what you were doing when you rounded up all those innocent Muslim women and children and slaughtered them?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“So you’re not a Bosnian?” Rapp asked in a sarcastic voice.
“I am Greek.”
Rapp shook his head. “You’re a liar. And a bad one at that, but I’ll play along with you for a while. What were those Russians doing in your office last night?”
“I don’t know. I have never seen them before.”
“So the guy on the street. The one sitting in the front seat of the parked car…you just shot him for no reason.”
“I do not know what you are talking about.”
For the first time Rapp was starting to think that Gazich might not be very smart. “I watched you walk down the street, stroll up to the open window, and shoot the man twice in the heart. And then you stood there and talked to him for a while before you took off and did your little dance across the roof tops.”
Gazich squirmed under the straps. After a long moment he said, “It was a disagreement.”
“So you do know them?”
“No.”
“Who was the disagreement between then?”
“A friend of mine and those Russian gangsters.”
Rapp eyed Gazich with suspicion. He wondered for a moment if it was possible that the attack in America and the Russians showing up in Cyprus were in fact unrelated. Once he started with the Russian he’d get to the bottom of it. The man would not be hard to break.
“The café owner?”
“Yes.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Why?” Gazich shut his eyes as he was hit with a wave of pain.
“The café owner says those Russians were looking for you.”
“He’s not all right in the head. He owed them money. They were threatening him, so I stepped in to help him out. We Greeks stick together.”
Rapp looked down at him, his patience quickly running out. He squatted down on his haunches and said, “I’m not a particularly patient man, so I’m going to get down to business. I know who you are. I know you’re not Greek, I know that those Russians were sent to Cyprus to kill you, and I know you were in Washington two and a half months ago.”
“I’m afraid you are confused.”
“Confused.” Rapp chewed on the word for a moment. “I’m a lot of things, but confused is not one of them. I’ll tell you what I am, though. I’m the last man on the planet that you want to piss off any further than you already have. I don’t enjoy this shit, but each time you jerk me off with one of your bullshit answers, I lose what little sympathy I have for you.”
“You don’t strike me as the caring type anyway.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Do you care about the truth? About justice? Are you open to the idea that maybe your cocksure American attitude has blinded your judgment? Do you think it’s possible that maybe I’m not the man you’re looking for?”
Rapp grinned and scratched the black stubble on his chin. “Oh…boy. You just don’t get it. You’re in way over your head.”
“I would like to speak to a lawyer.”
“Lawyer,” Rapp laughed. “That’s a good one. Did I forget to show you my badge?” Rapp patted his pockets. “Oh that’s right. I forgot. I don’t carry one.” He leaned in closer. “There aren’t going to be any lawyers. No judge. No jury. Just a really painful interrogation, a confession, and then your execution. Based on your attitude so far, I’d say there’s about a ninety-five percent chance that’s the way things will turn out.”
Gazich licked his lips and blinked his eyes. Rapp’s words were having very little effect on him due to the fact that he was more focused on the ever-increasing pain that seemed to be shooting from every inch of his body. “And the other five percent?”
“Compared to option A, I think it’s a pretty easy choice, but then again you haven’t shown yourself to be the most rational person so far.”
“What is it?”
“You tell me everything. Who hired you, how it was planned, where the money is. Everything.” Rapp could see Gazich weighing his options. “You and I both know,” Rapp added, “you’re going to tell me either way.”
“Then why not torture me? You seem like the type who would enjoy it.”
Rapp shook his head. “I’d prefer to do it the civilized way.”
“And when you’re done with me?”
“We’ll stick you in a prison for the rest of your life. Maybe you’ll be eligible for parole in thirty years, I don’t know.” Rapp was making it up as he went. He knew he had to give the man some hope. “Someone higher up than me will be making that decision.”
<
br /> “Doesn’t sound like a very good deal.”
“Compared to months of torture and an execution, I think it’s a pretty great deal.”
“You’re not the one on the receiving end.”
“I’m not the one who set off a car bomb that killed the new president’s wife.” Rapp watched as Gazich blinked and then looked away. The words had hit home.
“How about a shot of morphine?” Gazich asked in a tight voice. “I’d like to think about your offer.”
Rapp reminded himself that time was on his side. “All right. I’ll show you how nice we Americans are. I’ll give you the shot and then…”
The cabin door opened and Brooks stepped into the space. She had a satellite phone in her outstretched hand. “Someone needs to talk to you.”
There was something about her tone that told Rapp it was serious.
“All right.” Rapp looked back at Gazich and said, “I’ll be back in a minute.” He stood and started shutting the container doors.
“What about the morphine?” Gazich yelled.
Rapp sealed the doors and Gazich’s screams were reduced to a hollow muffle. Rapp walked across the open space and asked, “Who is it?”
“Director Kennedy.”
Rapp took the phone from Brooks, held it to his ear and asked, “What’s up?” He listened for ten seconds and then said, “Have you people lost your fucking minds?”
19
OVAL OFFICE, WASHINGTON, DC
T he horse had left the barn. That much Kennedy understood, and there was no getting it back. Attorney General Stokes and FBI Director Roach were over by the president’s desk using two separate secure phones to get their people moving. The president and president–elect were talking in earnest, still in the two chairs in front of the fireplace. The news of his wife’s killer’s capture had melted the wall between them. Kennedy had seen Alexander on only two occasions since the election. Both times the future leader seemed somber and detached, which was very uncharacteristic for the charismatic forty-five-year-old from Georgia. The news had reignited a spark in him that had been missing since the tragic death of his wife.