Pursuit of Honor Part 12

Rapp turned on to Chain Bridge Road, relieved that Nash had at least informed her that there was a problem. "Maggie, I need you to listen to me and I need you to understand that this comes from the heart. I'm damaged goods. I'm good at my job and that's about it. I've given up on ever having a normal life. But-"

She cut him off, "Don't say that, Mitch."

"Please let me speak. If I don't say this right now I don't think I ever will. I see you and Mike and your kids and I see the life I could have had with Anna. I blew it. I thought I could do both. I thought I could keep the two lives separate. Continue to do all the stuff I'd done for a decade and half. All the nasty s.h.i.+t I can't talk about."

"Mitch, you can't blame yourself."

"Anna knew it, Maggie. She begged me to get out of the field, let a new crop of guys take the fight to the bad guys, and I told her I would, but I never did. I kept telling myself, one more operation. One more bad guy to take down. I made excuse after excuse. I even lied to her about the c.r.a.p I was involved in because I knew she'd freak. I thought I could keep the two lives separate, and it was all a bunch of bulls.h.i.+t. And you know it, Maggie. I saw what you and the kids went through last year when he almost died, and then this c.r.a.p last week . . ." Rapp's voice trailed off as he thought of their dead colleagues. In a remorseful tone, he said, "This is no business for a family man."

Maggie sighed. "You don't have to convince me."

"Good. Then here's what we're going to do."

"We . . . as in you and I?"

"Yes." Rapp checked his mirrors.

"Mitch, I love you and I respect what you do. I admire your courage. I admire Michael's courage and commitment to what he believes in, but I hate your jobs and Michael knows it. I have tried to get him to quit, and he has yet to listen to me. What makes you think this time is going to be different?"

"Because we're not going to give him a choice in the matter."

"So . . . what are you saying? Are you going to fire him?"

"No. The opposite. I'm going to promote him."

"To what? For all I know you've been promoted a dozen times and it hasn't changed a thing."

"This is going to be different. I'm going to do you a favor, Maggie. I'm going to give you and your kids the life you deserve."

"That sounds great, Mitch, but I still don't get how you're going to pull it off. He's not a quitter. You try to promote him out of the clandestine side of the business and he'll turn you down."

"I might need your help on this, but in the end he's not going to have any choice in the matter. You're just going to have to trust me. You know Gabriel d.i.c.kerson?"

"Of course I do. Everyone in D.C. knows who Gabriel d.i.c.kerson is." Maggie worked for a prominent PR firm in town.

"Did Mike by chance tell you anything about last week . . . what happened at the office?"

"You mean the attack?"

"Yes."

"Yeah . . . I mean we know Jessica died. We went to the funeral."

She was referring to Nash's a.s.sistant. "He didn't talk about any heroics?"

"No. He never talks about that stuff."

Rapp was relieved. At least Nash still knew how to keep his mouth shut. He began telling her a little bit about what her husband had done, leaving out his own part in the heroics and focusing on Nash. Then, in broad strokes, he told her about d.i.c.kerson's plan. That the CIA needed a hero. That America needed a hero. And then he fudged a bit and told her the president wanted to give Mike a medal. That he wanted to do it at a public ceremony at the White House and they wanted Maggie and the kids there. Her husband would finally be rewarded for his sacrifices and Maggie would no longer have to live the lie, because he would be outed. Rapp made her promise not to tell anyone, especially her husband.

"You know how these politicians work," Rapp warned her. "This morning they think this is a great idea. d.i.c.kerson is championing it for the president, but it's never a done deal until it actually happens."

"You don't have to tell me. I've been burned plenty of times."

Rapp could hear the hope in her voice. "Maggie, there's a lot of f.u.c.ked-up guys like me out there who don't have a family to take care of. Let them take their turn stepping into the breach. Mike's done his part. Go home . . . support him . . . make sure he gets some rest and don't breathe a word of this to him. You know him . . . if he gets wind of this he'll stop it dead in its tracks."

CHAPTER 27.

RAPP took a quick left and then a quick right. He backed into a private drive halfway down Pathfinder Lane and stopped under a ma.s.sive elm tree. The leafy canopy of the tree would frustrate any airborne surveillance. One of Rapp's high school buddies had lived on the street, and he knew the driveway serviced only a couple of houses. The street jogged at both ends so it wasn't used to cut through the neighborhood like some of the other side streets. Rapp checked the clock on the dashboard and settled in to see if any American-made four-door sedans came skidding around the corner. took a quick left and then a quick right. He backed into a private drive halfway down Pathfinder Lane and stopped under a ma.s.sive elm tree. The leafy canopy of the tree would frustrate any airborne surveillance. One of Rapp's high school buddies had lived on the street, and he knew the driveway serviced only a couple of houses. The street jogged at both ends so it wasn't used to cut through the neighborhood like some of the other side streets. Rapp checked the clock on the dashboard and settled in to see if any American-made four-door sedans came skidding around the corner.

He thought about his conversation with Maggie and stared at his phone for a long moment. A sliver of guilt crept in as he wondered if he could deliver on the promises he'd just made. After a beat he knew he could. He knew he had to. He would call d.i.c.kerson and make it happen. Feeling better about it, Rapp punched in Stan Hurley's number on his secure BlackBerry to get an update. After three rings the scratchy voice of Hurley answered. Rapp didn't bother to say h.e.l.lo. "So . . . were you right?" Rapp asked in reference to Hurley's prediction that Adams had used Max Johnson to bug Lewis's office.

"About who he was using?"

"Yeah."

"Yep," Hurley answered. "He's been on the payroll for about two months."

Rapp wanted to ask him how he was paying him, but was hesitant to get into too much detail over the phone. "Motive?"

"Another member of the Mitch Rapp fan club."

Rapp looked north and then south. No cars so far. "How so?"

"Can't say if there was any personal animosity, but my guess is he was intrigued by the idea of taking down a real gunfighter."

Rapp thought about that. Hurley liked to refer to the clandestine folks as gunfighters. Everyone else was a limp d.i.c.k or a desk jockey. Theirs was an entirely separate culture from that of the other folks at Langley, and it was not unusual for other groups to harbor acrimony against the spooks in the building. Johnson had spent his entire career within the secure perimeter of Langley. There were probably a handful of times that he'd gone overseas to do a security review of an emba.s.sy and the CIA's personnel, but he'd never partic.i.p.ated in a real op. The entire focus of his career had been to protect Langley's secrets and bust those who didn't play strictly by the rules. "Any idea what he was using to listen in on the sessions?"

"He's not certain, but it sounds like it might have been off-site."

"All right, I'm on it. I gotta go. I'll call you later." Rapp hit the end b.u.t.ton and thought about the task he was going to give Coleman. Max Johnson, while not exactly an A Team field guy, was nonetheless someone they should not take lightly. What concerned Rapp was that Johnson would be dumb enough to get involved with a guy like Adams. Hurley's a.s.sessment of the situation was as good as any, but they weren't talking about an impulsive twenty-year-old. Johnson was a thirty-plus-year veteran of the business. He should have known better than to get mixed up in something like this.

Rapp checked the street again. No Crown Vics, Caprices, or LTDs came sliding around the corner on two wheels, so he put the car back in drive and drove over to Lewinsville Park. Rapp had spent countless hours here as kid. He and his neighborhood buddies played every sport there was, and if they weren't at the park they were down at the pool and tennis club off of Great Falls. Rapp was smiling to himself and thinking about the summer his brother had gotten them banned from the pool when he saw Coleman pulling into the parking lot in his big black SUV. Without saying a word they both left their vehicles and traveled down the path between the bleachers to the synthetic-turf lacrosse field.

It was a typical late April morning for the area. The temp was in the midseventies and the skies were partly cloudy, with the threat of storms off in the distance. Rapp had changed into a pair of comfortable jeans and a long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt for his flight. Coleman had on a pair of khakis, a b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, and a blue sport coat. The two men faced each other but didn't look at each other. They were more concerned with their surroundings than making eye contact.

Coleman looked over at the basketball courts. There were four kids playing hoops, young enough that they should probably be in school, and definitely too young to be on the payroll of the FBI or any other organization. He ran a hand through his blond hair and asked, "Don't tell me we already have a problem."

Rapp kept his eyes on the parking lot. "Not with the thing you're thinking of," he said, referring to the op they'd run in New York, "at least not in the way you might be thinking. Although," he said, glancing at Colemen, "I did hear something interesting this morning."

"What's that?"

"Charlie O'Brien told me that little p.r.i.c.k Glen Adams took off for Caracas without letting anyone at Langley know he was leaving the country."

"You don't say. I thought you guys had rules about that."

"Most definitely. You have to notify senior management as well as security."

"And he did neither?"

"That's right. He's stepped in some real s.h.i.+t."

"Do they have a line on him?" Coleman asked, already wondering if his guy had been able to disappear. They had agreed that it would be best to have no communication unless there was an emergency.

"You mean Langley?"

"Yeah."

"No," Rapp said. "Not so far."

"Is the FBI in on it?"

Rapp shook his head. "Irene wants to keep it in the family . . . at least for the next six hours. We have some people looking at the hotels, and we're quietly talking to a few of our contacts in the Venezuelan DIS. If we don't get some answers quick she's going to have to bring in FBI and State."

Coleman nodded. "Do you think he defected?"

"Who knows . . . as long as the guy doesn't give away any of our secrets I'd just as soon he hung himself." Rapp checked out the boys on the court and then finally looked at Coleman. "The name Max Johnson ring a bell?"

Coleman's blue eyes closed a touch as he tried to remember where he'd heard the name. After a moment he said, "Yeah. He's one of you guys, or I should say was."

Rapp frowned. "He was never one of my guys. That would be like me telling you an Investigative Services guy was on the Teams."

Coleman thought about it for a second and said, "Point taken. But he did work at Langley, right?"

"Yeah. For a long time."

"Does he know where all the bodies are buried?"

Rapp shrugged. "Hard to say with a guy like him. He's not the bubbliest fella, but then again those security guys are supposed to make people nervous."

"You ever have a beef with him?"

"Not that I can recall," Rapp paused a beat and then added, "but I've p.i.s.sed off so many people over the years I can't keep track."

"Irene?"

Rapp thought about his boss. He couldn't imagine her running afoul of her own security service, but then again Johnson had been pa.s.sed over twice for the top job. "Not directly, but you know how it is . . . it's the rare bird who gets pa.s.sed over for a promotion who doesn't hold some kind of a grudge."

"So what exactly has he done?" Coleman asked.

"He runs his own consulting company now."

Coleman said, "I know. That's how I heard of him. The word is he's pretty hot s.h.i.+t on the new technology. Specializes in surveillance."

Rapp nodded. The War on Terror had been a boon to private security and consulting firms. Outsourcing was the new hot trend. "You'd better grab Marcus then," Rapp said, referring to his resident computer genius.

"Can you tell me what this is all about?"

"You got a pen and a piece of paper?"

Coleman dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out both.

Rapp flipped open the small notebook and clicked the plunger on the pen. He hesitated for a brief moment while he decided on the best way to relay the information while still being cryptic. Pressing lightly, he began to scrawl the pertinent information on the lined paper. When he was done he handed the notebook over.

Coleman glanced down at the words and read Rapp's blocky print: Last night . . . Found out where he's been getting info . . . hired Johnson to bug Doc's office . . . know of at least one person who spilled the beans . . . a.s.sume there are more . . . find out how he was doing it and get me a full scouting report on him. Last night . . . Found out where he's been getting info . . . hired Johnson to bug Doc's office . . . know of at least one person who spilled the beans . . . a.s.sume there are more . . . find out how he was doing it and get me a full scouting report on him. "Holy s.h.i.+t," Coleman said out loud as he thought of Dr. Lewis and the number of people he worked with. "This could be a real mess. Information like this could be sold over and over." "Holy s.h.i.+t," Coleman said out loud as he thought of Dr. Lewis and the number of people he worked with. "This could be a real mess. Information like this could be sold over and over."

Rapp took the notebook back and tore out the top five sheets. He grabbed a lighter from his pocket and lit the bottom corner of the pages. He watched the flames lick their way up and then he flipped them over so they had to work their way down to his fingers. When there was a square inch left, he waved the paper back and forth until the flame was out. "Be careful with this guy. Don't tip him off. I don't want him getting spooked and running off with the goods."

Coleman thought of Adams. The news that he had supposedly left the country for Venezuela would spread like a dry autumn wild fire through the intelligence community. "He'll hear about this other thing sooner rather than later."

"No doubt."

"And he'll probably get a little skittish."

"That's why I want you on this right away."

"ROE?" Coleman asked.

ROE was military jargon for Rules of Engagement. Rapp thought about it for a moment. He didn't know Johnson anywhere near well enough to predict any of it. Coleman would have to use his instincts. "Do what you have to do. Just make sure we know what our exposure is. If he has recordings, I want them all back."

"If I have to get rough?"

Rapp shrugged. "I should be back late tonight. If it can wait till then, I'd appreciate it, but you're going to have to play it by ear."

"Where you off to?"

"Can't talk about it. It'll be a short trip. I'll shoot you an email and let you know when I'll be back." Rapp started walking back to the car and Coleman fell in beside him. "Send me some updates, and make sure they're as obscure as possible. a.s.sume everything you write or say will be intercepted."

"Got it. Anything else?"

"Yeah . . . be careful. I got a bad feeling about this Johnson character."

CHAPTER 28.

WHEN Hakim finally woke up he made no attempt to open his eyes. His head hurt too much. His body hurt too much. It seemed that everything hurt too much. Slowly, his senses started to send reports back to his brain. There were bruises and cuts and sc.r.a.pes and maybe some breaks. He kept his eyes closed, not because he didn't want to see where he was, but he thought it would hurt too much to open them. Without forethought his brain decided to take inventory. He wiggled his toes and was pleased to see they worked. His left foot rolled outward and everything felt as it should. When he tried the same thing with his right leg his knee sent back signals of sharp pain. He couldn't tell the extent of the injury but nothing felt broken. His torso ached, but it was nothing compared to the pain he suddenly noticed in his arms and face. Hakim finally woke up he made no attempt to open his eyes. His head hurt too much. His body hurt too much. It seemed that everything hurt too much. Slowly, his senses started to send reports back to his brain. There were bruises and cuts and sc.r.a.pes and maybe some breaks. He kept his eyes closed, not because he didn't want to see where he was, but he thought it would hurt too much to open them. Without forethought his brain decided to take inventory. He wiggled his toes and was pleased to see they worked. His left foot rolled outward and everything felt as it should. When he tried the same thing with his right leg his knee sent back signals of sharp pain. He couldn't tell the extent of the injury but nothing felt broken. His torso ached, but it was nothing compared to the pain he suddenly noticed in his arms and face.

Hakim tried to open his eyes, but nothing happened. It was if his eyelids were glued shut. He tried again, and with a little more effort he was able to get his left one open a sliver. It felt as if something was weighing down his eyelids. He was surrounded by a soft natural light. Somewhere in the distance he heard a throbbing hum that was faintly familiar. His sense of smell slowly came back and he picked up the weak scent of a campfire.