Rapp had seen a great deal in his time, but this was something new. As twisted as al Qaeda was, it had a goal, a rationalization for that goal, and a strategy to achieve it. The same could be said for Hamas and Hezbollah. ISIS wasn’t playing to win. Their only goal was to leave nothing but scorched earth when they were finally destroyed.
He felt his rage building as he looked at the faces of the men around him. Their bodies pressed against his and his anger quickly grew to the very edge of his control. He turned toward a terrorist dressed entirely in black and fixed his gaze on the AK-47 slung over his shoulder. It looked well maintained and there were spare magazines affixed to the man’s belt. How many of these pricks could he kill before he himself went down? Twenty? Fifty? A hundred?
The general stopped and threw an arm around Rapp’s shoulders. The sudden weight of it pulled him from his violent fantasy, forcing him back into the present. The older girl was finally carried offstage as another was forced up the stairs. Unlike the two before her, she was wearing a chador. A little mystery to whip up the crowd.
In an impressive piece of showmanship, the auctioneer grabbed her and tore off the chador in one deft motion. The mob erupted, but then settled down when they discovered she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt underneath.
“She’s a bit old,” the general commented. “Her family allowed her to go to university instead of marrying. But it’s been confirmed that she’s a virgin and I think you’ll agree that she’s quite beautiful.”
They were now standing only about ten feet from the base of the stage, and there was no denying it. She had long black hair and flawless skin, with eyes that held less terror than Rapp would have expected under the circumstances.
“Do you want to see more?” the auctioneer shouted.
The cheers that rose up were powerful enough that they reverberated in Rapp’s chest.
The man grabbed the front of the young woman’s shirt and was going to rip it off when she jammed a thumb in his eye. And not just a little bit. She drove it in nearly to her knuckle.
The crowd fell into a stunned silence and Rapp fought back a smile as the auctioneer let out a high-pitched scream. Two men charged up the steps and grabbed the woman, whose thrashing was accompanied by an impressive string of obscenities in at least five distinct languages.
The auctioneer managed to get hold of himself and shouted something unintelligible to a man near the base of the stage. A moment later, he was scurrying up the stairs with a gas can clutched to his chest. The partially blinded man grabbed it and took the cap off. When he started lurching toward the captive woman, Rapp pointed and shouted over the noise. “I’ll take her.”
The general looked over at him and grinned. “Spirited women! I agree.”
He pulled his sidearm and fired into the air, stopping the advancing man in his tracks. All attention was now on them.
“This is our American brother Eric Jesem,” he yelled. “The man who was tortured by Mitch Rapp but said nothing!”
This time the whoops of the mob were accompanied by sporadic automatic fire. The general held up his hands for silence. “He wants this woman and we will grant his request. A reward for his courage and his devotion to jihad.”
Rapp ascended the steps to the roar of the crowd and the angry one-eyed stare of the auctioneer. He told himself that his decision had been tactical—that this woman had guts, local knowledge, and no love for ISIS. But was that all of it? Or were the years starting to make him soft? Did he really believe she could help him or did he just not want to stand there and watch her burn?
When he closed to within a few feet, the men holding her let go. She didn’t try to escape but instead charged him, swinging red-painted nails toward Rapp’s damaged face. He grabbed her by the throat, stopping her with a violent jerk. She continued to fight, trying futilely to get to him as he increased the pressure around her neck. Finally, she blacked out and crumpled to the ground.
Rapp scooped her into a fireman’s carry and walked offstage, to the noisy approval of his audience.
CHAPTER 34
WALTER REED MEDICAL CENTER
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
U.S.A.
IRENE Kennedy pushed her reading glasses onto her head and looked at the walls of the hospital break room. The space had been swept for listening devices and she had her secure laptop, but there was still only so much she could do from Bethesda. As desirable as it was to stay close to Scott Coleman, she needed to get back to Langley.
A quiet knock sounded on the door and a moment later Mike Nash poked his head in. “You have a minute, Irene?”
Nash had recently turned forty, but there was little sign of it. The former Marine had been understandably angry when Mitch Rapp had ended his ops career. Since then, though, he’d come to terms with his new life and was performing admirably in his role as one of her top executives.
With no real need for physical speed or endurance anymore, he’d gained a fair amount of weight—every ounce of it muscle. The primary purpose of the new physique was to stabilize the damage his spine had suffered in an explosion in Afghanistan. It had the additional benefit of making him even more physically attractive, which, combined with his natural charm, made him quite popular on Capitol Hill. Even the most odious members of Congress never missed an opportunity to slap Nash on the back and get their photo taken with a bona fide American hero.
Increasingly, Kennedy found herself begging off political meetings and sending him in her place. As good as he’d been at ops, he was even better at handling the egos in Washington—an activity that she found more difficult every year.
“What news do we have on Mitch?” she asked.
“None,” he said, taking a seat directly across the table from her.
“What do you mean, none? We must—”
“I mean none. Winds across the region are kicking up and we lost the vehicle he was being transported in when visibility went to shit.”
“What about informants?”
“We’re afraid to use the few we have. We don’t want anyone asking questions about Eric Jesem. People might start paying too much attention to him.”
Kennedy took a deep breath to obscure her anger at the lack of progress. She’d already been too hard on Joe Maslick. He’d contacted the Agency in time for them to get surveillance in the air, but there had been nothing else he could do. Even her own ability to insinuate herself into Rapp’s plans was spotty. Particularly when he went completely insane and decided to go alone and injured into ISIS territory.
“What about the man who attacked Scott?”
“I have better news on that front,” Nash said, tapping the briefcase he’d placed on the floor next to him. “We’ve got some solid suspects and our people are working to flesh them out.”
His tone was typically upbeat but his face was etched deep with worry. While he and Rapp had suffered more than their share of conflict over the years, they were still close. And Scott Coleman was probably the best friend Nash had. Fortunately, she, too, had some good news.
“I’m told that Scott’s fighting off the infection.”
Nash’s eyebrows rose perceptibly, but he had learned over the years to be cautious with his optimism. “So . . . there’s a chance? He could make it?”
“Actually, he’s awake.”
Nash ran a hand over his mouth, wiping away the sweat that was glistening over his lip. “Can I see him?”
Kennedy stood. “I think that can be arranged. But we’ve been warned not to upset him. He’s extremely weak and very lucky to be alive.”
Nash bolted for the door, but then managed to stop long enough to hold it open for her. She had to admit that despite the fact that everything else was falling apart, being the bearer of good tidings was a real pleasure. It was an unusual role for someone in her position.
• • •
Nash stood a few feet from the glass, taking a moment to adjust to the reality of the man on the other side. Coleman was propped in his ho
spital bed with bandages covering most of his head and half his face. One of his arms contained multiple IV needles and the other was immobilized in an elaborate harness. His heavily bandaged leg was elevated in a sling and there was a drain tube inserted between his ribs.
His eyes were open, though. Fixed on a sunny window with a thousand-mile stare.
Finally, Nash gave his head a violent shake, squared his shoulders, and pushed through the door.
“How’s the taxpayer-funded vacation going?”
Coleman turned his head carefully, tracking Nash as he dropped into an overstuffed chair.
“It’s going okay, asshole.”
Kennedy entered and took the only other seat. “How are you, Scott?”
“You tell me.”
His voice sounded strange, something that could only partially be explained by the recent removal of his breathing tube. Beneath the hoarseness was a mix of emotions the former SEAL was normally immune to: anger, disappointment, embarrassment. Kennedy knew that he was questioning his abilities, telling himself that he’d let his team down. It was all complete nonsense, of course, but she’d learned that it was unavoidable nonsense in men like him.
“The doctors tell me it’s going to be a long, difficult process, but that you’re going to make a full recovery.”
Not really a lie, but a statement dressed up with a fair amount of positive spin.
“Did we get the nuke?”
“Yeah,” Nash said. “We even flew it back here and let Craig tear it apart. Got a lot of good intel.”
“Where’s Mitch?”
“He and Mas had to take the warhead back. The Pakistanis were getting their panties bunched up about us having it.”
They would say nothing about Rapp’s current status, the missing fissile material, or the other compromised nukes. Until Coleman was in far better condition, the message was that the operation had been a complete success.
“And the guy who did this to me?” he said, shifting his gaze back to the window.
“We don’t have to talk about that now, buddy. It can wait.”
“Do you know who he is?”
Nash glanced at Kennedy, who nodded subtly. If Coleman felt up to it, they needed his help.
“We’ve been spitballing a few ideas. You want to take a look?”
“Yeah,” came the expected reply.
“Do you remember his face?” Kennedy asked.
Coleman went deathly still for a moment. “I remember.”
Nash pulled a tablet from his briefcase, arranging the photos of nine men on screen before carrying it to his injured friend.
“You think it’s one of them?” Coleman asked.
“Maybe. There aren’t that many choices based on the description of . . .” Nash’s voice faltered for a moment. “You know. Of what happened.”
“You mean me getting my ass kicked like I was from the fucking typing pool?”
Nash let out a long breath. “No one blames you for this, Scott. Not me, not Mas, and most of all, not Mitch.”
Coleman wasn’t buying. “Maybe it would have been different if it had been you out there.”
“Yeah, I’d be dead. Look, Scott. I was a good soldier. But as much as I hate to say it out loud, I wasn’t as good as you. So let’s forget all this bullshit, okay?”
When Coleman didn’t respond, Nash tapped the tablet. “What do you think? All we got from Mitch was white, around six feet, and between thirty and forty years old. Do any of these guys ring a bell?”
“Who are they?”
“Top foreign spec ops guys we’ve lost track of.”
The former SEAL scanned the faces. “The one on the lower right. It doesn’t really look like him, but there’s something familiar. Is it possible I know him from somewhere else?”
“I doubt it,” Nash said, retreating back to his chair. “His name’s Grisha Filipov.”
Coleman just shook his head as Nash went to work on the photo, darkening the hair, smoothing the cheeks, and lifting the eyelids.
“Describe his nose, Scott.”
“I don’t know. Not real big. Kind of sharp.”
Nash brought up a selection of noses from a drop-down menu. It was a common change for a plastic surgeon to make—easier to take away flesh than to add it.
He chose the best match and then used a commercial software program to age the man to his midthirties. Finally, he walked the tablet back to Coleman.
This time there was no need to ask him what he thought. The rhythm of the heart rate monitor he was connected to accelerated audibly.
“Grisha Filipov,” Coleman finally managed to get out.
“I didn’t want to say anything to influence you, but this was our top pick.”
“Russian?”
“Yeah. Spetsnaz. He was identified as an exceptional athlete when he was a kid and put into the Soviet athletics machine. Interestingly, he ended up in a sport you’re a fan of—biathlon. Turns out he had a minor heart murmur. The system spit him out and sent him back to the family farm. A few years later, he joined the military. Apparently, he strolled through spec ops training without breaking a sweat and tested extraordinarily high on intelligence tests. After distinguishing himself in a few operations, he left the military and disappeared. Our guess is that he caught the eye of Russia’s new president.”
“Krupin,” Coleman said.
“It makes perfect sense,” Irene Kennedy interjected. “Krupin was consolidating his power at the time and Filipov would have been just the kind of person he would have needed—young, talented, and relatively anonymous.”
“Do you know where he is?” Coleman said.
“Not yet. But we’ll find him.”
“When you do, don’t get anywhere near him, Mike. Take it from me. Drone that asshole from the stratosphere.”
“That’s up to Mitch.”
Coleman opened his mouth to say something but fell silent when a timid knock sounded on the door. Irene Kennedy glanced at the glass wall and saw Claudia Gould peeking through. She waved her in.
“Are they bothering you?” Claudia said, taking a position by Coleman’s side and adjusting his pillows.
“Definitely,” he said. “I think you should throw them out in the street.”
She frowned at them. “Are you talking business? You know the doctors said not to upset him. He needs rest.”
Kennedy rose and motioned for Nash to do the same. “You’re right. We’ve overstayed our welcome. Claudia, I have to get back to the office. You have my personal number as well as Mike’s. If there’s problem—any problem at all—you should call one of us immediately.”
“I understand.”
The young woman reached for the tablet but then froze with her fingers still a few inches away.
“Claudia?” Kennedy said. “Are you all right?”
“Grisha Azarov,” she said, sounding a bit startled. “Was it him, Scott? Did he do this to you?”
“What did you say?” Nash asked. “Azarov? We have his name as Filipov.”
“No,” Claudia said. “Not Filipov. Not for many years.”
“You know this man?” Kennedy said.
She suddenly took on a bit of a deer-in-the-headlights expression. “No . . . No, I—”
“Calm down,” Kennedy said. “You’re among friends. Everyone in his room knows who you are.”
“I’m not that person anymore.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. Who you were. Now, do you know this man?”
She chewed her lower lip for a moment and nodded. “Louis ran into him years ago in Belarus. He never told me the details of what happened, but I know this: There are only two men in the world my husband was afraid of. Mitch and Grisha Azarov.”
“Did you create a file on him?”
“Of course. Louis wanted to know everything in case they ever met again.”
“And can you still access that file?”
“Yes. From my computer. It’s in Mitch’s apartment.”
br /> Nash grabbed the tablet off the bed and put a hand on Claudia’s back. “Why don’t we head on over to Mitch’s place, then? You probably need to pick up a few things anyway.”
“But what about Scott?” Claudia protested as Nash pushed her toward the door.
“No need to worry,” Kennedy called after her. “I won’t leave until you get back.”
CHAPTER 35
LOCATION UNKNOWN
RAPP shifted the limp woman to a more stable position on his shoulder and pushed through the door to Eric Jesem’s apartment. He’d been careful when cutting off her air, doing just enough to put her down and keep her from going completely nuts on their way back through the crowd. At this point, it was almost certain that she was faking unconsciousness. Patiently waiting for an opportunity to take his head off.
“Hello?” he called.
No answer. The woman who’d patched him up must have belonged to someone else.
Rapp went straight to the bedroom—as the girl he was carrying would have expected—but then just dumped her on the bed and headed for the kitchen. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten and it’d be nice to take in a few calories before she started chasing him around the apartment.
The kitchen was barely big enough to walk through sideways, but a cursory search turned up a few packages of the Middle East’s answer to ramen. Good in a pinch, but not his first choice. A little more effort rewarded him with a stash of American-supplied MREs hidden beneath a broken stove. Normally, finding U.S. supplies in the hands of terrorists irritated the shit out of him, but today he wasn’t complaining. He dug through the packages, finally locating the Mexican chicken he was hoping for.
Surprisingly, the sink worked, so he put some water in the heater bag and then made himself a PB&J. Chewing it carefully so as not to dislodge any more teeth, he walked back into the main room. Furniture was limited to a couple rickety chairs and a TV sitting unplugged on the floor. Rapp flipped a wall switch and got the expected nothing. There were two lamps in a corner, one battery-powered and the other hooked up to a gas canister. More interesting was the cell phone plugged into a solar charger on the sill of the apartment’s only window.