“Will do.”
Both Kennedy and Coleman looked up to see Hayek coming down the hall. She was moving at a good clip, and as she drew to within a few steps she shook her head and said, “I screwed up.”
CHAPTER 36
OPERATING in the field always presented a unique set of problems, but a good number of them were predictable. There was a mark that they were all aware of, or at least were supposed to be aware of—seventy-two hours into any crisis, the effectiveness of the team dropped off considerably. The Agency wasn’t the only group that had studied the issue. Every branch of the military looked into the issue with a need to understand combat effectiveness. Battlefield commanders needed to know how long they could keep a unit in the fight without sleep, with food and water and without food and water. The FBI, CIA, and any other federal agencies that dealt with crisis or catastrophe all conducted their own studies and they all pretty much found the same thing—seventy-two hours was the limit. After that, your people became almost worthless. Cognitive skills were drastically reduced, hallucination set in, and the body began to shut down. As with everything, of course, there were a few exceptions.
Elite warriors, like the ones produced by Delta Force and the SEAL teams, could push beyond the seventy-two-hour mark in extreme circumstances, but not much further. They taught their men to grab an hour or two of sleep whenever they could—even during a prolonged firefight. If the manpower was available, it was crucial to rotate teams. Three teams were ideal, each one working an eight-hour shift, but Kennedy didn’t have that luxury. As it was, the Go Team that had been assembled was barely sufficient to operate in two twelve-hour shifts, and that was to handle the Rickman crisis. That team was weakened when she pulled people off it to start looking for Hubbard. Then she had to deal with the aftermath of the police shooting and now with the release of Rickman’s interrogation, more of her attention was put into damage control. It was no longer just about Joe Rickman.
Even though it felt like it, Kennedy knew from the start that it had always been about more than just Rickman. Rickman’s brain possessed hundreds of names, and those names represented real people who were assets of the CIA. Some of them were Americans, deep-cover operatives who were operating in foreign countries without the aid of diplomatic cover. If these people were exposed, the likelihood was that they’d be killed. And then there were the agents—the men and women who worked for foreign governments. They came in every stripe from politicians to bureaucrats, to scientists, to financiers, to military personnel, to intelligence operatives and janitors and secretaries.
More than any satellite or listening device, these men and women were the eyes and ears of the CIA. They offered snippets of information that when pieced together aided Kennedy and her people in understanding the intent of their foes and sometimes, when needed, the ability to predict their next move. These assets were the lifeblood of the CIA. Without them, the Agency would cease to become an effective intelligence agency. If Rickman continued to crack, Kennedy would have no choice but to begin pulling out her network of spies. It would take at least a decade to rebuild the network, possibly longer.
Despite the urgency Kennedy knew what had to be done. Hayek looked tired. They all looked tired. They understood what was at stake, so they were all eager to prove the doctors wrong and push past the seventy-two-hour mark. Kennedy held up her palm and stopped Hayek’s rambling apology. “When was the last time you slept?”
The question caught her off guard and she took an unfocused look at nothing and tried to recall the last time she’d closed her eyes for more than a few seconds. “I think I got an hour or two last night.”
Kennedy looked at Coleman and asked the same question.
“As much as possible, I’ve stuck to a schedule. Ten on and two off.”
Kennedy thought of Coleman’s six-man team. “Starting when?”
“From the very beginning. I made sure everyone grabbed at least four hours on the flight over.” He shrugged. “There wasn’t much for us to do until we landed.”
Leave it up to the retired SEAL to maintain discipline in the midst of chaos. He’d done this countless times. Kennedy was embarrassed that she hadn’t maintained better discipline over the schedules.
“I’ll be honest,” Coleman said, “I could use some sleep. I’ve been up for thirty-plus hours straight. With everything that went down two days ago and losing Reavers, that put me down one man, and I didn’t bother to reshuffle the schedule.”
Kennedy placed a hand on his arm but looked at Hayek. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. We were understaffed to start with and then the shootout with the police threw us all for a loop. We have another twenty-six people due to land in about three hours. Once they’re in position, I don’t want anyone working more than a sixteen-hour shift. Scott, keep an eye on Wilson until he’s in the air and then stand down your whole team. Don’t set any alarms, just sleep. We’re going to need you at some point and you guys need to be fresh.”
Kennedy considered her own schedule for a second. She’d been able to grab four hours of sleep overnight, and all things considered, she felt pretty good. She had a staff meeting in fifteen minutes, and then after that, the working group back at Langley was to give her a full report on the potential extent of the damage that could be caused by the Rickman affair. Then she had a meeting with Nadeem Ashan from the Pakistani Intelligence Service. She liked Ashan and hoped that he was here to offer some information and assistance, but knowing the ISI, his motives lay more in self-preservation.
“This police officer,” Kennedy said to Hayek, “I’m not sure I understand his relevance.”
Coleman answered for Hayek. “We ran into him at the safe house. He’s one of Darren’s reintegration projects. Abdul Siraj Zahir . . . a real piece of shit. Long story short, he barges into the safe house and starts making threats, Mitch pulls on him.” Coleman looked quickly over both shoulders to make sure no one else could hear him and then added, “Mitch tells the guy he’s going to blow his head off.”
Kennedy shook her head ever so slightly and frowned.
“I know it doesn’t sound good but when it happened it didn’t seem so bad. At any rate there’s some back and forth and then Mitch decides he’ll let this guy live if he works for us and finds out what happened to Rick.” Despite not wanting to, Coleman decided he needed to give her the full context. “Mitch gave the guy forty-eight hours to come through with some information or he was going to put a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bounty on the guy’s head.”
“And Mitch asked me to put a trace on his phone,” Hayek quickly added. “Langley has been recording his calls and following his moves for the past two days. Only, I forgot about it until about fifteen minutes ago.”
“And?” Kennedy asked.
“He’s been trying to get hold of Mitch. He’s left him five messages since last night.”
“Saying?”
“Basically, ‘Don’t kill me. I have some information for you.’ The guy sounds scared.”
“Well, if the guy has information, call him.”
Hayek shook her head. “I think Mitch needs to make the call. If I or anyone else calls, he’s going to want to renegotiate.”
“I agree.”
“Does Mitch even remember the guy?”
“I don’t know,” Coleman said, “but I could probably talk him through it.”
Kennedy thought about her other problems. “And Wilson?”
“I have two people on him.”
“All right. Brief Mitch and make the call. If anything important comes out of it, call me.”
Rapp didn’t remember Zahir at first. But after Coleman described the man’s shoe-polish-black beard and his snug gray-blue police uniform, he got the visual. The context of their meeting was a little more complicated. The previous night Coleman had explained to Rapp why they were in Afghanistan. Rapp had only a vague recollection of Rickman. When Coleman explained to Rapp how he had threatened the local police commander, Rapp’s eyes got big. “I s
aid that?”
Coleman laughed. “You sure did.”
“Do I speak this way to people very often?”
“When they happen to be,” Coleman said, “scumbags like Zahir, the answer is yes.”
It seemed as if each hour Rapp was learning more about his past, and by association, himself. He had a basic overview of who he was but the details were always a little shocking. It was eerie coming to grips with the stark reality that he had murdered people. There were no oh-my-god-I’m-a-monster type moments. It was more or less, that’s who I am, I need to keep filling in this puzzle and when it’s done I can sit back and judge my actions in their totality, or not. That was the other abnormal thing about this process of getting to know himself again: The second time around you saw things that you might have missed on the first go-round.
“So I threatened to put a five-hundred-K bounty on this guy’s head.”
“Yes . . . and you threatened to stick a Tomahawk missile up his ass as well.” Grinning, Coleman added, “I know it sounds harsh, but it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. He’s a real piece of shit. I think you made that pretty clear to him as well.”
“So I call him back and find out what he has.”
“Yes, but you’re probably going to have to be a bit of a prick. Do you think you’re up to it?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“All right. We have him marked in Jalalabad.” Coleman looked over Hayek’s shoulder at the blinking red light. “Hmm . . .”
“What?” Rapp asked.
“It looks like he’s just a block away from the safe house.” He tapped Hayek on the shoulder. “Everything ready to go?”
“In a second.” All of Rapp’s clothes had been cut off him when he arrived at the hospital, and his personal possessions, such as his phones and fake IDs and credit cards, had been placed in a bag and kept in a storage room. It was just another thing that was overlooked in the chaos. Hayek was now syncing Rapp’s phone via Bluetooth to her laptop, so they could record and monitor the call. When it was ready to go, she plugged in two sets of headphones, handing one to Coleman and keeping the other for herself.
“The number’s already punched in,” she said as she handed Rapp the phone, “just hit Send.”
“You said we have people back at Langley monitoring all of his calls.”
“That’s right.”
“And if they record me threatening to kill him on the phone?”
Coleman jumped in. “We’re not the FBI. We’re supposed to threaten people like Zahir. When we’re done, we’ll make sure all the recordings are erased.”
“Fine.” Rapp hit Send and tried to put himself in the proper mind-set.
CHAPTER 37
JALALABAD, AFGHANISTAN
ZAHIR had no formal police training, but he was no fool. He stroked his thick black beard and looked at the bodies. The big man he thought he recognized. He was hard-core Taliban. Unlike Zahir, who was whatever he needed to be to survive, this man had stayed faithful when the Americans swept in and mopped up the Taliban. That was the first time Zahir had done business with Rickman. He had shown up in his village on horseback with a dozen bearded fighters and two American warplanes circling overhead like predators. By then the news had spread. The Taliban had collapsed in the face of the American onslaught. For Zahir, an expert at predicting which way the wind would blow, the decision was easy.
As Rickman laid it out, Zahir could either take twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and contribute some fighters to the cause, or the Navy F-18 Hornets circling above would lay his village to waste. Zahir wasn’t even offended. It was the easiest decision he had ever made. It was made all the more easier knowing that he would likely change sides many times as this war raged on. The Taliban had run to their haven on the other side of the Pakistani border, but they would be back.
Zahir liked Rickman and respected him. Rickman never took it personally when Zahir’s loyalty wavered. He simply looked at it as a challenge to bring Zahir back to his side. That fool Hubbard, however, was another story. He lacked Rickman’s cunning. He had been so easy to push around. Not like the crazy American from two days ago. Zahir had tried to find out who he was, but his resources were limited and he had a feeling that, like so many of these damn CIA men, he had been using a fake name.
For the first time in four years Sickles had refused to take his calls, which was not a good sign. Then Hubbard disappeared, which seemed strange since he was last seen at the air base and there was no record of him leaving the base. And then there was the big gunfight in Kabul. Twenty-one police officers killed in broad daylight by a group of American contractors. It had filled the airwaves for two straight days. He knew that most of it was inaccurate, as Zahir had been briefed that General Qayem and his men ambushed the Americans. The general had fled and the Afghan National Police were reeling from the treachery. It was one thing to siphon off funds for your own personal use, but to use your men to try and kill Americans was madness. Add to it that twenty-one of his own men had been killed and Zahir was willing to bet that the reckless General Qayem would be moved to the top of the Americans’ most-wanted list.
It was total chaos. Why would Qayem do such a thing? Zahir could only hazard a few guesses, but it was likely a mix of large amounts of money and promises of more power when the Americans left. That was the new game—everyone was gambling on when the Americans would pull out and the Taliban would come rushing back in. Zahir wasn’t so sure it was that black and white. The Taliban even at their peak couldn’t control the entire country. Various local factions, including warlords and drug dealers, had consolidated power and armed themselves with the tools of war.
Zahir was a perfect example. Plans were in place to move all of his men and the American-supplied equipment back to their villages. Ammunition and spare parts had been disappearing since the day he put on his uniform. And this time would be easier with the fleet of well-maintained trucks under his command. Zahir had never doubted that the Taliban would be back. They were like weeds, as much a part of the landscape as the rocks and the trees, but Zahir understood their power would be limited this time. The secret to Afghanistan was that anyone could wreak havoc but none could govern. The Taliban had learned that mistake just as countless others had, dating all the way back to Alexander the Great. Even with all of the brutality they employed against the people, they were struggling to maintain their hold on Kabul and other large cities where the people didn’t feel like living under absolute Sharia law. Most Afghans were willing to live under a more relaxed form of the Muslim law, but when men from the mountains start beating your wife or daughters because they don’t like the color of their hijab, resentment and hatred mounts quickly.
There was one very simple reason Zahir would never throw his complete support behind the Taliban: They had no airpower. It was Zahir’s greatest fear. The Americans had killed countless men with their unmanned drones and their high-tech jets. What most people didn’t understand was that the Americans would never truly leave. Those drones would always be overhead, listening and watching, and that was why Zahir wanted so badly to give the crazy American some information that would satisfy him. The future of Afghanistan was uncertain, as it always had been. Alliances would continue to shift, but on this particular day Zahir was sure of just one thing—he had stumbled upon something that would likely save his life. Now he just needed the American to call him back.
When his phone finally rang he was back on the street, smoking and relieved he was breathing fresh air. The house behind him was a mess. The basement so foul, he could not last more than a minute breathing the putrid smells. The small screen on his phone told him the number was blocked. He was both hopeful and nervous.
“This is Commander Zahir.”
“You better have something for me.”
Zahir thought he heard the menacing drone of a propeller overhead. Craning his neck skyward, he searched for the telltale speck of gray. A layer of high clouds made it impossible. He cou
ldn’t fight the ominous feeling that the American had him literally in the crosshairs. “I do,” Zahir started. “Have you seen the tape of Mr. Rick? The one that is all over the Internet?”
There was a pause and then, “Yes.”
“I have found something that you need to see.”
“What is it?”
“I am pretty sure it is the house where Mr. Rick was being tortured.”
“Why do you think that?”
Zahir turned and looked at the two-story stone house. He had one of his people looking into the utility and ownership records. “There is a room in the basement. Two of the walls are covered with sheets just like in the video.”
“What else?”
“A rope attached to the ceiling, just like in the video, and there is lots of blood on the floor.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, two bodies.” Zahir’s pulse quickened. This, he hoped, was what would save his life. “I am certain they are the two men seen in the video who are beating Mr. Rick.” There was another awkward silence. Zahir could barely make out other people talking.
“The men are wearing masks in the video. How can you be certain?”
“They are still wearing their masks. On their heads, not covering their faces.”
“And they’re dead?”
“Yes . . . shot many times.”
“All right, Commander, you’ve made a big step in getting your ass out of trouble, but you’re not all the way there. I need you to text me photos of the bodies and room. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes.”
“Now I’m looking at a screen that tells me you’re close to Mr. Rick’s safe house, is that right?”
“Yes. Very close.”
“Do you have the house secure?”
“Yes. We have touched nothing.”
“Good.” After a long pause, the American said, “Send me those photos and then I will call you back in five minutes with instructions.”
“Yes, but I can promise you it is them.”