Vince Flynn: The Last Man

Wilson believed that his job was the most difficult and demanding at the Bureau. He was the deputy director of Counterintelligence, which meant that he, not the CIA, was the tip of the spear. It was simple. The biggest threats to the nation were the foreign intelligence agencies and terrorist organizations that were looking to attack and weaken America. It was Wilson’s job to stop them, and those Americans who might be aiding the enemy.

Hargrave was everything a boss shouldn’t be. He was an obstacle to every decision and operation that Wilson tried to launch. Wilson’s frustration had grown to the point that he began to cut Hargrave out of the decision process, only to be severely reprimanded by the director of the FBI himself. It was the lowest point of Wilson’s otherwise sterling twenty-one-year career with the Bureau and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. Wilson’s boss, the man who ran the Counterintelligence Division, had been on leave for four months after a back surgery that didn’t go as planned. Wilson had been asked to step in and take over as acting director. It was one of the three most coveted jobs at the FBI, and Wilson didn’t balk at the opportunity. He took over as if he’d been running the place for several years, and not long after he ran afoul of Hargrave.

Since then Wilson had explored every conceivable avenue around the man, but he’d been stymied. As the director himself eventually told Wilson, “The Federal Bureau of Investigation is big on chain of command for a reason.” Wilson disagreed with them both, but he was not so bullheaded as to run afoul of the director, so he kept Hargrave informed of his every decision, no matter how small. Wilson got the sense that Hargrave knew what he was up to, but so far the man had remained unflappable. Tonight’s developments, however, might be enough to undo him.

But for now, Wilson was once again forced to perform this stupid dance. That was why he was rolling along this beautiful tree-lined street in Chevy Chase when he should have been with the rest of his team boarding one of the Bureau’s Gulfstream 550s for a jaunt halfway around the globe. The vehicle began to slow and Wilson noticed his driver searching for the right address.

“It’s up there on the left,” Wilson said. “The white Colonial with green shutters.” Under his breath he added, “Boring… just like his personality.”

“Excuse me, sir?” The young agent asked.

“Nothing,” Wilson replied.

Cal Patterson was in his third year with the Bureau and he considered himself a lucky man to be one of the youngest agents in the Counterintelligence Division. He liked his job, but his boss made him nervous. Patterson casually turned the wheel of the Ford Taurus and edged the sedan into the narrow drive. “Anything you’d like me to take care of while you’re briefing the EAD, boss?”

Wilson grabbed the handle and said, “Check in with the Go Team. I want everyone on that plane and their gear stowed when we arrive. We should have been in the air an hour ago.” “I’ll let them know, sir.”

Wilson closed the car door and proceeded up the brick-lined walkway. He glanced through what looked like the dining room window and could see the faint glow of a light in what he presumed was the kitchen. The front stoop was small-enough for two people. Wilson reached out to press the doorbell and then caught himself. Probably better to knock at this hour. He held his left hand up to the door and rapped his knuckles twice on the green door. He waited a long moment and then heard the locking mechanism turn. The door cracked to reveal the high forehead of Samuel Hargrave. Without so much as a nod, Hargrave opened the door and motioned for Wilson to enter.

The senior man closed the door and started down the center hallway to the back of the house. Wilson took in the lack leather slippers, the Black Watch plaid pajama bottoms, and the navy blue robe. The man looked as if he’d stepped off the set of a Cary Grant movie. Wilson started to ponder what is was like to be born fifty years too late, but before he got too far Hargrave asked him if he’d like a cup of coffee.

“No, thank you. I’ve already had my fill and I have a long flight ahead of me.”

Hargrave stared at him for a moment, dissecting the words, trying to figure out a shaded message. He poured himself a cup of black coffee and sat at the small four-person kitchen table. After a sip, he asked, “Long flight… where are you headed?”

“Afghanistan.” Wilson offered nothing more.

“Afghanistan is a big country. Any place in particular?”

“Jalalabad.”

“Jalalabad,” Hargrave mused. “I think this is a first.”

“A first?” Wilson frowned. “I don’t understand, sir.”

Hargrave had told him to call him Sam a hundred times, but Wilson still refused. It was a control thing, he knew, but Hargrave wasn’t willing to make a big deal out of something so petty. Still it was one more reason to worry that his acting director of Counterintelligence was someone who needed close monitoring. If he played these kinds of games with him, what must he be like with his colleagues and subordinates? How were his convictions when it came to following the law? Hargrave had learned long ago that these little things could eventually spell big problems for the Bureau.

“In all the years I’ve been doing this, I’ve been pulled out of bed for a lot of reasons, but no one has ever told me they’re flying to Jalalabad.” Hargrave set his cup down and rubbed his eyes. “We really have become a global law enforcement agency.”

No shit, you moron, Wilson thought. Where the hell have you been for the last decade?

“So why Jalalabad?”

“Joe Rickman.” Wilson had a bigger target in mind, but Rickman would do for now.

Hargrave was familiar with the name. He’d heard some rumblings that the covert officer had become a bit of an obsession with Wilson. He could tell the temperamental Wilson was on edge so he chose his words carefully. “What has Mr. Rickman done now?”

“I received a tip three hours ago that he was kidnapped from a safe house in Jalalabad.”

Hargrave did not speak for several moments. His mind was occupied with all of the ramifications of someone like Joe Rickman’s falling into the hands of America’s enemies. To say that the men and women at Langley would be distraught would be an understatement. “Do you know who took him?”

“No, but I find the timing suspect.”

“Suspect?” Hargrave asked with a curious tone.

“I have been investigating him for the past two months.” Rickman as well as a few others, but Hargrave didn’t need to know that.

“Excuse me?” Hargrave asked, not quite sure he’d heard right.

“Starting almost a year ago I began to receive some disturbing information about Mr. Rickman. Accusations that he was siphoning off large amounts of money from his covert fund and that he was getting a little too close to some nefarious individuals.”

Hargrave closed his eyes and then help up his right hand. “You’ve known about this for almost a year and didn’t bring it to my attention?”

Wilson’s back stiffened. “It didn’t warrant your attention, sir. It was nothing more than rumors to begin with. If I passed along every rumor that came into my office, I’d be running upstairs to meet with you eight times a day.”

Hargrave could feel the pressure building and reminded himself that his doctors had warned him against getting too upset. “Mr. Rickman,” he said slowly, “is a unique individual. Anything concerning him and his activities automatically rises to the top of the heap, so I don’t accept your premise. I am very disappointed that you decided to keep this from me.” Hargrave shook his head and added, “We’ve been over this before. You were told by the director himself what was expected of you.”