Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

In a flash, Rapp’s leg straightened-his one-inch, layered, leather heel striking the large chin of the Russian. The directed force of the blow broke the Russian’s jaw. The speed of the kick caused the Russian’s head to move laterally so quickly that his equilibrium was thrown completely out of whack. The effect was the physiological equivalent of turning off a light switch. The Russian’s entire body went limp, and he slumped forward in the chair, unconscious, his bound hands the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor.

Satisfied with the results, Rapp took the phone off mute and said, “Sorry about that.”

“What is going on?” Kennedy asked a bit irritated.

“Nothing you need to worry about.” Rapp looked at Gazich and said, “Just get me the plane.”

There was a long pause and then Kennedy asked, “You found him?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“One hundred percent. Go see Marcus. Tell him he was right about the Bosnian. He’ll fill you in on the rest.”

“Where are you?”

“ Limassol, Cyprus.”

“I think the plane is in Eastern Europe. Let me make sure, and I’ll get back to you with an itinerary.”

“Make it quick. I need to get off this rock fast.”

“What have you done?” asked a worried Kennedy.

“I haven’t done anything, but there’s a third party involved and some of their boys got hurt.”

“How bad?”

“Body bag bad.”

“I see.” This was followed by more silence and then Kennedy skeptically asked, “And you had nothing to do with this?”

Rapp never liked to be second-guessed by people who spent their days sitting in comfortable leather chairs behind large, important desks while he risked life and limb. “Watch your step,” he snarled. “I don’t need this shit. I’m over here with a fucking rookie, and Blondie and his boys have been stuck in airports all day. What I need is some serious support right now. I need the plane, and I need it ASAP, and then I’m going to need a follow-up team to come in here and do a little cleaning.”

Kennedy should have known by his tone that it was a mistake to question him while he was still in the field. They’d been down this road dozens of times and it never ended well. She relented by saying, “I’ll get back to you with an answer in ten minutes or less.”

“One more thing. Our friends on the other side of the pond…they have a base close by. That would be best. No customs. Freight delivery to the back gate. Make the transfer in a hangar. Real private. No do-gooders shooting video.”

“Absolutely. I’ll arrange it. Anything else?”

“For now that should be enough.”

“Good. Great work! Give me a few minutes to get the pieces moving, and I’ll get right back to you.”

“Thanks.” Rapp disconnected the call and looked down at Gazich. He’d lost a bit of his color and he was starting to shake a bit. Rapp knew he hadn’t hit any major arteries, both by his aim and the lack of blood on the wood floor. Nonetheless, shock was fast approaching. Gazich’s body would be trying to shut certain things down to stave off the excruciating pain. Rapp had no fear of losing him. Gazich was young and fit. He could take it, and he honestly deserved this and a whole lot more.

Rapp squatted down on his haunches and looked Gazich in the eye. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who hired you?”

The plane was big. Bigger than they needed, but Rapp wasn’t complaining. It was a Lockheed Martin TriStar. She was designed to carry up to 400 passengers, or 88,000 pounds of cargo. This one, with its wide body and three big engines, was configured for cargo. She was a sister ship to the venerable DC-10. As far as aviation went, she was a little long in the tooth. From the outside the plane looked like any other international freight carrier. There were no windows other than the ones in the cockpit. The skin was painted a generic white, and the nameWorldwide Freight ran along the back half of the fuselage in large blue letters. The CIA had more planes than some small air forces, but thanks to a politically motivated hack in the CIA’s Inspector General’s Office Rapp couldn’t go near them. At least not for something like this.

A little over a year ago, this same bureaucrat took it upon herself to tell a reporter that the CIA was ferrying terrorists around Eastern Europe in a Gulfstream 5 and a Boeing 737. Many of these terrorists were high ranking al-Qaeda operatives. They were taken to undisclosed locations and put in uncomfortable situations until they decided to talk, which all of them eventually did. The information they provided proved invaluable in picking apart al-Qaeda’s operational and financial infrastructure. That single leak had crippled one of Langley ’s most important operations in the war on terror. Yet again, Rapp was forced to stay one step ahead of his own government.

The strategy with the planes was not very different than the one Rapp used with his mobile phones. The worldwide aviation market was a vast and intricate association of sellers, resellers, leasers, and lessees. Carriers were constantly updating their fleets, replacing older models with newer, more fuel efficient ones. That left a surplus of unused aircrafts. These planes were often kicked down the line, leased and subleased a half dozen times until they either broke down or crashed flying in and out of some war-torn country in Africa. The big Lockheed TriStar was still in good shape. She had been leased for one month through a company in Seattle. The company specialized in subleasing planes on a short-term basis. Their business model was simple. As power companies sold excess power to other utilities, these guys leased planes that weren’t being used during slow times of the year. They had no idea the CIA was their client. Everything was done through an attorney’s office in Frankfurt. The pilots were a couple of old U.S. Air Force colonels who liked cash and knew how to keep their mouths shut.

Rapp stood on the tarmac next to a battered gray Royal Air Force hangar. The big TriStar was inside. The sky in the east was showing the first signs of morning. The humid, salty Mediterranean air rolled in across the flat expanse of the base. There was nothing but asphalt, concrete, dirt, and scrub brush for miles in every direction. About fifty feet away Scott Coleman was talking with a British officer who had met them at the back gate fifteen minutes earlier. Coleman handed the officer something and the man took it. Then they shook hands and the RAF officer jumped in a Land Rover and sped off. Coleman walked over slowly shaking his head. A grin on his face.

The retired Navy SEAL said, “God, I love the Brits.”

Rapp nodded. “They know how to keep their mouths shut.”

“He gets off in a couple hours. He said he’d leave the van in the airport garage with the keys under the mat. All we have to do is call the rental company.”

“Good. And the plane?”

“Refueled and cleared for takeoff.”

“Good. Let’s get out of here before the sun comes up.”

The two men turned and walked into the shadowy hangar. Where Rapp was dark-haired and olive-skinned, Coleman was fair-haired and fair-skinned. Rapp fit in pretty much anywhere in the Middle East. Coleman, with his blue eyes and blond hair, would have looked more at home in Sweden or Norway. Probably Iceland as well. He had the high cheekbones and the stoic demeanor of the Northern Tribes. The stoic part worked well with Rapp. Less was almost always more, especially when it came to conversation. Coleman, like Rapp, was not one for idle chatter.

After Coleman had arrived at Gazich’s office, he and Rapp had taken a moment to figure out a plan of action. Neither liked the idea of staying put. If the police showed up, they would have to explain two dead Russians, another Russian who looked like some African tribe had gotten hold of him, and a Bosnian with four bullet holes in him. Marching everyone out of the café in the middle of a busy Saturday night would also not work. Sitting tight until the place closed was the best option. In order to do that, though, they would need the old man to cooperate. Sooner or later someone was sure to come looking for him.