Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

“You can’t do…” The line clicked and then went dead. Kennedy stared at the white handset for a second and shook her head. In all her years she had never known anyone who could so thoroughly annoy her as Mitch Rapp.

The main door to the conference room opened and the president entered with Alexander.

Hayes saw Kennedy holding the phone and asked, “Is that Mitch? Let me talk to him. I’d like to pass along my thanks, and I’m sure Josh would as well.”

Kennedy shook her head. “We’re having some technical problems.”

“Well let’s get them fixed. These guys down here are whizzes when it comes to that.”

“Maybe we should wait awhile. It sounded like he had his hands full.”

Hayes looked at Alexander and then back to Kennedy. “Fine. Maybe Mitch can stop by this week, and we can thank him personally.”

Kennedy looked the president in the eye, and uttered a polite but untruthful reply. “I’m sure he’d appreciate that, sir.”

Rapp was leaning forward, both hands placed flat against the bulkhead as if he was trying to push the plane through the air. His eyes were shut. His head down. Coleman and Stroble were up, standing in their stocking feet in the galley. They had been awakened by Rapp’s heated conversation with Kennedy. With sleep still in their eyes they looked at Rapp tentatively, unsure of what had him so pissed off. Brooks was standing in the aisle next to her seat, a look of deep concern on her face.

Coleman looked at Brooks for a clue. She shrugged and shook her head.

“Mitch,” Coleman asked, “what happened?”

Rapp didn’t bother to open his eyes or raise his head. “The politicians are involved.”

“How bad?”

“Bad. The FBI is going to meet us when we land and take our guy into custody.”

“Didn’t we pretty much always know that was a possibility?” Brooks asked.

Coleman looked at her and quickly shook his head from side to side.

Rapp dropped one arm and looked at Brooks with a withering stare. “Yes, it was a possibility,” he said with an edge, “but considering how things went down in Cyprus, I would have advised against handing him over to the FBI, or at a bare minimum I would have made sure we had a week with him to make sure we interrogated him properly.”

Brooks nodded sheepishly and then looked at the ground.

“They’re going to meet us at the airport?” a surprised Coleman asked.

“Yes.”

“How in the hell did the FBI find out so fast?”

“Hayes told Alexander that we caught the guy who killed his wife. Alexander wants him put on trial. He wants the whole world to see that we caught the guy.”

“But we don’t have any hard evidence against this guy.”

“I know. They jumped the gun.”

“So they’re going to meet us at the airport?” Coleman asked again. “When we land.” He looked at his watch. “In less than two hours.”

“That’s right.”

“What about media?”

“Who the fuck knows?”

“This isn’t going to work,” Coleman said with real concern.

“Why?” Brooks asked. “What do we have to be ashamed of? We did their job for them.”

“You’re not thinking of the big picture. News like this is huge. I’d bet my left nut that the phone lines in Washington are burning up right now. Everybody is going to try and get in on the act and either take part of the credit or act like they were in the know.”

“I still don’t see the problem. This is a huge success for us. For the Agency.”

Coleman laughed. “I don’t work for the Agency, and I sure as hell don’t need any publicity.”

“Well the Agency does.”

“That’s debatable,” Rapp said.

“Come on, Mitch. We’re the redheaded stepchild. I’ve heard you say it a dozen times over the past month. We need some good press.”

“You’re assuming the press is going to treat us well.”

“Well, why wouldn’t they?”

“Every news story has its cycle. And when it’s about the Agency, no matter how good it looks at the beginning, it eventually gets ugly.”

“Come again?” Brooks said in a skeptical tone.

“It all comes down to our methods. They’re vegetarians. We’re meat eaters. We’ll never see eye to eye. This plane, our tactics, the way we deploy, the way we put a black bag over someone’s head in the middle of the night, sneak them out of a country without anyone knowing…it will all come under scrutiny.”

“I think you’re being a bit paranoid.”

“I think you’re naïve.” Rapp looked at his watch. “We don’t have a lot of time, so here’s what we’re going to do. Our Russian friend here.” Rapp pointed over his shoulder at the slumbering oaf in the corner. “Have any of you told anyone else that he exists?”

Coleman, Stroble, and Brooks all shook their heads.

“Good. He doesn’t exist.”

“What are you going to do with him?” Brooks asked.

Rapp’s patience was wearing thin. “This would be a good time for you to watch and learn.”

“Are you going to kill him?”

“Brooks, look me in the eye, so there’s no doubt between any of us that you understand what I’m about to tell you.”

Brooks guardedly folded her arms across her chest and looked at him with her greener than brown hazel eyes.

“Stop asking questions. This isn’t a fucking debate club. It’s a benevolent dictatorship, and I’m not feeling very benevolent right now, so unless you want to find your ass transferred out of the Clandestine Service and into some secretarial pool at one of the offsite locations, you’re going to do everything I tell you to do for the next two hours. Can you do that?”

She took a moment to decide and then reluctantly said, “Yes.”

Rapp yanked open the light aluminum door and looked down at Gazich. It was obvious by the prisoner’s pasty skin that the morphine had worn off. His forehead and upper lip were covered with beads of sweat, and his entire body quivered beneath the drab gray blanket. Rapp knew from firsthand experience that simply going from darkness to light in such an agonizing state could be painful. He watched the Bosnian shut his eyes and winced with understanding. Rapp did not like Gazich, but he took no joy in his discomfort.

Rapp had just spent the last five minutes on the phone with Marcus Dumond learning more about Gazich. There were passports, financial information, a key to a safety deposit box, cash, weapons, computers, backup disks, and hard files all found by Hacket and Wicker at Gazich’s office and home. All of it was scanned or photographed and sent to Dumond back in DC. At first glance the information gave them a pretty good idea of what Alexander Deckas had been up to for the past seven years. Dumond had already taken to referring to the prisoner as two separate people. Gavrilo Gazich was the man wanted by The Hague for war crimes in Bosnia, and Alexander Deckas was a seemingly legitimate businessman who had run a company called Aid Logistics Inc based out of Limassol, Cyprus.

Hacket and Wicker had taken the hard drives from both the office and home computers of Gazich and uploaded them via satellite to Dumond. So far the encryption programs had frustrated the MIT genius, but he expected to have them decrypted by later in the day. Rapp told him to make sure no one at Langley knew what he was up to, including DCI Kennedy. Dumond was used to working on a need-to-know basis, but DCI Kennedy was pretty much always in the need-to-know loop. Rapp told Dumond he was short on time and would explain everything when he saw him later today. The more pressing issue at the moment was to get Gazich to talk before he had to turn him over to the FBI.