Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

Moving one step to his left, Rapp managed to block out the light that was hitting Gazich in his face. The CIA operative held out a syringe and said, “Here’s how we play this game. I’m going to ask you a series of questions. If you answer them truthfully, you get your shot of morphine. If you lie to me, just once, no shot.”

Gazich nodded eagerly.

“I want to be really clear about this…I know more about you than you can possibly imagine. I’ve talked to the big Russian,” Rapp lied. “The one whose face you were in process of carving up. He had some very interesting things to say about you.”

“Russians are professional liars,” Gazich growled.

Rapp help up a cautionary finger. “We’ve gone through your office and your house and have run your photo through our facial recognition system. We have you on tape buying coffee at the Starbucks on Wisconsin Avenue the morning that the bomb went off. If you lie, even once, I shut the door and we start over again in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll tell you whatever you want. Hurry up and give me the shot.”

“Oh no.” Rapp laughed. “We talk first, and then you get the shot.”

“Then hurry up with your questions.”

Rapp had a theory, and he was going to test it after he started with a few easy questions. “Who hired you?”

“I don’t know,” Gazich moaned in frustration.

“Fine.” Rapp took a step back and started closing the door.

“I swear!” Gazich yelled in a panic. “Everything was handled over the Internet.”

Rapp stood there with the door half closed. This was the answer he expected. If Gazich had given him a name he would have been suspicious. Big money contracts like these were rarely handled face to face.

“You didn’t know them, but they knew you?” Rapp asked.

“By reputation only.”

“Then how did they track you down?”

“I don’t know,” he snarled. “I was in the process of finding that out when you burst into my office and shot me.”

“How did you get into the U.S.?” Rapp watched Gazich hesitate before answering. So far the man had denied any involvement in the attack on the motorcade. “Be careful. Take your time to think this one through. You wouldn’t want to lie to me.”

Gazich squirmed under the strain of the straps and said, “I flew into New York the day before.”

“Which airport?”

“JFK.”

“The explosives?”

“They were waiting for me.”

“Where?”

“ Pennsylvania.”

“The state?”

“Yes, the state. Now give me my shot.”

“Not quite yet. You’re doing a good job, though. So you pick up the van, drive it down to Washington…when, on Friday?”

“No,” Gazich snapped. “I told you I arrived in New York on Friday.”

It was possible to fly into JFK, stop in Pennsylvania, and get to Washington in one day, but Rapp wasn’t going to argue with him. Not yet. The fact that his fuse was so short was a good sign. He wanted the morphine big-time.

“So you stayed in Pennsylvania on Friday night?”

“Yes…Yes! The van was waiting for me and I drove it down to Washington early on Saturday morning. I found my spot, I parked it, I waited, and then when the time was right I blew it up. End of story. There you go. Now give me my shot.”

Rapp squatted down and pulled back the blanket to reveal Gazich’s hand. A port was taped to the back of his right hand. Stroble had put it in earlier so he could give Gazich a bag of plasma and his first two shots of morphine. Rapp popped the cap off the premeasured dose and was about to insert the needle when he thought of one more question.

“Where were you standing when you detonated the bomb?”

Gazich’s eyes were focused on the needle with such intensity that he didn’t understand the question. “What?”

“When the bomb went off…where were you standing?”

“The fucking tree!” Gazich yelled. “I was standing behind a tree a half block away! Now give me the shot.”

Rapp nodded. Agent Rivera had been right. He slid the needle into the white port and pressed the plunger. The dose was just enough to keep him comfortable for thirty to forty-five minutes, and then the pain would come back with a vengeance. Rapp watched as Gazich began to relax almost immediately. His body went from rigid to relaxed, and his breathing settled into a normal pattern as the alkaloid drug eased his pain.

“So they tried to back out of paying you the rest of the money after the job.” Rapp said this casually. Like one professional talking to another.

“The second part?” Gazich scoffed. “They wanted their deposit back.”

“Not very professional,” Rapp said with a disappointed look on his face. “So you waited a few seconds too long and you only got one limo instead of both.”

The drug was working fast. Gazich looked up at Rapp with dilated eyes and slurred his first few words. “I did exactly as I was told. I fulfilled my part of the deal. They were the ones who screwed up.”

“How so?”

“They told me to hit the second limo.”

Rapp’s brow furrowed with surprise. Tactically this made no sense. The van had enough power to take out both limos. Picking just one from the outset cut your odds of success in half. “Why not take out both?”

“I don’t know. I’m not paid to question my employers.”

“So when did they tell you to hit the second limo?” Rapp was thinking maybe he’d received the order when he’d picked up the van.

“Twenty to thirty seconds, before it all went down.”

“Before the blast?” asked a surprised Rapp.

“Yes.”

They must have had a spotter that morning watching the candidates get in their vehicles. Rapp wondered if Agent Rivera shuffled the limousines as they left the compound. It was a fairly common Secret Service tactic. That would explain why they blew up the wrong limo.

“The phone you received the call on…where did you get it?”

“It was waiting for me in the van.”

“Was it also used to remote detonate the bomb?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose you hung on to it?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Rapp was trying to wrap his mind around the entire operation. It wasn’t how he would have done it, but then again the enemy had proven in the past that they weren’t always logistical geniuses. He stood and looked down at Gazich. “One more question. I read your file. You obviously hate Muslims. Why work for them?”

Gazich smiled for the first time. “My enemy’s enemy is my ally.”

“That and the fact that they probably paid you a shitload of money.”

“The money was fine, but I wanted to strike a blow for my country.”

Rapp would have gladly debated him on the issue, but it would have been a waste of crucial time. Guys like Gazich didn’t simply change their mind after a brief conversation. Rapp began closing the cargo door and said, “We’ll be landing in an hour.”

The big plane touched down softly at 10:47 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. Rapp and Coleman joined the pilots in the cockpit as they taxied to the cargo portion of the airport. They half expected to be greeted by a welcoming committee of police cars, FBI sedans, and a gaggle of news vans. Fortunately, it appeared their cover story had held. It looked cold outside, which was a good thing. Customs officers were humans too. The cold weather would keep them huddled inside rather than out on the tarmac nosing around. Rapp took one final look out the window and then turned to Coleman who was now wearing the same uniform as the pilot and copilot: black pants, white shirt with black and silver epaulets, and a black tie. He was listed as Tom Jones, the plane’s navigator on the official manifest. He had a full set of worn credentials to match. Coleman would clear customs with the two pilots and be off the airport property in thirty minutes or less.