Act of Treason

14

G roin injuries could be really messy. Lots of blood, and lots of pain. Since the Russian could barely keep his mouth shut as it was, Rapp assumed the lout would scream like a stuck pig if he pierced one of his testicles with a ball of lead. Rapp was not one to make empty threats, and the Russian’s inability to keep his mouth shut and follow a simple order was pushing him to the brink. He was one of these irritants who liked to think out loud. The type who gives a running narrative of the obvious. He alternated between muttering to himself and attempting to bribe Rapp with riches, his volume increasing with each passing moment.

Rapp was on the phone with Coleman, giving him a quick situation report. They were less than a minute out. Rapp told him to have Brooks drop him off in front. If anyone tried to stop him from going upstairs, he should tell them he was going to meet Alexander Deckas from Aid Logistics Inc. The Russian jabbered during the entire conversation.
Rapp had already frisked Gazich, and now he was rifling through the assassin’s desk as he finished giving Coleman instructions. Everything was going fairly well except the Russian. The man simply wouldn’t shut up. Finally, Coleman asked Rapp who was making the racket. Rapp reached his boiling point. He raised his pistol and squeezed the trigger. A round spat from the thick suppressor and imbedded itself in the wood seat of the chair a mere two inches in front of the Russian’s crotch.
The Russian’s eyes opened wide with fear and his mouth hung slack with shock.
Rapp muted the phone, walked over, stuck the smoking barrel into the Russian’s groin, and growled, “Shut the f*ck up!”
The Russian closed his eyes, whimpered for a second, and then slammed his mouth shut.
Rapp took the phone off mute and said, “Hurry up. I need some help up here.” With that he jabbed the red end button on the phone and considered his next move. He walked over to the door and leaned out into the hallway to check on the old man. All he could see was a dark mass on the floor at the far end. Rapp paused for a second while he did the time conversion. Ten o’clock in Cyprus meant it was four in the afternoon in DC. Kennedy could be anywhere. Rapp decided to call her secure mobile. He punched in the country code, area code, and then the number. It started ringing almost immediately.
The Science and Technology people at Langley provided the top echelon of employees with the most secure phones available, and then installed special encryption software. They issued new phones at least once a year if not every six months. Rapp’s phones never left the box. He didn’t trust them, and it wasn’t because he feared the Russians or the Chinese. It was his own agency and the National Security Agency that he feared most. The full capabilities of the NSA and what they could do with their satellites, listening stations, and eight Cray supercomputers that they kept deep underground in a vast cooled chamber, was known to only a select few. What Rapp did know was that they collected an unbelievable number of foreign calls made into the U.S. every day. Those calls emanating from the Middle East received special attention. The NSA acted like a big fishing trawler. They threw out their nets, reeled them in, and then decided what fish to keep. Except with them it was phone calls, e-mails, and other electronic transmissions. These were prioritized by criteria. Like fishermen who throw the worthless fish back into the sea, the NSA was getting more efficient at maximizing its resources.
At the heart of their mission was code breaking. It always had been and always would be. These billions of intercepts were worthless if they couldn’t decipher them. Rapp knew there were elite teams of brainiacs within the NSA whose sole job was to defeat encryption software. As good as the folks at Langley’s S&T were, the truth was they were no match for the talent that the NSA employed. From a patriot’s perspective, one would think none of this should matter. After all they were all on the same team—the CIA, the NSA, the Pentagon, the Department of Justice, the FBI—all Americans working to defeat global terrorism.
The reality was far more complicated. Just because one administration advocated a certain policy, it didn’t mean the next one would, or that some opportunistic politician on the Hill wouldn’t seize the chance to grab the limelight by calling for an investigation into any one of a dozen things Rapp had done in the last year. What a veteran of the Clandestine Service deemed appropriate action was often very different from what a lawyer at the DOJ might think. And then there were budgets and interagency turf wars. In many ways the domestic side of the business was more dangerous than the operating abroad. At least when he was in the field Rapp knew who his enemies were. At home, politics and personalities were thrown into the mix and any sense of a unified mission was lost.
The climate had gotten so bad that Rapp couldn’t trust his own people at Langley. The CIA’s own Inspector General’s office had gotten into the game of leaking things to reporters. Senior officers were contributing to politicians’ campaigns, spouses were serving on advisory committees for candidates, and admin types were regularly dining and rubbing shoulders with journalists, lobbyists, and political strategists. Add to that Amnesty International and a dozen other human rights groups and you had a climate that was about as unfriendly to someone in Rapp’s position as you could imagine. He couldn’t even trust his own employer to hand him a secure phone, for at the end of the day, the Inspector General’s Office could be recording everything he said. In Rapp’s mind, there was no such thing as a secure line, so he went with the odds. Practically every month he bought a new phone from a major carrier and got a new number. And every time he went on a mission like this, he picked up a phone that rarely lasted the length of the mission. Even with all of the precautions he took, he was still very careful about what he said. He gave only the vaguest information and spoke in generalities.
When Kennedy finally answered, Rapp did not bother with greetings. He simply said, “I need a plane.”
There was a brief pause. “What kind of plane?”
“The plane.”
Almost as if on cue, the Russian started his running narrative again. Rapp looked at him, the gun in one hand and the phone in the other, his palms up and his arms out from his body a couple feet. The expression on his face seemed to say, You have got to be kidding me.
The Russian said, “I work for the KGB.”
Through his earpiece, Rapp heard Kennedy ask, “Who is that?”
Rapp said, “Give me a second.” He pressed the mute button on the phone and moved around to the side of the Russian. “I told you to keep your mouth shut, you stupid f*cker.”
“I am Russian Intelligence. Former KGB. We are on the same side now. America and Russia.”
Gazich was immobile on the floor and no doubt in a great deal of pain as the adrenaline wore off and he was left with the searing pain of four gun shot wounds to extremely sensitive areas of his body. Despite his less than humorous situation, he started to laugh and said, “You work for the Russian mob.”
“I do not!” the Russian shouted.
Gazich laughed harder. “You are a bitch for the oligarchs and nothing else.”
Rapp was standing midway between the Russian and Gazich. If he didn’t need to talk to these two morons, he would gladly shoot them both in the head, just to shut them up. The Russian was craning his neck looking up at Rapp, babbling on about his distinguished career with the KGB. Rapp took another step, putting himself off to the Russian’s left side about three feet away. Rapp pointed across the room and asked, “You see that computer over there?”
The Russian looked away from Rapp and fixed his attention on the large off-white monitor sitting on the desk.
Rapp turned to the side and shifted all of his weight onto his left foot. His right leg came up and his torso leaned away from the Russian. Rapp’s leg hung in the air for a second; his hands were pulled in tight gripping the phone and the gun, his forearms and fists providing a shield for his upper torso and face. He did it out of habit, not out of fear of being hit. It was years of training. A simple side kick. Done properly it could be delivered with more force than any other blow. Done poorly it still provided quite a punch. Rapp hadn’t delivered a poor side kick in more than fifteen years. The toe of Rapp’s heavy soled shoes was drawn up toward his shin. His eyes were locked on the Russian’s chin like the three green dots on the sights of his Glock.
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 f*cking 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?”