The Last Man

Chapter 34
CAL Patterson was about to shit a brick. He'd busted his ass at Holy Cross, playing football and graduating with honors and an accounting degree. Three years later he had a law degree from the University of Virginia and a job with the FBI. He'd made all the right moves. Done everything his uncle had told him to do. His uncle had put in thirty-five years with the FBI and Patterson idolized him. During Patterson's first two years he worked seventy-hour weeks and volunteered for everything that was dangled in front of him and then some. His bosses loved him and he was rewarded with an assignment to the Counterintelligence Division. Even his uncle was impressed.

Now after just twenty-nine days in his new job, his entire career was hanging in the lurch. Patterson was all screwed up from the time change and couldn't sleep, so he rose early, put on his workout gear, and headed to the base's fitness center. Patterson was pleased to find out that the facility was nicer than anything the Bureau had. He was in the middle of a five-mile run on the treadmill when he saw the screen on his phone light up with the words Private Number. Patterson smacked the Pause button and yanked out his earbuds. Private Number usually meant Wilson or someone in their group.

"Hello," he said, a little out of breath.

"Special Agent Patterson."

"Speaking."

"This is Executive Assistant Director Hargrave. Would you like to tell me just where in the hell Agent Wilson is?"

"Ah . . . I assume he's sleeping, sir." Patterson knew exactly who Hargrave was, as he had just brought Wilson by his house before they left for Afghanistan.

"Any idea why he's not answering his phone?"

"Probably because he's sleeping, sir." Patterson regretted the answer immediately.

"Agent Patterson, who do you work for?"

"The FBI, sir."

"That's correct, and who does Special Agent Wilson work for?"

"The FBI, sir."

"That's correct. We don't turn our phones off . . . ever. Do you understand me, young man?"

"I do, sir."

"Do you like your job?"

"Ahhhh . . . yes, I do, sir. Very much, sir."

"Well, let me give you a little advice. If you want to keep working for the FBI, you are going to follow my instructions to the letter. Do you know where Agent Wilson is right now?"

"I think he's in his quarters, sir."

"And where are you?"

"I'm at the gym."

"Well, you are going to go wake his insubordinate ass up and you are going to call me back and put him on the phone. Have I made myself clear?"

Patterson stepped off the treadmill. "Crystal clear, sir."

"If I don't hear back from you in ten minutes, your career is over."

"Sir?"

"What?"

"I need your number."

"I'll text it to you. Call me back in ten minutes."

Patterson was about to respond but the line went dead. He noted the time on his watch and stuffed his phone and his earbuds in the zippered pockets of his running shorts. He grabbed his sweatshirt and started running. The trailer where Wilson was sleeping was only two minutes from where he was, but Patterson wasn't about to take any chances. It was getting light outside as he broke into a near sprint.

People were already out doing their morning PT, and Patterson got more than a few strange looks as he blew down the street as if he was running for his life, which he basically was. There was a moment of near panic when he couldn't locate the specific trailer. They all looked alike. On his second try he found the right place and as he burst through the door he found one of his fellow agents drinking coffee and staring at his iPad.

"Where's Wilson?"

The agent pointed with his coffee mug toward the back of the trailer. "Sleeping."

Patterson pulled out his phone and was relieved to see the text from Hargrave. He tapped the number as he moved down the hallway, passing the smaller bedrooms on his left and right. He was tempted to knock on the door, but when he heard Hargrave answer, he decided not to stop. He flung the door open and marched right to the bedside. Wilson looked up, dazed and confused by the light spilling in from the hallway.

"Here he is, sir." Patterson placed the phone in front of Wilson's face and said, "It's an emergency."

Wilson took the phone and said, "Hello?"

"I have been trying to call you for the past sixteen hours."

Shit, Wilson said to himself. Hargrave was the last person he wanted to talk to. "Ah . . . sorry, but I've been a little preoccupied." Wilson rolled onto his side and looked at his watch. "What do you need?"

"I need you to follow through on your promises. Remember a few days ago when you woke me up in the middle of the night to get permission to go on this little excursion of yours? Do you remember what you promised me?"

"Not really," Wilson yawned. "You're going to have to cut me some slack. This time change has me a little off. You woke me up."

"Have you been asleep for sixteen hours? Because that's how long I've been trying to get hold of you."

"No, it's just that things have been kind of complicated since we landed. Listen, why don't I call you back in thirty minutes and give you a briefing."

"You'll do no such thing. Before you left, we agreed that you would call me every day and give me a progress report. You have not called me once. I received a call from Director Kennedy. She wanted to know why, in the midst of the extremely serious problems she's trying to deal with, you decide to show up and start questioning her people."

"Sir, there's a reason for that."

"Stop talking. I get the feeling every time I hear your voice you're lying to me. I need you to listen and listen carefully. Because you decided not to return my calls I was not able to return Director Kennedy's calls. She is so incensed by your poor timing and self-important behavior that she decided to go over my head and call our boss. The director of the FBI, remember him? As the old saying in this town goes, shit rolls downhill. I was attempting to enjoy a nice evening with my wife when the director called me and asked me if I'd lost my mind. I had a sneaky suspicion it involved you and your asinine behavior and the director confirmed those suspicions. Director Kennedy told him about some stunt you pulled at the base hospital . . . trying to bully your way onto the ICU so you could interrogate one of her people who had barely escaped an assassination attempt."

Wilson was standing now. "I did not try to bully my way - "

"Don't speak. I'm not done talking. Before you left I told you how I expected you to behave. I explained to the director the scope of your investigation. That you told me that you were going to be there to offer assistance in finding Rickman, and if along the way you saw that any laws had been broken you would consult me before moving the investigation in a new direction. You lied to me."

"I did not."

"You sure as hell did, and that's how the director sees it as well. What I can't figure out is how you thought you were going to get away with this. You already have a reputation as a duplicitous bastard. People are watching you. And your timing is awful, by the way. The CIA is in the middle of a shitstorm and you show up and start poking them with a stick. Do have any idea the respect that Irene Kennedy garners in this town?"

"I think a better word is fear."

"You're a fool, and I'm wasting my time trying to help you. The director wants you back here immediately, and just so you have something to think about on your long flight, it looks like he's going to order an official inquiry into just what in the hell you've been up to."

Wilson had already been through one of those and it had almost killed his career. He doubted he would survive a second one. "Sir, you're making a big mistake."

"The only mistake I made was letting you go in the first place."

"That's not true, sir. There are some things you don't know."

"By all means, please enlighten me, and keep in mind, I've learned my lesson with you. This call is being recorded, so don't think you can sell me another pile of lies and then feign ignorance later."

Wilson was thinking as fast as he could, trying to find a way to give Hargrave as little information as possible and still convince him that he should be allowed to not only stay in Afghanistan, but also increase the scope of the investigation. "I have reason to believe that Joe Rickman and Mitch Rapp have been stealing millions of dollars from the U.S. government."

Hargrave laughed at him. "Reason to believe . . . that's the best you can do, Joel?"

"Sir, you're going to have to trust me on this."

"I am going to have to do no such thing. You have burned your way through all the trust I have. You have precisely one minute to convince me that you deserve the latitude to go digging around one of our country's most secretive institutions."

Wilson saw no other choice. "I have the account numbers, the amounts, when the transfers were made, and a sworn affidavit from the banker who says Mitch Rapp came into his bank and set up the account."

"Where's the bank?"

"Zurich."

"And how long have you had this information?"

In truth Wilson had possessed the information for eighteen days, but telling Hargrave that in his present state of mind would do him no good. "About two weeks."

There was a long silence and then, "You've had this information for two weeks and you didn't bring it to me."

"I wanted to make sure it was real first."

"And just how did you come to possess this information?"

Wilson knew how this was going to sound, but he also knew that sooner rather than later he would have to present a chain of evidence. If there were any inconsistencies the former judge would eat him alive. "The information was provided by an anonymous source."

"Good God," Hargrave yelled. "How long have you worked in Counterintelligence? Do you have any idea how many times the Russians alone have tried to turn us against ourselves with this little trick?"

"I am well aware, sir. That's why I followed up and met with the banker."

"And you've fully vetted this banker? You know for a fact that he's not a foreign asset?"

"I'm in the process of doing that right now, sir."

"You don't think you should have done that first?"

"The abduction of Rickman forced me to move up my timetable."

"So you thought you should lie to me and then jet off to Afghanistan so you could ambush Rapp. Do you understand that he was almost killed? He's in ICU . . . he can barely remember his name."

"How convenient."

"Do you have any common sense? Do you understand that the CIA is our sister agency? That we are supposed to work together?"

"I thought we were supposed to keep them honest, Sam."

"When the evidence dictates . . . yes, but that doesn't mean running off half cocked because of an anonymous tip, and by the way, how did you receive this anonymous tip?"

"I received a package."

"Where . . . your house or the office?"

"What does it matter?"

"Answer my question."

"The office."

"Postmark?"

"Zurich."

"And let me guess . . . the lab didn't find any fingerprints, or DNA, or anything that could help us find this anonymous source."

"That doesn't prove anything."

There was a long sigh of frustration and then, "You're done. Pack up your team. You have precisely two hours and that jet is going to be in the air, and during those two hours you are not to speak to anyone from the CIA. Am I clear?"

"Oh, I'm reading you loud and clear." Wilson was sick of being kicked around by this old fool. "Are you still recording our conversation, because I want to make sure you get this part. I didn't tell you any of this because I can't trust you. Because the entire Counterintelligence Division knows that you're too close to Director Kennedy, and based on what I've experienced the last few days I'm inclined to believe those rumors. So you better get ready for your own board of inquiry." Wilson spun around and whipped Patterson's phone against the wall. "F*ck."

He collapsed on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, trying to figure out how everything had gotten all twisted around. Hargrave was an idiot. The Clandestine Service was filled with crooks - Rickman, Rapp, and probably dozens of other officers. Senator Ferris had shown him the numbers; almost a billion dollars in cash had passed through the Clandestine Service and into the hands of all of those corrupt warlords, drug dealers, and politicians. The system was rife with corruption and Wilson had the evidence to prove it. There was only one reason why Hargrave would do this, and it was to protect Kennedy.

Wilson had no choice but to return to D.C., but he wasn't going to do it quietly. Senator Ferris was no slouch. They shared a belief that the CIA had been given too much power and not enough oversight after 9/11. That was going to change. Once the people found out that these crooks were stealing taxpayer dollars, Hargrave, Director Miller, and all the other a*sholes would get dragged up to Capitol Hill and have to explain how they interfered with his investigation, and then the Senate would clean house. After that, Wilson could write his own ticket and they could all kiss his ass.