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Pur s u i t of Ho n o r
A novel

Vince flynn

At r i A

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A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Copyright 2009 by Vince Flynn All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. First Atria Books hardcover edition October 2009 Atr iA
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data ISBN 978-1-4165-9516-8 ISBN 978-1-4391-0050-9 (ebook)

Chapt er 1

New York CitY

t was nearing ten oclock in the evening when Mitch Rapp decided it was time to move. He stepped from the sedan into the April night, popped his umbrella, clutched the collar of his black trench coat, and set out across a rain-soaked East Twentieth Street. He navigated the puddles and swollen gutter without complaint. The weather was a blessing. Not only did it clear the streets of potential witnesses, it also gave him a reasonable excuse to hide his face from the citys everincreasing array of security cameras. Rapp had traveled to New York City to decide the fate of a man. At an earlier point, he had debated the wisdom of handling the situation himself. In addition to the inherent risk of getting caught, there was another, more pressing problem. Just six days earlier a series of explosions had torn through Washington, D.C., killing 185 and wounding hundreds. Three of the terrorists were still at large, and Rapp had been ordered, unofficially, to find them by any means necessary. So far, however, the investigation had been painfully complicated and had yet to yield a single solid lead. The three men had up and disappeared, which suggested a level of sophistication that few of them had thought the

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enemy capable of. The last thing Rapp expected, though, was that he would still be dealing with this other issue. In light of the attacks in Washington, he thought the fool would have come to his senses. Beyond the significance of deciding if the man should live or die, there was the aftermath to consider. Killing him had the very real potential to cause more problems than it would solve. If the guy failed to show up for work there would be a lot of questions, and the majority of them would be directed at Rapp and his boss, Irene Kennedy, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. One tiny misstep, and the shit storm of all shit storms would be brought down on them. The head of the surveillance team had tried to talk him out of it, but Rapp wasnt the kind of man who was going to start pulling the trigger from a climate-controlled office a couple hundred miles away. He needed to see with his own eyes if they were missing somethingif there wasnt some unseen or unpredictable factor that had caused the bureaucrat to jump the tracks. Rapp was keenly aware of the universal disdain for the man he had followed to New York. There were plenty of people on the clandestine side of the business who had cause to wish the prick dead, and that was another reason Rapp needed to be absolutely certain he was guilty of what they suspected. His dislike for the man would make it all that much easier to pull the trigger, and Rapp knew he had to fight that urge. He needed to give this idiot every last chance to save himself before they did something that could never be undone. It would be a mistake to read too deeply into Rapps cautious attitude, though. If he found the proof he was looking for, there would be no hand-wringing or queasiness. Hed killed too many people to begin acting like an amateur, and although the man was a fellow American, he was also very likely a traitor. And not some low-level, paper-pushing traitor, this guy had one of the highest security clearances in the federal government and his hypocrisy had likely gotten one of Rapps agents killed.

pursuit of hoNor

Rapp moved down the sidewalk toward Park Avenue at a casual pace. He was dressed in a fashion similar to that of the thousand-plus executive car drivers who were shuffling their clients around the city on this rain-soaked eveningblack shoes, black suit, white shirt, black tie, and a black trench coat. To anyone who happened to notice him, he would look like just another driver out stretching his legs, trying to kill a little time before his client finished his meal and was ready to head someplace else or call it a night. As Rapp took up a position across the street and one door down from the Gramercy Tavern, he reached into his pocket and fished out a pack of Marlboros. Standing in the rain in New York City doing nothing might get you noticed, but throw in a cigarette and you looked like all the other addicts battling the elements to get their fix. Rapp turned away from the street and faced the blank faade of the building behind him. He tilted the umbrella so it looked as if he was trying to block the wind and flicked his lighter. He was not worried about the wind, but he was worried about one of the other drivers catching a glimpse of his face in the glow of the flame. After a deep pull off the cigarette, Rapp casually looked out from under the rain-soaked umbrella and across the street. The target was sitting in one of the restaurants big windows sharing a meal, a lot of booze, and too much conversation with a man Rapp had never met, and hoped to keep that way. The other man was a concern, to be sure, but Rapp was not in the habit of killing private citizens simply because they were witnesses to the ramblings of a bitter man who was past his prime. Despite every effort to find a different solution, Rapps mood was decidedly fatalistic. The surveillance team had the restaurant wired for sound, and for the last two hours he had been sitting in a parked Lincoln Town Car listening to his coworker trash-talk the Agency. As Rapp watched him take a drink of wine, he wasnt sure what bothered him more, the mans self-serving criticism, or his reckless behavior.

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One would think that anyone who worked at the CIA would be a little more careful about when and where he decided to commit treason. So far his associate had done little more than espouse his political and philosophical views. Bad form, to be sure, but nothing that had risen to the level of outright sedition. Rapp, however, could sense that it was coming. The man had been drinking heavily. Hed downed two gin martinis and four glasses of red wine, and that wasnt counting the bump or two hed probably had on the flight up from D.C. and possibly at the hotel bar. Rapp had ordered his surveillance people to steer clear of the airports. There were too many cameras and trained law enforcement types who would eventually be interviewed by the FBI. If the night went the way it was looking, every moment of this guys life would be rewound and scrutinized, and theyd start with that U.S. Airways commuter flight hed taken out of Reagan National up to LaGuardia earlier in the day. Rapp casually took another drag from the cigarette and watched as the waiter placed two snifters of cognac in front of the men. A few minutes earlier, Rapp had listened as the other man tried to pass on the after-dinner drink. Rapp got the feeling the man was starting to think the dinner meeting had been a waste of his time. Rapps coworker, however, insisted that they both have a drink. He told the other man he was going to need it after he heard what he was about to tell him. Now, with the rain softly pelting his umbrella, Rapp watched the waiter place two snifters on the table. The waiter was still within earshot when the man from Langley leaned in and began to tell his story. Rapp heard every word via a wireless earpiece. For the first few minutes it was all innuendo. Rapps coworker put his information on the table in a series of hypotheticals, and while Rapp had no doubt that the lawyers at the Justice Department would have found wiggle room in the statements, Rapp saw them as further proof of the mans reckless

pursuit of hoNor

intent. Anyone who had been read in at this level of national security knew what could be discussed and what was strictly off limits. Rapp was in the midst of lighting his second cigarette when the conversation moved from the abstract to the concrete. It started with the specific mention of an operation that was known to only a handful of people, including the president. This is it, he thought to himself. The idiot is really going to do it. As casually as he could, Rapp brought his eyes back to the big window of the restaurant. There, the two men sat, hunched over the table, their faces no more than a foot apart, one speaking in hushed tones, the other looking more horrified with each word. The classified designations came pouring out in a rapid-fire staccato of dates and targets. One secret after another was tossed onto the pile as if they were inconsequential nuggets of gossip. The breadth of the damage was even worse than Rapp had dared imagine. So bad, in fact, that he began wondering if he shouldnt simply march across the street, pull out his gun, and execute the idiot on the spot. As quickly as things had heated up, though, they came to an abrupt halt. Like some belligerent drunk whod consumed one ounce too much of alcohol, the man from Langley put away his wares and announced that hed divulged only a fraction of what he knew and that before he said anything further they needed to come to an agreement. Up until now, Rapp had thought his coworkers rigid principles had driven him to take this risky step, but as he listened to the two men discuss the financial details of their new relationship, that last shred of grudging respect vanished. Rapp looked through the rain at the traitor and realized that like the hundreds of miscreants who had gone before him, his coworkers often-flaunted idealism came with a price, just as with all the other bastards. Rapp flicked his cigarette into the gutter and watched it bob and swirl its way into the sewer. As he turned toward Park Avenue he felt not even the tiniest bit of remorse over what he had just set in motion.

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Without having to look, he knew that a man bearing a striking resemblance to the traitor was now climbing into the back of a Lincoln Town Car. Every detail had been arranged from the eyeglasses, to the tie, to the hair coloreven the black and orange umbrella from the hotel. All that was left for Rapp to do was walk a block and a half and wait for the idiot to come to him.

Chapt er 2

New York CitY

len Adams drained the last precious drop of Remy Martin from the bulbous snifter and immediately felt cheated that he wasnt going to get a second glass of the smooth, warm cognac. His dinner partner and former law school classmate, while brilliant, was also a bit of a bore, and had insisted on the tab. Theyd graduated from NYUs School of Law twenty-six years earlier and since then theyd run into each other about once or twice a year, either at alumni events or at various professional functions. Every so often theyd grab lunch and catch up, but there was no doubt they had drifted apart. It was neither mans fault, of course. Between careers and family, there was little time left for old friendships. The two men had chosen drastically different paths after law school. Urness scored a coveted job with the Public Defenders Office in New York City. After putting in three years of utter servitude, he bolted for the private sector and quickly earned a reputation as a fearsome trial attorney. By his midthirties hed already argued two cases before the U.S. Supreme Court. At thirty-nine, he started his own law

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firm and quickly grew it into one of most well known and successful in a city filled with high-priced law firms. Adams, while not nearly as successful, was proud of what hed accomplished. Following in the footsteps of his father, he went to work for the CIA. His first two years, while enlightening, were worse than anything he could have imagined. Since childhood hed dreamed of becoming a spook. Unfortunately, it didnt turn out to be anything even remotely close to what he thought it would be. Adams had grown up in the house of a father who had fought in World War II and then gone on to work for the CIA in its Special Activities Division. His dad was rarely around, and that left a lot of time for a young, impressionable boy to dream about unseen heroism and daring exploits. Even in his absence the man managed to cast his huge presence over the house and the aspirations of his only son. In the real world Adams found the Directorate of Operations at Langley to be staffed by crude, rude, and dimwitted ex-military types, who were challenged to think of the world in any colors other than black and white. Having graduated from one of the worlds top law schools, Adams found it unbearable to work around so many simpletons. After two years of service, and despite strong protest from his father, Adams left the CIA and went to work for the Justice Department. It was a decision that ended up causing irreparable damage to their relationship. It took the younger Adams years to come to grips with the rift it had caused, and in many ways this evening was a major step in putting the entire thing behind him. Despite the problems it had caused with his father, Adams always felt hed made the right decision in leaving the CIA. While at DOJ hed tackled a series of increasingly tough jobs, and his career steadily advanced. Then 9/11 hit and everything changed. That first year or two after the attacks, Adams found himself caught up in the patriotic fervor just like everyone else. Eventually, though, he regained his senses and realized elements of his own government were every bit as big a threat as the terrorists. A vocal minority on the Hill had been scream-

pursuit of hoNor

ing for increased oversight at the CIA, and before Adams knew it his name had been thrown into the hopper. His reputation as a tough federal prosecutor pleased the politicians, and his family history with Langley, and brief employment there, made him what many thought to be the perfect choice for inspector general of Americas premier spy agency. Adams experienced a glimmer of hope that the new post would help mend the rift between him and his father. His dad, now in his eighties, didnt have many years in front of him, and Adams knew there wouldnt be many opportunities like this. He couldnt have been more misguided in his optimistic assessment. The afternoon that he told his father of the prodigal sons return ended up being the last time they spoke. Unknown to Adams was his fathers deep-seated disdain for the office of the CIAs top watchdog. What was supposed to be a moment of healing ended up being a catastrophe that destroyed any hope of repairing their relationship. Four short months later the elder Adams passed away. The surviving son took to his new job with ministerial zeal. Like a missionary converting the heathens to Christianity, Adams would bring a passion for justice and the rule of law to the wild and uncouth. And like the missionaries who had worked the backwaters of South America, Adams would use force if need beconversion by the sword. He would use his considerable talents to usher in a new era at Langley. An era they could all be proud of. At least that was what he had told himself at the time. What hed told his wife and his law school classmates like Urness. His fellow alums had been a great source of strength. They saw the CIA for what it was: a rotten, outdated organization. If he had known then what he knew now, he wondered if he would have taken the job. Had he been too idealistic? No, hed told himself on many occasions, they were just too corrupt. The Constitution and the rule of law were more important than a thousand careers. A million careers. Adams gazed into his glass in hopes that there was a drop to be

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found in the little indentation at the bottom, but there wasnt. All is not wasted, he mumbled to himself. Tonight was proof of that. His plan was good, better than goodit was perfect. None of them would expect it. Besides, they had their hands full at the moment, trying to figure out how theyd fucked up and allowed nearly two hundred of their fellow citizens to get killed in broad daylight. They were nothing more than a bunch of goons, and these attacks were proof that their methods had served only to hearten the enemy. This is a big step, Urness said as he slid his black American Express card back in his wallet. Are you sure you want to go through with it? Come on, Kenny, Adams said to the other attorney, Ive never doubted your determination. I just want to make sure, Urness said with a toothy grin. Theres going to be some very powerful people who are going to be really pissed off. No doubt. Are you sure youre up to it? The attorney took a moment and then said, Im ready for a new challenge. A cause I can believe in. Ive made a shitload of money. Now Id like to make a difference. With a raised brow, Adams said, Like Woodward and Bernstein? Yeah, except youll be Deep Throat. Lets hope I dont have to wait until Im ninety to admit my role in all of this. If Im reading this right, Urness said, and I usually do, I dont think youll have to wait more than two years. Ill have it all gamed by then, and youll be treated as a hero. By some. Urness pushed his chair back and started to stand. Fuck em . . . Adams laughed and stood, oblivious that his white dinner napkin had just slid from his lap to the floor.

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11

Im serious. Fuck em. Youre never going to get those fascists on the right to understand what were doing, so Im telling you right now fuck em and forget em. Youre right, Adams said with an impish grin. As Urness came around the table Adams put his arm around him. He was almost a head taller than his friend. Youre a good shit, Kenny. I really appreciate this. Im more than happy to help, Glen. These are strange times. If we dont take a stand, Im afraid what kind of country will be left for our kids. The two men moved from the restaurant into the bar and toward the front door. Adams looked at the booze behind the bar, and like one of Pavlovs dogs, began to salivate. He slowed his pace and rubbed his right hand over his belly. What do you say we have one more bump before we call it a night? Urness abruptly stopped, looked up at his friend with a seriousness that he usually saved for his clients, and blurted out, I think you drink too much. Adams looked away nervously and chuckled. Come on, Kenny, he said with forced levity, a guys in New York for the night. Whats wrong with wanting to get a little lit up? Nothing if youre some tire salesman from Akron in town for a convention, but you, my friend, are no salesman. You have wandered out onto a very dangerous cliff. One tiny misstep, and splat. Urness clapped his hands together to emphasize the point. I am well aware of what Im doing. Im not so sure. If were going to do this, I want you to keep your drinking under control. Hey, Adams said in an easy tone, Im not going to tell you that I dont like to drink, but Im not driving. Im just trying to blow off a little steam. Yes, you are, and as your friend Im telling you to tone it down.

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This shit is serious. If you fuck this up, Glen, and dont handle it perfectly, you could end up in jail or worse. Message received. Adams put up his hands, feeling a bit embarrassed. Good, because Im going to keep an eye on you. Now lets get you in your car. I need to get home and review a case before I go to bed.

Chapt er 3

dAms and Urness found themselves huddled under the small awning outside the restaurant with their umbrellas in hand. Each man scanned the rain-splattered windows of the closest executive cars in search of a white placard with his name. Adams was lucky. His car was only twenty feet away. Urness said a rushed goodbye and then hurried away, darting between the puddles. At each passing sedan he stopped to search for his name. Adams plotted his own course and bolted for the rear passenger door of his Lincoln Town Car. He opened the door, closed the umbrella, and ducked into the backseat. The driver gave him a polite nod and a soft Hello, followed by a Back to the hotel, sir? Adams was half tempted to ask him if he knew of any good bars and then thought better of it. Urnesss admonition about his drinking had wounded his pride. Yes, my hotel, please. Adams was already looking out the window, his mind trying to justify the joy he received from a good glass of booze or bottle of wine. A guy like Urness didnt understand. He was too focused on his career to enjoy the other things

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life had to offer. Come to think of it, the man didnt have a single hobby or passion other than the law. Besides, Adams thought to himself, Id like to see Urness walk in my shoes for a month, let alone six years. Adams felt like General Custer at timessurrounded by savages, trying to fight the good fight. Every day brought a new level of duplicity and treachery. The entire clandestine service and most of the leadership at Langley was staffed by professional liars and manipulators, men and women who had not an ounce of respect for the Constitution and the coequal branches of the Republic. There was nothing wrong with the occasional drink, he decided. He would just have to be a little more discreet about it. Adams looked out the window as they rolled through a busy intersection. Despite the concern over his drinking, he was pleased with the pact hed made with Urness. Considering how complicated it was, he felt the night couldnt have gone better. Adams smiled at his bold step, allowed himself to think how sweet victory would feel when the rotten house of Langley came tumbling down on itself. Adams realized he hadnt felt this good in months. It was as if a massive yoke had been lifted from his exhausted shoulders. This was going to be funturning it around on them. He loved the irony. He was going to use one of their own ploys to take them down. Hed come to think of it as his own little covert operation. He would have to continue in his role as inspector general and look, with feigned zeal, for the leaker. Hed have to be careful, though, to not seem too eager. The operatives, while not bright, were at least instinctive. If he changed his behavior too much they would sense it, so he would have to do his job, while letting it be known that he had warned all of them this day would come. Adams couldnt wait to see the looks on their faces when the news broke. The car hit a pothole and began to slow. He looked up and was about to ask the driver why he was pulling over, when suddenly the drivers-side rear door opened. A dark figure dripping with water

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15

glided into the vehicle and took a seat next him. Before Adams had the chance to figure out who it was, the door was closed and the car was moving again. Somewhere in a seemingly distant part of his brain he heard the automatic locks slam into place with an ominous thud. His mind was suddenly racing to understand what was going on. Why was this strange man in his car? Adams was about to ask him just that, when the man turned to face him. The alcohol caused a slight delay in connecting the dots, but Adams knew instantly who he was looking at. The jet-black hair with a touch of gray at the temples, the olive skin and eyes so dark they looked like two pools of oilthey all belonged to none other than the CIAs chief thugMitch Rapp. But what in the hell was Rapp doing in New York City, let alone his car? What? Adams stammered. What in the hell are you doing? How was your dinner? Rapp asked in a casual tone. My dinner? What in the hell are you doing? Get out of my car right now! Panic crept into his voice as his inhibited brain began to comprehend the gravity of the situation. Easy, Glen, Rapp spoke in a deep, calm voice. Youre in no position to be handing out orders. The hell Im not! Adams reached inside his jacket. Rapp made no effort to stop him. What do you think youre doing? Im calling the attorney general, is what Im doing! Rapp let out a protracted sigh, followed by, Put your phone down. Hed figured this was how Adams would react. Rapp took his gloved right hand, brought it up by his left shoulder, and unleashed a backhanded slap that caught Adams square in the nose. The blow was just enough to stun. Rapp did not want him bleedingat least not yet. Adams yelped like a dog and dropped the phone at the same time. He instinctively brought both hands up to cover his face and began complaining loudly.

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Rapp grabbed the phone and started patting Adams down; sliding his hands around his waist to make sure there wasnt another phone or pager that he didnt know about. Take your hands off me! Adams demanded. Stop moving, Rapp ordered as he quickly searched the jacket pockets. This time youve gone too far! Adams shouted. There is no way youre going to be able to weasel your way out of this. Kidnapping, assault . . . Rapp ignored the list of charges and told the driver, Its just the one phone. The driver nodded and put out his hand. Rapp gave him the phone and a second later the driver pulled over, rolled down his window six inches, and handed the phone to a man standing on the street corner. Rapp turned his attention back to Adams, who, while done listing the potential charges, had now moved on to expressing the joy and satisfaction he would receive from watching Rapp brought to justice. Glen, Rapp said, thats not going to happen. The hell it isnt! Adams said emphatically. Rapp sighed. The chance of your ever seeing me brought to justice is zero. You dont know me very well, if you think for a minute Im somehow going to be talked out of going to the attorney general with this. I know you all too well, Glen, but apparently you dont know me very well, if you think Im going to let you live. Live? Adams asked incredulously. You wouldnt dare! Ive dared more times than I can count, and for far less than this. Youre a traitor, and unless you can somehow explain to me why in the hell youve been leaking classified information, Im going to kill you. Rapp looked into the eyes of the man sitting next to him and said, Its really not that complicated, and if you really believe Im the monster you claim, you should know Im serious. The seriousness of his predicament finally sank in. Adams, his jaw

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17

slack, stared at Rapp for a long moment and then, blinking, looked to the driver and shouted, Pull over right now! The driver ignored him, so Adams repeated himself, but even louder. Rapp twisted in his seat, took a good look at Adams, picked his spot, and then let loose a left jab that caught the inspector general square on the chin. Adamss head bounced off the window and then his entire body went slack.

Chapt er 4

toolesboro, iowa

he old farmhouse sat nestled in a cusp of trees a few hundred yards from the banks of the Mississippi River. A creek flowing from the northwest forked and flowed around the rise of land before joining up again and draining into the big river that divided America roughly in half. The eighty-acre parcel was mostly wooded, with some rolling open land to the west. Most important, it offered concealment. Hakim had found it on his drive north from Hannibal, Missouri, the previous fall. It had been advertised in the West Burlington newspaper as the perfect retreat for solitude, and Hakim decided it was worth a look. After a brief phone call with the local realtor he learned that the family had been selling off parcels of land for over a decade. The kids were all goneone in Chicago, two on the East Coast, and one on the West Coast, Dad was dead, and Mom had just been moved into a nursing home. All that was left to sell was the old house and two barns that sat on the heavily wooded eighty acres by the river. The realtor warned him that the land around the house flooded most springs

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and the driveway sometimes washed out, so it wasnt good for much of anything except hunting. Hakim told the woman it didnt sound like it would work, thanked her for her time, and hung up. He then drove north on Highway 99 until he found the place, which proved to be more difficult than he had thought, which in the end of course was a good thing. From a tactical standpoint the place had a lot of positives. There wasnt another house in sight and the local road dead-ended at the propertys driveway, which meant there would be minimal traffic, if any. Hakim took a few photos and then called the lawyer in New York and instructed him to buy the property through a game and wildlife conservancy trust that had already been set up. The lawyer handled the closing. Hakim then directed him to hire someone to put up a gate along with a lock box, and some No Trespassing signs. Since then he had been back to the property just twice, both times to lay down provisions and make sure everything would be ready for them. As it turned out, the house ended up being one of the rare parts of the plan he and Karim had agreed on. They had labored over the best route of escape after the attacks. The airports were out of the question, as was private aviation. The Americans were well rehearsed in closing those two avenues. Next they looked at the seaports on the East Coast and then the Gulf of Mexico. During normal times, stowing away on a container ship would not be difficult, but the Americans would be at a heightened state not seen since the Towers had been taken down. Every port would have hundreds of eyes and countless security cameras looking for them. They looked at crossing the border into Canada or Mexico. Driving through a border-controlled checkpoint seemed far too risky, so they decided they would have to make the journey on foot, hiking through rugged wilderness. Karim was confident that they could handle the physical aspect of the trip. The real problem would be finding someone they could trust on the other side. Their resources were

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stretched too thin already. They would have to turn outside the group to find help. Hakim, knowing the depth of his friends paranoia, offered his counterintuitive suggestion of driving to Americas heartland and lying low. Like Saudi Arabia, America was an immense country with large cities as well as vast open spaces that were sparsely populated. While it was true that America was a melting pot, especially compared to a closed society like that of Saudi Arabia, it was not exactly as open as it looked on paper. All those various groups tended to cluster together, which nullified much of the potential for concealment. Karim had originally thought his friend meant driving to a city like Chicago. With over ten million people in the metropolitan area, they would be the proverbial needles in a haystack. Having actually spent some time in America, Hakim had to explain why going to Chicago was a bad idea. There were too many eyes and ears in a big city and there would surely be reward money offered. If everyone was looking for them, the best solution was to find someplace where they could let the storm blow over in absolute privacy. Karim loved the idea and gave his best friend the approval to find such a place. Hakim stared out the small kitchen window toward the river and the rising sun, and watched a single wild turkey strut across the yard toward the woods. He looked to his right in search of the others. Five mornings in a row hed seen the seven turkeys strut along their little trail and into the woods. Had the others been killed, was this one kicked out of the herd, or flock, or whatever it was that you called a group of turkeys? Whatever it was, Hakim could identify with him. Every morning for the past week hed thought of going it alone. Just walk down the hill to the river and get into the little boat hed stashed in the underbrush. Hed fire up the twenty-five-horsepower outboard and push off from the bank. Head south like Huck Finn. Take the big river all the way to the Gulf. Had there been a single incident that had caused the rift, or was it a culmination of events? Hakim had been searching for the answer all

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week. Was it when he left his best friend in the mountains of Pakistan almost a year ago? Was it the jungles of South America that had warped his friends brain, or had it happened much earlier? Like most childhood friendships, theirs had progressed without question or challenge. Karim was the student with the best marks. He was a naturally gifted athlete with a competitive streak unmatched by any of the other kids in the neighborhood, and he had always been the most diligent when it came to prayer. He had been intense even then, while Hakim was far more laid back. They had always complemented each other. As Hakim took a sip of tea he wondered if it had been an illusion of sorts. Had they ever really been that close? Hakim wanted to believe they had been the best of friends, but it was possible that the relationship had always been one-sided. It was hard to tell the difference between a driven individual and a self-centered assmaybe they went hand in hand. Whatever the case, there had been a change, although it was possible that it was more of a progression. His old friend was proving to be every bit as narcissistic as the rest of the al Qaeda leadership. With each passing day he was increasingly obsessed with the coverage of the attacks and the aftermath. The prophet had warned against such self-love. Hakim was attempting to reconcile the thorny theological aspects of their struggle when he heard the voice of his friend. Good morning. Hakim was not surprised. He had long ago grown used to Karims ability to move about silently. He looked over his shoulder and nodded. Glancing at the nearby clock he noticed it was 6:00 a.m. His shift was over and he wouldnt be back on again for eight hours. Anything interesting happen on your watch? Karim asked. No, Hakim said honestly. Any news? Karim asked, pointing at the small TV on the table. I did not turn it on. Reading again? Yes.

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Those same blasphemous American books you read when we were kids? Karim asked with an edge of disapproval. I would hardly call For Whom the Bell Tolls a blasphemous novel. Do you think Imam bin Abdullah would approve? Karim asked as he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. Hakim thought of the imam of their local mosque back in Makkah, Saudi Arabia. The man was perhaps the most unenlightened cleric he had encountered in all of his travels. As much as he wanted to tell his friend just that, and then some, he decided to bite his tongue. The week had been peppered with these little fights. They were both on edge and Hakim was too tired to engage. Look at this, Karim announced, as he pointed the remote control at the TV and began pressing the volume button. Hakim looked at the screen. It was turned to one of the American news channels. It seemed that his friend could not get enough of the coverage of the attacks they had perpetrated the previous week. He took an almost perverse joy in keeping track of the death count and the names of those who had been killed. He kept a running tally in a small spiral-bound notebook. Two cabinet members and seven senators had perished in the initial explosions. The first part of the mission had gone with clocklike precision. Three car bombs in front of three of Washingtons most celebrated haunts all detonated at the height of the lunchtime rush. Those bombs alone had killed nearly 125 people. A fourth bomb was then detonated several hours later, during the height of the rescue operation, killing many more and dealing a devastating psychological blow to the satanic people of America. At least thats how Karim chose to describe it. Hakim, however, was not so exuberant. The secondary explosion had killed dozens of firefighters, rescue workers, law enforcement officers, and civilians who happened to be standing nearby. Hakim had argued against the tactic. He saw no honor in the use of such underhanded moves, and that was only the beginning. One of his greatest struggles within al Qaeda was trying to get his fellow members to take a less myopic view

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23

of the world. Very few of his fellow jihadists were widely traveled, and even fewer had spent any real time in America. They had no understanding of Americas sense of fair play. An explosion that was designed to target and kill rescue workers would enrage the American people. Karim and the others who thought such tactics would weaken the American resolve to fight couldnt have been more wrong. Dastardly tactics like this would only drive young men to the military recruiting centers. This would prolong the war and hurt their cause in the eyes of the international community. Hakim had stated his case as forcefully as he dared, and once again hed lost. Look, Karim said almost gleefully. This is why they will never win this war. I have been telling you this for years. What are you talking about? Hakim was more irritated than interested. As he stepped closer to the TV, he saw a picture of a man in his late twenties. The screen suddenly changed to a still photo of a smiling woman and a baby girl. He was supposed to meet them for lunch, Karim said. He works for their Treasury Department. Or I should say worked, he added with a chuckle. He was more than thirty minutes late for the lunch last week. The mother and daughter were killed in the explosion. He survived. And why are you so happy? Hakim asked. He just committed suicide. Karim started laughing. Can you imagine such a thing? They are so feeble. Hakim watched him take out his spiral-bound notebook. He scratched off the previous number, and with a self-satisfied smile, wrote down the new tally. In a tired voice, Hakim said, And you worry about what Im reading. Karim, having not really heard his friend, closed the notebook and looked up. Excuse me? What do you think Imam bin Abdullah would think of your merriment over the pain of others?

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With a dismissive grunt, Karim said, He would thank me for killing another infidel. Too tired to get into another heated debate with perhaps the most obstinate person he knew, Hakim ignored his friend and headed down the short hall to a warm bed and what he hoped would be a long and undisturbed sleep.

Chapt er 5

lake aNNa, virgiNia

Itch Rapp looked down at the calm, glassy lake as a bright orange sun began climbing over the trees on the eastern shore. Pockets of fog clung to the inlets, but the middle of the lake was clear. Somewhere around the bend he could make out the whine of an outboard engine, more than likely carrying a fisherman to his favorite early morning spot. Rapp had been to this place often since the murder of his wife. It was always a bit conflicting in the sense that it reminded him of the good times they had shared but also of the harsh reality that she was gone. The setting reminded him of both his place on the Chesapeake, where they had fallen in love, and her familys place back in northern Wisconsin. Hed only been there a few times while she was alive and would not go back now that she was gone. Hed made the one trip to Chicago to apologize in person to her parents and brothers. Hed dreaded every minute of that conversation, but knew he would never be able to live with himself if he didnt face them. Rapp hadnt been the one who killed her, but he was the selfish idiot who had pulled her into his shitty little world where, all too often, innocent people got caught

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in the crossfire. Hed been a fool to ever think he could have a normal life. He remembered, as he looked down at the smooth morning water, how she and her brothers liked to ski first thing in the morning. He thought of all those family photos that hung on the knotty pine walls of the cozy family cabin. Shots of Anna as a little kid, all legs, like a fawn, skiing knock-kneed on two old boardsher golden brown skin and the freckles around her nose. Those amazing green eyes that still haunted him every night. Hed never known anyone as beautiful, and would have bet everything he had that he never would again. He had decided after several years of mourning that it was hopeless to think otherwise. Thered been a couple brief relationships, but he still wasnt over her, so each woman was doomed from the start. The squeak of a screen door caught his attention and Rapp looked over at the main house. It was a story and a half with three big dormers on the second floor and a wraparound porch that covered three sides. The four-inch siding was painted white, and the trim around the windows and the doors matched the green asphalt shingles on the roof. The owner stepped out onto the porch and struggled with the zipper on his khaki jacket. After a moment he got it started and then stepped forward with the help of a cane. His name was Stan Hurley, a seventyeight-year-old veteran of the CIA. Hed been officially retired for nineteen years, but unofficially he was still very involved. The irascible Hurley had handled much of Rapps training those first few years after he graduated from Syracuse University. On more than one occasion Rapp had wondered if the bastard was trying to kill him. Most of that training had taken place right here on the banks of Lake Anna. Rapp had been an experiment of sorts. The clandestine men and women at Langley all went through the CIA training facility near Williamsburg, Virginia, known as the Farm. A group of veterans at Langley, however, felt the changing political winds and decided they would have to begin hiding things from the opportunists on Capitol Hill. That was when Hurley left the Agency and set up shop an hour south

pursuit of hoNor

27

of Washington, D.C. Rapp didnt know how many others they had auditioned, but he gathered that Hurley had chewed up and spat out at least three guys before he arrived on that hot, humid summer day almost two decades ago. He knew because Hurley referred to them as Idiot One, Idiot Two, and Idiot Three. Hed say things like, I spent two days trying to teach Idiot Three how to do this, and then the jackass nearly killed himself. Watching the old prick hobble across the asphalt driveway, Rapp had to admit that he was still a bit intimidated by the man. There werent many guys who could give him that kind of feeling. Rapp remembered showing up for training as if it were yesterday. He was in his early twenties, and he thought the best shape of his life after finishing a near-perfect season captaining the Orangemen lacrosse team. There was nothing as humbling as getting your ass kicked by a chainsmoking, bourbon-drinking, sixty-some-year-old man who was all cock and bones. It had happened only a few feet from where Rapp was standing. In the big barn, on the old stinky wrestling mat that Rapp had been forced to manhandle seven days a week for nearly four months. Looking back on the situation now, Rapp could see Hurley had been in complete control, but back then, he seriously wondered if he was going to survive. Hurley woke him up at 4:00 a.m. with a cigarette dangling from his lips. When Rapp didnt get out of bed fast enough, Hurley flipped his military-issue cot and dumped him onto the hard, dusty floor of the barn. He was told that the barn was where hed be sleeping until he proved himself worthy to sleep in the house. The real trouble started when Rapp came up swinging. In hindsight it had been an extremely stupid move. The geezer was far more agile than he looked. Rapp threw the punch and then next thing he knew he was back on the floor, the wind knocked from his lungs, gasping for air like a fish flopping around on a dock. Hurley had announced while standing over him, A fighter! Idiot One was a fighter. He only lasted a week, but at least he was a fighter!

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Rapp made it through that first week despite being knocked to the ground on average probably eight times a day. He was also called every dirty name in the book and ordered at least once an hour to quit. Hurley would tell him over and over in the foulest possible language that Rapp was wasting his time. Rapp had seen enough movies to know what was going on. Hed also run enough captains practices to understand that Hurley was trying to figure out if he had what it took to make the cut. Knowing it, and experiencing it, however, are two very different things. Rapp had never quit anything in his life, and he sure as hell wasnt going to start now, but Hurley and his sadomasochistic trials tested him. As the tough old spy hobbled along the drive with the help of his cane, Rapp couldnt help but smile over the fact that the guy used to kick his ass six ways from Sunday. Whats so funny, dickhead? Hurley asked in his throaty threepack-a-day voice. Nothing. Rapps smile got bigger. Bullshit. You think this cane is funny? He picked it up and shook it at Rapp. Id like to see how you get along when youre my age. Doc says most guys are all whacked up on drugs for the first week after they get their hip replaced. I havent taken shit. Thats if you dont count the fifth of bourbon you drink every day. Hurley stopped, his dark eyes zeroing in on Rapp. Are you trying to ruin my life? No, Rapp replied with a grin and threw one of Hurleys favorite lines back at him, just trying to keep it real, Stan. Hurley looked toward the barn with his baggy eyes and stuffed his right hand into his jacket pocket. After digging around for a moment he retrieved a soft pack of unfiltered Camels. Yeah . . . well things are about to get as real as they can get. You sure youre up for this? Rapp asked, wanting to give him another chance to skip it. I can handle it.

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29

Hurley cupped his left hand around the tip of the cigarette and spun the wheel on the old Zippo. The flame shot up, and after a long, deep pull he exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, I know you can, but I need to do this. Rapp would have preferred to handle it himself, but he knew there would be no changing Hurleys mind. Well . . . lets get started. I have to be back up at Langley by nine.

Chapt er 6

he big double doors to the barn were closed, so Rapp and Hurley used the smaller service door around the corner. A medium-sized tractor, a couple of ATVs, and a Ford F-150 pickup truck were parked on the side closest to the big doors. The other side of the floor was dominated by what looked like a large safe but was actually an industrial kiln that Hurley used for his incongruous hobby of pottery and a few other things. The two men walked to the opposite wall and approached a large oak card catalog cabinet. The brown wood was scuffed and dusty and a few of the old brass pulls on the drawers were missing. Even without all the various screws, nuts, bolts, nails, and assorted knickknacks that filled the eighty drawers, the thing looked as if it weighed a thousand pounds. Hurley reached around the back, pressed a button, and the cabinet began to swing away from the wall, revealing a concrete staircase. Rapp went down first, and once Hurleys head was clear, he punched a code into a keypad. The cabinet began sliding back into place. Once the cabinet was back in place, Rapp punched in another

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31

code. When the light turned green, and he heard the electric motor release the lock, he turned the knob and stepped into a rectangular room with poured-concrete walls. There were two battleship-gray metal desks, a couch, and a round table with four chairs. One man was sitting behind the closest desk. He stood when Hurley and Rapp entered. The second man was on the couch, lying on his back, his feet up, a Baltimore Orioles hat covering his face. He was either sleeping or didnt care to look and see who had just arrived. The room had the heavy, sour smell of nicotine. When Rapp had gone through his training this place didnt exist. Hurley used a discreet contracting firm that was run by a former operative and had it built after 9/11. The floor of the barn was excavated and the foundation underpinned, to make room for the basement. The walls were poured and Spancrete sections were placed on top to create the roof for the new rooms and the floor of the barn. Within a two-hour drive of Washington there were three similar facilities, all of them built with private funding, and each one known by only a handful of individuals. Necessity was, after all, the mother of invention. In order to fulfill its mission the CIA needed to be able to conduct most of what it did away from prying eyes and in secret. Hurley had explained on many occasions that during the Cold War they had more than a dozen such places that they would use to debrief defectors as well as the occasional traitor. Wheres the doc? Hurley asked the big man who had been sitting behind the desk. The muscular man pointed toward the steel door at the far end of the room and said, Talking to Adams. Been in there almost two hours. The big mans name was Joe Maslick. He was a native of Chicago, and a former Airborne Ranger, whod done three tours, one in Iraq and two in Afghanistan. He was wearing a black Under Armour T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Hurley looked at Rapp and asked, Is he drunk? Rapp nodded. He was pretty much on his way when we picked him up last night.

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And since then? I gave him a few drinks on the plane ride down. No problems at the airport? Rapp shook his head. Loaded him in the hangar right there at Teterboro. The pilots? Hurley asked. Cockpit door was closed the whole time. Hurley mumbled something under his breath and then said, Why didnt you just drive him down? Hurleys words were less a question than a criticism, and Rapp did not do well with either. If it were anyone other than his old instructor, Rapp would have asked him why he hadnt gotten his lazy ass out of bed and handled the job himself, but it was Hurley, so he gave him a pass. Stan, these pilots have flown me all over the world. Theyve seen a lot of shit. And if theyre asked at some point who was on that plane . . . ? Theyll say they deadheaded it down to Richmond because they had an early hop the next morning. And when the feds want to talk to the exec who chartered the plane? Rapp glanced at his watch. It was 6:58 a.m. The plane is on its way to Mobile as we speak. And the man on board has no idea I even exist. I still dont like it, Hurley grumbled as he began digging for a pack of cigarettes. Rapp almost said, tough shit, but didnt, because he knew this was harder on Hurley than hed ever admit. He had been best friends with Adamss father. Had served all over the world with him. Wanting to get off the subject, Rapp asked, Did you listen to the audio from last night? Yeah. Hurley exhaled a fresh cloud of smoke. And? Hurley stepped behind the desk and looked at the flat-screen

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33

monitor on the left. It showed Adams sitting in the next room talking to a fiftyish man with curly blond hair. His name was Thomas Lewis, and he was a clinical psychologist. Hurley wasnt sure who he was more upset with, himself or the little turd sitting in the other room. Hes a fucking traitor . . . an embarrassment to his family name. Rapp didnt know what to say, so he kept his mouth shut, and since Maslick wasnt much for conversation the three of them stood there in silence watching the screen. Across the room, though, the man napping on the couch decided to make himself heard. From under his baseball cap he announced, Embarrassing the family name is no reason to kill a man. Rapp wasnt surprised by the comment, but it still pissed him off. Hed been arguing with Mike Nash about this entire mess for the last few hours. How about committing treason, boy genius? Hurley asked. Definitely a capital offense, but then again it doesnt exactly fall under our jurisdiction. Hurleys eyes scanned the surface of the desk, his hands beginning to tremble with rage. He skipped the stapler, grabbed a ceramic coffee mug, and whipped it across the room. The mug hit the concrete wall just above the leather couch and shattered into a thousand pieces, shards raining down on Nash. Nash jumped off the couch shouting, What the hell? You wanna argue with me, sport, you do me the courtesy of getting off your ass and looking me in the eye! Hurley turned to Rapp and snarled, What kinda shit show are you running? If I wanted personal opinions Id join a fucking book club. Hurley set out across the room, growling and cursing under his breath. When he reached the steel door he banged on it several times with his cane and then punched in the code to release the lock. Rapp looked at Nash and mouthed the words, What in the hell is wrong with you?

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Nash didnt bother to reply. He was too steamed at Hurley to deal with Rapp. A moment later Dr. Lewis joined them and the door to the interrogation room was closed and locked. No one took a seat. Rapp and Hurley faced Lewis while Maslick stayed behind the desk to keep an eye on the monitors and Nash stayed on the other side of the room, still stewing about his rebuke. Give it to me straight, Hurley said to the shrink. Lewis started to speak and then paused as if deciding where to begin. He ran a hand through his curly blond hair and said, Classic narcissistic personality disorder. Thats it? No, its quite a bit more complicated than that. Lewis hesitated and then asked, You knew his parents? Yep. Dad not around much? None of us were. Thats how it was back then. Lewis nodded in understanding and studied Hurley with his blue eyes. He was in the clandestine service with you? Yep. So he was around even less than the average dad? I suppose so. Was his mother detached? Marge, Hurley said, as his eyes became unfocused, as if trying to remember some distant memory. She wasnt exactly the warmest person. Not very affectionate? About as affectionate as that desk over there. Lewis nodded. It all fits the profile. Adams has an overinflated sense of worth and that carries over into a sense of entitlement. The flip side is that his self-esteem is very fragile. It would be extremely difficult for him to take criticism. To deepen the problem, he lacks empathy, which enables him to be extremely exploitative of others. He feels

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35

that he is special . . . and can only be understood by brilliant people. That he should only associate with others whom he deems talented enough, while at the same time he needs their real talent to validate his underlying insecurities. Martyr complex? Always thinks hes getting screwed by someone and needs to let everyone know it? Very common. When he comes across someone like Mitch, for instance, Lewis gestured to Rapp, someone who is strong-minded, independent, results-oriented, not prone to handing out compliments, someone who is acknowledged as being at the top of their game. When that happens, Lewis winced, he feels that person is the enemy and has to be knocked down to size. It is not uncommon for people with this disorder to become lawyers. It makes them feel smarter than most other people, and they can use their knowledge of the law to bully those who do not validate their imagined genius. Hurley thought back to some of the family trips theyd taken some forty years ago. He remembered his friend Mark getting mad as hell at the way his son would pout if he didnt get his way. Suicidal? No . . . virtually unheard of. Hes too in love with himself. Might fake it or threaten it, but most certainly would not follow through. Anything else? Hurley asked. Hes asked for you. He knows Im here? Hurley asked in surprise. No, he has no idea youre involved in this. He claims youll understand what is going on. Hurley frowned. Understand? How could he possibly think that of all people out there, I would understand what hes doing? I wouldnt read too much into it. As I said, he has an overinflated sense of his own importance. Also . . . remember, it is extremely difficult for someone with this disorder to ever accept responsibility for his actions. There is always a rationalization. Lewis looked at Rapp and added, Hes scared to death of Mitch because he knows nothing that he can say or do will change his mind. With you, he looked at Hurley

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and shrugged his shoulders, hes hoping that hell find some empathy from an old family friend. Rapp could see that Hurley was having a hard time with this new twist. He took no joy in seeing the tough old bastard like this, so he touched his arm and said, Let me take care of it. No. Hurley shook his head and stood up as straight as his seventy-eight-year-old frame would allow. I need to do this.

Chapt er 7

wapello, iowa

ed White slid out of bed and grabbed the pile of clothes sitting on the chair in the corner. Through the gap in the shades he glimpsed the gray predawn morning. He picked up the bundle, looked over his shoulder at his wife, and began to carefully tiptoe out of the room. As he walked past the open door he grabbed the handle and slowly pulled it until the door closed with a soft click. Safely in the hallway, he allowed himself to breathe. He waited for a moment to make sure she didnt stir, and then he took two steps and entered his son Haydens room. The seventeen-year-old lay there twisted up in his sheets and blankets, two of his four pillows on the floor, one trapped under his body, and the last one on top of his head. He was due to graduate from high school in one month. White grabbed him by the shoulder and gently shook him. Nothing. He waited five seconds and tried again. This continued for another thirty seconds with increasing force until Haydens eyes snapped open with a dazed, crazy look. What? he asked, still delirious with sleep. Whats wrong?

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Shhhh, his dad said. If you wake your mother up, theres no way shell let you come with me. The kid didnt reply, he just looked around the room and tried to figure out what was going on. Grab your hunting gear. But Mom said I couldnt go. I have an English test third period, and I have a game tonight. Hayden was headed to the University of Northern Iowa on a baseball scholarship. Youve worked hard enough over the past four years. I think youre entitled to a little turkey shoot with your dad. But Mom . . . I know, his father cautioned, shushing him with his hand. As long as I have you back in school in time to take that test everything will be fine. Coach doesnt like it if . . . I already talked to your coach. He likes to turkey hunt just like me, and he knows theyre randy as hell this week. He said it was fine just so long as I have you back in school in time for the test. Well head out to my uncles old place. Fifteen minutes out and fifteen back. If you get your butt in gear we should have no problem getting in a few good hours. Hayden untwisted himself and put his feet on the floor. He raised both arms above his head and groaned. Moms going to be pissed. In a hushed yet forceful voice, White said, Im going to be pissed if you wake her up. Now get moving. Ill make us a couple of fried egg sandwiches. We can eat them in the truck. With that, White left his only childs room and made it down the hallway to the kitchen. He started the coffee and warmed up the frying pan. Next came the hard part. He found a notepad and a pen and leaned over, placing his right elbow on the counter, and wondered how best to admit to the crime. Like most things in life he decided it would be best to be brief and hold his ground.

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Honey, I checked with Coach last night. He says its fine if I take Hayden hunting. I will make sure I have him back in school for third period. This is probably our last spring shoot. Next year hell be away at college. Where did all the years go? Love, Ted

Chapt er 8

toolesboro, iowa

AkIm closed the door to the bedroom, and despite wanting to clear his mind, he began to think of the attacks. The lunchtime explosions, the bomb that had decimated the emergency personnel who were sifting through the rubble of the Monoclea restaurant that was a favorite haunt of U.S. senators and lobbyistsand then the final bold move. Hakim considered it a stroke of genius. For all his recent disagreements with Karim, he had to admit that the audacity of the plan was impossible to ignore. Karim had asked Hakim to locate Americas National Counterterrorism Centerthe nerve center for the Great Satans illegitimate war on terror, as he called it. Without telling any of the senior al Qaeda commanders, they put together a daring plan to assault the building. Karim wanted to turn the hunters into the hunted. They would hit the National Counterterrorism Center while the Americans were in disarray and focused on the initial attacks and the secondary explosion. Hakim had been there with Karim when their six comrades, dressed in SWAT gear, burst into the building. Having spent a decent amount of time in Washington, Hakim knew it was not uncommon to

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see big black SUVs driving down the street loaded with menacing men armed to the teeth. With the confusion created by the initial blasts, they would drive right up to the gate of the counterterrorism facility and easily dispatch the light security. The men had been trained for months in every detail of the plan, and from what they saw it had worked perfectly. The Suburban drove over the curb and right up to the front door with its emergency lights flashing. The men poured out of the vehicle, formed up in a single-file line, and entered the building engaging targets as they went. They were to avoid the elevators and take the stairs to the top floor where the nerve center was located. In addition to the M-4 rifles and Glock pistols, each man wore a custom-made suicide vest that was packed with C-4 plastic explosives and half-inch ball bearings. Karim had predicted that the attack on the facility would cripple Americas ability to effectively attack al Qaeda for years to come. And it couldnt happen soon enough. The hunter-killer teams and the unmanned aerial vehicles with their missiles had decimated the upper ranks of their group. They expected casualties to exceed one hundred, but something had gone wrong. Either that or the Americans were lying. So far only eighteen individuals had been reported dead in the assault on the counterterrorism facility. Six days later, Karim still refused to believe the reports. He was convinced the Americans, in an effort to save face and reassure the public, were covering up the true damage. Hakim had noticed one little problem with that theory, though. News crews had been able to get shots of the buildings upper floors from outside the security fence, and they were still intact. If the suicide vests had gone off as planned, every window would have been blown out and there was a better than fifty-fifty chance that the roof would be nothing more than a jagged hole. He had mentioned this to his old friend and had suffered a harsh rebuke. He was told he was nave in the ways of the world and the Wests ability to manipulate the media. Hakim was growing tired of his friends inflexibility. He was the

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one who had traveled the world, while Karim had done little more than hang out at cafs and mosques surrounded by like-minded men. He had done almost no traveling outside Saudi Arabia. There were things Hakim would like to say to his friend, but he knew the timing was not right. They needed to find a safe way out of the country and then, when things had settled down, he could confront him. When Hakim was done washing his face and brushing his teeth, he faced east, knelt on the floor, and began to pray. For most of his life he had prayed the required five times a day, often spending a total of two hours prostrate in an attempt to prove himself a good Muslim. It had been several years since hed been that devoted, however. To accomplish his mission hed been forced to abandon many of his habits and rituals. His travels to America and other countries required that he draw as little attention to his faith as possible. Even now, in the secrecy of his room, in the middle of America, with not a person in sight, he rushed through his prayers. He offered himself up to Allah and asked for his guidance on this dangerous journey, and then, as was increasingly the case, his mind began to wander. He was still talking to Allah, but instead of asking for guidance he was asking questions. He was trying to reconcile the irreconcilable. He stumbled through it, as he did so often latelyasking the question, giving half the answer, and then moving on to the next thing before completing the thought. Doing so prevented him from having to face the truth. These shortened prayers were turning into bleak sessions. Almost as if he were jotting down notes with Allah and saying, when I get through the hardest part of this journey, you and I will sit down and sort our way through this mess. Hakim still believed in Allah. That was not the problem. His lack of confidence had more to do with his followersthe men who claimed to know exactly what Allah wanted. As he slid under the covers, he tried to clear his mind. His faith, he realized, was not in crisis. It was his faith in his friend that was causing the problem. Hakim thought back to the day they had met, but quickly stopped himself. He had

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spent too much time wrestling with this of late. He was tired, and if he was ever going to sit down and discuss his concerns with Karim he would need to be rested. Using an old trick, he picked one of his best memories and began to replay it in his mind. The sun was glistening off the familiar cool blue water of the Florida Keys. Hakim leaned back in the chair and then let himself come forward almost as if he were praying to Allah, but he wasnt. His right hand went round and round in tiny circles on the reel, drawing in as much line as he could in the few seconds he had, and then he leaned all the way back. Despite the strain of wrestling with the great big marlin for the better part of an hour, he had a look of childlike elation on his face. The trip to Cuba had been inspired by his reading The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway. For Hakim, it had been the single greatest experience of his life. A day didnt pass without that beautiful marlin jumping into his thoughts, and rarely did he fall asleep without a glimpse of it. He knew it was a coping mechanism. There had been a lot of death and dismembermentbullets and bombs that did horrific things to friends, strangers, and enemies alike. Hed seen men literally shredded by the shrapnel of an artillery shell. So bloody and fleshy and cut to pieces that youd swear there was no way on earth they would ever survive, but by Gods mercy some of them did, and if theyd had the medical facilities that the enemy had, even more would have lived. And then there were other times where you would find a comrade after an air strike and you would swear he was simply knocked unconscious, because he had not a blemish on his body. You would nudge him, even splash some water on his face, and there was no bringing him back. Hakim learned later it was the concussive blasts of the big two-thousand-pound American bombs. The shock wave from the explosions would cause blunt trauma to the internal organs of individuals without leaving any outward mark of death. These were just some of the images Hakim tried to suppress every time he attempted to sleep. Like the six well-trained men assaulting

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the counterterrorism facility. Hakim did not like the casual way they convinced other followers to throw their lives away. That was why he clung to the memory of his trip to Cuba and the unforgettable day he spent chasing the marlin, fighting and eventually landing the huge fish. The chasm between the two worlds, however, created a paradox. He had either been halfheartedly trying to reconcile the issue, or trying very hard to avoid it. Whichever was the case, Hakim knew he couldnt put it off much longer. Now is not the time, he told himself. He quieted his mind by thinking of the warm sun on his face. He remembered the humid salt air and the soft breeze, the balletic dance of the big blue fish as it sailed through the air. Hakim began drifting off to sleep, hopeful that he would someday return to Cuba. That familiar voice in his head was calling him a fool. He had no idea if he had been asleep for two minutes or two hours. He was still on his back, his eyes closed, when he heard the heavy footsteps of someone running in the house. The door to the bedroom burst open with a thud, and Hakim, startled, sat up in complete shock. His mind, numb from its deep state of REM, couldnt quite place the face of the burly man standing in the open doorway. They are coming, the man said with genuine fear in his voice. Hakim realized it was Ahmed, the lethargic Moroccan. Hurry, they are here, he said in heavily accented English. Grab your gun and get to your post. Who is here? Hakim asked, suddenly very alert. Two men with orange . . . like they put on their vehicles. Hakim was used to trying to translate the mangled sentences that the men often concocted, but this was a new one. What are you trying to say? Get up, the Moroccan said with genuine panic. Karim wants you now! Hurry!

Chapt er 9

lake aNNa, virgiNia

dAms couldnt figure out where in the hell things had gone wrong. His plan had been perfect. Hed seen what happened to whistle-blowers. They ended up celebrated by one party and trashed by the other. Legal bills bankrupted the poor bastards while the slow workings of justice placed their life in a near-permanent state of limbo. No matter how just their accusations, they ended up pummeled. Politics in D.C. was a blood sport and whistle-blowers were cannon fodder. Adams had thought about it long and hard. It would have been like being the first guy off the very first landing barge at Omaha Beach on D-Day. They would have slaughtered him. No, he was convinced he had plotted the right course. He knew with every fiber of his body that Rapp, and Nash and Kennedy and a bunch of others, were trampling all over the Constitution. He had been working feverishly behind the scenes to try to get the right people at Justice to stand up and take notice. Most of the deputy AGs wanted nothing to do with Rapp and Kennedy. There was a long list of people in Washington who had tried to tangle with them and so far they had proven themselves untouchable. More and more, people saw it as a

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career-ender. Adams thought he had finally found an ally in Senator Lonsdale. The senior senator from Missouri chaired the Judiciary Committee and shared Adamss dislike of the CIA and its cowboy ways. Then the bombs had shattered the civility of the capital and the mood changed yet again. Adams had gone to see Lonsdale only a few days ago, and the meeting had been a disaster. After months of working with each other, and finally finding an aggressive attorney at Justice who was brave enough to go after the criminals at Langley, she had now lost her nerve. She suggested Adams drop the issue and focus his energy on tracking down the millions in unaccounted funds the CIA had squandered in Iraq and Afghanistan. He desperately tried to get her to see that now was not the time to quit. They were so close. All Adams needed was the political clout and subpoena power of the Judiciary Committee and they could finally put Rapp and the rest of them behind bars. Adams could not do it by himself. Despite their overall lack of brainpower, Rapp and the others were survivors and had gone to great lengths to cover their tracks. With Lonsdale abandoning him, and the rest of the Senate and the House too morally bankrupt to lift a finger, Adams saw no hope in dragging them out of the shadows and into the bright light of court. With no support from Justice or the Hill, and the whistle-blower option deemed suicidal, Adams had to find a third way. His source of inspiration was none other than Mark Felt, the now deceased assistant deputy FBI director who had brought down President Richard Nixon by selectively feeding information to Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. While Felt was the template, Adams was not going to be so foolish as to allow some reporter to make millions off his bravery while he retired on his meager federal pension. He would publish a scathing expos of the CIA, its illegal programs, and the men who ran them. He had already picked out a titleA Quest for Justice. He would write it under the pen name Jefferson. No first name, just the last. Adams had

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47

told Kenny Urness that a CIA black ops agent had come to him and was asking for help. The fictional agent wanted to shop a tell-all manuscript that would expose the CIA and its myriad illegal programs. Urness would set up a blind trust to hold the millions the novel would make, and then when things finally settled down five or seven years from now, Adams would step forward as the brave man who had brought down the fascist wing of the American government. There would be uproar for sure, but Adams knew how to hide his tracks. Hed already purchased, with cash, a used laptop that would be destroyed once the book was finished. Hed even found a software program that would allow him to change his prose to avoid identification by writing experts. Polygraphs would be administered far and wide, but he would pass them as he always did. The lie detectors were useless against someone with his IQ. Hed had it all figured out, but despite all of the careful planning, hed missed something. Adams fingered the empty glass sitting on the table and silently wished they would get him another drink. The vodka was starting to wear off and that was the last thing he needed right now. Staying calm was no easy thing when you knew a man like Mitch Rapp was loitering on the other side of a steel door, and you had no way of calling for help. Despite being caught off guard, Adams had already vowed that he would make Rapp pay. He would say what he needed to say to win his release, and then he would raise hell. No sane person would ever kill him. At least thats what he kept telling himself. He was the inspector general of the CIA, for Gods sake. The media would dig. The Hill would demand answers. It would simply be too difficult to cover up. Thats what his highly rational brain kept telling him, but there was another voice in his head. One that was far less confident. One that had been warning him with increasing seriousness that Mitch Rapp was a man capable of extreme violence. Adams was again trying to reassure himself that all would be fine, despite his deep forebodings, when the door opened. He recognized the lined, worn face immediately, and notwithstanding the fact that

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he didnt care much for the man, he felt a huge sense of relief that he was here. Regardless of their differences, Stan Hurley was an old family friend, a covert ops legend, and maybe the only man Rapp would listen to. Adams was confident he could get the old man to sympathize with him. Uncle Stan, Adams said in a hope-filled voice, thank God youre here. He stood and moved forward, his arms open, ready to embrace one of the meanest cusses hed ever known, but before he could get close enough, something hard poked him in the stomach. He froze. Sit down, Hurley ordered. Adams looked down to see the rubber tip of a cane pressed into his belly. What happened to you? Nothing . . . sit. Hurley nudged him back and pointed at the chair. Adams slowly retreated and took his seat. Uncle Stan, thered better be a hell of a good explanation for this. Really? Hurley said with skepticism. I was about to say the same thing. This is crazy; Im the inspector general of the CIA. I cant be kidnapped in the middle of the night and interrogated like this. The fact that youre sitting here is proof that youre wrong on both counts. Adams frowned and said, This isnt Prague circa 1968. Neither Mitch Rapp nor anyone at the CIA, for that matter, has any right to abduct me. I suppose from a purely legal standpoint you are correct. Hurleys admission gave Adams a shot of confidence. Youre damn right I am. Everyone makes mistakes, but this one is a whopper. It sure is. Well, Adams studied the face of his fathers best friend in a vain attempt to gauge his true intention, as a favor to you . . . Id be willing to look the other way on most of this, but Im going to need some reassurances.

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Such as? For starters . . . Rapp and his band of goons need to promise that nothing like this will ever happen again. Hurley gripped the back of the chair with his free hand. He didnt say anything for a long moment. His mind flashed through a movie reel of Glen Adamss life. He hadnt put much thought into whether he liked the kid until he was in high school, and then only because his friend was worried that his boy didnt quite get it. As Hurley looked at the younger Adams he thought how right his friend had been to worry. Hurley finally spoke. And you think all of this is a mistake. Youre here through no fault of your own? Adams knew this was where he needed to be careful. I know youve been out for a while, so I dont expect that youve kept up on everything thats been going on, but lets just say, Rapp stuck his nose into something that doesnt concern him. Hurley almost laughed, but managed to keep a straight face. Really? Hurley said as if he were intrigued. Why dont you enlighten me?

Chapte r 1 0

dAmss mind was moving at light speed trying to plot the correct course that would allow him to sucker this old codger into thinking Rapp had made a monumental mistake. He couldnt remember the exact date, but as best he could recall Hurley had been out for at least fifteen years. There was no doubt he kept tabs on certain things, but most of his old sources would have dried up. The key, he decided, was to stay as vague as possible and keep things current. Adams averted his eyes and seemed to study the dented and scratched surface of the metal desk. This thing Im working on . . . Im afraid I cant talk about it. Hurley looked at him with his bloodshot but shrewd eyes. So if I call Director Kennedy right now, shell tell me you were on official CIA business? Shaking his head, Adams replied, She wasnt involved in this. Tell me who to call then. Give me a name. Hurley folded his arms across his chest as if he were settling in for a long wait. Stan, youre not read in on this. Adams shifted in his chair. Hell, you dont work for Langley anymore. I cant discuss this with you.

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Hurley snorted. I know more shit about our black ops than the president, so stop wasting my time and start answering my questions, or were going to test that little euphorian theory of yours. And what theory would that be? The one about torture . . . how you like to tell all your buddies in the press that it doesnt work. That its nothing more than a recruiting tool for al Qaeda. Adams looked dumbfounded. Well, thats true. And how in the hell would you know? Hurley leaned over the chair. Have you ever interrogated someone? Had to get rough with him to save lives? You know the answer to that. Im the inspector general of the CIA. What about those twenty-three months you spent in the clandestine service that you like to brag about? A whole five of them in the field. And even then the only time you left the embassy compound was to play golf or try to get laid. Im not going to relive all that with you, Adams said with a forced smile. Lets just agree that there are two sides to every story. Yeah . . . like the truth and then the stuff that isnt the truth. Like your little dinner date last night. What about it? According to Mitch you were in the process of committing treason. Mitch Rapp is a professional liar. It might be a good idea if you didnt try to make this about Mitch. You either start answering me honestly, or Im going to bring him in here, and you know as well as I do that he cares even less about your feelings than I do. Fine . . . fine, Adams said, backpedaling. But theres only so much I can say. What were you doing in New York last night? Having dinner with an old college friend.

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Discussing? Adams hesitated. He had to be careful not to catch himself in a lie. I respect you, Stan. I always have, so Im going to say this as politely as I can. I dont answer to you. I dont answer to Mitch Rapp. I answer to the president and the oversight committees on the Hill. Thats it. Hurley exhaled a sigh of frustration. I dont seem to be getting through to you. I feel the same way, Adams said in disappointment. I understand how difficult this business is, so Im willing to look the other way this one time, but this offer is not going to last very long. Im tired and I have a busy day of appointments. Ill give Rapp one chance to let me walk out of here. And I mean right now. One chance. Adams held up his index finger. Hurley started to laugh. You dont understand whats going on, do you? I understand that in about two hours people are going to start wondering where I am, and once that happens it is going to be very hard for me to look the other way on this. So, for the last time, let me go and Ill forget all this, but I tell you, Adamss face flushed with anger, if Rapp so much as looks at me the wrong way, I will bury him. Hurley wouldnt have believed the mans arrogance if he hadnt been here to witness it. I dont think youre going to be going anywhere for quite a while. Id better, Adams felt his heart begin to race, because what little understanding I have is quickly wasting away. Youre an idiot, Hurley said as if he were telling him his shoes were untied. I tried my best to help you early in your career, but you really are one dumb son of a bitch. Adams acted as if hed been slapped in the face. Uncle Stan, I have done nothing wrong. I am the one trying to do the right thing. If you think youve done nothing wrong, then I might as well shoot you in the head and get this over with. Adamss mouth was agape. Here was a man he had known since

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birthhis fathers best friend, for Christs sake. Adams blurted out, Ive served my country. I dont understand . . . I signed up just like you and Dad. Do yourself a favor and dont start comparing your clandestine service career to your fathers. I . . . Adams stammered, I wasnt about to go down with that ship of rats. They were the most corrupt bastards Id ever met. Corrupt? You talking about our fine boys down in Bogot back in the eighties? Of course I am. They should have all been thrown in jail. Hurley considered slapping him, but he didnt want to make this any more personal than it already was. This is all my fault. The other instructors at the Farm wanted to wash your ass out, but I protected you. They knew you didnt have what it would take, and I knew it, too, but I thought I owed it to your father, so I talked you up and let you graduate. Shaking his head in self-loathing, he added, It was one of the biggest mistakes of my life. Didnt have what it would take? Adams asked, some anger finally seeping into his voice. You mean like a frontal lobotomy? You mean the ability to ignore every ethical standard Id ever learned? Ignore everything Congress says about what I should or shouldnt be doing? The problem with you, Glen, is that you always thought you were special, and the truth is youre not. You were a dogshit operative. The only thing you were good for was wining and dining at the embassy parties. Anything that involved getting your hands dirty, you pissed and moaned like a little girl. By getting my hands dirty you mean breaking the law? Youre damn right I do. What in the hell do you think it is that the CIA is supposed to do? You think were supposed to obey everyones laws? Go ask the International Court and the U.N. and the fucking State Department for permission to find out which Colombian military officers are on the drug cartels payroll? Oh . . . I think youre simplifying it a bit.

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You want me to simplify things? Here it is. You were a complete failure as an operative, you were a mediocre prosecutor who kissed all the right asses and managed to land an empty-suit job as the chief watchdog at the CIA where your entire mission is to get in the way of people who are actually trying to keep us safe. Is that simple enough for you? Get in the way! Adams shouted. You think things like the rule of law and the Constitution simply get in the way? No, but neither have I deluded myself into thinking that the men who wrote it ever intended for a second that it be used to protect our enemies. So guys like Mitch Rapp should be able to do whatever theyd like without any oversight? Kill whomever they deem a threat without answering to any higher authority? If I have to choose between Mitch and those menstruating partisan hacks on Capitol Hill, Ill put my money on Mitch. Adams, his fists clenched, stood and demanded, Do you know why they hate us? Who? The terrorists? Who do you think? They hate us because of men like you and my father and Rapp and Nash and rest of you knuckledragging goons. Those goons, Hurley said in a quiet angry voice, have done more to protect this country than the entire House and Senate put together, and theyve done it without an ounce of recognition or thanks from all the intellectually arrogant fucks like you. Hurley stepped back and swung his cane around, smacking Adams in the elbow. Adams yelped and grabbed himself. What in the hell is wrong with you? I was your only chance, you dumb ass. All I wanted was the slightest sign of remorse, and instead I got more of your pompous defiance. He turned for the door.

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Where are you going? Adams asked in a voice that had suddenly lost its command. To get the man you think so little of. Wait! Adams said in a voice that finally betrayed a bit of fear. Hurley didnt bother to turn around. You blew it. Now you get to find out firsthand if torture works.

Chapte r 1 1

App checked his watch. He had thirty minutes at the most and then he would have to hightail it up to Langley. He wasnt worried about his alibi. Should the feds come knocking, hed send them to Hurley, and as long as the tough bastard kept breathing, hed tell them that Rapp had arrived shortly before seven the previous evening and stayed the night. As to what theyd discussed and done during the roughly twelve hours since, they could confidently tell the feds to pound sand. The agents might not like it, but the men and women of the clandestine service had good reason for being tight-lipped with them and the good ones knew it. What bothered Rapp was the fact that there were more important things for him to be dealing withlike trying to find the three terrorists who had vanished. They had launched a manhunt like nothing hed witnessed in his nearly twenty years of service. Every law enforcement officer in the country was on high alert, and so far theyd only come up with thousands of false leads. Seven days postattack they finally started looking at different scenarios. At first theyd concentrated on the airports, the borders, and the big ports. The Navy had boarded

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and searched twenty vessels that were deemed suspicious. Not a single person had been able to explain to Rapp what intelligence had landed those ships in the suspicious category, but hed learned enough over the years to not try to swim against the current. The Navy was simply doing what they were ordered, and those orders were coming from men and women who would rather look busy and earnest than get thoughtful. Now theyd moved on to the smaller marinas, airstrips, and remote border crossings. In Rapps opinion, and hed voiced it rather loudly, this should have been the area of focus from the beginning. The men who were behind the attacks had shown a discipline and level of sophistication that he was sure would lead them to be every bit as creative and careful in their escape. Despite all the hard-working and devoted individuals who work for it, the federal government is not a precise instrument. In the post9/11 world the training was better, the equipment was superior, and the ability to share information in real time had improved dramatically, but the alphabet soup of government agencies had also grown. As only Washington could do, layer after layer of bureaucracy was added, all in the name of streamlining the federal governments ability to prevent and respond to a terrorist attack. Rapp, and a handful of others, had predicted how the politicians would react. The very room he was standing in was proof that they had been right, and that theyd managed to stay one step ahead of the lemmings as they continued to do what they thought would be least offensive to the very men they were fighting. And now, on top of trying to find out where the terrorists were, he had to deal with this sideshowthis little drama with Glen Adams. It was adding undue stress to an already difficult situation. Rapp hadnt liked it when Hurley asked him to bring Adams down to the lake house, but knowing the family history he conceded. Looking back on it now, Rapp wished hed flown out over the Atlantic and dumped Adams out the rear luggage hatch of the G500 at about five thousand feet. It would have been a lot easier.

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Now Rapp and the others had to stand around and watch this painfully slow tragedy unfold in real time. Rapp had been through this enough times to know that once you decided a man had to be killed there was no sense putting it off. The hand-wringing and moral debate had to take place up front. In Adamss case, that meant before they even picked him up. Once that was done there was no turning back. You couldnt undo the fact that theyd already broken a number of laws. Yet here Nash was making waves. No doubt it had something to do with the strain theyd been under lately, but even so, Rapp expected more from him. Rapp had seen it before, usually in the military, where despite amazing effort, the use of force was not always as precise as they would like. One too many innocent bystanders blown up by a bomb or killed by an errant bullet, and you were likely to have the occasional foot soldier check out. It wasnt always easy to detect. Everyone acted different in the days immediately following an engagement with the enemy. Especially the first twenty-four hours after combat. It was not unusual, for instance, for one of the men to become quiet. The noncommissioned officers put up with it to a point, but if that brooding turned into questions about the morality of the mission, the noncoms stepped on it quick and hard. If a trooper or Marine couldnt snap out of it, they were gone. Effective fighting units were not the place to debate the ethics of urban warfare. The integrity and effectiveness of the unit could not tolerate it, so the men either snapped to, or were dumped. Rapp was beginning to question if he would have to do the same thing with some of his men. He would not have guessed that Nash would be one of the problems. He looked across the room at the retired Marine officer who was giving Lewis an earful, and thought it must be the stress of the past week. None of them had slept much, and Nash knew the men and women who worked at the Counterterrorism Center much better than he did. Watching tough men in full combat gear die on a mountain range was hard enough, but was not incongruous with the mission or the surroundings. Watching civilians blown

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away at point-blank range in an office setting was an entirely different matter, though. Rapp had begun moving toward Nash and the doctor, when he heard his name called from the overhead speaker. Mitch, get in here and bring the file. Rapp stopped. It was Hurley. He would have to wait and talk to Nash in the car on their way back to D.C.

Chapte r 1 2

toolesboro, iowa

espIte the urging of the mentally challenged Moroccan, Hakim took his time. He put on his pants and a shirt before grabbing his pistol and gas mask. Hed thought about this exact moment many times since purchasing the safe house. Escape was an illusion. Yes, they might make it to the river, but America was a country with vast resources. In the aftermath of the attacks on the Towers and the Pentagon every county and city in the country had received federal dollars to bolster law enforcement and critical response to terrorist attacks. Local law enforcement went on a spending spree, snatching up state-of-the-art communications gear, biohazard suits, and weapons that rivaled those used by elite Special Forces units. Budgets for training increased in some cases by a thousand percent. Planes and helicopters with night vision equipment were added to the arsenal as well as boats and specialized vehicles of all shapes and sizes. And that was just at the local level. Chicago was less than an hour away by air, and the FBI Field Office there had a SWAT team that was considered every bit

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as good as their venerable Hostage Rescue Team that they kept in Quantico, Virginia. Hakim, in general, was equal parts optimistic and pragmatic, but on this issue it was hard to be optimistic. He knew from the moment he found this place that they would be dead if the Americans ever found them. They went through the motions of discussing escape routes, and the provisions had been put in place, but both he and Karim knew it would do them little good. Ahmed, on the other hand, was probably nave enough to think they could get away. Hakim started down the hallway at an almost casual pace, his pistol in his right hand and his gas mask in the other. He made no attempt to stay low to the ground. The Americans would not fire first. They would try to contact them, ascertain the situation, negotiate their surrender, and if all of that failed they would strike or they might simply wait them out. That last point concerned Karim more than any other. If they were going to go down, he wanted to do it in one final, glorious battle, taking as many Americans with him as possible. The idea of being surrounded and forced to choose between suicide and surrender was extremely unappealing. A few steps before Hakim reached the front of the house he heard the squawk of a radio. It was Ahmed calling out the distance to his targets. Hakim walked past the center staircase and reached the front portion of the house. A small dining room was on his left and a living room on his right. Karim was in the living room, kneeling at the window ledge, peering through the lace curtain. Karim looked at Hakim and ordered, Get down. Hakim ignored him and walked straight to the front door, where he looked through the small twelve-by-twelve-inch window. Two men were coming up the gravel driveway and they were definitely dressed in orangeorange hats and orange vests. Hakim was slack-jawed for a moment, and then began to snicker as he thought of Ahmeds confusion. In Afghanistan the Americans would drape their vehicles and po-

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sitions in orange panels to reduce the chances of their own planes bombing them. Ahmed assumed these men were wearing orange for the same reasonthat they were federal agents and they did not want their own men shooting them. Get down, Karim hollered. Relax, Hakim said. They are hunters. How do you know? Hakim often grew tired of having to explain the obvious to his friend. Hunting is very popular in this part of America. Animals are color-blind. They wear orange so they dont get shot by another hunter. Ahmeds voice crackled over the radio. I have the shot. Do I have your permission? Hakim looked up the staircase and yelled, No. Do not shoot. Anger flashed across Karims face. It is not your place to give such orders. They are hunters. Karims eyes narrowed. What if they are agents posing as hunters? Hakim hadnt thought of that, but he wasnt about to admit it to Karim, so he looked out the window and studied the two men. They were now just fifty yards away. Theyd made it up the long, straight stretch of the driveway and were now entering the large gravel square that sat between the house and the barn. The man on the left was half a head taller and quite a bit heavier than the other man. A few seconds later Hakim realized the shorter man was a teenager. They are not agents, Hakim said assuredly. One of them is a boy. It could be a trick. Hakim didnt even have to think about this one. The Americans would never try such a stunt. In a voice loud enough to carry up the stairs he said, Both of you stay calm and keep out of sight. I

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will see what they want. He bent over and set his gas mask on the floor. No, Karim ordered. Trust me for once, you fool. He slid his gun into the back waistband of his pants and covered it with the tail of his black long-sleeved T-shirt. As he started to open the door he heard Karim hissing obscenities at him. Hakim stepped onto the front porch and put a warm smile on his face. Holding his right hand up in a casual, friendly gesture, he said, Good morning. Can I help you? His English was near perfect, with only the slightest accent. If a stranger had to guess, he was more likely to think he was Indian or Pakistani than Saudi. Sorry to bother you, the older of the two said. My name is Ted White . . . this is my son, Hayden. Hello, my name is Harry. How can I help you? The two men stopped about twenty feet from the front porch. Well . . . Im sorry to intrude, especially this early. I saw the No Trespassing signs. The father looked over his shoulder back down the long drive. But I didnt know what else to do . . . you see, Im a cousin of the Terwilligers . . . the family who used to own this place. I assume youre the new owner. That is correct. The man smiled a bit awkwardly. Do you like to hunt? Hakim smiled back and said, No . . . but I have nothing against it. Thats nice to hear. The man looked at the ground for a moment and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Hakim was extremely calm. He looked down the driveway and saw nothing but open gravel road. These two were not the advance element of some larger force. It was obvious the man had a question on his mind. So what brings you out here at this early hour? Well, I was wondering if you would give us permission to hunt down by the river. You see, Ive been hunting turkey on this land ever

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since I was a little kid, and so has Hayden here. I promise you we wont disturb you. Well just be using little .22s. Nothing more than a little pop really. Hakim nodded. Things were beginning to make sense. How early do you like to start? Well, that depends. He gestured at his clothes. We were hoping to get some in this morning. Got the rifles back in the truck. But if nows not a good time I dont want to disturb you. I suppose now would work, Hakim offered, already thinking the best way to handle this was to be nice. They had monitored the media closely, and while Karims photograph had been everywhere, Hakims involvement had yet to be reported. Thank you, the father said and then pointed at him and asked, You a Hawkeye? Hakim looked down at his black University of Iowa T-shirt and its bright yellow lettering. Yes. I went there for graduate school. Their writing program. You an author? Yes. Thats why I bought this place. Nice and quiet. I understand, the man said, holding up an apologetic hand. He seemed to sense this would be a good time to leave. Well, we really appreciate you letting us use the land. Well just skirt the creek down there and make our way down to the river. Youll never see us. Really appreciate it. It means a lot. Hakim waved and said, No worries. Be safe. Right as he said it, he heard the door open behind him. Hoping he had imagined it, he kept his eyes on the father and son. They were turning to leave but then they suddenly stopped. Hakim watched the expression on the fathers face turn friendly before his entire demeanor changed. Hakim felt the old porch boards sway under the weight of an additional person. He pulse began to quicken. Hello, the man said in a nervous voice. Hakim turned his head slowly to see Karim standing beside and

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just behind him. His gun was clearly visible in his right hand. Casually he raised the weapon and pointed it at the two men. Why are you really here? Hakim whispered in an angry voice, I had this under control. Without taking his eyes off the two visitors, Karim said, You are a fool.

Chapte r 1 3

lake aNNa, virgiNia

App walked over to the closest metal desk and picked up a plain manila file. Being asked to come into the room at this juncture was either a good or a bad thing depending on your perspective. Rapps guess was that it was a bad sign for Adams. He punched in the code and opened the door. Maslick was right behind him. Adams was seated where Rapp had left him and despite looking tired, he still managed a smug look of defiance. Glen here thinks youre the problem, Hurley announced. Really? Thats right. He doesnt want to talk about what he was doing last night. Hurley rolled his eyes. Turning to Maslick he said, Grab the cart. Maslick wheeled a three-level cart into the room and left it in the corner. Then, dragging the table away from Adams, he pointed at the nearest chair and said, Sit. Listen, Adams said while holding his hands up in an affable manner, I dont know who you are, and I dont have to know who you are, but trust me when I say you dont want to be involved in this.

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Rapp stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips, a determined expression on his face. Youre wasting your breath, Glen. Hed just as soon kill you, but hes a good soldier, so hell wait until I tell him. In the meantime, sit down and do what youre told. Adams hesitated so Maslick helped him back into his chair. Then the big man grabbed some flex cuffs from one of the cargo pockets on his khaki pants. Adams complained while his wrists were pulled behind the back of the chair and bound. Next came his ankles to each of the chairs front legs. Rapp wheeled the cart over. On the top sat a polygraph machine. Hurley stood in front of Adams and asked, Glen, since youre so smart, Im wondering if you could tell me what makes a guy like Mitch here get out of bed and bust his ass for people like you? I dont pretend to know the criminal mind, but if I had to guess, I would say its a perverse thrill that he derives out of inflicting pain on others. Thats the best you can do? Hurley asked. No other reasons? None. Well, I trained him, you dumb ass. If I thought for a moment that he was some sadistic brute who was two ticks away from being a career criminal, Id a bounced his ass right out of the program, and trust me I know the difference, because I got rid of plenty of them over the years. The only thing that a guy like Mitch gets out of climbing down in the gutter with these religious nut jobs is the knowledge that he is fighting the good fight. That hes doing the honorable thing, while all the overeducated assholes like you sit in your nice leather chairs and criticize his every move. And you would have me . . . what? Let him defy the rule of law? Let him kill whoever his pea-sized brain thinks deserves killing? No, but at a bare minimum I expect you to resist the urge to delude yourself into thinking our enemies would like us if only we were nicer to them. Adams exhaled a tired sigh as if to say they were wasting his time.

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Do you want to wait until the poly is hooked up so youre sure Im giving you the right answer? Were not going to bother with the poly, Hurley said half laughing. Any clandestine officer with half a brain knows how to fool that thing. Rapp stepped forward, grabbed Adamss shirt, and tore it open. Normally, Id try to stay detached while interrogating someone, but this is going to be tough. You are making a huge mistake, Adams warned. The only mistake Ive made in the last twenty-four hours was not killing you sooner. Adams laughed nervously. I know all about your methods. As usual, I think youre talking out of your ass. Youre going to scream at me, youll keep me up for seventy-two hours . . . youll raise and lower the temperature in this room, youll probably give me more vodka. He shook his head and added, In the end youll learn nothing and youll have to let me go. After that I will march straight into the attorney generals office and demand that you be brought up on kidnapping charges, and thats just for starters. So . . . if the three of you can scrape together enough brain cells to see that the only rational course is to let me go while Im still in the mood to forgive this lack of judgment, you might be able to avoid some serious jail time. Theres one big problem with your plan, Hurley said as he leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. When were done wringing the truth out of you, Im going shoot you in the head with this. Hurley pulled back his jacket and drew a pistol from a shoulder harness. Adams was suddenly transfixed by the gun. Its a Kimber Stainless Gold Match Two, .45 caliber pistol. Finest production pistol in the world. Adams blew off the threat as theatrics. You wouldnt dare. The Intelligence Committees, the DOJ, the FBI . . . they all know Im close

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to exposing this cancer in the clandestine service. They know Im on to Rapp, and if I turn up dead, theyll be all over you guys. Who said youre going to turn up dead? Hurley looked at Rapp and said, Show him the file. Rapp held a photograph in front of Adams. We got this off the surveillance cameras at JFK. It was taken last night. Does the guy in the bottom right corner look familiar? Adams studied the grainy black-and-white surveillance photo and after a second saw the mirror image of himself. Heres the flight manifest. Rapp placed another sheet in front of him with Adamss name highlighted in yellow. Your flight will land in Caracas in one hour. You will be seen leaving the airport, and then you will simply vanish. Adams swallowed hard. Feeling real nerves for the first time, his mind scrambled to find a way out. You dont think Ive taken precautions? You mean like the safety deposit box you have at the First Bank of Bethesda? Rapp asked. And the used Dell laptop you have stashed behind the workbench in your garage, Hurley added. The one youre using to write your book. He took a big puff from his cigarette and then pointed the hot end at Adams. You have a lot of problems, Glen. Chief among them is the fact that youre insecure. Its not unusual . . . in fact, most of the assholes Ive come across suffer from the same affliction. Its the reason you could never cut it in this line of work. Not because youre not smart enoughyoure far from retarded. The problem is . . . when youre as insecure as you are, the only way you can make yourself feel good is to convince yourself that your enemies are stupid. And in this line of work, you can never underestimate your enemies. Itll never work. Adams forced a smile onto his face and some confidence into his voice. There are too many people in Washington who know I was about to blow this thing open.

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Rapp could see he was going to have to jump-start things if he was going to make it back to Langley by nine. He held up his right hand and said, You see this? Rapp watched Adamss eyes zero in on his right hand, and then with his left hand, he unleashed an open-handed slap that cracked Adams flush across the face. Adams yelped like a wounded pup, and then in a panicked voice yelled, Thats it. Youve crossed the line. I am going to make sure you spend the rest of your days in a jail cell. Im going to He never finished the threat because Rapp whacked him again, this time with his right hand. He then grabbed him by his thin silver hair and forced him to look at the sheaf of documents in his left hand. Do you think those defenders of yours know youve been going through two bottles of vodka and another six to eight bottles of wine a week? Thats a lie! Its the truth! Youre a frickin drunk! We have your bank statements, credit card receipts, ATM withdrawals . . . we even have video of you buying booze at three different liquor stores, and theyre the only three we checked. We found vodka in your trunk, your desk drawer. We even have video of you stopping at a park to dump your extra bottles. Marty and Mary are out of the house, Hurley chimed in, mentioning Adamss two children. Off to college and calling home once every couple weeks. You and Gretchen dont even sleep in the same room anymore. Hell . . . weve had your house bugged for a week . . . you dont even talk. Youre the classic bitter narcissist whos pissed at the world because everyone has failed to recognize his genius. The biggest laugh of all is that we dont even have to plant evidence. Its all right there for them to see, and trust me theyll find it. Your wife . . . your kids . . . your friends . . . theyre all going to get put through the wringer. The curtains going to get pulled back, Rapp said in a dire tone.

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You really want your kids to find out their old man is just a bitter alcoholic? A failed fucking bureaucrat, who committed treason? It wont work, Adams said with sweat cascading down his forehead. Kenny Urness will know you guys killed me, and hes not the only one. They wont rest until youre brought to justice. Who, Hurley growled, other than some fucking looney, antiAmerican, CIA-hating scumbag is going to A, care that youve disappeared and B, spend the next five years of his life trying to find out what really happened? You have no idea how powerful my contacts are! Really? Hurley said skeptically. Is that why you had to fly up to New York and meet with an ambulance chaser last night? So you could hatch a plot to write a tell-all book and line your pockets? Thats not why I went to New York. Almost two hundred of your countrymen were killed last week, and youre out trying to get rich off it. Thats a lie and you know it, Adams spat. You two are the problem . . . not me. You are why they hate us, not me. Hurley smacked him across the head and yelled, Youre a fucking embarrassment to your family. Adams felt his options slipping away. Felt really for the first time that they might actually kill him. You dont know Kenny Urness if you think hell just drop this whole thing when I dont show up for work. What Kenny Urness saw last night was a drunk, Rapp said in a flat voice. A delusional drunk, and when he finds out that you flew to South America and disappeared, he wont waste more than two minutes trying to figure out if its true. And if he comes after us, Hurley said, tough shit. He can look all he wants. Weve been through your shit. If you had any real evidence you would have already taken it to the feds. Thats not true! Adams pleaded.

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Hurley stepped forward and extended the big .45 caliber pistol. Any last words before I blow your head off. With tear-filled eyes, Adams shook his head and cried, You cant do this, Uncle Stan. You and my father were best friends. I can, and I will. But my father? You were a disgrace to your father, Hurley growled. You broke his heart. But . . . I didnt know, Adams pleaded, tears now rolling down his cheeks. You didnt know because youre a narcissistic fuck. The only person youve ever cared about is yourself. Thats not true, Adams half yelled. I have sacrificed. I have done what I thought was right. Well, you were wrong. Hurley placed the muzzle of the pistol against Adamss forehead and squeezed the trigger.

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he report of the big .45 Kimber was deafening. Rapp didnt have time to cover his ears. Hed barely had enough time to grab Hurleys wrist and deflect the shot. Just barely, as was evidenced by the red powder burn that was now painted in a cone shape across the top of Adamss forehead. The slug was now lodged in the concrete wall beyond Adamss head. A crater the size of a fist marked the spot. Rapp couldnt hear a thing but he could see just fine. Hurley was screaming at him and Adams was sobbinghis eyes closed, his head down, his chin bouncing off his chest every few seconds as he gasped for air, snot pouring out of his nose. Hurley pointed his Kimber at Rapp and began to use it to punctuate whatever point he was trying to make. Rapp, none too fond of having a gun pointed at him, almost snapped the older mans wrist, but caught himself in time. He slowly brought his hand up and gently moved the muzzle of the gun to a less threatening direction. After pointing at his left ear, Rapp mouthed that he couldnt hear what Hurley was saying. He walked over to the door and gestured for Hurley to follow him. Rapp hit the intercom button and asked for the

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door to be opened. As he stepped into the outer room, he found Nash, Lewis, and Maslick all standing there with shocked expressions on their faces. Rapp placed both palms over his ears and pressed down for a good five seconds while he swallowed several times and flexed his jaw. The first words he began to recognize belonged to Hurley. He was still cursing up a storm. Rapp looked at him still waving his gun around and yelled, Put that damn thing away before you shoot someone. Hurley pointed the gun at Rapp again and barked, Someone! Youre the only one Im thinking about shooting! Rapps entire posture was instantly transformed. Like a big black panther who had been stirred from a lazy nap, his muscles flexed and his weight was transferred onto the balls of his feet. His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed and he half shouted, Stan, put that gun away right now, or Ill break your wrist. Hurley, having trained Rapp, knew not only that he meant it, but that there was a good chance that at this close distance, Rapp could do it before he got off a shot. Slowly, and with a not-too-happy look, he shouldered his pistol and asked, Why in the hell did you stop me? The answer was complicated, although there was one really good reason and several decent ones. Rapp decided to go with the big one the one they all should have thought of to begin with. Where in the hell is he getting his information? Weve already gone over that, Hurley said in an irritated voice. Hes filling in the gaps. If he had anything real, he would have taken it to the Justice Department. Rapp shook his head. He still had to start somewhere. Someone is talking to him. Hes the Gestapo. Weve already found dozens of bugs. He has half the offices on the seventh floor wired. The inspector generals office at Langley was often called the Gestapo by the front-line troops at Langley. This was exactly what Rapp

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had fearedthat they would let their dislike of Adams cloud their judgment. He took a deep breath and asked, Whats our rush? You know as well as I do, you cant let shit like this fester. The best can lose their courage, and besides, we have bigger fish to fry. And we also have one shot at finding out what he knows. Weve gone over this, Hurley snarled. We have what we need. We kill him and whoever he was talking to wont know if hes dead or if hes disappeared. Either way the effect is the same. We send a clear signal that were done fucking around. By we, Nash jumped in, I assume you mean the royal we, because no one knows youre involved in this. Mitch and I are the two guys with the targets on our backs. Why you little . . . Hurley reached for his gun. Rapp stepped forward and grabbed Hurleys wrist. He looked at Nash and his bloodshot, tired eyes and instantly knew he was strung out. Hell, they were all strung out. Sleep was a luxury they had experienced far too little of in the past week. Head up to the house, Rapp said to Nash, and get cleaned up. We need to be on the road in less than thirty minutes. But, I dont I dont give a shit what you think! Rapp barked. Its an order. Stans right . . . this isnt a frickin book club. Now get your ass up to the house and get cleaned up. It was obvious by the constipated look on his face that Nash wanted to say something, but he managed to keep his mouth shut and head for the door. After he left, Rapp turned his attention back to the group and said, Something Doc said earlier got me thinking. Rapp looked at Lewis. You said hed never commit suicide. I said it was highly unlikely. Good enough. So his desire for self-preservation is pretty high? Absolutely. Looking back at Hurley, Rapp said, I think we can turn him.

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And I think youre nuts. Doc, tell him why we cant? Once we turn him loose, Lewis said, and he feels safe, he will turn on you. What if he never truly feels safe? I could check in on him from time to time and remind him that Im looking over his shoulder. And why take the chance? Hurley asked. Because he might be useful. Doc? Hurley said as if he wanted him to explain the obvious to Rapp. Its risky, Mitch. With someone like this, there is never any real loyalty. What if we co-opt him, Maslick suggested. They all turned, a bit shocked, and looked at the linebacker of a man, who was known for his quiet demeanor. What exactly do you mean? Lewis asked. What if we get him to take ownership? Maslick asked in a soft voice. Get him to help us out. Looking directly at Hurley, he said, Like flipping a foreign agent. Youve said so yourself many times, Stan. All you need is a little money, a little time, and a cause worth fighting for.

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f the words had come from anyone else, Rapp felt confident that they would have elicited a rather strong response from Hurley, but theyd come from the gentle giant, so the old spymaster stood there and quietly chewed on them. Rapp took the time to figure out his next move. As he did so, he saw the tension leave the old man, and it occurred to him there was a heavy emotional toll attached to this untidy situation. No matter how tough he was, there was no accounting for the burden of almost killing your best friends son, a boy you had cradled in your arms as an infant and bounced on your knee as a toddler. Hurley hobbled over to the closest desk and sat on the edge. Rapp looked at Lewis, who was watching the old man with legitimate concern. Thinking the silence was only making things worse, Rapp said, Stan, this could work. You may have just scared him straight. That is a valid point, Lewis added. He expected you to save him from Mitch . . . not the other way around. And that was a pretty close call. I doubt you could have faked it any better. I wanna go back in there and throw him a life line, Rapp said. Doc?

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Lewis shrugged. You know the routine. To start, dont ask him anything you dont already know the answer to. And dont try to turn him, Hurley offered in a detached voice. Hed swiveled the monitor on the desk around so he could look at Adams. Faint sobs could be heard on the small desktop speakers. That comes later. After hes proven he really wants it. Go ahead and hold out a glimmer of hope, but thats it. Understood. Rapp nodded. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and a bottle of vodka and a glass. Buzz me if anything comes to mind. Rapp knew all he had was twenty minutes, but he was probably never going to get another shot at Adams when hed be this fragile. Rapp punched in the code and opened the door. There Adams sat, with his crimson forehead peppered with a hundred little droplets of blood from the muzzle blast, his eyes closed and his chin down. His pants were damp and there was a puddle of urine at his feet. Hurley was right about one thingthis was a nasty business, and it was easy to lose your nerve if you didnt operate under tight constraints. Put a bullet in a guys head, dispose of the body, and move on. No sense slowing down to peruse the carnage, and dont bother to look in the rearview mirror either. You start doing stuff like that and youre inviting trouble. Even so, Rapp saw an opportunity. It wouldnt be long before people began to wonder where Adams had gone. The office didnt expect him back until this afternoon, and unless theyd missed something, he had no breakfast meetings in New York. His staff would probably start to get nervous around midafternoon. Theyd try his cell phone and get nothing. Then theyd try the house, and if they got hold of his wife shed tell them she had not spoken to him and, while that might be strange for some couples, it was not strange for them. The staff would alert the appropriate people at Langley, who would more than likely sit on it overnight. But if he didnt show up for work the next morning,

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the feds would be brought in, and not long after that they would discover he had left the country. Rapp had no illusions that he could roll Adams and have him back at the office by tomorrow morning. That simply was not going to happen. But there was another optionone that would buy them more than enough time. With one hand Rapp dragged the table back over and placed it in front of Adams. He set the water bottle, vodka, and glass down on the table and then withdrew a small tactical knife from his belt. He then walked behind Adams, cut the flex ties from his wrists, and said, I think you probably need a drink. Rapp circled back around the room and stood facing Adams. He wanted to have a good view of what would happen next. Adams slowly lifted his head and looked at the objects sitting on the table. He hesitated and then reached out. His right hand went straight for the bottle of vodka, which Rapp had expected. Adams clutched the bottle and spun the silver cap off, not caring that it fell to the floor. With a shaky hand he clanged the neck of the bottle against the rim of the glass and let the clear alcohol come splashing out, a good portion missing the glass. Adams set the bottle down and drew the glass to his lips, downing about three ounces of vodka in two gulps. For a moment he looked as if he was going to pour another glass, but instead he started to shake uncontrollably, and then he was sobbing again, his head on the table, cradled in his arms. Rapp could only make out every fifth word or so. It was a complete meltdown. Hed seen it before and knew there was no stopping it, short of smacking him, but that would be a mistake. The die had been cast five minutes earlier, and Rapp was now going to have to play the good cop. After a few minutes the sobs softened and the breathing stabilized. Eventually Adams looked up at him with pleading eyes and spoke. Why? It was a pretty open-ended question, so Rapp said nothing. He just

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stood there and stared back at Adamss puffy, bloodshot eyes. The guy was a mess. I dont understand, Adams sniffled. Ive lived an honorable life. I dont deserve this. Rapp wanted to refute the comment, but managed to stop himself. Playing good cop didnt come easy to him. His instinct was to smack the fool across the head a few times and make it really clear if he didnt do everything he was told, hed get Hurley back in the room and have him finish the job. Instead, he sighed and said, Glen, a lot of people have lost their bearings during this mess. Not me. I know you think youve done the right thing, Rapp said carefully, but you havent. Youve been suckered into this partisan game that everyone wants to play in Washington. Republican versus Democrat . . . liberal versus conservative . . . none of that matters. At Langley, the only thing were supposed to concern ourselves with is national security. Thats our mission, and the day the ACLU starts driving our national security policy is the day America is really fucked. But you guys dont see what youre doing, Adams pleaded. We are becoming the very monsters we are trying to defeat. Rapp had heard this bullshit line too many times. Give me one example. Adams held out his hands and looked around the room. What would you call this? Rapp laughed and said, If you worked for al Qaeda, and they caught you divulging their secrets to the media, they wouldnt simply kill you, theyd kill your wife and kids and make you watch, and then if you were lucky they would put you out of your misery quickly, but they probably wouldnt. Theyd toy with you for months and use you as an example to anyone else who was less than resolute in his faith. Were not them. I was left with no other options. I couldnt just sit there and watch you guys operate with such reckless disregard for the law.

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Really. Rapp looked at the door again. Maybe I made a mistake. Youre damn right you did. You should have never brought me here. Adams grabbed the bottle of vodka. Im talking about stopping him from blowing your head all over that wall. Adams looked up while he was pouring another drink. I am not the enemy. Actually you are, Glen, and if you cant see that youve fucked up, theres no hope of saving you. Stan would just as soon tear your head off and piss down your throat. He despises you. He sees you as the bright shining example of how the baby boomers have fucked up this country. Thats a good one, Adams sneered, coming from the most racist, bigoted generation this country has ever seen. He took another drink. You can bring it up with Stan. Rapp checked his watch. I have to get back to Langley for a meeting. He took a step toward the door and stopped. I thought you might be worth saving, but I guess I was wrong. Wait! Adams said desperately. You cant leave me here with him. Whys that? Because hell kill me! Adams yelled. And how would that affect me? It would. Adamss eyes darted around the room as his brain tried to come up with something. It would make you an accessory to murder. Youre kidding, right? Thats the best you can come up with? I have powerful allies, Adams warned. Rapp rubbed his forehead and decided to write off the mans lame excuses to the vodka. Glen, I dont think youre a bad person. I just think youre confused. Youve gotten yourself wrapped up in the legal aspect of this. Youre focused on 2 percent of the issue and youre ignoring the other 98 percent. Youve lost all sense of proportion, and if you cant open your eyes to that, there is nothing I can do to help you.

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I have done nothing wrong. Last chance, Glen. Im going to walk out this door and Stans going to come back in here and blow your head off. Then theyll cut you up into six pieces and incinerate you limb by limb. By lunch the only sign that you ever existed will be a pile of ash thatll fit into a coffee can. By dinner that ash will be spread far and wide. All evidence destroyed. The only thing the feds will have to go on is the fact that you left the country . . . that and the fact that youre a drunk. Theyll look for a few weeks and then theyll write your ass off. Adams shook his head defiantly. They will know something is wrong and they wont stop until they get to the bottom of it. Rapp shrugged as if hed given it his best shot. I wish I could say it was nice knowing you, Glen, but Id be lying. Youre a self-serving prick, and you wont be missed . . . not even by your own family. Rapp hit the intercom button. Im done in here. Hes all yours.

Chapte r 1 6

toolesboro, iowa

AkIm learned to play chess when he was seven years old. His grandfather had taught him the game, and for the next six years until the kind old man died, they played every week. One of the first things his grandfather had taught him was that a chess match was often decided because of one bad move. A move that, once made, set the game on an almost certain path. And in chess, as in life, a move like that could never be taken back. So the moral of the story, according to his grandfather, was to think long and hard before deciding something difficult. Look at it from every angle. See what you see and then ask yourself if theres something you cant see. Hakim didnt know if it was all that chess, or a God-given abundance of common sense combined with an easy attitude, but whatever it was, he had been able to avoid a lot of trouble over the years by staying patient and making prudent decisions. The same could not be said for Karim. His daring, brash behavior had led him to great success on the battlefield in Afghanistan, and his plan to attack America, despite his own criticism, had been a huge success. In the more subtle arena of

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daily life, though, his ability to pick up on the moods and currents of a foreign land was almost nonexistent. The gun came up and before Hakim could react it was fired. It was as if the entire thing painfully played out before him in slow motion. The father went down with a wound to the gut and the kid turned in panic and began to run. He made it three steps and then collapsed with a bullet to the lower back. Karim lowered his weapon and turned to Hakim, Now lets find out why they were really here. He walked down the porch steps and onto the gravel. With the loud cracks of the 9mm pistol still echoing down the river valley, Hakims brain took off headlong in an attempt to assess the damage. In the first millisecond he knew it was bad. Extremely bad. He had had the situation under control and then Karims massive, paranoid ego led him to step in when there was so clearly no need for him to do so. It was as if all the frustrations of the last week came pouring out at once. He followed his friend down the steps and said, I already know why they are here, you idiot. Karim spun to face his friend. What did you just call me? I called you an idiot! An unbelievable idiot! You will show me the proper respect, Karim commanded, or you will be punished. Id like to see you try. Hakim took a step toward his old friend and pushed his sleeves up. Do you have any idea what you have done? An incredulous look on his face, Karim answered, I stopped these two men from walking away and telling the authorities that we are here. I did what you should have done. Should have done? You are an utter fool. You have ruined everything and for nothing. These two werent going to tell anyone anything other than what I told them. They were going to go hunt down by the river and leave us alone. Hakim looked at the father and son. Both of them were writhing on the ground in pain. Now what the hell were they going to do with them? They believed me, you arrogant ass.

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You are the fool, Karim spat back. They only acted like they believed you. They are probably police. You have never been to this country before. You have no idea how to read these people. They are not police. Hakim motioned at the house, the barn, and the surrounding land. Where are we to go? Karim was obviously irritated by the question. Well . . . if they are hunters as you say, we will bury the bodies and be done with them. And when they dont make it home for dinner tonight, and the wife calls the police and tells them they were coming out here to hunt. What do we do then? Because the police will come and look for them. Karim saw that the boy had pulled a cell phone from his jacket and was trying to make a call. He raised his gun, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. The orange hat flew off the boys head in a puff of dust and his foot twitched a few times before he went completely still. Looking back at Hakim as if nothing had happened, he said, Then we will have to leave. The father howled in agony and started to frantically crawl toward his son. Hakim was sickened by the entire scene. None of it had to happen. These two men had done nothing wrong. I explained to you what would happen if we had to leave. I told you in detail that our best chance for survival was to stay here for at least a month. To wait them out. Then we would be able to slip out of the country. I am sick of your complaining, Karim announced. I question your devotion. And I question your devotion. You are a coward. No different than the rest of the lazy rich men who claim to lead us. Genuine anger flashed across Karims face. How dare you question me? I am not one of your brainwashed robots. I have known you for too long. If you were a real warrior you would have gone into that building with your men and martyred yourself. But you are too obsessed with your own fame. The Lion of al Qaeda . . . Ha! Hakim spoke in reference to the name that Karim had given himself in the

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videos he released after the attacks. You should be called the coward of al Qaeda. He looked back to the father, who had reached his son and was sobbing uncontrollably. Karim could not take another word. The insolence of his friend should have been checked a long time ago. Prove to me that you are not a coward. Kill the father now. I order you. Karim tossed his gun to his friend. The gun sailed through the air, but Hakim made no effort to catch it. The gun landed at his feet and skidded a few inches along the gravel. Hakim looked down at the gun and shook his head. There is no honor in this. No bravery in killing an unarmed father and son who have done nothing to offend you, or Allah. I order you! We are the infidels in this land. This is wrong. If you want him dead, then you should finish what you started. For the last time I order you to pick up the gun and shoot the father. I dont take orders from you, Hakim said with a derisive scowl. Yes, you do. Hakim turned and started back for the house. Do not turn your back on me, Karim yelled, but Hakim paid him no attention. Karim had finally had enough. He broke into a run and caught his friend just as he reached the steps. He delivered a quick rabbit punch to Hakims kidney and then kicked through the back of his right knee, collapsing him to the ground. Karim then grabbed him by the shirt, threw him onto his back, and dropped on top of him, delivering a flurry of punches to his friends face. This, he said in between his third and fourth punches, is a lesson I should have taught you a long time ago.

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lake aNNa, virgiNia

dAms pleaded, then cried, and in between the sniffles and tears he began mumbling to himself. The door buzzed and Rapp opened it to find Hurley standing on the other side, looking none too pleased that he was going to have to shoot his best friends son in the head for the second time. I should have never stopped you, Rapp said in an apologetic tone. Damn right you shouldnt have. Hurley pushed past him, his cane in one hand and his gun in the other. Adams snapped out of his mumbling trance and began screaming for Rapp to stop. Upon seeing Hurley and the gun, he tried to stand, and forgetting that his ankles were still tied to the chair, toppled over. He caught the edge of the table and brought it down with him, sending the glass and bottle of vodka crashing to the floor at the same time. Hurley moved into position over him and took aim. Dont shoot! Adams screamed. Mitch, wait! I know things! I can help! Rapp shared a quick look with Hurley as he walked back to Adams.

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He squatted and said, You get one shot at this, Glen. Tell me something worth knowing, and it better be good. Adams was lying on his side, the toppled chair still attached to his legs. He looked at the puddle of urine and then at Rapp. Help me up first. Fuck you! Hurley growled as he jabbed the gun into Adamss face. Rapp stood and again started for the door. Adams began screaming frantically for him to stop and Hurley let loose a litany of profanity that described in very colorful terms exactly what he thought of Adams. To further punctuate each word he stabbed his gun closer and closer to Adamss face until he had it pressed into his temple. Rapp was halfway out the door when he heard a name. It was repeated three times in quick succession. Rapp stopped, his interest finally piqued, and turned. What did you say? Kathy OBrien! Adams said with his face pressed into the floor. Rapps eyes narrowed. He wasnt sure exactly what he had expected to get out of Adams, but the name Kathy OBrien wasnt anywhere on the horizon. She was the wife of Chuck OBrien, the director of the CIAs National Clandestine Service. What about her? Rapp asked cautiously. Thats how I knew about the operation you were running. One of the keys to a successful interrogation, at least early on, was to keep the subject off balance. No matter how shocking or strange a piece of information might be, you never let it show. Which operation, Rapp asked, would that be? The mosques. Go on, Rapp ordered. The undercover guys you sent into the mosques. Rapp walked back and looked down at Adams. You mean the operation that was leaked to the Post last week. Yeah . . . Yeah . . . thats the one.

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The story you leaked, you mean? Rapp asked. Adams didnt answer fast enough, so Hurley gave him a little love tap with the tip of the barreljust hard enough to draw a drop of blood. Yes, Adams screamed. Yes . . . I was the one who told Barreiro. The leak, Rapp said, that ended up getting one of my agents killed. I . . . I . . . I, Adams stammered, wouldnt know anything about that. Rapp glanced at his watch. He might have to be late for the meeting. And just what does Kathy OBrien have to do with this? Shes . . . how I found out. You already said that. I want specifics. Rapp saw Adamss eyes begin to dart around again, which was a sign that his brain was scrambling to find the right lie. Dont do it. Do what? Lie to me. Im not . . . I mean I wasnt going to. Anything you say to me Ill have verified within the hour, and if I find out youve lied to me . . . well, lets just say Im going keep you alive as long as it takes to make you feel some real pain. She . . . Adamss eyes started darting again, until suddenly, a knife tip appeared an inch in front of the left one. Rapp held the blade perfectly still. I can tell when a man is lying to me. So one more time, what does Kathy have to do with this? Adams closed his eyes and said, Shes been seeing a therapist. And? We had the office bugged. With great effort to conceal his surprise Rapp asked, The therapists office? Yes. Rapps mind was flooded with a half-dozen questions, but for now

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he needed to keep Adams focused on the most immediate facts. They could squeeze the rest out of him later. So if I call my source at Justice, shell tell me that you had warrants to wiretap the therapists office? Adams took a long time to answer, which in itself was an answer. Rapp cocked his head to the side. You didnt have a warrant? Not exactly, Adams admitted. Rapp pulled the knife back and shared a quick look with Hurley. Things suddenly began to fall into place for Rapp. Why Adams knew the broad brushstrokes of what they had been up to, but could not pass the threshold needed to refer a case to Justice. You wiretapped the office of a doctor and recorded the private therapy sessions of the wife of the director of the National Clandestine Service. And you did it illegally. I was only trying to do my job. And you lecture me about breaking the fucking law, Rapp snapped. I was just trying to stop you. You were out of control. Out of control . . . I break those laws to keep people safe. Real people. You break em to protect some piece of paper you dont even understand. I am trying to protect the world from animals like you. Rapp stuck the tip of the knife into Adamss left nostril and said, I should Mitch, Dr. Lewis announced from the door, Id like to have a word with you and Stan. Rapp resisted the urge to slice the traitors nose clean off his face. They had a standard policy during interrogations that whenever Lewis asked anyone for a private word, they were to drop everything and leave the room. Rapp stood and left the cell with Hurley. They closed the door and found Lewis pacing nervously. Nash was back from the house, shaved and in a dark blue suit, while Maslick was sitting behind the desk keeping an eye on the monitors. Lewis held up a couple of fingers and said, Two things . . . the first

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. . . I dont think you can ever allow him to go free. There is a chance that his illegalities were driven by a lack of judgment precipitated by the onset of alcoholism, but I think the odds of it are small. Its more likely that in addition to suffering from narcissistic personality disorder, he is also a sociopath. And this changes things . . . how? He uses rules as a weapon. He gets extremely upset when he thinks anyone has acted inappropriately, or has broken the law, yet he sees nothing wrong when he decides to break those very same laws. Im not even sure hes aware of it. Hes so narcissistic, so in love with himself, that he thinks hes privileged. Rules are for the commoner, not someone like him, who is destined to make a difference in the world. I could have told you that, Hurley said, and I didnt even go to med school. Lewis ignored Hurley and said, The narcissistic sociopathic combination is extremely dangerous . . . almost impossible to treat and never in a situation with this much pressure. He will say and do whatever he needs to stay alive and then after you let him go, the first chance he gets he will bolt. He would turn to anyone who he thought had the power to take you down. Your second point? Rapp asked. Normally, I would never admit this, but considering the situation, I think it would be best. Lewis hesitated, wrestling with how best to word his admission. Doc, Rapp said, I dont have all day. Spit it out. Lewis cleared his throat and nervously announced, I am Kathy OBriens therapist.

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App was out of time. If he and Nash were to have any chance of making the powwow at Langley, they had to be on the road in the next few minutes, and even then they would have to drive at least eighty miles an hour to give themselves a chance. Normally, Rapp didnt concern himself with getting to meetings on time, but this was not your average run-of-the-mill bureaucratic black hole of a meeting. Kennedy had made it very clear the president had requested the presence of both her senior counterterrorism operatives, and while Rapp really didnt care much for politicians, hed dealt with a few presidents over his career, and found them tolerable in the sense that they understood it wasnt a bad idea to have a man like Rapp around to deal with some of the stickier situations that popped up. Mike and I have to go. Rapp looked at Hurley and said, I wanna know who he used to bug Docs office. I wanna know where the originals are and I wanna know how many copies he made. And I want to move on this ASAP. My moneys on Max Johnson, Hurley said. Yeah, Rapp replied. He was thinking the same thing. Max John-

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son had been the second in charge of Security at Langley until he retired a few years earlier. He now had his own consulting firm, which coincidentally did a lot of work for Langley. Rapp didnt know him personally, but had heard a few things over the years that would lead him to believe the guy would have no problem stooping this low. I want a list of everybody Adams has talked to about Kathy OBrien. I want those tapes handed over to me immediately, so I can destroy them, Lewis said. Doc, I dont like this any more than you do, but someone is going to have to listen to those tapes. Rapp thought of Chuck OBrien. It would kill him to know that Kathys private sessions with her therapist had been recorded. I think you can trust me, Mitch. It has nothing to do with trust, Rapp said impatiently. I need to listen to them so I can assess the damage. I dont think Kathy would approve. Lewis shook his head and added, and I dont think Chuck will be too pleased either. Nash entered the fray. Well, maybe he should have thought about that before he started sharing classified information with his wife. She worked in Ops for twenty-three years, Lewis said defensively. Her record is unassailable. Looking back to Rapp, he said in a very forceful manner, I want the tapes. They are private and they belong to me. It aint going to happen, Doc, Hurley said matter-of-factly. Kathy was read in on a lot of serious shit, but that doesnt give Charlie the right to start sharing stuff with her, and it sure as hell doesnt give her the right to spill her guts to you. Thats why we have these rules. But . . . I think we can all agree that you trust me. Lewis looked around the room. I mean lets get real. What we have going on here is far more serious than anything that might be on those tapes. Rapp was about to speak, but Hurley beat him to it. Doc, your office isnt secure. Fuck . . . the Russkies . . . the Chicoms . . . anyone could have the place bugged. In fact I bet Mossad has had it bugged for

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years. Hurley looked at Rapp. You better send a team in there tonight and have them give it the once-over. Rapp was nodding as Hurley spoke. I was thinking the same thing. Ill make it a priority. I need to be there, Hurley said, in a voice that made it clear this point was nonnegotiable. Fine, Rapp said, knowing he was out of time. As far as the rest of this goes . . . well have to sort it out later. Mike and I have to go. In the meantime, start to peel him open. I want you to wring him dry. I dont think it will be a problem, said Lewis, but I would discourage ever releasing him. He would betray us the first chance he got. I agree, Hurley said. Rapp simply shrugged and said, I dont give a shit. It might be useful, however, for us to make him think we are trying to turn him. Someone with an ego this fragile needs to have a carrot constantly dangled in front of him. Along those lines I think we should have him write a note to Kennedy and his wife saying that he has checked himself into a rehab clinic. Its something he needs to do . . . has been thinking about for some time. Only way to do it was to go cold turkey before he lost the courage. The important thing is to give him some hope. Fine, Rapp said. And if he proves uncooperative? Hurley asked. Rapp shrugged. Do whatever it takes. And Chuck? Lewis asked. Rapp thought about Chuck OBrien, the current director of the National Clandestine Service. What about him? He knows Kathy was seeing me. Whos going to tell him that our sessions were recorded? That was one conversation Rapp did not want to have. He could only imagine what had been discussed in those sessions. Theyd been married for over thirty years. If Max Johnson were in fact the guy who

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had bugged the office, Chuck would want to kill him. And while Rapp wouldnt raise a hand to stop him, he at least needed to talk to Johnson first. I dont want anyone saying anything to Chuck until we know who made the recordings, and Ive had a chance to talk to them. When the time is right, Hurley announced, Ill do it. Are you sure? Rapp asked. It would kill him to hear it from you young pups. Hes still your boss. Ill handle it. All right . . . its settled. Looking to Nash, Rapp said, Lets go. Mitch? Rapp turned and looked at Maslick, who was now standing. Yeah? I want you to promise me something. Rapp got an ominous feeling. What? When its time to punch his ticket, Maslick nodded toward the cell door, Ive got dibs. Rapp understood immediately. Chris Johnson, Rapps agent who had been killed a week earlier, had been Maslicks best friend. Theyd served in the 101st Airborne Division and had done three combat tours together. If it comes to that and you still want to do it, I wont stand in your way.

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laNgleY, virgiNia

App blew past the Georgetown Pike exit at eighty-plus miles an hour and continued north on the Beltway. As expected, traffic had been rough. Rapp had hoped to catch a little sleep on the drive up, but had given up on the idea as soon as hed found out where Adams was getting his information. Rapp would never go as far as to say it didnt bother him that the CIAs inspector general was a colossal hypocrite. It surely did, but it was pretty small stuff compared to the other glitch they had just uncovered. Kathy OBrien was not the only client of Dr. Lewis who had ties to Langley. Rapp didnt know specifics, because Lewis never talked about his clients and the CIA wasnt the kind of place where people ran around talking about their feelings, let alone divulging that they were seeing a shrink, but it was known among the professionals that Lewis was a man you could trust if you needed a little help getting your head screwed back on. Rapp wasnt sure, but he got the distinct impression CIA Director Kennedy had spent some time on Lewiss couch trying to sort through some of her personal issues. Rapp knew this because

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Kennedy herself had tried to get Rapp to sit down and talk with Lewis after his wife had been killed. Even with the near-crippling pain he was experiencing after Annas death, Rapp never considered consulting Lewis. He wasnt wired that way. Rapp knew he had to work his way through it on his own. He had nothing against therapy. He was sure that there were plenty of good docs out there who could help people get through a rough patch. And while he would never deny that he had a lot of issues, they werent exactly the kind of things he could share. Doctor-patient privilege was a nice legal protection for the average person, who might someday end up in a courtroom, but intelligence agencies were instituted to not play by the rules. Bugging offices and eavesdropping on important conversations were standard operating procedure. I cant believe were going to be late, Nash said in a tired voice. Rapp looked over at his friend, who was clean-shaven and dressed in a crisp white shirt, blue suit, and yellow tie. Rapp glanced at his own reflection in the mirror. He had thick black stubble on his tan face and was not wearing a tie. If he had had time he probably would have shaved, but not necessarily. This was not his first meeting with this president, or the previous one, but it occurred to him this was probably Nashs first dance. He glanced at the clock. It was three minutes past nine, and they were still a few miles out. Rapp hit the blinker, cut across two lanes of traffic, and took the George Washington Parkway exit without slowing down. By the time they cleared security and parked, theyd be about ten minutes late, and while Rapp didnt like to keep the president of the United States waiting, he knew from experience that presidents werent exactly the most punctual people. Staring out the side window at the passing trees, Nash asked, What in the hell are we doing? Rapp merged onto the parkway and said, Youre going to have to be a bit more specific, sport. This. Nash made groping gestures with his hands, This crap . . . last night and this morning.

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After glancing at him Rapp returned his attention to the road. They were 99 percent sure the car was clean, but they had their work phones on them, and although they were encrypted, the technology existed for an outfit like the National Security Agency to turn the phones into listening devices. Rapp chose his words carefully. Maybe we can carve out a little time this afternoon to talk about it. Nash wasnt so easily deterred. I didnt sign up for this. Under his breath he mumbled, Im not a cold-blooded killer. Rapp thought hed heard him, but wasnt sure. What was that? You heard me, Nash said. Its hard to understand someone when hes slouched over like a teenager and mumbling to himself. I said, Nash spoke with exaggerated clarity, that Im not a coldblooded killer. Thats interesting . . . because Id swear I saw you pop a few guys when we were over in the Kush. Rapp was referring to the operations theyd run in Afghanistan. Thats different. How so? They were the enemy. And what would you call this guy . . . our ally? How about a fellow American? Rapp sighed. He did not want to talk about this right now, but he needed to figure out what in the hell was wrong with Nash and he had to do it before he put him in the same room as the president and God only knew who else. Threats both foreign and domestic, Rapp said, quoting the oath theyd both taken. Everyone likes to forget about the domestic part. Just because youre an American doesnt automatically make you one of the good guys. Well . . . just because he disagrees with us doesnt make him an enemy. So he can break whatever law he wants? Were not exactly angels.

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Rapps patience was fading. I think youre tired. This conversation is over. Nash chuckled and said, This has nothing to do with me being tired, and everything to do with the fact that you dont want to face the truth. Mike, Ive been doing this shit since I was twenty-two. Ive been accused of a lot of things but sticking my head in the sand is not one of them. Well . . . theres a first time for everything. Is this how you ran your command in Corps? Was it a debate club? Dont compare this to the Corps. I would have never considered kidnapping a fellow Marine. Rapp had heard about enough. He didnt like the fact that they were veering into specifics. He glanced over at Nashs bloodshot eyes, shook his head, and said, I dont think youre going to attend this meeting. I dont think thats your decision to make. The hell it isnt. Nash scoffed. Oh . . . youre never the problem . . . not Mitch Rapp. Its always someone elses fault. You wanna write my attitude off to a lack of sleep, but its a lot more complicated than that. I can tell you right now being tired has nothing to do with it. What were doing back there . . . to one of our own . . . its just wrong. Rapp checked his rearview mirror and then yanked the steering wheel to the right. The car moved onto the shoulder. What are you doing? Pulling over. We dont have time, Nash said with alarm. Were late. Well, you should have thought of that before you decided you wanted to have a bitch session. Rapp brought the black Charger to a sudden stop and threw the gearshift into park. As he unbuckled his seat belt, he said, Leave your phone in the car. Rapp checked the mir-

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ror, waited for a car to whiz by, and then got out and circled around the trunk. He had a .45 caliber Glock on his left hip in a paddle holster and as he stepped onto the grass he rested his left hand on the butt of the weapon. Nash reluctantly got out of the vehicle and said, Come on, Mitch, this is bullshit. What would be bullshit, would be putting you in front of the president and whoever else hes bringing to this meeting. Im not the problem here, Mitch. Nash pointed at himself and then, turning his finger on Rapp added, I think you need to take a long hard look at yourself. You are so fucking out of line right now, I dont even know where to begin. Why . . . because I have a conscience . . . unlike you and Stan, who pretty much do whatever the hell you want, whenever you want, to whoever you want? Youre cracking up, Major, Rapp said, using Nashs Marine Corps rank. Combat fatigue. You havent slept, you look like shit, and youve lost all discipline. Discipline, Nash spat the word back at Rapp. Coming from you thats just ripe. Your entire career has been one insubordinate move after another. You used to talk to your battalion commander like this? Stop with the Marine Corps analogies, all right. This is nothing like the Corps. Rapp took in a deep breath. What little patience he had was gone. Im giving you two options. You either take two personal days . . . five days . . . I dont care how many days you need to sort this mess out, but you take em, and dont come back until you get your head screwed back on. Whats my second choice? You resign right now. And if I choose neither? Nash asked with a forced lack of interest.

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Then Ill fire your ass, Rapp responded without hesitation. This is bullshit. Im not the one with the problems. Maybe you should be the one taking a few days off. Rapp was on the verge of snapping. Hed seen this type of behavior before. Perfectly healthy guys who succumb to the stress of a job that can grind up and spit out the most hardened warrior. Hurley had warned him a week ago that Nash had been showing signs of fatigue. Nashs wife had called Hurley and shared some things that she probably should have kept to herself. Rapp thought of that conversation and asked Nash, Tell me, when was the last time you had a hard-on? Nash frowned. What the hell are you talking about? Rapp stared at him. You know exactly what Im talking about. Fuck you. Rapp shook his head. You can try to make this about me and what happened down at the lake, but you know thats a lie. The only reason your plumbing doesnt work when youre thirty-eight is because you got some shit going on in your head. Nashs face flushed with anger and he took a step toward Rapp and clenched his fists. Dont make this about me. I didnt sign up for this shit. No one told me Id be involved in kidnapping and murder . . . least of all of a fellow American. I dont care how much you hate Rapp was already alert to the fact that Nash might take an illadvised swing at him, so when he heard him getting a little too close to divulging what had gone down the night before, he took a quick step forward, and his left hand shot out like a battering ram. The palm strike landed in the center of Nashs chest, rolling his shoulders forward and nearly breaking his sternum. The blow sent Nash backpedaling for a few feet and onto his butt. Rapp closed the distance and remained in a combat stance. If youre dumb enough to get up, I swear Ill put you in the hospital. Nash was clutching his chest and had the look of a feral animal on his face. Rapp could tell he was calculating odds. Youre so damn tired you

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look like a strung-out junkie. I dont wanna see your face for at least two days. I want you to go home and sleep . . . and spend some time with your family, and if after two days you still cant get your emotions under control . . . then I want your resignation. And if I dont do what Im told, Nash said clutching his chest, what are you going to do, kill me? Hurt my family? Rapp was in a state of semidisbelief. You know damn well Id never touch your family. Im not so sure. Lets be clear on one thing. Rapp stepped closer. If you break that oath you took . . . I wouldnt dream of hurting your family. He lowered his voice and added, But I will kill you. It wont be easy, and itll probably haunt me for the rest of my life, but this is bigger than our friendship.

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