Pursuit of Honor Part 21

Johnson's face went blank. His lips parted and then he blinked several times as if he wasn't sure what he was looking at.

Rapp's expression was not friendly. He pointed at Johnson and then gestured with two fingers for him to come to him.

Johnson got up, but instead of coming to Rapp he joined the bodyguard and Sidorov. A heated exchange ensued. Rapp couldn't hear a word, but he could tell Johnson was loudly stating his case and Sidorov appeared to be agreeing with him. The clock in Rapp's head told him they were close to the five-minute mark. He needed to wrap it up. The bodyguard left Sidorov and Johnson and came back shaking his head.

"Sorry," he said when he was within a few feet. "He says no go. He wants you guys out of his club right now."

"You don't want to do this," Rapp said ominously. "He's one client and he isn't even an American. In ten seconds I can have Director Kennedy on the phone. Ten seconds after that she'll have the chairman of Triple Canopy's board on the phone and thirty seconds after that your phone will ring and you'll be fired. And for what? Your protection order is for Sidorov. Not some rat b.a.s.t.a.r.d who's selling his government's secrets."

"Listen, I don't want to be caught in the middle of this."

"Then don't be. Step aside. Sixty seconds from now I'll be gone and Sidorov can b.i.t.c.h all he wants but it isn't going to get him anywhere. Once your bosses talk to Director Kennedy they'll give you a promotion, and they'll politely tell Sidorov to pound sand."

"I don't know."

"Well, I do. Step aside. This is National Security. Way above your pay grade. I'm doing you a favor."

The guy finally nodded and stepped back.

Rapp wasn't going to wait for him to change his mind. He moved forward quickly and entered the pit where Sidorov and his crew were sprawled out. Johnson was now one woman over from Sidorov. Rapp ignored the Russian and pointed at Johnson. "Get up." He made the same get-over-here motion with his two fingers. "Right now."

Sidorov stood, saying something in Russian before switching to English. "You are not welcome here. I must ask you to leave."

Rapp pulled out the ID case for the last time, flashed it at Sidorov, and said, "National Security. Stay out of it."

"I know who you are, Mr. Rapp. This is not Russia. The CIA has no authority to arrest people."

Rapp turned to look at Sidorov for the first time. He was a handsome man with thick brown hair parted to the side. High cheek bones and deep-set eyes. "Stay out of this. I don't care how much money you have."

"I am not someone you want to pick a fight with, Mr. Rapp."

Rapp put his nose to within a foot of Sidorov's and said, "Let me tell you something. Normally, I'm not one to follow the law, but this little a.s.shole here is in violation of a half dozen national security statutes. Now I don't care how many cabinet members you own or how many senators you play golf with, he's off the reservation and it's my job to bring him back. So you can either get the f.u.c.k out of my way or end up in the hospital like that big ugly Russian bouncer you have out front."

Sidorov snorted, looked at Rapp with bemus.e.m.e.nt, and then took a step back. "I have heard a great many stories about you from my a.s.sociates in the Russian intelligence services."

"Then you should know I'm serious."

"I see that. You are not to be deterred."

"That's right."

Sidorov looked at Rapp for a long moment and then said, "I would like to make one request of you."

"What's that?"

"A meeting."

"A meeting?" Rapp asked, not quite sure what in h.e.l.l the Russian was talking about.

"With you, Mr. Rapp. There are certain things I would like to ask you."

Rapp glanced at his watch. He needed to get out of here. A concession that he would never follow through with was harmless. "I'll check my calendar, but don't expect me to roll over for a bunch of cash, like this piece of s.h.i.t." Rapp pointed at Johnson.

Sidorov offered up a business card. "You are not the type of man who betrays his country, Mr. Rapp. I wouldn't be so stupid as to insult you. We have some mutual areas of interest that I think would be worth exploring."

Rapp took the card and said, "Fair enough. I'll give you a call." He walked over to a terrified Max Johnson, who grabbed the nearest girl and hung on for dear life. "Get up," Rapp ordered.

Johnson shook his head and drew the girl closer.

Rapp reached over the girl and grabbed Johnson's left ear. He gave it a good twist and then yanked Johnson to his feet. Rapp grabbed one arm, Reavers grabbed the other, and they dragged him out of the club.

CHAPTER 45.

RAPP stuffed Johnson in the back of his car with Coleman. They started driving east, away from the FBI, the Justice Department, the Supreme Court, and pretty much anything else that might represent legal protection for Johnson. With each pa.s.sing block the houses fell into increasing disrepair. This seemed to add to Johnson's agitated mental state. Like someone who was afraid of the water being driven farther and farther out to sea, Johnson was not able to keep his cool. He p.i.s.sed and moaned and begged and pleaded the entire way. stuffed Johnson in the back of his car with Coleman. They started driving east, away from the FBI, the Justice Department, the Supreme Court, and pretty much anything else that might represent legal protection for Johnson. With each pa.s.sing block the houses fell into increasing disrepair. This seemed to add to Johnson's agitated mental state. Like someone who was afraid of the water being driven farther and farther out to sea, Johnson was not able to keep his cool. He p.i.s.sed and moaned and begged and pleaded the entire way.

After traveling twelve blocks they pulled into an alley just off the railroad tracks. Rapp had ordered two of Coleman's guys to scope out the place in advance. It was on the fringe of one of D.C.'s more inhospitable neighborhoods. Dilapidated, abandoned, rusted-out warehouses dotted the area around the railroad tracks. It was the perfect place to kill a man and dump his body.

The setting put Johnson over the edge. He took one look at the two tough-looking guys standing next to the van and started sobbing. Rapp would have laughed at Johnson's less-than-n.o.ble performance, but he was experiencing the front end of a nasty headache that was no doubt the result of the punch he'd taken to the side of his head.

The alley was strewn with garbage. An abandoned mattress was leaned up against a wooden utility pole with a shredded tire sitting next to it. The floodlight that hung from the pole had long ago been shot out, probably by some local gang bangers. Coleman dragged Johnson from the backseat and stood him up. The two guys grabbed him and slapped on a pair of plastic flex cuffs. Johnson stood motionless for a moment looking at the cuffs, trying to decide if this was a good or bad development.

With moist eyes and a pleading voice he said, "Mitch, please don't do this. There are things you don't know. You have to give me a chance to explain myself. I haven't done anything for Sidorov. I only-"

Johnson never finished the sentence because Rapp unleashed a backhanded slap that caught him flush on the side of the face. In the relative quiet of the alley it sounded like a thunderclap. "Shut up and listen," Rapp said. "If I hear another f.u.c.king lie come out of your mouth I'm going to kill you right here." Rapp pointed at the ground. "Right here in this frickin' alley with rats.h.i.t all over the place and G.o.d only knows what else."

"But . . . people saw me leave with you. You can't . . ."

Rapp raised his hand again, and it was enough to silence Johnson. "I don't know if you've noticed, but people are a little more concerned about getting hit by another terrorist attack. n.o.body gives a s.h.i.t about you. You're a retired rent-a-cop who was whoring himself out to a Russian billionaire."

"That's not true. I have friends," he stammered, "who I was working with. Important people who will want to know what happened to me."

Rapp wanted to mention Glen Adams, but didn't. "You're a f.u.c.king traitor and a liar and you'll say whatever you think will save your miserable a.s.s, but you've got one problem, Max. I don't need a polygraph to figure out if you're bulls.h.i.tting me. Unlike you, I've spent my entire career in the field. I don't have a support staff and the latest and greatest technology to get the job done."

"I don't have anything against you. I've always admired you."

"See, now that's an interesting example right there," Rapp said to Coleman. "He didn't lie, but he didn't tell the truth. He may not have anything against me specifically, and he probably has a grudging respect for some of the things I've done. But I'll bet you my entire pension that he thinks I'm a cowboy, and that I don't give the other people at Langley enough credit."

"Which is a true statement," Coleman said.

"Exactly, but he's either too afraid to say it because he thinks I'll hurt him or he's a pathological liar, in which case we're all wasting our time. So which is it?" Rapp asked Johnson.

Johnson was confused. "I don't understand."

"Are you too big a coward to tell me the truth, or are you a pathological liar?"

"I . . ." he stammered, "I'm neither. I'm just really, really scared right now. This isn't fair."

"There is no fair in espionage, you a.s.shole. This field s.h.i.t isn't as fun as it looks, is it? A little easier hanging behind the secure perimeter of Langley where you're the only sheriff in town, isn't it?"

"It's not how it looks. I wasn't doing anything wrong."

Rapp wanted to reach out and choke him. Tell him to hand over the tapes that he'd made from Lewis's office, but he needed to keep that ace buried in the hole for a while. Maybe forever. His voice dripping with sarcasm, Rapp said, "Really? I'm sure a good-looking billionaire like Sidorov is hanging out with you because you're a real hit with the ladies, right?"

Johnson didn't answer.

"Tell me . . . did you bother to inform Langley about your new friend?" Rapp knew he hadn't, but asked anyway.

"I'm not in bed with him."

"Answer my question."

"I told certain people . . . but nothing had been put in writing. I was waiting to see how serious things got."

Rapp glanced at Coleman and then without bothering to make eye contact with Johnson, he unleashed another vicious backhanded slap. Johnson yelped like a kid. Rapp slid his 9mm Glock from his holster and began s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the black cylindrical silencer onto the end. "Here's how this works. Left foot . . . right foot . . . left knee . . . right knee. Most guys pa.s.s out when you get to the first knee. You . . . I don't think you'll make it past the second foot." Rapp pointed the gun at Johnson's left foot and took aim.

"Wait!" Johnson screamed. "I was working for him, all right? But it was all background stuff. Nothing that had anything to do with National Security."

"Again, a half truth," Rapp said. "You were working for him, but don't try to make it sound like you were doing anything remotely legal."

"I never said legal."

Rapp looked down. Took aim and fired the weapon. A small hole appeared on the outside of Jonson's left foot. A second later, blood began oozing out of the puncture and then Johnson started screaming. One of Coleman's guys had a rag ready to go and he shoved it into Johnson's mouth.

Rapp checked his watch. All four men stood there watching Johnson writhe in pain. Fifteen seconds later Rapp pulled the rag out of Johnson's mouth. Before he could ask another question Johnson began blabbing. Rapp listened to a good minute of it. Johnson had been doing nothing even remotely legal for Sidorov, and if the power players in Washington found out what he'd been up to they would gladly pay Rapp every penny in their war chests to have the problem dealt with in a very final way.

Rapp took the rag and shoved it back into Johnson's mouth. He walked to the rear of the van and Coleman followed him. "Take him to the Quarry, put him in a cell, and give him a notepad and a pen. Have him write it all down. Chapter and verse. Everything he's done for Sidorov."

"Can I dangle a carrot?"

"h.e.l.l, yeah. Dangle it all you want. Hit him over the head with it. I don't care."

Coleman looked doubtful. "Can I dangle it in good conscience?"

"h.e.l.l, yeah. This little snake has some talent. If I can trust him, I'd rather have him working for us than freelancing."

"Shooting him in the foot may not have been the best way of recruiting him."

Rapp shook off the concern. "I shot him through the outside of the foot. No permanent damage. In two weeks he'll be completely healed."

"Still . . ." Coleman gave him a disapproving frown. "I still might kill him, so don't go all Naval Academy on me."

"A lot of people saw you tonight. If he vanishes, there will be questions."

"It wouldn't be the first time, and once people find out what he was doing, they might not look so hard to find him."

"Should I call Doc?"

"No." Rapp shook his head. "I want to keep him out of it for now. Have Johnson write down everything he can think of. Every single time he's strayed off the reservation."

"You think there's more than just this Sidorov thing and the job he was doing for Adams?"

"Who knows, but this could be a gold mine. Tell the boys to give him a little Vicodin. Just enough to take the edge off, but keep him awake. I'll be back out there a bit before seven and I want him edgy." Rapp leaned back and looked around the corner of the van. Johnson was balancing on one foot and crying. Rapp shook his head in disgust and said, "And if he's dumb enough to hold back on the little dirty op he was running with Adams . . . well, then you're going to have a hard time talking me out of killing him."

CHAPTER 46.

FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA.

RAPP woke up at five-thirty, looked around his Spartan bedroom and thought of his dog. He supposed most therapists would tell him that was progress, since his deceased wife wasn't the first thing on his mind. Time really was the great healer. Not that he was healed, but he was at least coping better. Before Anna, he never remembered waking up and feeling alone. He'd never really been that attached to anyone. Now waking up in an empty house, even one that she had never lived in, didn't feel right. Hence missing Shirley the mutt. woke up at five-thirty, looked around his Spartan bedroom and thought of his dog. He supposed most therapists would tell him that was progress, since his deceased wife wasn't the first thing on his mind. Time really was the great healer. Not that he was healed, but he was at least coping better. Before Anna, he never remembered waking up and feeling alone. He'd never really been that attached to anyone. Now waking up in an empty house, even one that she had never lived in, didn't feel right. Hence missing Shirley the mutt.

More often than not the border collie mix stayed with the Kennedys where Irene's son Tommy would take care of her. Rapp paid him at first, but after a while Tommy wouldn't let him. He'd grown too attached to Shirley and with Rapp's awkward travel schedule she stayed with Tommy more than she stayed with him. She was a great dog. Smart as h.e.l.l and very loyal. Rapp wished people were more like her.

Rapp really wasn't one to lie around and wallow in his own misery, and he had a lot to do, so he rolled out of bed and hit the floor. The first ten pushups were always slow. He had to get the blood moving through the shoulders first. This morning he had the added thrill of a throbbing skull. The next forty were done at a precise clip. Every time he lowered his chest and hit the bottom, the pain in his left temple peaked and he was reminded of the big Russian who had almost knocked his head off. Rapp smiled, though, because as bad as he felt, the bouncer would be far worse this morning. That was the way of the compet.i.tive mind. As long as you came out on top, all pain was manageable.

After the pushups, Rapp flipped over and rattled off a hundred situps and then he was off to the shower. He stood under the hot water barely moving for five minutes, the day's events cascading through his mind like the water down his back. It was often the clearest five minutes of his day. Oxygenated blood coursing through his brain. Hot water warming his muscles. The sound of the water falling on the tile. No phones, no radios, no TV, no internet, no one around to interrupt his thoughts. It was the perfect way to start any day, and especially this one.

He had stopped by Kennedy's house on the way home. She wasn't much of a sleeper, and he knew she'd be waiting to hear about the meeting with their French and British allies. Rapp realized that was probably why he'd woken up with Shirley on his mind. She'd sat next to him while he filled his boss in on the high points and conveyed George Butler's concerns about his man in Cuba. Kennedy had been in the same spot many times. Countless hours and resources went into recruiting well-placed sources. Once compromised, they were out of the game, never to be used again in a future conflict. Those experiences made her not so willing to share information with agencies that might not treat it with the delicacy it deserved. They agreed to sit on it for a day or two and see if they could come up with a plausible solution. Rapp was already thinking of one, but it was too half-baked to share it with Kennedy. He'd have to let it cook for a while. Then, when he got up to leave, Shirley ran back into Tommy's room and he remembered standing there for a brief moment feeling jilted. Looking back on it this morning it made him smile. Tommy was a good kid and Shirley was a lucky dog. Now, standing under the hot water, he was trying to punch holes in his own plan. As with anything in his business there were certain risks. The question was, were they worth it? After he'd fleshed it out a bit more he decided to table the idea and get back to it later. He was going to be doing a fair amount of driving today and after he made it through a busy morning he'd have some time later to devote to it. The first item to be checked off, however, was Max Johnson. And if the idiot knew what was good for him, he'd already have filled a notepad with his professional sins.

The rock quarry was situated thirty odd miles west of D.C. Few people knew of its storied history, and for the people who now used it, that was just fine. It was a relic from the Cold War-one of the few places that hadn't been decla.s.sified and leaked to the press, and that was due solely to the fact that it had never been on the books to begin with, and no politician in the last thirty years had been informed of its existence. It also helped that even at the height of the Cold War the place was rarely used. Due to poor planning, the site was at the convergence of two underground streams, which meant that it flooded frequently. Some upgrades had been made in recent years. More sump pumps were installed as well as several dehumidifiers and a backup generator, but even so, the place was like a concrete petri dish. The men who worked there liked to joke that they didn't have to worry about Congress blowing the whistle on them, it was OSHA who would shut them down for unhealthy working conditions. Fortunately, the men and the women of the clandestine service were used to working in less than ideal situations.

The place was laid out like an old World War II command bunker, with hallways branching out like a network of arteries. Rapp found Coleman napping in one of the bunkrooms and woke him with a firm shake and a cup of coffee. Coleman swung his feet onto the cold floor and took the mug from Rapp. After a few sips he scratched his blond hair and began to fill Rapp in on what had been an interesting night. One of the guys fetched the notepad and handed it to Rapp, while Coleman hit the high points.

Rapp tried to decipher the chicken scratch. "What about bugging Doc's office?"

Coleman grinned. "I didn't push him on it. I thought you'd want to save it for the shock value."

Rapp nodded. He did.

"He noted it, but it's pretty lame. All he says in there is that he's done a little consulting for Langley's inspector general."

"Is he aware that Adams supposedly left the country?"

"No." Coleman went on to fill him in on a few more things.

Rapp continued to speed-read his way through the notes. After about ten pages, he looked up at Coleman and said, "He's been a busy beaver."