Pursuit of Honor Part 22

"I'd say so. You gotta hand it to him. He's pretty good at this surveillance game. My guys tell me his equipment is out of this world. s.h.i.t they've never seen before."

Rapp thought about that and filed it away. Maybe the idiot was worth saving. He checked his watch and said, "Anything else before I go in there? I'm on a tight schedule."

"I went to bed around five, but up until then it was a full-blown pity party. He definitely sees himself as the victim. He's really upset about being shot. He was in a lot of pain. I think he'd probably crawl out of his own skin for a painkiller right about now."

"Good. Where are they?"

Coleman walked over to a metal file cabinet, yanked it open with a screech, grabbed the red bottle, and handed it to Rapp. Rapp took the pills and a bottle of water and went down the long hallway to the cells. He punched in the code for the cipher lock on the door and pulled it open. There were two cells on the left and two on the right with heavy steel doors that looked as if they might have been salvaged from a battleship. The place was not permanently wired for audio and sound. The humidity wreaked havoc on the a/v equipment, so Rapp carried his own device. It was only a precaution, in case he missed something and needed to play it back later. More than likely, though, he would trash the recording the second the meeting was over.

Rapp stopped at the first door on the left and pulled back the heavy slide on the peephole. Johnson was sitting back with his bandaged foot on the table. In front of him was another yellow legal pad and a pen. Rapp threw the dead bolt on the door and opened it. Coleman's guy left without saying a word. Rapp set the bottle of water on the table and shook the container of painkillers back and forth to get Johnson's attention.

"You ready for another one of these?"

Johnson held out his hand. "Yes."

Rapp looked at the sweat on his upper lip and said, "In a minute."

Johnson started to squirm and looked at his foot with deep concern.

"We just have to go over a few things first."

Johnson moaned and banged his fist on the table. "Come on. Just give me a pill."

Rapp stared him down and asked, "What do you know about me?"

"I know you shot me in the foot last night for no good reason. That's what I know about you."

Rapp could see what Coleman meant now by the pity party thing. "In the broader sense, Max, what is my reputation as you know it?"

He looked around the room nervously and shrugged his shoulders.

Rapp took off his suit jacket and draped it on the back of the chair. He rested his hand on his gun and said. "It's not a trick question, Max. Honesty is what's important this morning. I don't care if you insult me, just tell me the truth. That's the only way I'll let you walk out of here. Do you understand me?"

"I don't know. This is so f.u.c.ked up."

"There's nothing to think about," Rapp said a bit more forcefully. "The truth is the truth and a f.u.c.king lie is a f.u.c.king lie, and if I think you're lying to me, we're going to start up that game again."

"What game?" Johnson said in genuine confusion.

Rapp drew his gun for effect and said, "Left foot, right foot, left knee, right knee."

Johnson buried his face in his hands.

"So remember," Rapp said, "the truth. Now for the second time . . . What is my reputation?"

Johnson shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know . . . you've killed a lot of people."

Rapp tried to be objective. "All things considered I guess that would be a true statement."

"And after last night," Johnson added quickly, "I don't doubt it for a moment. I mean what the h.e.l.l . . . I was at Langley before you were. I put in my twenty-five years. I served. What you did last night was wrong. I mean, that's no way to treat a fellow professional."

Rapp was glad he'd gotten five hours of sack time, because Johnson was a perfect example of what happened to the human mind if deprived of sleep. Add to that the fact that he probably hadn't felt real pain since he was a kid, and you had a very agitated fifty-six-year-old man. "So let's do a quick recap. For the last year, you've been whoring yourself out to whoever will pay you. You've broken dozens of laws. You've illegally spied on officials in your own government-"

"Illegal!" Johnson scoffed. "What would you call this? You don't exactly play by the rules."

"I sure don't, but there's a big difference between what I do and what you do."

"Maybe in your mind."

"Really . . . why don't you tell me how much money I've made breaking the law during the course of my career?"

Johnson squirmed in his seat.

"I'm not into your relativism, Max. I do this job because I think it's important. I do it because narcissistic f.u.c.ks like you care more about your own ego and making a buck than our national security. What really p.i.s.ses me off, though, is that you're the same a.s.sholes who when the next 9/11 happens, will all sit around pointing your fingers at guys like me and saying I didn't do enough to protect the country. Well, I'm fed up, Max. I'm sick of swimming upstream. I've spent the last two days running around dealing with bulls.h.i.t like this. Like you. Greedy f.u.c.king children, who don't give a s.h.i.t about anyone or anything other than yourselves."

"That's not true."

"Really?" Rapp folded his arms across his chest. "You call yourself a fellow professional, Max. Well, if you really think you're a professional, then you know d.a.m.n well that you wandered way off the reservation and I have every right to put a bullet in your head."

"That's not true . . . there are things . . . things you don't know about."

"Bulls.h.i.t!" Rapp yelled. Adams had tried the same line on him. "It's your choice, Max. Are you going to repent with all your heart and soul, or am I going to put a bullet in your head? Your choice!"

CHAPTER 47.

THIS was not Rapp's first seance, as they liked to say in the business. There were a couple of books out there on how to properly interrogate a prisoner, but they were pretty remedial. The more nasty stuff could be found in the CIA's Human Resource Exploitation Training Manual or the KUBARK Counterintelligence Interrogation Manual. This was stuff that the CIA had auth.o.r.ed decades earlier when people were either brave enough or crazy enough to put such things in writing. Rapp had read both a long time ago, and found them to be useful in the sense that they offered an outline, but it was all a little bit like reading about a baseball swing. Most people can read and easily understand the swing, but less than one percent of one percent of the population can actually step into the batter's box and hit a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball. was not Rapp's first seance, as they liked to say in the business. There were a couple of books out there on how to properly interrogate a prisoner, but they were pretty remedial. The more nasty stuff could be found in the CIA's Human Resource Exploitation Training Manual or the KUBARK Counterintelligence Interrogation Manual. This was stuff that the CIA had auth.o.r.ed decades earlier when people were either brave enough or crazy enough to put such things in writing. Rapp had read both a long time ago, and found them to be useful in the sense that they offered an outline, but it was all a little bit like reading about a baseball swing. Most people can read and easily understand the swing, but less than one percent of one percent of the population can actually step into the batter's box and hit a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball.

Rapp had no doubt that Johnson was scared to death of him. But was he scared enough to actually tell the truth? With most people, the fear of death or severe pain was all it took, and as long as you could check out the story they would tell you the truth, because if they lied, you went back into the room and pushed whatever b.u.t.ton worked. Johnson looked up at Rapp and in a convincing voice said, "I want to tell the truth."

Now came the sticky part. With Johnson, the crux of the problem was that he had lived by a double standard for so long that he thought lying was his birthright. He was the great inquisitor, charged with making sure Langley's people played by the rules. And if he had to break the rules to catch them, then so be it. He was above it all. The rules were for the little people. It was no wonder he and Glen Adams had become bosom buddies. So Rapp had to come at this one from a slightly different angle.

"I have to be honest with you. I have a long day in front of me. I have to go pick up a friend this morning who's all f.u.c.ked in the head because he's been working his a.s.s off and he's come within a fraction of losing his life twice in the past year, and his job is made five times harder than it should be because he's got a.s.sholes like you running around. And then I have to get up to the Hill and listen to all those blowhards on the Judiciary Committee grill me because I didn't treat some terrorist with kid gloves and then after that I have to get over to the White House and tell the president that I either killed you, like he asked me to do, or I spared your life and went against his orders."

"The president ordered you to kill me?" Johnson's eyes were wide with fear and disbelief.

"After what happened last week, the president has decided this War on Terror is not just a campaign slogan. He's dealing with the aftermath of the attacks, trying to find the guys who are still at large and make those who helped them pay, and in the midst of all of that he finds out that the CIA's inspector general has left the country and flown to f.u.c.king Caracas, Venezuela, of all places." Rapp saw the surprise in Johnson's eyes. "That's right. Your old buddy Glen Adams.

We've been on to him for about a month now. Someone slipped up, he got spooked, and he bolted. Turns out he's been working for that thug Chavez for the past four years."

"Hugo Chavez?"

"None other. We started going through his stuff and unfortunately your name was all over the place."

Johnson swallowed hard.

"That's how we got on your tail. We didn't know s.h.i.t about Sidorov and all these other pet projects you had going."

"People saw me last night. A lot of people." Johnson looked up and pointed at Rapp. "And they saw you, too."

"Russians. All of them. They play by a different set of rules. They respect this." Rapp waved his gun around. "They know I'll hunt them down and put a bullet in their head. A guy like Sidorov . . . he has enough problems. The last thing he wants is a guy like me hounding him."

"Those two security guys," Johnson said with a "got you" expression on his face. "They were American. They saw me. They saw you drag me out of the club."

"You mean the two guys from Triple Canopy? The former Special Forces guys? We already talked to them. Gave them the rap sheet on what you've been up to. They wanted to know if they could help with the interrogation. I told them I'd see how things went this morning." Rapp checked his watch. It was six-fifty-six. "You've got thirty minutes to convince me that I should stay your execution."

Johnson was staring off into the distance with a blank expression on his face.

"Do you understand what I just said?"

"I can't believe he was working for Hugo Chavez."

Rapp didn't show it, but he was smiling inside. Maybe there was a bit of a patriot still in the man. "None of us are too pleased about it. Now did you understand what I just said?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure you did, so I'm going to make it real clear. The president has told me to kill you. He's furious that a guy with Adams's security clearance has defected. Between you and me, he's horrified that little sausage Chavez is going to parade Adams in front of the cameras. He knows you helped Adams collect a lot of his information." Rapp shrugged. "He can't get his hands on Adams, so you're the next best thing."

"I didn't know he was working for Chavez."

"Max," Rapp said with a heavy sigh, "I'd like to feel some sympathy for you, but it's not like you didn't know you were breaking the law. You climbed into bed with a rat b.a.s.t.a.r.d and you were caught. Now . . . the only chance you have of living a minute past seven-thirty is if you put all your cards on the table. I know this won't be easy for you because you're a professional liar. You're going to have to fight your instincts. If I think you're lying, and trust me, I'll know when you are, the gun comes out and we do the left foot, right foot thing. Understand?"

"And if I tell you the truth?"

Rapp grinned. "Let's just say, there are a few people around here who think you're pretty good at what you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, if you are completely honest and you hold nothing back, I might consider letting you live. And if I think I can trust you, I might even give you a job."

There was a genuine glimmer of hope in his eyes. Johnson sat up a little straighter like a dog ready to please. "All right. I think I understand."

"Let's hear it, and remember, no lies."

"All right . . . about six months ago Glen came to me and explained his suspicions about what you and Irene were up to. He said that I was the only one who would understand his situation. That if you were going to catch someone who was breaking the law, you couldn't fight fair. You had to be willing to break the rules yourself."

"And you agreed," Rapp said in a reasonable tone, wanting to help him along.

"Yes." Johnson started to speak but stopped.

"Fight it," Rapp said. "Your only chance is to tell the truth."

"What if it p.i.s.ses you off?"

"I'll deal with it."

"By shooting me in the foot?"

Rapp shook his head. "Only if you lie to me. So you decided to go to work for him . . ." Rapp made a rolling motion with his hand, telling him to pick up the story.

"It started out pretty simple. He wanted me to bug an office. I didn't even know who the guy was."

Rapp knew immediately that it was a lie. He pointed the gun at Johnson's bandaged foot and said, "Fight it."

"All right," he said quickly, "I knew who he was, but I'd never met him."

"Go on."

"His name is Thomas Lewis. He's a shrink. He's kind of the go-to therapist for the bigwigs on the seventh floor. Has a practice out by Tyson's Corner."

"I'm familiar with him."

"Well . . . we bugged his office."

"That's real cla.s.sy."

"I wasn't calling the shots. I was merely following orders."

"Like me," Rapp said. "The president wants me to kill you, so who am I to question him. I should probably just kill you right now and get it over with."

"Please let me explain. I thought it was a little underhanded."

"But you also thought it was brilliant."

Johnson hesitated and then said, "Kind of."

"So how'd you do it?" Rapp asked.

"I set up a pa.s.sive system in a nearby office and started recording. I'd go back to the place every couple of weeks to check on the equipment, but it was pretty much handled off-site. The recordings were uploaded to a server every day. I'd put them on a disk and hand them over."

"Did you ever listen to any?"

Johnson started to say no, but caught himself. "A few, but not many."

"Seriously."

"Yeah. It might sound interesting, but it's boring as h.e.l.l."

"How many copies?" Rapp asked casually.

"I gave one to Adams and the other one is up on the secure server."

Rapp nodded and picked up the bottle of painkillers. He popped the top and took out two pills. He held them in front of Johnson and said, "You know Marcus Dumond?"