Pursuit of Honor Part 4

"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.

CHAPTER 12.

TOOLESBORO, IOWA.

DESPITE 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. He'd 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. 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. He'd 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 a.r.s.enal 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 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 naive 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 orange-orange hats and orange vests. Hakim was slack-jawed for a moment, and then began to snicker as he thought of Ahmed's confusion. In Afghanistan the Americans would drape their vehicles and positions in orange panels to reduce the chances of their own planes bombing them. Ahmed a.s.sumed these men were wearing orange for the same reason-that 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 don't get shot by another hunter."

Ahmed's 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 Karim's face. "It is not your place to give such orders."

"They are hunters."

Karim's eyes narrowed. "What if they are agents posing as hunters?"

Hakim hadn't thought of that, but he wasn't about to admit it to Karim, so he looked out the window and studied the two men. They were now just fifty yards away. They'd 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 a.s.suredly. "One of them is a boy."

"It could be a trick."

Hakim didn't 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 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."

"h.e.l.lo, my name is Harry. How can I help you?"

The two men stopped about twenty feet from the front porch. "Well . . . I'm sorry to intrude, especially this early. I saw the No Trespa.s.sing signs." The father looked over his shoulder back down the long drive. "But I didn't know what else to do . . . you see, I'm a cousin of the Terwilligers . . . the family who used to own this place. I a.s.sume you're 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."

"That's 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, I've been hunting turkey on this land ever since I was a little kid, and so has Hayden here. I promise you we won't disturb you. We'll 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 now's not a good time I don't 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 Karim's photograph had been everywhere, Hakim's 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. That's 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. We'll just skirt the creek down there and make our way down to the river. You'll 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 father's 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.

"h.e.l.lo," the man said in a nervous voice.

Hakim turned his head slowly to see Karim standing beside and 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."

CHAPTER 13.

LAKE ANNA, VIRGINIA.

RAPP 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. Rapp's 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. 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. Rapp's 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 you're the problem," Hurley announced.

"Really?"

"That's right. He doesn't 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 don't know who you are, and I don't have to know who you are, but trust me when I say you don't want to be involved in this."

Rapp stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips, a determined expression on his face. "You're wasting your breath, Glen. He'd just as soon kill you, but he's a good soldier, so he'll wait until I tell him. In the meantime, sit down and do what you're 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 chair's front legs. Rapp wheeled the cart over. On the top sat a polygraph machine.

Hurley stood in front of Adams and asked, "Glen, since you're so smart, I'm wondering if you could tell me what makes a guy like Mitch here get out of bed and bust his a.s.s for people like you?"

"I don't pretend to know the criminal mind, but if I had to guess, I would say it's a perverse thrill that he derives out of inflicting pain on others."

"That's the best you can do?" Hurley asked. "No other reasons?"

"None."

"Well, I trained him, you dumb a.s.s. If I thought for a moment that he was some s.a.d.i.s.tic brute who was two ticks away from being a career criminal, I'd a bounced his a.s.s 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 he's doing the honorable thing, while all the overeducated a.s.sholes 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. "Do you want to wait until the poly is hooked up so you're sure I'm giving you the right answer?"

"We're 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 Adams's shirt, and tore it open. "Normally, I'd 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 I've 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 you're talking out of your a.s.s."

"You're going to scream at me, you'll keep me up for seventy-two hours . . . you'll raise and lower the temperature in this room, you'll probably give me more vodka." He shook his head and added, "In the end you'll learn nothing and you'll have to let me go. After that I will march straight into the attorney general's office and demand that you be brought up on kidnapping charges, and that's just for starters. So . . . if the three of you can sc.r.a.pe together enough brain cells to see that the only rational course is to let me go while I'm still in the mood to forgive this lack of judgment, you might be able to avoid some serious jail time."

"There's one big problem with your plan," Hurley said as he leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. "When we're done wringing the truth out of you, I'm 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.

"It's a Kimber Stainless Gold Match Two, .45 caliber pistol. Finest production pistol in the world."

Adams blew off the threat as theatrics. "You wouldn't dare. The Intelligence Committees, the DOJ, the FBI . . . they all know I'm close to exposing this cancer in the clandestine service. They know I'm on to Rapp, and if I turn up dead, they'll be all over you guys."

"Who said you're 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.

"Here's the flight manifest." Rapp placed another sheet in front of him with Adams's 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 don't think I've 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 you're 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 you're insecure. It's not unusual . . . in fact, most of the a.s.sholes I've come across suffer from the same affliction. It's the reason you could never cut it in this line of work. Not because you're not smart enough-you're far from r.e.t.a.r.ded. The problem is . . . when you're 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."

"It'll 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."

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 Adams's 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, "That's it. You've crossed the line. I am going to make sure you spend the rest of your days in a jail cell. I'm 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 doc.u.ments in his left hand. "Do you think those defenders of yours know you've been going through two bottles of vodka and another six to eight bottles of wine a week?"

"That's a lie!"

"It's the truth! You're 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 they're 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 Adams's two children. "Off to college and calling home once every couple weeks. You and Gretchen don't even sleep in the same room anymore. h.e.l.l . . . we've had your house bugged for a week . . . you don't even talk. You're the cla.s.sic bitter narcissist who's p.i.s.sed at the world because everyone has failed to recognize his genius. The biggest laugh of all is that we don't even have to plant evidence. It's all right there for them to see, and trust me they'll find it. Your wife . . . your kids . . . your friends . . . they're all going to get put through the wringer."

"The curtain's going to get pulled back," Rapp said in a dire tone. "You really want your kids to find out their old man is just a bitter alcoholic? A failed f.u.c.king bureaucrat, who committed treason?"