The Survivor

CHAPTER 61

Rapp kept his eyes locked on Obaid Marri.

The red marks on this throat and right cheek were still visible and he was sweating profusely, but those things were plausibly explained by the heatstroke story. If the kitchen crew had any curiosity about what happened in that refrigerator or why there was a security man standing watch over the kitchen, they didn’t show it.

Marri was working on a bowl of soup, carefully arranging sprigs of cilantro before tapping chili powder artistically over the top.

“Secretary of State Wicka,” he said to the server waiting obediently at the end of his worktable. The man took it and hurried toward the door. Despite actually being an ISI operative, he passed by without giving Rapp so much as a glance. Such was the power of Chef Obaid Marri to beat down anyone in his presence.

He continued to personally adorn the dishes of the most important guests, prioritizing them based on the complex protocols that politicians were so obsessed with. While Rapp spent his time being shot at in places without electricity or running water, the world’s elected officials filled their days worrying about who got the shiniest fork.

Jack Warch entered the kitchen and took up a position next to Rapp. “I’ve got nothing. I’m sorry, Mitch.”

The former Secret Service agent had been poring over building plans and manpower distribution charts to find an escape route for Rapp in case he had to take Taj out himself. The result wasn’t much of a surprise. Warch and the Pakistanis had specifically designed their security to be foolproof.

If Marri failed, Rapp’s best option would be to just stride into the room and put an unsilenced round into the back of Taj’s head. The panic would be immediate and he could use that. With luck — a lot of it — he might be able to disappear into the chaos and make it to the main gate.

Marri glanced at a list clipped to the shelf in front of him and froze. When he began moving again, it was to push up his left sleeve.

“This is it,” Rapp said quietly.

Warch brought his wrist to his mouth. “We have a report of a potential threat. Don’t make any overt moves, but stay alert.”

Warch went for the door to the dining room as Marri casually scratched his arm. It was an admirably practiced motion that brought the poison packet right over the bowl. Even anticipating the move, Rapp was barely able to track what was happening. A moment later, the garnish was in place and Marri was handing the bowl to a server.

“Ahmed Taj.”

The man took it with a curt nod and headed for the dining room. This time Rapp followed, taking up a position along the south wall where he would be behind Taj. President Chutani was standing next to Sunny Wicka, making a speech about friendship and cooperation. Warch had moved as close as was practical to the secretary of state and his eyes were silently taking in the positions of the guests, his men, and Pakistani security.

Chutani began acknowledging individual guests as the last of the soup bowls were delivered. Ahmed Taj looked on respectfully, reacting with appropriately enthusiastic nods and smiles as the president outlined his vision for Pakistan. The ISI director was good — of that there was no question. He exuded the same calm neutrality that Kennedy had mastered, but added to it a vague dullness that she could never pull off.

Finally, President Chutani sat down and, after a few cheerful words to Wicka, began eating. Rapp focused on Taj as the room was filled with the metallic clink of guests picking up their spoons. He had absolutely no idea what to expect. His best guess was that the ISI director would abandon his normal subtlety in favor of something spectacular. He’d picked a public venue full of Americans for a reason. This was about making a statement.

It started surprisingly innocuously. Taj coughed, wiping at his mouth and reaching for a glass of water. He brought it to his lips, but wasn’t able to swallow, struggling for a moment before spewing it across the table. The man next to him seemed to think that Taj was choking and slapped him on the back.

The scene seemed to slow down as Rapp moved a hand toward his weapon. Warch’s men were edging in Wicka’s direction while one of the ISI men doubling as a waiter started toward Taj. All conversations had gone quiet and everyone’s full attention was on the intelligence director. Faces at this point reflected concern but not fear. It was clear that he was breathing and everyone assumed he’d swallowed something wrong. That he would be fine in a moment.

The next time Taj spit something up, it wasn’t water. It was blood. He grabbed at his throat and tried to stand, knocking his chair to the floor and then tumbling backward over it. The guards went into motion, drawing their guns and sprinting toward President Chutani and Sunny Wicka. The panic started when Taj vomited a flood of dark fluid and security began shoving people and furniture out of the way in an effort to evacuate the guests of honor.

The attendees were going for whatever exit was closest — some rushing toward the kitchen, others following Chutani and Wicka as they were ushered toward the arch leading to the entry hall. Rapp fought against the momentum of the crowd, forcing his way toward Ahmed Taj.

A Pakistani guard reached the stricken man first, aiming his weapon at Rapp when he saw the CIA man closing in.

“I’m a medic!” Rapp shouted over the chaos around them.

Ironically, it was true. He had an advanced EMT certification and was very interested in Taj’s condition, though not for the reason most would suspect. The Pakistani lowered his gun and allowed Rapp to roll Taj onto his back.

Blood and tissue continued to flow from the ISI director’s mouth with each convulsion, but the force was subsiding as his muscles lost their ability to contract. The whites of his eyes had gone red with burst blood vessels and his gaze wandered blankly until it fell on the American hovering over him. Recognition was immediate and he suddenly gained the strength to shoot a hand out and grab Rapp’s shoulder.

“Relax, Director, you’re going to be fine,” Rapp said, pulling free of the man’s grip and pointing to the guard. “If you don’t get him to the hospital in the next half hour, there’s not going to be any point. Do you understand? There are emergency vehicles out front. Go!”

The guard gave him a short nod and began to lift Taj, mistaking the man’s thrashing for panic. In fact, he was trying to communicate who Rapp was, but with his throat eaten away all he could do was gag and struggle uselessly as he was dragged toward the door.

Rapp smiled and the expression made Taj fight even harder. The guard managed to maintain his grip but it didn’t matter. The ISI director would suffocate on his own blood before they made it to the front door.

The crowd shifted when the main exit became jammed with people and Rapp once again found himself being buffeted by the panicked guests. To his right, he spotted a freshman congresswoman who had stumbled and was unable to get back to her feet in the melee. He started toward her and made it to within a couple of yards when someone grabbed him from behind. He spun, prepared to deal with one of the Pakistani guards, but instead found himself face-to-face with a terrified Carl Ferris.

“Where do you think you’re going? Get me out of here, you idiot!”

Too much booze and the mayhem around them combined to lengthen the time it took Ferris to realize whom he was talking to. When he finally did, Rapp expected him to scurry away. Surprisingly, he did no such thing.

“What the hell are you doing here? No, don’t answer. Just keep your mouth shut and get me to my limousine!”

Clearly the young congresswoman on her knees didn’t concern him. And neither did the fact that he’d dedicated much of his life to destroying the CIA in general and Rapp in particular. Now that he was in danger, Ferris assumed that Rapp would do whatever was necessary to save him.

“Don’t just stand there like a—” Ferris was clipped from behind by a woman running in shoes that should have made running impossible. The senator grabbed the front of Rapp’s jacket, partially for balance but also to try to force him toward an exit.

They were next to an abandoned table and Rapp reached for it, retrieving a salad fork and jamming it into Ferris’s thigh. The politician let out an earsplitting scream and collapsed as Rapp went for the congresswoman. He put a hand beneath her arm and pulled her to her feet, supporting her weight as they joined the irresistible current of the fleeing crowd.