Pursuit of Honor

CHAPTER 37

DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

RAPP landed back in the States feeling a lot better than when he’d left. He’d slept a solid four hours on the flight back. He woke up almost precisely an hour before landing and put on a fresh pot of coffee. While he waited for it to brew, he ate a turkey and bacon sandwich and some chips and drank a bottle of water. With that out of the way he set about drinking some coffee and making a list. Every time he got out one of his yellow legal pads and a pen, Kennedy cringed. She adhered to the old-school ways of guys like Bill Donovan, Bill Casey, and Thomas Stansfield. They liked to say if you needed a pen and paper you were in the wrong business. Rapp didn’t have their photographic memory, and they almost certainly couldn’t break a man’s neck with their bare hands.

So he made his list. He tore off a single sheet at a time and scratched down his thoughts in near-unintelligible handwriting. No names were used, just initials, last and then first. He filled up two and a half sheets with his chicken scratch, jumping from one person or problem to the next and then back as new solutions or concerns came to him. He’d found that if he didn’t do this at least twice a week things began to slip through the cracks, and in his line of work that usually meant someone was either going to have his career ruined or end up dead.

By the time the plane landed on the rain-slick Dulles runway Rapp had torn the sheets into quarters and fed them through the shredder. The slivers of paper, like strands of angel hair pasta, were collected in a burn bag. The ground crew would dispose of it later, and if by chance it fell into the wrong hands, Rapp wished the fools luck. Even if they could reconstruct the original pages they wouldn’t make much sense.

The plane taxied to the private aviation hangars, where the CIA kept their planes. Rapp looked out the window and was relieved there were no government sedans waiting for him. He gathered his stuff, thanked the pilots, and moved across the tarmac with his garment and duffel bags. As he passed through the gate, he saw someone standing under an umbrella, next to his car. Rapp tensed a bit and draped his garment bag over his right arm. In a smooth, casual motion his left hand tugged at his belt buckle and then slid around to the hilt of his gun. Two steps later he realized it was Coleman and relaxed.

Rapp fished his keys out and unlocked the doors from about twenty feet away. “What’s up?”

Coleman looked as if he was in a shitty mood. “We have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“I think it’d be better if we talked on the way back into town.” Coleman glanced over at the entrance to the private aviation center. A couple of beefy guys who looked like they might be Diplomatic Security were waiting for someone.

Rapp threw his stuff in the backseat and asked, “Can you ride with me?”

“Yes.” Coleman pointed a few rows over and said, “I brought Mick with me. He’ll follow us back downtown.”

“Downtown . . . why are we going downtown?”

“Because I think you’re going to want to talk to someone.”

Rapp almost asked who, but decided he’d wait until they were on the road.

As they pulled out of the lot, Coleman said, “Your car’s clean. I swept it while I was waiting.”

“Good.” Rapp turned onto the service road and asked, “You sure?”

Coleman glanced over at him and gave him a noncommittal stare. “I checked out Doc’s office.”

“And?”

“I didn’t find shit.”

Rapp frowned. “How many guys did you use?”

“Myself plus three.”

“Marcus?” Rapp asked, referring to his main computer guy.

“Yeah.”

“And you found nothing. Damn it.”

“I didn’t say nothing. I said I didn’t find anything in his office. Across the street in a leased office we found some serious equipment.”

“How serious?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it. All passive stuff. You know how they always taught us to close the drapes so the lasers couldn’t pick up the vibrations on the glass?”

“Yeah.”

“Supposedly, it doesn’t matter with this stuff. Marcus knew about it. He said it’s the latest version developed by your boys in S and T.”

Coleman was referring to the Science and Technology people at Langley. They were the whiz kids of surveillance equipment and they also happened to work very closely with the men and women in Security at Langley, which meant Johnson would have gotten to know plenty of them over the years. Still, Rapp asked, “If it’s brand-new and Johnson no longer works at Langley, what in the hell is he doing with it?”

“That’s a question you might want to ask Irene.”

“You think she knows?”

“I have no idea. This is your turf, not mine, but if I were you I’d pick up the phone and call her.”

“Later,” Rapp said as he got on the expressway. He doubted Irene knew anything about Johnson, but it was something he’d have to run down. “What else?”

“The shit’s wired to a fiber-optic line. It was being sent out in real time. Marcus thinks the recordings were probably run through a program, cleaned up, and ready for listening in less than a minute.”

“Does he think he can trace it?”

“He’s working on it right now, but he says fifty-fifty at best.”

“So, no hard evidence unless we catch him coming back to retrieve the equipment?”

Coleman considered it for moment and said, “If we brought in the feds, we could start rounding people up and find out who tells the biggest lie. We could probably even put some heat on the S and T guys to find out who gave Johnson the equipment, but . . .” Coleman’s voice trailed off. He didn’t even like the idea.

“We can’t bring in the feds, because we can’t tell them how we know the shit even exists.”

“Exactly.”

“Plus,” Rapp checked his side mirror and changed lanes, “I don’t feel like airing the CIA’s dirty laundry with some overzealous federal prosecutor.”

“I thought that’s what you’d say.”

“So why are we going downtown?”

“Because that’s where Johnson is.”

Rapp glanced sideways at Coleman. “And why would I want to see him right now?”

“Because he’s running with a crowd that should make you nervous.”

“Who?”

“Russians. Lots of them.”

“Is he working for them?” Rapp asked, more than a little surprised.

“I couldn’t prove it in a court of law, at least not yet, but these aren’t the kind of guys who hang out with fat, fiftysomething retired CIA security officers because they have a good sense of humor.”

“What kind of Russians?”

“The kind with lots of money.”

“Shit.” Rapp was pissed off. “The worst kind. Former KGB guys?”

Coleman shrugged. “Maybe in his entourage, but the main guy is too young. He’s a thirty-six-year-old whiz kid. Peter Sidorov, you ever heard of him?”

“The name rings a bell.”

“He’s got a Ph.D. in physics from Cambridge.”

“What does he do?”

“Uses all that brain power to run a hedge fund. He’s made billions the last couple of years. Mostly, and this could be a lot of jealousy talking, by manipulating commodity prices.”

“A Russian hedge fund manager, manipulating commodity prices,” Rapp said with feigned surprise. “I’m shocked.”

“I know . . . but you know how people are with success. Especially with this new crowd out of Russia. Everyone wants to believe they’re in bed with either the FSB or the mob.”

“Or both.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s also a few of them who play it up so they can act like tough guys.”

Rapp was familiar with both types. His preference was clearly for the ones who were acting. “So which is it with this guy?”

“I don’t know. This isn’t my area. I never operated in that part of the world.”

“Well, I have, and I happen to know someone who is probably our top expert on the subject.”

“Irene?” Coleman asked, referring to Kennedy. “Yep, but I think I already know the answer.”

“How?”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Russians over the years it’s that rules and laws are nothing more than obstacles. For them, hiring a guy like Max Johnson to rig the game in their favor would be like us hiring an accountant to do our taxes.”

“So how does that tell you who they are?”

“If it was the Russian Mafia they’d try to hire someone like you or me. Besides, none of our intel says they’re in D.C. Los Angeles, Chicago . . . most of the big cities on the East Coast and a few in the Rust Belt, but not the capital. Irene says Putin doesn’t want them screwing things up things for the SVR.”

“So what . . . you think this is straight industrial espionage?”

“I don’t know, but whatever it is, Max Johnson has decided to hang out with the wrong crowd.”