Pursuit of Honor

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 passing 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 pissed 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-noble 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 fucking 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 ratshit all over the place and God 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. Nobody gives a shit 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 fucking traitor and a liar and you’ll say whatever you think will save your miserable ass, but you’ve got one problem, Max. I don’t need a polygraph to figure out if you’re bullshitting 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 asshole. This field shit 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 screwing the black cylindrical silencer onto the end. “Here’s how this works. Left foot . . . right foot . . . left knee . . . right knee. Most guys pass 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?”

“Hell, 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?”

“Hell, 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.”