Pursuit of Honor

CHAPTER 47

THIS was not Rapp’s first séance, 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 authored 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 button 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 fucked in the head because he’s been working his ass 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 assholes 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 fucking 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 shit 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 bastard 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 pisses 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 classy.”

“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 passive 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 hell.”

“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?”

“Yes,” Johnson snorted. “He’s a disrespectful little shit.”

“Not really. Just seems that way because he’s so much smarter than the rest of us. At any rate he was telling me the other day that he has a new software program that can tell how many times something has been copied. Now Marcus is at your office right now. If I call him up and ask him to find out how many times this stuff was copied and he comes back with something other than two . . . well . . . let’s just say you and I will be finished. So think real hard. How many copies did you make?”

Johnson thought about it for a long moment and then said, “Three. I think there are actually three copies.”

Rapp set the pills on the table and slid the bottle of water over. “Good answer.” Rapp watched as Johnson popped the pills in his mouth and took a swig of water. “That office you leased?”

Jonson nodded.

“Third floor, directly across the courtyard from Lewis’s office. We already have all your equipment.” Rapp saw the surprise wash across Johnson’s face. “I know more shit about you than you can even begin to imagine, Max. You fucking hold back on me one more time and this will get really ugly. I mean Saddam Hussein, third world, shove a thermometer up your pecker and smack it with a hammer ugly. Shove your head in a bucket full of your own shit ugly. That’s what we do to traitors.”

“I’m sorry,” Johnson said in a shaky voice.

“Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it, Max. You need to get it though your head that you have one shot at this.”

“I understand.”

“Good, because the next time I ask you for a number, you better be damn sure it’s the right one.”

“I will. I promise.”

Rapp wasn’t so sure, but maybe with a little reprogramming they could get him back on the right team. He’d never pull a Saddam Hussein on him, but he might show him a few photos just to scare the piss out of him. “All right, now where are these copies?”