The Survivor

CHAPTER 38

Pull over.”

The traffic was almost nonexistent on the dark London high street. To his right, Rapp could see a narrow alleyway swirling with the blue flash of a police cruiser’s lights.

“Here?” the cabbie said. “But the address you gave me is another six blocks.”

Rapp had decided to take a taxi instead of getting someone from the CIA to pick him up at the airstrip. His goal was to slip in and out of Britain with as little fanfare as possible. The Istanbul operation was still bringing down a fair amount of heat, and the EU’s intelligence community was starting to suspect him in the death of an Islamic — propagandist in Spain two months earlier. Entirely true, but proper protocols hadn’t been followed, so Kennedy was doing everything she could to shift the blame to the Mossad. Its director owed her and he seemed amenable to taking responsibility.

Rapp retrieved a fifty-pound note and held it out for the driver. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

The vehicle rolled to a stop near the sidewalk and Rapp got out without looking back. The dark overcoat he’d found on the plane was enough to keep the rain off, but not enough to hold back the damp cold. He flipped up the collar, partially for warmth, but mostly because London was the most videotaped city in the world. Constant adjustments to the angle of his head kept his face in shadow as he moved across the cobblestones.

The uneven surface ended at a street that ran through a posh neighborhood lined with turn-of-the-century buildings. Normally, it would have been quiet at such a late hour, but that night almost every light was on and he could see people standing at their windows looking down into a crowded street.

Rapp turned toward a set of yellow barriers blocking off the area in front of an especially impressive stone building. There were twenty or so civilians talking among themselves near the police line, and he kept his distance, skirting the far edge of the rain-soaked barricade.

“Sir!” a cop shouted, starting toward him with a nightstick in his hand. “This is a restricted area.”

“Shut up.”

The man paused for a moment, confused by Rapp’s reaction, but then started running at him. He got within five yards before one of the two men Rapp was striding toward waved him off.

“Charlie,” Rapp said, keeping his hands in his jacket pockets as he stopped in front of a man wearing an impeccable Burberry trench coat and bowler. Charles Plimpton was one of MI6’s top men, and he reveled in his role as a British spy. When he’d started out, he’d been vaguely competent, but now political aspirations had set in. Apparently, his wife was the second cousin to King Arthur’s maid or something. She felt entitled to a higher station in life.

“I wish I could say that it’s good to see you, Mitch. But whenever you arrive in my country, disaster follows.”

The other man was Ken Barrett, the CIA’s London station chief. He had the more appropriately disheveled look of a man woken in the middle of the night: wrinkled jeans, a hooded parka, and waterproof boots.

“What happened?” Rapp said.

Barrett was the first to speak. “Irene called me a couple of hours ago and told me Safavi had been compromised. I got in the car and called Charlie. Unfortunately, we were too late.”

“Meaning what?” Rapp said.

“Safavi and his family were already gone when we got here.”

“For how long?”

“About fifteen minutes, according to the cameras.”

“Did you track the car? There’s no traffic and they’re either going to their embassy or an airport.”

“Their embassy,” Plimpton said.

“So you intercepted? Do we have them?”

Barrett cast his eyes down and Plimpton answered in his place.

“We didn’t, Mitch. He’s an Iranian diplomat being protected by a car full of Iranian security.”

“They’re not protecting him, Charlie. They’re fucking kidnapping him. They’re going to take him back to Tehran, throw him in a hole, and force him to watch while they cut his family apart.”

“I’m sympathetic to your viewpoint,” Plimpton said in an accent that seemed to get more posh every year. “But this is the CIA’s cock-up. We aren’t going to create a diplomatic incident trying to set your problem to right.”

“Our problem?” Mitch said, struggling to keep his voice low enough not to be heard by the people rubbernecking near the police perimeter. “You think it’s going to help the U.K. if Iran builds a bomb?”

“I’ve spoken with the prime minister personally and we’ve agreed that getting dragged into this isn’t in the best interest of Her Majesty’s government.”

“I don’t give a shit what you’ve agreed,” Rapp said, grabbing the man by the front of his coat. “Quit thinking about using your ass to polish a chair in Parliament and do your fucking job. Safavi’s put — everything on the line for us. Now you’re going to just turn your back on him because your wife doesn’t feel like she’s getting invited to the right parties?”

“Mitch,” he heard Barrett caution from behind.

“Shut up, Ken.”

“Cops, man…”

Three uniformed men were edging toward them, obviously not certain what to do. Rapp shoved Plimpton back hard enough that he nearly stumbled over his four-hundred-dollar shoes and grabbed Barrett by the arm.

“Where is Safavi now?” he said, dragging the London station chief into the shadows at the far end of the square. “The embassy?”

“Yeah. I have people out front. No activity.”

“They can’t keep him there forever. He and his family will have to be transported.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Mitch, but it can’t happen. Not here.”

Rapp locked eyes with Barrett, who took a hesitant step back. “Easy, man. You know I’d follow you through the gates of hell, but we’ve lost this round. Even if I wake up the FBI guys, we have no manpower. And the minute we make a move, Charlie’s going to have us thrown in jail.”

Rapp balled a fist, but managed not to slam it into Barrett’s face. He had always been a solid man. Given the chance, he would have pulled out every stop to rescue Safavi. But he wasn’t being given that chance. Rickman had nailed down every detail. Every contingency. Like he — always did.

Rapp brushed past the man, dialing his phone as he walked across the street.

“I understand the situation has deteriorated,” Irene Kennedy said when she picked up.

“Safavi’s barricaded in the Iranian embassy.”

“It’s what we feared. Rickman is randomizing his methods to keep us off balance. This time he made sure we wouldn’t have time to intervene.”

“That piece of shit Charlie Plimpton’s not going to let us make a move as long as Safavi’s on British soil. The Iranians are going to have to get him back to Tehran, though. It’s possible that we could intercept the plane.”

“I’ve talked to the president and he says no. He’s been working to thaw the relationship between the U.S. and Iran since he took office, and this is a big enough setback as it is. Interfering with their flight would put us on a war footing.”

“So I’m just supposed to do nothing so we can make sure no one’s political career gets bruised?”

“I’m sorry, Mitch. There’s nothing I can do.”

“I don’t want to hear that, Irene. Rick’s just getting warmed up. He’s going to bleed us until there’s nothing left.”

“I might have some good news on that front. Can you get to Rome?”

“Why?”

“Mike’s already on the way. He can brief you.”

“I don’t like it, Irene. Istanbul. London. Now Rome. Rick’s leading us around on a leash. We can’t afford to keep reacting. We need to get ahead of this.”

“You ask me to trust you. Now I’m asking you to trust me.”

He glanced upward as the rain started coming down harder. “Italy.”

“I’ll let Mike know you’re on your way. Oh, and Mitch?”

“What?”

“Let him do the talking, okay?”