The Survivor

CHAPTER 3

Dr. Irene Kennedy scrolled through an email on the tablet in her lap, skimming over the details of the Istanbul situation. Sitting Bull’s life or death, once one of the CIA’s top priorities, was now largely irrelevant. What mattered was that his situation was more evidence that her worst-case scenario was playing out. More and more it seemed to be the way the world worked. What could go wrong, inevitably did. Horribly, catastrophically wrong.

She shut down the tablet and set it on the seat next to her, staring straight ahead at her own hazy reflection. The limousine’s bulletproof glass was heavily tinted, cutting her off from the driver and turning the sunny streets of Islamabad to a dim blur. She knew that there were two cars in front and no fewer than three behind, all filled with well-armed and well-trained men. The streets had been partially cleared for her motorcade and a Bell AH-1 Cobra attack helicopter was flying close enough overhead that the thump of the rotors vibrated the vehicle around her.

The modern state of Pakistan had been established in 1947, carved from the Muslim regions of British India. In the decades since, it had become the sixth most populous nation in the world, with more than 180 million citizens. But while India had worked to modernize and democratize, its neighbor had toiled for much of its history under the rule of dictators and religious extremists.

Now the massive country was on the verge of being a failed state. Powerful fundamentalist currents were undermining the government, countless terrorist organizations had moved in, and control of the north had been almost completely lost.

With the economy in shambles, terrorists growing increasingly violent, and paranoia about India reaching a fevered pitch, it was hard to blame the Pakistani people for seeking order and stability from any organizations willing to peddle such hollow promises.

Unfortunately, those organizations were the army and the Pakistani intelligence apparatus. Both had grown in influence to the point that it was nearly impossible for the civilian government — and indeed the United States — to keep them in check. The chaos in Pakistan was becoming an impossible situation. A looming disaster that Kennedy no longer believed could be averted.

Normally, the circumstances would cause her to push Washington toward a policy of containment. For a number of reasons, that was impossible in the case of Pakistan. Movement of American men and matériel through the territory was critical to the war on terror. The country had one of the largest and most poorly controlled armies in the world. But both those issues paled when compared to the fact that the Pakistani government possessed more than a hundred nuclear warheads.

In many ways, it was a textbook example of the unintended consequences of America’s foreign policy. The United States had funneled billions of dollars into the country to fight the Soviets during their invasion of Afghanistan, but in its anticommunist fervor, it hadn’t paid attention when much of that money was diverted to Pakistan’s WMD program.

It was a self-destructive behavior that persisted to this day. America continued to pump money into the country that had created — and still quietly supported — the Taliban. A country that had sold nuclear technology to Libya, Iran, and North Korea. A country that had hidden Osama bin Laden and now hosted the most dangerous terrorist organizations in the world.

The simple truth was that the increasingly dysfunctional men and women in Washington weren’t interested in making the difficult choices necessary to win the war against extremism. Pakistan would continue to demand U.S. dollars under the auspices of keeping its — nuclear arsenal secure, and the American politicians would continue to blindly hand it over, hoping that it would be enough to keep the lid on the pot long enough to get them through the next election cycle.

But was it enough? The danger posed by Pakistan’s nuclear program now came from every angle: an accident that India could mistake for an attack, one of the many local terrorist organizations acquiring a warhead, or even a coup that put the entire arsenal in the hands of a fundamentalist government.

And at the center of it all was the organization headquartered behind the nondescript gate her motorcade was approaching. Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence, or ISI.

Her driver didn’t slow as they headed for a group of men with dogs and low, mirrored carts meant to check for explosives. Instead of being alarmed by the vehicles barreling toward them, they moved back and offered a sharp salute as Kennedy passed. Undoubtedly, this would be portrayed as a courtesy — an acknowledgment that an American of her stature was above normal procedures. In actuality, it was an admission that slowing could make her vehicle vulnerable to a rocket attack.

Once inside the walls, Kennedy rolled down her window and looked out over the manicured lawns, fountains, and carefully maintained adobe buildings. It always struck her that the facility looked more like a university campus than the headquarters of one of the most dangerous and secretive intelligence agencies the world had ever known. Maybe someday one of her successors would come here to find it inhabited by young people with backpacks full of textbooks. She hoped so. But right now that idyllic world seemed a thousand years away.

Her lead cars broke off and the limousine pulled up in front of a large, modern building with a lone man standing in front of it. He hurried to open her door, nodding respectfully as she stepped out.

“Dr. Kennedy. Welcome. I’m General Taj’s assistant, Kabir Gadai.” He held out a hand and she took it. His grip had a practiced feel to it, as did the warmth of his smile. According to his CIA file, Gadai was an extremely well-educated moderate Muslim who had just celebrated his thirty-fourth birthday. A top college cricket player, he’d spent five years in the military after graduation, two with the special forces. To top it off, his wife was stunning and his children earned perfect marks. An overachiever in every sense of the word.

With the exception of his still-solid physique, Gadai’s military background was no longer evident. His suit looked like Brooks — Brothers, his stylishly cut hair was just a bit over the ear, and his admittedly handsome face was devoid of the mustache favored by many of his colleagues.

“If you could please follow me,” he said, leading her into a massive circular lobby with a single security guard who seemed unwilling to even look in their direction. Gadai’s voice echoed slightly as he spoke about the building’s architecture, the founding of the ISI by a British army officer in the late 1940s, and the organization’s importance to what he optimistically described as Pakistan’s continued success.

Of course, he was careful to keep the history lesson non-controversial, a light entertainment for his guest as the elevator rose toward the top floor. He didn’t mention that the massive expansion of the organization had been funded with dollars that were supposed to have gone to supply the mujahideen’s resistance to the Soviets. Or the S Wing, a loose confederation of largely retired ISI operatives in charge of liaising with terrorist groups. And he certainly didn’t touch on the fact that the power of the ISI had grown to such proportions that a former Pakistani president had once referred to it as a state within a state.

The elevator doors opened and Gadai led her through a richly appointed hallway that had been cleared for her arrival. Ahmed Taj’s suite was at the far end and Gadai led her through the outer office.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” he said, before opening the ISI director’s door for her. “I hope to see you again soon.”

Kennedy smiled politely before stepping across the threshold. Ahmed Taj immediately rose from his desk and strode toward her with a hand outstretched.

“It’s wonderful as always to see you, Irene. I thank you for making the journey. I trust it wasn’t too tiring.”

“It was nice to get away from the office, Ahmed. I imagine you’re one of the few people who can understand.”

“Indeed,” he said sympathetically and then motioned toward a group of couches set up in front of one of three stone fireplaces. The office was an opulent affair entirely at odds with the modern architecture of the building. At least four times the size of her own, its walls were covered in rich wood paneling. Numerous bookcases were arranged with photos and other memorabilia, but few actual volumes.

“Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Kennedy examined Taj as he poured. The man was a stark contrast to the imposing surroundings, which she knew to be the work of his predecessor. At the Pakistani president’s urging, Parliament had chosen the ISI’s new director not for his ruthlessness or cunning but for his spectacular mediocrity.

Taj’s gift for military supply logistics, as well as his ability to navigate the egos and agendas of his superiors, had allowed him to rise to the rank of air force general. When compared to even his own young assistant, though, Taj came up wanting. His suit was of average quality, he stood barely five six, and his stomach seemed to expand a little more every time she saw him. He had never been an athlete, and his grades had been good, but far from spectacular. Most notable, though, was the fact that whereas Gadai met her eye and spoke in a clear, confident tone, Taj had a tendency to mumble and look at the floor.

At first, she had been surprised when he’d been named and thought that it was perhaps meant as a tacit apology for the Osama bin Laden fiasco. What she’d come to learn, though, was that Taj possessed the one quality that the country’s president needed. He was controllable.

Whether this was a good thing or not was, like everything related to Pakistan, a complicated matter. The ISI was heavily factioned. It wasn’t unusual for one branch to be hunting a particular terrorist group while another funded it. That incohesiveness weakened the organization and benefited the civilian government, but it also contributed to the dangerous chaos Pakistan was descending into.

Mitch Rapp summed up the ISI situation as a simple question of whether organized crime or disorganized crime was preferable. In his words, would she rather deal with the mafia or a bunch of shiv-wielding junkies?

“I’m glad you agreed to come,” Taj said as he finished pouring and took a seat across from her. “I think a face-to-face meeting is better to put this matter behind us.”

“So do I.”

She picked up her cup and took a sip, making it clear that she wasn’t inclined to offer more.

“In our last meeting you made a number of accusations.”

“ ‘Accusations’ seems like a strong word, Ahmed. I would say ‘concerns.’ ”

His dull eyes fell to the coffee table. “Concerns, then. I’m afraid they were largely justified.”

“Indeed?” she said, keeping her expression passive.

“Yes. I’ve been authorized to tell you everything we’ve been able to determine about your man Joseph Rickman.”

She didn’t respond, letting the silence draw out between them until he felt compelled to start speaking again.

“He did not die in the video released on the Internet.”

She let the surprise read on her face, despite knowing that Rickman had met his end like so many before him: at the hands of Mitch Rapp. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“He was, in fact, transported to Pakistan. Specifically, to Akhtar Durrani’s private compound.”

“The deputy director of your external wing? To what end?”

“His death video was a ruse to ensure that both you and I would stop looking for him. He was transported to General Durrani’s home and held there to give Akhtar time to extract everything Rickman knew about the CIA’s operations.”

“And you’re telling me you had no knowledge of this?” Kennedy said, making it a point to allow a bit of skepticism to creep into her voice.

“None,” Taj said emphatically. “It seems likely that Durrani wanted to use this information to inflate his own power and unseat me as director.”

Of course that is how he would see it. In truth, Durrani had been a thug. Not a stupid man per se, but hardly clever enough to be behind this scheme. No, Rickman had been in charge the entire time. He would have allowed Durrani the illusion of control while he used the man and his organization to carry out his plan of gutting the CIA’s worldwide operations.

“Can I assume you’ll be turning Rickman over to me immediately?”

Taj’s dark skin took on a pallor. “I’m sorry to inform you that he’s dead.”

“As is Durrani,” Kennedy said. “The press release I read said a heart attack.”

“In fact, both appear to have been shot by Durrani’s man Vazir Kassar, who gained access to his compound with an unknown accomplice. Of course, we’ll turn Rickman’s body over to your embassy as soon as we can make arrangements.”

Kennedy brushed her dark hair behind her ear and leaned back into the sofa. Taj’s story explained his forthrightness. The operation against Durrani was highly professional and he had been unable to identify Kassar’s accomplice. He would have no choice but to consider the possibility that the CIA had been involved and that she already knew about Durrani’s plot. Better to confess and place the blame on a dead man than be caught in a lie that could implicate the entire ISI.

“Can I also assume that the men who were killed in Switzerland were ISI assets?”

“Yes,” Taj said, looking increasingly miserable. “Durrani’s men. They were interested in the banker Leo Obrecht, who, as you know, seems to have been deeply involved in what was happening. The one who escaped was Kassar. We are trying to find him but so far have had no luck.”

It was an unlucky streak that would continue. She had Kassar. He’d declined her job offer, opting instead for a new identity, a U.S. passport, and enough money to start a new life.

“What information did Rickman provide Durrani before their deaths? Was there anything beyond what we saw in the video?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea. All the computers were missing from Durrani’s house. I assume taken by Kassar and his man. An exhaustive search of his home turned up nothing of interest. Currently we’re working on his Internet usage, bank accounts, and known associates. Rest assured that we’re doing everything possible to dissect Durrani’s plan and determine whether he passed sensitive information to any of his people. I’m not aware of any additional revelations since their deaths and my assumption is that Rickman’s knowledge was limited to your network in Afghanistan. My hope is that this incident is behind us.”

Kennedy sat quietly on the sofa. Unfortunately his hopes and her own would be dashed. Rickman’s genius and years in the clandestine services had left him with knowledge far beyond his theater of operation. And the situation with Sitting Bull suggested that at least some of that knowledge had made its way into the wrong hands.

“I appreciate your forthrightness, Ahmed.”

“We understand the seriousness of this situation and acknowledge the friendship you’ve showed our country. We are entirely to blame for this incident and can only hope you understand that both I and President Chutani are doing everything we can to mitigate the damage.”

She decided to ignore what was undoubtedly meant as an apology, instead changing the subject.

“And Qayem?”

Lieutenant General Abdul Rauf Qayem had ordered an attack on Mitch Rapp that had led to the death of one of Rapp’s men as well as twenty-one Afghan police officers.

“We’re trying to locate him, but it will be difficult. My understanding is that he believes your Mr. Rapp is hunting him and because of that, he has fled to the mountains.”

Taj’s information paralleled her own. Rapp had Commander Abdul Siraj Zahir of the Afghan police looking for the man, but Zahir reported that the general had disappeared into the hinterland and abandoned all electronic communication. Of course, Zahir was a sadistic psychopath who had changed sides in the Afghan conflict more times than anyone could count, so who could say for certain?

“My problem, Ahmed, is that the Afghan police are blaming Mitch for attacking their men without provocation. Can I assume you’ll use your network to set the record straight? The rumors and animosity are making it difficult for my people to do their jobs.”

“Of course. We’ll begin spreading that message immediately.”

She doubted that was true but, at a minimum, his failure to grant her request would be something she could use against the ISI in their future dealings.

“I’d like to make something very clear—” Kennedy started but then fell silent when the door to Taj’s office opened. When she caught a glimpse of the man in the threshold, she immediately rose to her feet.

Taj did the same, but didn’t seem to share her surprise.

“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure,” President Saad Chutani said, shaking Kennedy’s hand and then indicating toward the sofa. “Please accept my apologies for intruding.”

She lowered herself back into the cushions. “No apologies necessary, Mr. President. I’m honored.”

Chutani was a head taller than his intelligence chief and seemed to dominate the man in every way.

“I don’t have much time, but I wanted to personally reaffirm my confidence in Ahmed.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

Chutani slapped him on the back, seemingly unaware that he’d spoken. “Could you excuse us for a moment? I’d like to speak privately with Director Kennedy.”

“Of course, sir.”

They both watched Taj retreat across his own office and close the door. When he was gone, Chutani took a seat across from Kennedy and appraised her. The intensity of his stare was both impressive and unsurprising. He’d been one of the country’s top generals for years before entering politics. Somewhat unusual for Pakistan, he had become president through an election and not a coup. Since then, he’d managed to marginalize the country’s prime minister and Parliament, gathering more and more authority for his office. In many ways, he had become little more than a dictator, but as pro-American a dictator as could be reasonably hoped for in this part of the world.

Kennedy just sat quietly. Some of the most powerful people in the world had tried to stare her down, and she found it was best not to react. Politicians were creatures controlled by passion and it was most effective to quietly absorb that energy without actually giving ground.

“I’d like to extend my personal apologies to you and to ask you to relate that to President Alexander.”

“Of course, sir.”

He smiled. “I’d heard that you’re difficult to ruffle, and it seems those reports are accurate.”

“Sir?”

“I’d like an honest assessment, Director Kennedy. How badly has this hurt our relationship?”

“I know that our secretary of state is going to be visiting Islamabad soon. I think she would be a more appropriate person to ask that question.”

“But you’re here now, so I’m asking you.”

It was a position Kennedy felt uncomfortable in. She wasn’t a politician and had no desire to be one. Having said that, refusing to answer a direct question from the president of Pakistan seemed impolitic.

“First bin Laden, now one of your people kidnaps our top operative in Afghanistan and tortures him for information,” she started, careful to state only the public story. “It’s been a difficult time for U.S.-Pakistan relations. An era that I think we’d all like to bring to a close.”

“It has indeed been difficult. But you forgot to mention your CIA agents brazenly killing our citizens. And that your embassy is shielding Pakistani citizens accused of spying by your Joe Rickman. Also, there are the constant drone attacks. None of this is easy for me. I answer to the people of Pakistan.”

“President Alexander has been clear that our drone program could be significantly scaled back if you think it’s necessary.”

The politician’s smile lost a bit of its gleam. They both knew that he was using America’s drones to destroy fundamentalists targeting his regime and not those threatening the United States. It was another nuance that she’d found Congress impervious to understanding. Insofar as scoring political points went, one dead terrorist was as good as another to them.

“You’re not a naïve woman, Director Kennedy. You understand what I’m dealing with in trying to reinvent Pakistan as a modern country. Taj is very reasonable and more intelligent than you perhaps give him credit for. But many of our enemies aren’t reasonable. Indeed, many of the men working at this very organization aren’t reasonable. Unfortunately, men like Durrani and your Mitch Rapp are valuable in their ability to understand our terrorist enemies and, if necessary, to match their brutality.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, Mitch has never betrayed me or his country.”

“Then he’s a unique man. The skills he and Durrani possess usually come with ambition. Taj didn’t watch Durrani close enough. It’s a classic mistake, really — to judge others’ rationality based on one’s own. I assure you he won’t make it again.”

“I trust then that Durrani’s replacement will be easier to work with?”

Chutani frowned. “Concessions had to be made. The new man is not as volatile as Durrani, but he’s still very strong. He has to be able to control certain elements within the ISI. Elements that it will take time to eradicate.”

“I’m certain he was an excellent choice, and I look forward to meeting him,” Kennedy said, making sure she sounded sincere.

“Cooperation and stability, Director. That is what will be good for both our countries. Pakistan needs economic growth and education. Those are the only things that will break the influence of the radicals. People with good lives are hesitant to jeopardize them. People who have nothing, on the other hand, are often no better than wild animals.”

She nodded and took a sip of now-lukewarm tea. “I’ll be happy to deliver your message to President Alexander, sir. I know how much he values your friendship and the friendship of your people.”