The Survivor

CHAPTER 48

Carl Ferris looked at the White House through the windows of his idling limousine. Activity was limited, consisting primarily of Secret Service agents and dogs patrolling the grounds.

Dialing the satellite phone in the heightened security environment made him sweat a bit, but Ahmed Taj had assured him the encryption was unbreakable. Why doubt the man? The ISI had been playing America’s intelligence agencies for fools for more than a decade.

Predictably, Taj picked up on the first ring. “I trust the meeting went well?”

Ferris confirmed that the barrier between him and his driver was sealed before responding. “Better than either of us expected. That icy bitch embarrassed herself more times than I can count. Rickman has her by the short hairs. I won’t have to lift a finger. The great Irene Kennedy is going to get taken down by a corpse.”

“The president didn’t ask for her resignation?”

“No. But he will soon. For some reason he still has confidence in her but he’s not going to commit political suicide. No one has any idea what’s in these files and he knows he could be one release away from a scandal that will break his administration. Plausible deniability will only get you so far. When the American people see the CIA for what it really is — a bunch of psychotics who think they’re above the law — he’ll want to be as far from her as he can get.”

“I’m disappointed that she’s still at Langley, but I trust your judgment,” Taj said. “With that woman and Mitch Rapp in place, we’ll never be able to forge a relationship of trust and friendship between our two countries. I sincerely believe that it will be you and President Chutani who are remembered by history for laying the groundwork for peace in the region. I look forward to seeing you when you arrive with Secretary Wicka’s delegation.”

The line went dead and Ferris put the phone back in his briefcase. The American people were tired of endless war and Homeland Security overreach. It was the right issue at the right time. Along with the Pakistani money quietly flowing into his campaign coffers, this was the platform he needed to take the leadership of his party and gain the presidential nomination. Once in the Oval Office, he’d pull the CIA’s teeth one by one. America and Pakistan would stop their clandestine war against each other and join forces. Their fledgling partnership would allow him to do what his predecessors never could — stabilize the Middle East.

There was a tap on the glass in front of him and Ferris glanced up to see his driver motioning through the windshield at a woman walking down the White House steps.

Ferris threw open his door but didn’t get out of the vehicle. “A word, Dr. Kennedy?”

She slowed, turning her dead eyes on him before managing an unconvincing smile. Of all the people Ferris had ever met, she was the one he hated the most. His uncanny ability to read people was the main reason he’d risen so meteorically through the political ranks. This woman gave away nothing. Even beneath the withering stare of the president of the United States — likely the only ally she had left — Kennedy portrayed only supernatural calm.

She indicated for her driver to wait. “Of course, Senator.”

“Perhaps we could talk inside?” he said, slipping deeper into his limousine. She followed, closing the door behind her. Normally, he’d move in a little too close, using his superior bulk to intimidate her, but in this case it would work against him. The woman made him nervous, and her close relationship with Mitch Rapp amplified that nervousness to fear. It infuriated him that they could make him feel that way. He was likely the next leader of the free world and Rapp was nothing but an eighty-five-thousand-dollar-a-year thug.

“It seems that our fortunes have reversed,” he said.

Irene Kennedy didn’t respond to the senator’s statement. She’d known many men like him but very few whose pathological narcissism had reached this level. The lack of term limits allowed politicians to stay in their jobs long enough to be twisted by them, and Ferris was the current generation’s best example of this. His ego had grown to the point that its tendrils had invaded every part of his mind. He’d come to believe that he was America. That what was good for him was good for the country. That the expansion of his own influence was critical to its survival.

Ferris could rationalize anything based on his all-encompassing belief that he — and no one else — must be in charge of every aspect of American life. The idea that he might be wrong or that opposing views might have some validity was so alien to him that he was sincerely baffled when anyone brought up the possibility. In his mind, there was no sacrifice that shouldn’t be made in order to protect his privileged status. As long as those sacrifices were made by others.

“I’ve given copies of the emails between myself and Akhtar Durrani to my lawyers and new campaign consultants. The emails you threatened me with. None of them see any problem. A foreign official lodged a complaint against the CIA and I began an investigation. Now that I know you lied to me — that your man Rickman was in fact a traitor — it appears that my decision to look into the matter was well founded.”

“I assume this is going somewhere, Senator?”

He smiled. “I can call a press conference this afternoon, admit my relationship with Durrani, and then come after you with guns blazing. But since your ship’s already sinking, I don’t think you’ll be able to take much of that. And it sounded to me like the president’s skirt is no longer available for you to hide behind.”

“Would you also admit to your relationship with Ahmed Taj?”

He was clearly prepared for the question. “Why wouldn’t I have one? He’s a witness to CIA wrongdoing, including what I suspect was your assassination of his external wing commander. In fact, if this comes to a committee hearing, I might call him to testify.”

Ferris wasn’t particularly intelligent, but he was smart enough to hire good people. She was convinced that much of his financing was coming from Pakistan and believed that she would soon be able to prove it. The revelation that his campaign was being fueled by an unstable Muslim nuclear power — even if his attorneys managed to make it technically legal — would do irreparable damage to his ambitions. For now, though, she would remain silent on the subject.

“Mitch Rapp threatened not only my life but the life of one of my people. You’re drowning in this Rickman thing. The CIA’s being exposed for what it is. I don’t think it’s time for you to start throwing stones.”

Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she reached for it. Only communications from Mitch, Mike Nash, and Marcus Dumond were enabled while she was at the White House. “Excuse me a moment.”

The text on her screen was written in Marcus Dumond’s brief but emphatic style.

The message was followed by an emoji of his caricature wearing sunglasses and flanked by two thumbs-up.

“It’s been nice talking to you, Senator, but I’m afraid there’s something I need to attend to.”

When she reached for the door handle, Ferris grabbed her wrist. “You don’t want me as an enemy, Irene. When I become president, the CIA will come under political control and Mitch Rapp will spend the rest of his life trying to stay out of prison. The question is what happens to you. You can fight me and end up like him or you can be a good little girl and walk away with a pension and a high-paying private sector job. If you’re smart — and I know you are — I’d suggest you give some thought to which future you see for yourself.”