“This police officer,” Kennedy said to Hayek, “I’m not sure I understand his relevance.”
Coleman answered for Hayek. “We ran into him at the safe house. He’s one of Darren’s reintegration projects. Abdul Siraj Zahir… a real piece of shit. Long story short, he barges into the safe house and starts making threats, Mitch pulls on him.” Coleman looked quickly over both shoulders to make sure no one else could hear him and then added, “ Mitch tells the guy he’s going to blow his head off. ”
Kennedy shook her head ever so slightly and frowned.
“I know it doesn’t sound good but when it happened it didn’t seem so bad. At any rate there’s some back and forth and then Mitch decides he’ll let this guy live if he works for us and finds out what happened to Rick.” Despite not wanting to, Coleman decided he needed to give her the full context. “Mitch gave the guy forty-eight hours to come through with some information or he was going to put a five-hundredthousand-dollar bounty on the guy’s head.”
“And Mitch asked me to put a trace on his phone,” Hayek quickly added. “Langley has been recording his calls and following his moves for the past two days. Only, I forgot about it until about fifteen minutes ago.”
“And?” Kennedy asked.
“He’s been trying to get hold of Mitch. He’s left him five messages since last night.”
“Saying?”
“Basically, ‘Don’t kill me. I have some information for you.’ The guy sounds scared.”
“Well, if the guy has information, call him.”
Hayek shook her head. “I think Mitch needs to make the call. If I or anyone else calls, he’s going to want to renegotiate.”
“I agree.”
“Does Mitch even remember the guy?”
“I don’t know,” Coleman said, “but I could probably talk him through it.”
Kennedy thought about her other problems. “And Wilson?”
“I have two people on him.”
“All right. Brief Mitch and make the call. If anything important comes out of it, call me.”
Rapp didn’t remember Zahir at first. But after Coleman described the man’s shoe-polish-black beard and his snug gray-blue police uniform, he got the visual. The context of their meeting was a little more complicated. The previous night Coleman had explained to Rapp why they were in Afghanistan. Rapp had only a vague recollection of Rickman. When Coleman explained to Rapp how he had threatened the local police commander, Rapp’s eyes got big. “I said that?”
Coleman laughed. “You sure did.”
“Do I speak this way to people very often?”
“When they happen to be,” Coleman said, “scumbags like Zahir, the answer is yes.”
It seemed as if each hour Rapp was learning more about his past, and by association, himself. He had a basic overview of who he was but the details were always a little shocking. It was eerie coming to grips with the stark reality that he had murdered people. There were no, oh-my-god-I’m-a-monster type moments. It was more or less, that’s who I am, I need to keep filling in this puzzle and when it’s done I can sit back and judge my actions in their totality, or not. That was the other abnormal thing about this process of getting to know himself again: The second time around you saw things that you might have missed on the first go round.
“So I threatened to put a five-hundred-K bounty on this guy’s head.”
“Yes… and you threatened to stick a Tomahawk missile up his ass as well.” Grinning, Coleman added, “I know it sounds harsh, but it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. He’s a real piece of shit. I think you made that pretty clear to him as well.”
“So I call him back and find out what he has.”
“Yes, but you’re probably going to have to be a bit of a prick. Do you think you’re up to it?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“All right. We have him marked in Jalalabad.” Coleman looked over Hayek’s shoulder at the blinking red light. “Hmm…”
“What?” Rapp asked.
“It looks like he’s just a block away from the safe house.” He tapped Hayek on the shoulder. “Everything ready to go?”
“In a second.” All of Rapp’s clothes had been cut off him when he arrived at the hospital, and his personal possessions, such as his phones and fake ID’s and credit cards, had been placed in a bag and kept in a storage room. It was just another thing that was overlooked in the chaos. Hayek was now syncing Rapp’s phone via Bluetooth to her laptop, so they could record and monitor the call. When it was ready to go, she plugged in two sets of headphones, handing one to Coleman and keeping the other for herself.
“The number’s already punched in,” she said as she handed Rapp the phone, “just hit send.”
“You said we have people back at Langley monitoring all of his calls.”
“That’s right.”
“And if they record me threatening to kill him on the phone?”
Coleman jumped in. “We’re not the FBI. We’re supposed to threaten people like Zahir. When we’re done, we’ll make sure all the recordings are erased.”
“Fine.” Rapp hit Send and tried to put himself in the proper mind-set.
Chapter 37
Jalalabad, Afghanistan
Zahir had no formal police training, but he was no fool. He stroked his thick black beard and looked at the bodies. The big man he thought he recognized. He was hard-core Taliban. Unlike Zahir, who was whatever he needed to be to survive, this man had stayed faithful when the Americans swept in and mopped up the Taliban. That was the first time Zahir had done business with Rickman. He had shown up in his village on horseback with a dozen bearded fighters and two American warplanes circling overhead like predators. By then the news had spread. The Taliban had collapsed in the face of the American onslaught. For Zahir, an expert at predicting which way the wind would blow, the decision was easy.
As Rickman laid it out, Zahir could either take twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and contribute some fighters to the cause, or the Navy F-18 Hornets circling above would lay his village to waste. Zahir wasn’t even offended. It was the easiest decision he had ever made. It was made all the more easier knowing that he would likely change sides many times as this war raged on. The Taliban had run to their haven on the other side of the Pakistani border, but they would be back. Zahir liked Rickman and respected him. He never took it personally when Zahir’s loyalty wavered. He simply looked at it as a challenge to bring Zahir back to his side. That fool Hubbard, however, was another story. He lacked Rickman’s cunning. He had been so easy to push around. Not like the crazy American from two days ago. Zahir had tried to find out who he was, but his resources were limited and he had a feeling that, like so many of these damn CIA men, he had been given a fake name.
For the first time in four years Sickles had refused to take his calls, which was not a good sign. Then Hubbard disappeared, which seemed strange since he was last seen at the air base and there was no record of him leaving the base. And then there was the big gunfight in Kabul. Twenty-one police officers killed in broad daylight by a group of American contractors. It had filled the airwaves for two straight days. He knew that most of it was inaccurate, as Zahir had been briefed that General Qayem and his men ambushed the Americans. The general had fled and the Afghan National Police were reeling from the treachery. It was one thing to siphon off funds for your own personal use, but to use your men to try and kill Americans was madness. Add to it that twenty-one of his own men had been killed and Zahir was willing to bet that the reckless General Qayem would be moved to the top of the Americans’ most-wanted list.
It was total chaos. Why would Qayem do such a thing? Zahir could only hazard a few guesses, but it was likely a mix of large amounts of money and promises of more power when the Americans left. That was the new game-everyone was gambling on when the Americans would pull out and the Taliban would come rushing back in. Zahir wasn’t so sure it was that black and white. The Taliban even at their peak couldn’t control the entire country.
