Zahir once again tried to retreat. He needed room to think and he couldn’t do that with a gun in his face, but it did no good. The American simply followed him. Zahir’s eyes pleaded for Hubbard to give him a reprieve. He didn’t receive any help so he reverted to what he knew best. “How much will you pay me?”
Rapp laughed, but there was no levity in it. “I’m not going to pay you shit. In fact I’m going to do the exact opposite. If I find out you’re fucking me, I’m going to text your photo to every jerkoff with a gun in this town and on the other side of the border as well, and I’m going to put a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bounty on your head. And if you think about heading for the hills I’ll have a Predator on you twenty-four seven. If you make a call, if you step into the clear for a second I’ll shove a Hellfire missile up your ass and blow you to hell.”
To Zahir, the threat was all too real. He had used the CIA to decimate his own enemies by giving up their locations and phone numbers. The drone strikes were very effective. After a little consideration Zahir realized that at least for the moment he had no choice but to go along with this man. He slowly nodded his head and said, “I will see what I can do.”
“If you want to live, you’ll do more than that.” Rapp lowered his gun and said, “Give me your phone.”
Zahir scrambled to retrieve the phone from the breast pocket of his blue-gray uniform shirt. He surrendered it to Rapp, who handed it to Hubbard. “Go upstairs and give this to Sid. Tell her I want the usual and have our friends stateside move it into heavy rotation. Tell her I need a clone as well.” Hubbard left and Rapp turned his focus back to Zahir. “We’re going to be listening to everything you say, and if at any time I’m not satisfied with your efforts, our deal is off.”
“Off?”
“Off means you broke the deal and you’re dead.”
“And what if I don’t like this deal?”
Rapp raised his pistol and pointed it at the man’s face. “It’s pretty simple. I blow your brains all over the floor right now and you end up like those four guys over there.” Rapp motioned toward the four bodyguards.
“You’re not giving me much of a choice.”
“And when you kidnap villagers and hold them for ransom, do you give them a choice?”
Zahir stubbornly refused to respond.
“I know you don’t like this, Abdul, and the reason’s pretty simple. You’re a bully. You’re used to pushing people around. Threatening them and their families with violence to get what you want. Now you’re the one being bullied and you don’t like it and I don’t give a shit. The only thing that’s important is that you understand and accept our deal. Do you?”
With barrel of the gun in his face, Zahir knew he had only one option-to acquiesce. Later, when he was away from this madman, he could figure out a way to go back on the deal. “You have left me with no other choice.”
“Good. I’d shake your hand but I know it wouldn’t mean anything since you plan on fucking me over the first chance you get, so here’s what we’re going to do.” Rapp grabbed his phone with his right hand, tapped a few icons, and then held it out to take a photo of Zahir. “Smile. This is for the poster I’m going to send out with a fifty- thousand-dollar bounty on your head.”
“But you said…”
“Relax, I know what I said. If you come through with what I need, you’ll be fine. I might even give you the fifty grand, but if I get even the slightest whiff that you’re screwing with me, you’re done. You have enough enemies as it is, if I put a bounty on your head, they’ll be lining up to collect. Hell, it’s probably cheaper than wasting a missile on your ass.”
Hubbard came back with Zahir’s phone and gave it to him. He handed a plain black flip phone to Rapp. Rapp held it up and said, “This is how we’re going to talk to each other. I’ll be able to track you with both phones, but this is the one we’ll use to communicate.” Rapp gave him the phone. “I’m going to call you in two hours and if you don’t answer the phone you’re dead. If you answer the phone and tell me you haven’t discovered anything you’re dead. Do you understand how this is going to work?”
Zahir reluctantly stuffed the phone in his pocket and nodded. “What do I call you?”
“Harry,” Rapp said, giving him one of his aliases. “Now get out of here and find out what happened to Joe Rickman.”
Chapter 4
Bethesda, Maryland
Joel Wilson impatiently tapped the fingers of his right hand on his right thigh while he was driven through the dark streets of the sleepy Maryland neighborhood. It was a few hours before dawn, and the thought of waking his boss this early was less than appealing, but Wilson had learned the hard way that the stodgy old fool needed to be kept in the loop. It was becoming an increasing source of irritation for Wilson, whose unbridled energy did not often jell with the slower pace of Samuel Hargrave, the FBI’s executive assistant director for national security. To those outside the Bureau, the job title meant little, but within the FBI it was a position that had grown significantly in stature after 9/11. Hargrave was in charge of Counterterrorism, Counterintelligence and the Directorate of Intelligence and Weapons of Mass Destruction. He dutifully reported to the top man at the FBI and beyond that he kept an extremely low profile, and demanded the same of his people-another sore spot with Wilson.
In Wilson’s succinct opinion, Hargrave was a relic from the FBI’s Cold War days, a man who was no longer suited to handle the multiple threats of this faster-paced world. He reminded Wilson of that bushy eye browed law professor in the movie Paper Chase. He was a real pain in the butt who spent his life looking to catch the tiniest of mistakes while losing sight of the big picture. The man loved to point out every flaw no matter how small. He was the most anal-retentive, crotchety jerk Wilson had ever worked for. If only the fool would drop dead of an aneurysm, Wilson could get on with saving the country from the various threats that were circling.
Wilson believed that his job was the most difficult and demanding at the Bureau. He was the deputy director of Counterintelligence, which meant that he, not the CIA, was the tip of the spear. It was simple. The biggest threats to the nation were the foreign intelligence agencies and terrorist organizations that were looking to attack and weaken America. It was Wilson’s job to stop them, and those Americans who might be aiding the enemy.
Hargrave was everything a boss shouldn’t be. He was an obstacle to every decision and operation that Wilson tried to launch. Wilson’s frustration had grown to the point that he began to cut Hargrave out of the decision process, only to be severely reprimanded by the director of the FBI himself. It was the lowest point of Wilson’s otherwise sterling twenty-one-year career with the Bureau and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. Wilson’s boss, the man who ran the Counterintelligence Division, had been on leave for four months after a back surgery that didn’t go as planned. Wilson had been asked to step in and take over as acting director. It was one of the three most coveted jobs at the FBI, and Wilson didn’t balk at the opportunity. He took over as if he’d been running the place for several years, and not long after he ran afoul of Hargrave.
Since then Wilson had explored every conceivable avenue around the man, but he’d been stymied. As the director himself eventually told Wilson, “The Federal Bureau of Investigation is big on chain of command for a reason.” Wilson disagreed with them both, but he was not so bullheaded as to run afoul of the director, so he kept Hargrave informed of his every decision, no matter how small. Wilson got the sense that Hargrave knew what he was up to, but so far the man had remained unflappable. Tonight’s developments, however, might be enough to undo him.
But for now, Wilson was once again forced to perform this stupid dance. That was why he was rolling along this beautiful tree-lined street in Chevy Chase when he should have been with the rest of his team boarding one of the Bureau’s Gulfstream 550s for a jaunt halfway around the globe. The vehicle began to slow and Wilson noticed his driver searching for the right address.
“It’s up there on the left,” Wilson said. “The white Colonial with green shutters.” Under his breath he added, “Boring… just like his personality.”
“Excuse me, sir?” The young agent asked.
“Nothing,” Wilson replied.
Cal Patterson was in his third year with the Bureau and he considered himself a lucky man to be one of the youngest agents in the Counterintelligence Division. He liked his job, but his boss made him nervous. Patterson casually turned the wheel of the Ford Taurus and edged the sedan into the narrow drive. “Anything you’d like me to
