had no idea that Rickman had maneuvered him into the time and place where he’d been certain the former Legionnaire would settle his score with Rapp. Somewhere, Rickman thought he’d miscalculated, or possibly he hadn’t. An idea suddenly occurred to him. To Durrani he said, “You told me you had General Qayem and his men on standby in case my assassin failed.”
“That is correct.”
Rickman sighed. “I should have known you would meddle in my plans.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You are so transparent. You were going to kill Gould when he was done with Rapp, weren’t you?”
Durrani sniffed and said, “I did not want any loose ends. He was a loose end.”
“And?”
“What do you mean?”
Pushing with his elbows, Rickman managed to sit up against the pillows. He was thankful that the pain was muted by the drugs that were still in his system. “If our partnership is going to work, you must stop going behind my back. Do you understand what you did? Gould is a professional. Obviously, he saw your men and knew that you were going to kill him, so the only avenue of escape that was left to him was to cross over to Rapp.”
Durrani scoffed at the idea. “Nonsense.”
“No, General, the only thing that is nonsense is the way you keep ruining my well laid plans. You need to stop interfering, and there should be no more killing unless we absolutely have to.”
“I kill to protect us. Our secret is too valuable. We must keep our circle very tight.”
“It’s a bad policy. Killing is not the solution to every problem. What are you going to do about Vazir when he gets back from Switzerland? Are you going to kill him as well?”
“He is too valuable,” Durrani shouted. “I would never kill someone so loyal.”
Rickman knew that Durrani had killed plenty of loyal people, but he didn’t verbalize it. Kassar was listening to every word and he was no fool. The man had no doubt wondered when Durrani would tire of his services. “From now on, General, we need to consult with each other, or we are doomed.”
Chapter 48
Rappahannock County, Virginia
Stan Hurley arrived a few minutes before eight o’clock. The looming subject of his terminal diagnosis was not discussed for the simple reason that the old cuss had already told Kennedy they weren’t going to make a big deal out of it. He apparently mumbled something about the fact that we’re all dying, some just a little sooner than others.
Lewis made shrimp fettuccini and spinach salad for the group. Over dinner Rapp continued to press Kennedy, Hurley, and Lewis about Rickman. Rapp remembered that Rickman had an ex-wife and a daughter whom he rarely discussed. In fact Rapp remembered only one time where he’d heard Rickman mention them. It was at an old Soviet base in southern Uzbekistan just after the Taliban had had their asses handed to them by American airpower, a couple of dozen U.S. Special Operations warriors, a few Clandestine Service guys, and a ragtag army of mostly Northern Alliance types. Rickman had been key in putting the whole thing together and it was the first time since 9/11 that they felt like they had really hit back.
So it was time to celebrate, and with the Taliban in full retreat and running for the Pakistani border, the booze began to flow. Even back then, Rapp knew Rickman as a guy with a big brain who had a knack for putting together complicated operations while never losing sight of the various pitfalls. And he did it all with a calm focus on the endgame, something that was no easy thing, with so many moving parts and an uncooperative enemy. For reasons that Rapp didn’t fully understand, that night, a sloppy Rickman decided to unload his personal problems on Rapp. Rickman had a wife whom he’d never really loved, and he was pretty sure she’d never really loved him either. They had a daughter who had reached her teens and hated her father for being gone so much, yet when he was home he couldn’t get her to say as much as hello. It was all going down the tubes and Rickman vacillated between thinking he should save it and being pretty sure it wasn’t worth saving. It was a classic one-person, devil’s advocate, argued by a single drunken man for the better part of an evening. Rapp succeeded in changing the discussion multiple times, only to have Rickman steer it right back into the muddy ditch.
The next day it was not brought up and it was never discussed again. A few months later Rapp heard that Rickman’s wife had filed for divorce. It was not an unusual situation. During the best of times the Clandestine Service was hard on families. It took a unique spouse to be able to hold down the fort while you were off advancing America’s policies in the gutters of the world. The divorce rate was high before 9/11. After the attacks they skyrocketed. The CIA never stopped deploying, and the deployments lasted years, families suffered, and marriages fell apart. Now Rapp wanted to know if they’d ever had any discussions with Rickman about the divorce and the stress of his job.
Kennedy looked at Lewis and said, “We did have a discussion about bringing him back.”
“I remember,” Lewis said.
“It wasn’t the divorce so much. Remember, we were dealing with a lot of those. We woke up one day and realized he’d been over there for six straight years.” Kennedy looked as if she was reliving a mistake. “I was in Kabul on business and sat down with him to see how things were going. He never complained. Not once.”
“Never?” Hurley said in a doubtful tone.
“Never. He had completely immersed himself in the job. He was a walking encyclopedia of information about who was fighting for whom. It got to the point where JSOC wouldn’t launch an operation without checking with him first. They’d bring him a name, sometimes a photo and a location, and Rick would say things like, I think you’ve got the wrong Mohammad. The one you’re looking for is in the next village over. At any rate I sat down, did a review, and then offered him a promotion to come back to Langley. He didn’t even consider it. Said his skills would be wasted at Langley.”
Hurley shrugged. “He wouldn’t be the first guy to think that.”
Kennedy took a sip of wine and agreed.
“You could have forced him to come back,” Rapp said.
“I thought about it, but when I checked with JSOC and some other in-country assets they almost had heart attacks. To a person, they said they couldn’t manage without him.”
“So your solution,” Lewis said, “was to bring him back for two weeks of briefings.”
Hurley scoffed, “Let me guess… you made him get on the couch with Doc here.”
Kennedy shrugged. “Standard procedure. I make everyone do them. Even you two.”
“A lot of good it did me,” Hurley said sarcastically. Turning to Lewis, he quickly added, “Sorry, Doc. Not your fault. I’m pretty fucked up.”
Lewis smiled. “No offense taken, and you’re not fucked up… just complicated.”
“No,” Rapp said, “I’m pretty sure he’s fucked up.”
Hurley roared. “Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”
“I’m not saying I don’t have issues,” Rapp grinned. “They’re just not as bad as yours.”
“Easy, Junior. Give yourself another thirty years and we’ll see how you’re doing.”
“We all have issues.” Kennedy held up her wineglass and said, “Considering what the two of you have been through I think you’re coping quite well.”
Hurley and Rapp took the words with a silent thanks and then Hurley, ever impatient, looked to Lewis and asked, “So what did you find out when you got Rick on the couch?”
“Not much. We had only had two sessions. Each one about two hours.”
“Did you get a sense that he was holding on too tight?” Rapp asked.
Lewis shook his head. “I didn’t get a sense of anything. You guys,” Lewis said, pointing at Rapp and Hurley, “are two of my more difficult patients. It took me years to earn your trust and you still will only crack that door a fraction. Rickman makes you two look like ideal patients. Have any of you read his jacket?”
Kennedy nodded while Rapp and Hurley shook their heads. “His IQ,” Lewis said, “is 205.”
Hurley scratched his cheek and said, “That doesn’t mean jack shit to me.”
