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The climate had gotten so bad that Rapp couldn’t trust his own people at Langley. The CIA’s own Inspector General’s office had gotten into the game of leaking things to reporters. Senior officers were contributing to politicians’ campaigns, spouses were serving on advisory committees for candidates, and admin types were regularly dining and rubbing shoulders with journalists, lobbyists, and political strategists. Add to that Amnesty International and a dozen other human rights groups and you had a climate that was about as unfriendly to someone in Rapp’s position as you could imagine. He couldn’t even trust his own employer to hand him a secure phone, for at the end of the day, the Inspector General’s Office could be recording everything he said. In Rapp’s mind, there was no such thing as a secure line, so he went with the odds. Practically every month he bought a new phone from a major carrier and got a new number. And every time he went on a mission like this, he picked up a phone that rarely lasted the length of the mission. Even with all of the precautions he took, he was still very careful about what he said. He gave only the vaguest information and spoke in generalities.
When Kennedy finally answered, Rapp did not bother with greetings. He simply said, “I need a plane.”
There was a brief pause. “What kind of plane?”
“The plane.”
Almost as if on cue, the Russian started his running narrative again. Rapp looked at him, the gun in one hand and the phone in the other, his palms up and his arms out from his body a couple feet. The expression on his face seemed to say, You have got to be kidding me.
The Russian said, “I work for the KGB.”
Through his earpiece, Rapp heard Kennedy ask, “Who is that?”
Rapp said, “Give me a second.” He pressed the mute button on the phone and moved around to the side of the Russian. “I told you to keep your mouth shut, you stupid fucker.”
“I am Russian Intelligence. Former KGB. We are on the same side now. America and Russia.”
Gazich was immobile on the floor and no doubt in a great deal of pain as the adrenaline wore off and he was left with the searing pain of four gun shot wounds to extremely sensitive areas of his body. Despite his less than humorous situation, he started to laugh and said, “You work for the Russian mob.”
“I do not!” the Russian shouted.
Gazich laughed harder. “You are a bitch for the oligarchs and nothing else.”
Rapp was standing midway between the Russian and Gazich. If he didn’t need to talk to these two morons, he would gladly shoot them both in the head, just to shut them up. The Russian was craning his neck looking up at Rapp, babbling on about his distinguished career with the KGB. Rapp took another step, putting himself off to the Russian’s left side about three feet away. Rapp pointed across the room and asked, “You see that computer over there?”
The Russian looked away from Rapp and fixed his attention on the large off-white monitor sitting on the desk.
Rapp turned to the side and shifted all of his weight onto his left foot. His right leg came up and his torso leaned away from the Russian. Rapp’s leg hung in the air for a second; his hands were pulled in tight gripping the phone and the gun, his forearms and fists providing a shield for his upper torso and face. He did it out of habit, not out of fear of being hit. It was years of training. A simple side kick. Done properly it could be delivered with more force than any other blow. Done poorly it still provided quite a punch. Rapp hadn’t delivered a poor side kick in more than fifteen years. The toe of Rapp’s heavy soled shoes was drawn up toward his shin. His eyes were locked on the Russian’s chin like the three green dots on the sights of his Glock.
In a flash, Rapp’s leg straightened—his one-inch, layered, leather heel striking the large chin of the Russian. The directed force of the blow broke the Russian’s jaw. The speed of the kick caused the Russian’s head to move laterally so quickly that his equilibrium was thrown completely out of whack. The effect was the physiological equivalent of turning off a light switch. The Russian’s entire body went limp, and he slumped forward in the chair, unconscious, his bound hands the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor.
Satisfied with the results, Rapp took the phone off mute and said, “Sorry about that.”
“What is going on?” Kennedy asked a bit irritated.
“Nothing you need to worry about.” Rapp looked at Gazich and said, “Just get me the plane.”
There was a long pause and then Kennedy asked, “You found him?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“One hundred percent. Go see Marcus. Tell him he was right about the Bosnian. He’ll fill you in on the rest.”
“Where are you?”
“Limassol, Cyprus.”
“I think the plane is in Eastern Europe. Let me make sure, and I’ll get back to you with an itinerary.”
“Make it quick. I need to get off this rock fast.”
“What have you done?” asked a worried Kennedy.
“I haven’t done anything, but there’s a third party involved and some of their boys got hurt.”
“How bad?”
