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Concern on his face, Stilwell asked, “Are you hurt?”
“No. I want to soften these guys up before I start in on them.”
Stilwell opened his desk drawer and grabbed a set of keys. He stood and said, “Follow me.”
The two men left the trailer and stepped out into the bright afternoon sun. They were cutting across the courtyard, dodging satellite dishes and antennas, when they ran into Ridley, who was talking on a mobile phone. Ridley held up his hand to stop the other two men and said to the person he was talking to, “Of course I’m going to pay you. Just send me the damn photos.”
Ridley stuffed the phone into his pocket and said, “Mitch, I know the president gave you a blank check, but I want you to at least consider something.”
Rapp stepped around him and kept walking.
Ridley fell in line and followed the two men. “I think it’s great that the president gave you the green light, but we both know if this thing ends badly, all of us are going to get thrown to the wolves. The damage to the Agency could be catastrophic.”
“Rob, if we don’t get Irene back alive, I really don’t give a shit who’s thrown to the wolves.”
“You don’t care if this mess sets the CIA back another twenty years?”
As Stilwell punched a code into a cipher lock on the door to the storage trailer, Rapp said, “How are we going to suffer any more under these idiots than we already have?”
“By you mutilating prisoners. Do you have any idea how that will play with the average citizen? They’re going to think we’re a bunch of monsters.”
“Right now I am a monster. Just like the guys who took Irene. That’s how you fight this damn war. Not with politicians, reporters, and lawyers.”
Stilwell opened a small refrigerator and started reading off labels. “Sodium pentothal, phenobarbital, lysergic acid diethylamide, heroin, speed…you name it, we’ve got it.”
“Give the fake cop the sodium pentothal, and the other two the speed.”
“Got it.” Stilwell grabbed a bottle of each and a handful of syringes.
Ridley was still hovering. “Mitch, please, just don’t do anything permanent. I mean, come on—you can’t cut the guy’s dick off. If that ever gets out, it’s going to look so bad.”
Stilwell was poking around the storage shelves. Without bothering to turn around, he said, “He’s got a point, Mitch. I mean, you’re just threatening to cut these guys, right? You’re not actually going to do it, are you?” Stilwell found a box of latex gloves and handed a pair to Rapp.
Rapp took the gloves and thought about the question for a moment. He had absolutely no problem doing whatever it took to get these guys to talk, but he saw a possible middle ground that might work to heighten the anxiety of his prisoners. Looking at Stilwell he asked, “Did your Kurds get those dead bodies stripped and dumped in a cell?”
“Last I checked they were working on it.”
“All right,” Rapp said to Ridley. “For now, I won’t cut their peckers off, but I’m not going to make any promises.” Pointing to Stilwell, Rapp said, “Give each of them a healthy dose, and I’ll be in there in five minutes.”
49
Congressional oversight was a nuisance Rapp had been working feverishly to circumvent for the m
ajority of his career. In theory it was fine; Congress doled out the money, and someone had to keep an eye on how it was spent. When it came to national security, though, things got a little more complicated. The number of elected officials who were willing to put the good of the country ahead of their own ego, and the success of their political party, was minuscule. Given the chance, they would tout freedom of speech, a person’s right to privacy, and any other platitude they could come up with, rather than shut their mouths and grapple with the hard fact that they were fighting an enemy who didn’t play by the rules. Invariably, only a small handful had the dignity to resist the call of the camera and personal fame. The politicians, for the most part, were lawyers; men and women who’d been trained to argue both sides of an issue with equal passion and vigor.
Rapp knew Ridley was right on this front. Washington was run by people like the attorney general, who had little if any practical experience with the war on terror. People who, if in Kennedy’s perilous position, would be praying frantically that someone like Rapp would be there to do absolutely everything it took to make sure they were rescued. These were the same men and women who would eventually sit him down in a committee room and dissect every move he’d made to save his boss and protect America’s most important secrets.
Rapp had no doubt they would be revolted by what he was about to do, but he didn’t give a shit. When the time came, he would go to them, raise his right hand, swear to tell the truth, and for perhaps the first time in his entire career, he would do exactly that. And then he would ask them what they would want Rapp to do if they were ever taken hostage. Would they want the State Department to begin negotiations for an exchange that might take years, while they were tortured and tormented? While their teeth fell out and they lost a third of their weight? Is that what they would want or would they want someone like Rapp to throw away the rule book, climb down in the gutter, and begin bashing heads?
Kennedy was too important to him personally, and too important to the country, for him to get squeamish. The three men in the holding cells were not merely suspected terrorists who’d been turned in by their neighbors and snatched out of bed in the middle of the night. These three had been caught in the thick of it, and that made what Rapp had to do significantly easier.
The door to the first cell on the left was wide open. Inside, the floor was covered with naked hairy men, piled one on top of the other. Blood was everywhere; smeared across fleshy, pale skin and pooling on the uneven, dented floor. Most of the bodies had bullet wounds to the head or chest. A few had wounds beneath the waist as well. Rapp figured he’d killed a good number of them. He surveyed the scene with a flicker of reservation. He told himself that the task before him was necessary to convince the prisoners that his threat was real. Three tugs and three quick slices, and he was done.
Rapp left the cell, wiped the blood from the blade on the thigh of his coveralls and put the knife away. He walked all the way to the end of the hall and stood in front of the last cell on the left. Rapp slid back the metal cover on the peephole and looked at the youngest of the three prisoners. He was sitting in a galvanized metal chair, his ankles handcuffed to the legs of the chair and his hands cuffed behind his back. Rapp stepped to the side of the door, undid the lock, and then swung it open just enough to toss one of the severed appendages into the cell.
Rapp closed and locked the door and then moved back to the peephole. The prisoner looked at the hunk of flesh at his feet. A look of confusion quickly melted away as he realized what he was looking at. The young man shut his eyes and began shaking his head vigorously. Rapp closed the peephole and moved to the next cell. He undid the door, entered the cell and stood over the man he thought was the commander of the group. The man was still strapped to a stretcher.
Rapp held the severed organ in front of the man’s face. He casually bent over, dropped it onto the man’s chest, and said, “I found out this guy was lying to me.”
