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The ISI director retreated out of range and Qayem snatched a piece of wood from the dirt floor, swinging it full force into the side of the wailing man’s head. Silence once again descended on the cramped underground chamber. Only Qayem’s elevated breathing and the sound of Zahir’s life leaking from him intruded.
“Rapp is coming for you, my friend,” Taj said. “I have a man inside his organization who I believe will be able to eliminate him, but our ability to communicate is limited. Once again, we find time working against us.”
Qayem was smart enough to understand that he would eventually be found and humble enough to know that he would eventually break. No one could resist what the CIA man would unleash.
“You know what has to be done,” Taj said.
“Yes.”
The dirt floor had been turned to mud by Zahir’s blood, increasing the humidity as Taj returned to the tray and picked up the traitor’s .40-caliber Smith & Wesson. A gift from the Americans.
He raised the weapon and pressed it against his old friend’s forehead.
God is great were the last words to pass Abdul Qayem’s lips.
CHAPTER 6
THE FARM
NEAR HARPERS FERRY
WEST VIRGINIA
U.S.A.
BY design, the gravel road that cut through the forest never stretched more than fifty yards before taking a hard turn. The contractor who’d built it was a bit baffled by the routing and even more baffled when he’d been asked to do a purposely lousy surfacing job. In the end, though, the finished product had been exactly what Stan Hurley wanted: a road that even the world rally champion couldn’t drive at much more than twenty-five miles an hour.
Despite its all-wheel-drive system, Mitch Rapp’s black Dodge Charger was limited to about half that. The 5.7-liter Hemi had no problems handling the extensive modifications he’d made but dialing in the suspension had been more problematic. The biggest casualty, though, was the sound system. Most of the speakers had ended up in a dumpster to make room for multiple layers of Kevlar.
He came over a steep rise and frowned when the front spoiler scraped. He’d have to tell Hurley to order the next round of recruits to smooth the peak of that one
. A perfect activity to shoehorn in between a twenty-mile run and shooting the local rapids on their backs.
It took another ten minutes to reach the interior gate, which opened automatically when he approached. A few seconds later, he was on butter-smooth pavement bisecting a manicured lawn dotted with flower beds.
The property was nearly an exact copy of the one he’d trained at as a youth. The barn was red instead of white, built to look like it was half a century older than its actual age. The wraparound porch on the farmhouse was a little broader and the outdoor furniture a little more modern. That was about all that met the eye. Below the surface, though, updates were more substantial. The house’s basement was far larger, more elaborate, and secure. The sensors that crisscrossed the hundred acres were an order of magnitude more advanced. And most of the lawn was mined. Kennedy was against the last one, but Hurley had convinced her that the computer-controlled system was foolproof. Having said that, Rapp noticed she stayed to the road and walkways.
The property was a monument to the dysfunction inside the Beltway. Every seven years or so, Hurley’s clandestine training facility would “accidentally” burn to the ground and another one would be built on a new piece of property paid for with black funds.
If all this effort was to keep ahead of America’s enemies, it wouldn’t bother Rapp. In fact, it was done to keep ahead of the politicians sniffing around for off-the-books CIA activity they could use to make political points. Displaying fake indignation had become Congress’s primary job description.
It was a game the CIA was forced to play with full knowledge that there was no way to win. If Rapp did what was necessary to keep members of Congress and their constituents safe, he was in danger of being indicted. If he followed the rules and allowed America to be attacked, he was in danger of being publicly crucified.
Ahead, Stan Hurley was standing on the porch watching through the same aviator glasses he’d been wearing when Rapp had rolled in as a naïve college kid. The old cuss was probably close to eighty now, but no one seemed to know for certain. He had a bourbon in one hand and, despite advanced lung cancer, a cigarette in the other. No point in turning into a health nut now.
“You’re late,” he said as Rapp stepped out of the vehicle.
There was actually no specific time he was scheduled to arrive, but Rapp let it go. Hurley had a way of getting under his skin like no one else and it had been a long flight from Turkey.
“Good to see you, too, Stan.”
Rapp walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. Vadim Yenotin threw his hands up defensively and squinted into the sun.
“Out,” Rapp said.
The man was understandably stiff as he eased his legs over the rear bumper. The Charger didn’t have much of a trunk, and the weapons case Rapp had built into the bottom made it even smaller.
He grabbed the Russian by the collar and marched him toward the house as Hurley looked on with a bored expression. “Put him in a hole and meet me in the bar. Irene touched down an hour ago. Based on my conversation with her, you’re probably going to want something to take the edge off before she gets here.”
