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Again, Nash seemed to be able to hear her thoughts. “Sometimes you just have to roll the dice, Irene. Mitch agreed with you that this was our best shot to get to Obrecht and shut down Rickman’s machine. We all did.”
She leaned back in her chair and tried to work through what was happening. Obrecht would never talk but at least his death provided confirmation that someone was pulling his strings. Someone very well informed and very well funded.
Once again she came back to Pakistan and the ISI. The simple answer was that it was one of Durrani’s deputies covering his tracks. But with a new operations director in place, would anyone in the S Wing have sufficient support to pull off something like this? The answer was as clear as it was terrifying: not without Ahmed Taj’s blessing.
“Has there been any progress on the lawyer angle?” she asked.
There was no hard evidence that Rickman would use a law firm to release the information he possessed, but the more she considered it, the more the theory made sense. Terrorists and criminals could be useful, but reliability wasn’t one of their more prominent qualities. No, if you needed something done confidentially and efficiently, a lawyer was the most straightforward solution.
“Nothing yet,” Nash said. “Marcus is working with the NSA on it. Their ability to crunch data is almost unlimited now that they have DaisyChain up and running at their Utah facility. If anything unusual happens at a law firm anywhere in the world and anyone so much as tweets about it, we’ll know.”
DaisyChain was a quiet—though in this case entirely legal—-system that scoured the Internet twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It cataloged every news organization website, online magazine, blog, and government site worldwide. Then it translated the pages into English and used artificial intelligence to analyze the information based on whatever search parameters were put into the system.
She’d authorized soliciting the NSA’s help but wasn’t particularly happy about their involvement. They had an incredible infrastructure in place for this kind of investigation, but the organization had been too much in the spotlight lately. The kind of technology they used was just coming into its own, and they were a bit like a toddler with a new toy. If that toy was a chain saw.
“Then it’s a waiting game,” she said. “We sit here until another one of Rick’s videos is released and another one of our operatives is compromised or killed.”
Nash nodded. “For now, I’m afraid so.”
CHAPTER 35
NEAR CHANIA
GREECE
THE tiny rental car was struggling with the grade, forcing Rapp to keep one eye on the engine’s temperature gauge. When it finally touched red, he parked at the edge of the empty dirt road.
There was no wind at all when he stepped out, only the heat of the Greek sun on his back and the vague scent of chemical explosive still clinging to his hair.
The yellow grass that covered the hill glowed in the light, making the deep green of scattered olive trees seem almost black. Far below, he could see the city and the ocean beyond. Many people considered it paradise and on that particular day, it was hard to argue.
He continued on foot, retrieving a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He raised a lighter to it but then noticed an unusual sound in the still air around him. His own breathing.
Rapp stopped, squinted up at the winding road and then down at the cigarette. The grade was no steeper than fifteen percent and his elevation above sea level was low enough that he could pick out individual sailboats below.
Two years ago, he’d led a thirty-mile trail-running race through the Colorado mountains, finally turning off a half mile before the finish line in order to avoid the cameras set up to capture the winner. He wouldn’t have to worry about anyone snapping his picture or asking for an interview now. Full gas, he’d be lucky to break the top five in a race like that.
Rapp looked out over the ocean, his thoughts turning again to Stan Hurley. In many ways, he’d been a great man. Brave, loyal, patriotic. One of the only people Rapp had ever met who he never even considered worrying about. There was nothing the world could throw at Stan that could knock him off target.
Having said that, it would be a mistake to romanticize him. He’d left three ex-wives, and only two of his five children would take his calls. He’d lived his life at the very edge of control with little concern for himself or those around him. He was probably the best friend Rapp ever had, but also self-destructive, violent, and, as Anna had pointed out on numerous occasions, a bad influence.
Rapp’s love-hate relationship with the old man had started out more hate-hate. He could still remember saying that he’d put a gun in his mouth if he ever found himself turning into Stan Hurley.
Yet there he was, living alone in a crap apartment near D.C., smoking and drinking too much in an effort to mask the rage lurking just below the surface. And breathing audibly walking up a hill that he should have been able to do at a full sprint.
The old man was dead. Anna was dead. Gould was dead. His past felt like it had been suddenly stripped away. The question was what he was going to do about it. Would he allow himself to become even more disconnected? To lose even more of who he was? Or would he hit the reset button? At forty-four, there could be a lot of years left.
Rapp wadded up the pack and threw it into the trees before starting up the road again. Strangely, his breathing didn’t sound quite as loud. Even with Hurley’s death, the inevitable blowback from the Obrecht op, and the impending release of the next Rickman file, he felt a little lighter. Might as well enjoy the illusion while it lasted.
When the farmhouse came into view he slowed, assuming that there was at least one set of crosshairs tracking his head. The building was constructed from stone and white stucco, with blue window frames and a cheerful red roof. It was isolated and easy to protect, but close enough to a tourist town that foreigners went unnoticed. The landscaping was mostly natural and littered with toys—everything from a pink Big Wheel to a dollhouse faded by the sun.
A man appeared on the north side of the house, walking purposefully but keeping a tree between him and his unannounced guest. His plaid shorts, T-shirt, and straw hat looked right at home in the resort area. The expected flip-flops were the only thing missing—replaced by a pair of shoes built for stability and speed. A long-sleeve shirt that hid the veins mapped across his biceps and forearms would have been preferable, but it was a minor oversight.
Hurley had found him in Afghanistan attached to the Green Berets. Rapp recalled that he was an unusually smart kid with a sense of determination that made up for unspectacular natural athletic ability. Bob something. No. Ben. Ben Carter.
“Hello?” the man called out.
His hand was nowhere near the gun he undoubtedly had holstered in the small of his back, but he looked scared. In fact, he looked terrified.
