Pursuit Of Honor (18 page)

HAKIM drank some orange juice and popped four extrastrength Tylenols. He was propped up in the bed with three pillows behind him, staring at his laptop, trying to figure out what to do. Logistically things were perhaps more straightforward than one might imagine. It was as simple as riding down the Mississippi River in a raft. There were twists and turns, but eventually everything made its way south and dumped into the Gulf of Mexico. They weren’t following the river, however, they were working the state highways and county roads of Missouri in a gamble against time.

Looking back on the day it was almost impossible to believe what had happened. A single rash decision had led to a string of them, each one limiting their options and exposing them needlessly to capture. He and Karim could spend the rest of their lives debating the wisdom of deciding to kill the father and son, and they would never agree, but it was undeniable that the act had set in motion a series of bungles. One rushed decision had led to another, and now they were on the run with no idea how close the law was on their trail.

Hakim pecked away at his laptop searching various news sites for most of the evening as they worked their way down Highway 54, through Jefferson City, and then Lake of the Ozarks, and finally the turn for Springfield at Highway 65. Hakim decided not to take Interstate 44 over to Oklahoma. He had labored over that decision for quite a while but eventually decided they might be too exposed on the interstate. He made the decision to head for Branson. It was a major tourist destination that also catered to RV enthusiasts. He determined the smartest move would be to lay up for the night in a big lot with other RVs and wait until morning. Then, depending what they found on the news, they would either dump the RV or fill up on gas and make a sunrise-to-sunset dash to Houston.

Somewhere north of Branson, Hakim wasn’t exactly sure where, he felt the RV begin to slow and then sway as they turned off the highway. He pulled back the rear shades an inch and stole a one-eyed glance, half expecting to see the twirling emergency lights of a police car. There was nothing. Not a car in sight. Hakim looked to the front of the RV just as it came to a complete stop. He watched as Karim unbuckled his seat belt and came to the back.

Karim pulled the privacy curtain back completely, hesitated for a long moment, and finally said, “I am worried about something.”

“You are always worried about something.”

Karim exhaled his frustration and lowered his voice so Ahmed couldn’t hear. “For a minute, could you try not to be so difficult?”

Hakim nodded his consent.

“I have been noticing more RVs as we get farther south.”

“I know that. Branson is like a Bedouin watering hole for RVs.”

“Well… they are all old.”

“The RVs?” Hakim asked.

“No, the people driving them. Every time I pass one they wave.”

“And that bothers you?”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Karim scowled, “but I have not seen another RV in nearly an hour.”

Hakim suddenly saw why he was concerned. “They are stopping for the night.”

“I think so. I passed a truck stop a few miles back and there were at least ten of them lined up with the big trucks.”

Hakim thought about it for a moment. “Maybe we should go back. Park there for the night.”

Karim shook his head vigorously. “There must be a charge of some sort. Someone you must check in with.”

Hakim thought he might be right. “What other option do we have?”

“You can get satellite images on your laptop?”

“Yes.” Hakim hit the space bar and took the computer out of sleep mode. Google Maps was already up. He moved the cursor and clicked on the satellite tab and then turned the computer so Karim could see the screen.

“Is that our exact location?”

“No, but it is close. You can zoom in and out over here. If you bring me the GPS device I can tell you exactly where we are.”

Karim took the laptop and sat down at the kitchen table facing Hakim.

“What are you doing?” Hakim asked.

Without taking his eyes off the screen he said, “Finding a place to stay tonight.”

Hakim got a sinking feeling in his stomach. “What kind of place?”

“A house. Preferably one without any neighbors.”

RAPP landed back in the States feeling a lot better than when he’d left. He’d slept a solid four hours on the flight back. He woke up almost precisely an hour before landing and put on a fresh pot of coffee. While he waited for it to brew, he ate a turkey and bacon sandwich and some chips and drank a bottle of water. With that out of the way he set about drinking some coffee and making a list. Every time he got out one of his yellow legal pads and a pen, Kennedy cringed. She adhered to the old-school ways of guys like Bill Donovan, Bill Casey, and Thomas Stansfield. They liked to say if you needed a pen and paper you were in the wrong business. Rapp didn’t have their photographic memory, and they almost certainly couldn’t break a man’s neck with their bare hands.

So he made his list. He tore off a single sheet at a time and scratched down his thoughts in near-unintelligible handwriting. No names were used, just initials, last and then first. He filled up two and a half sheets with his chicken scratch, jumping from one person or problem to the next and then back as new solutions or concerns came to him. He’d found that if he didn’t do this at least twice a week things began to slip through the cracks, and in his line of work that usually meant someone was either going to have his career ruined or end up dead.

By the time the plane landed on the rain-slick Dulles runway Rapp had torn the sheets into quarters and fed them through the shredder. The slivers of paper, like strands of angel hair pasta, were collected in a burn bag. The ground crew would dispose of it later, and if by chance it fell into the wrong hands, Rapp wished the fools luck. Even if they could reconstruct the original pages they wouldn’t make much sense.

The plane taxied to the private aviation hangars, where the CIA kept their planes. Rapp looked out the window and was relieved there were no government sedans waiting for him. He gathered his stuff, thanked the pilots, and moved across the tarmac with his garment and duffel bags. As he passed through the gate, he saw someone standing under an umbrella, next to his car. Rapp tensed a bit and draped his garment bag over his right arm. In a smooth, casual motion his left hand tugged at his belt buckle and then slid around to the hilt of his gun. Two steps later he realized it was Coleman and relaxed.

Rapp fished his keys out and unlocked the doors from about twenty feet away. “What’s up?”

Coleman looked as if he was in a shitty mood. “We have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“I think it’d be better if we talked on the way back into town.” Coleman glanced over at the entrance to the private aviation center. A couple of beefy guys who looked like they might be Diplomatic Security were waiting for someone.

Rapp threw his stuff in the backseat and asked, “Can you ride with me?”

“Yes.” Coleman pointed a few rows over and said, “I brought Mick with me. He’ll follow us back downtown.”

“Downtown… why are we going downtown?”

“Because I think you’re going to want to talk to someone.”

Rapp almost asked who, but decided he’d wait until they were on the road.

As they pulled out of the lot, Coleman said, “Your car’s clean. I swept it while I was waiting.”

“Good.” Rapp turned onto the service road and asked, “You sure?”

Coleman glanced over at him and gave him a noncommittal stare. “I checked out Doc’s office.”

“And?”

“I didn’t find shit.”

Rapp frowned. “How many guys did you use?”

“Myself plus three.”

“Marcus?” Rapp asked, referring to his main computer guy.

“Yeah.”

“And you found nothing. Damn it.”

“I didn’t say nothing. I said I didn’t find anything in his office. Across the street in a leased office we found some serious equipment.”

“How serious?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it. All passive stuff. You know how they always taught us to close the drapes so the lasers couldn’t pick up the vibrations on the glass?”

“Yeah.”

“Supposedly, it doesn’t matter with this stuff. Marcus knew about it. He said it’s the latest version developed by your boys in S and T.”

Coleman was referring to the Science and Technology people at Langley. They were the whiz kids of surveillance equipment and they also happened to work very closely with the men and women in Security at Langley, which meant Johnson would have gotten to know plenty of them over the years. Still, Rapp asked, “If it’s brand-new and Johnson no longer works at Langley, what in the hell is he doing with it?”

“That’s a question you might want to ask Irene.”

“You think she knows?”

“I have no idea. This is your turf, not mine, but if I were you I’d pick up the phone and call her.”

“Later,” Rapp said as he got on the expressway. He doubted Irene knew anything about Johnson, but it was something he’d have to run down. “What else?”

“The shit’s wired to a fiber-optic line. It was being sent out in real time. Marcus thinks the recordings were probably run through a program, cleaned up, and ready for listening in less than a minute.”

“Does he think he can trace it?”

“He’s working on it right now, but he says fifty-fifty at best.”

“So, no hard evidence unless we catch him coming back to retrieve the equipment?”

Coleman considered it for moment and said, “If we brought in the feds, we could start rounding people up and find out who tells the biggest lie. We could probably even put some heat on the S and T guys to find out who gave Johnson the equipment, but…” Coleman’s voice trailed off. He didn’t even like the idea.

“We can’t bring in the feds, because we can’t tell them how we know the shit even exists.”

“Exactly.”

“Plus,” Rapp checked his side mirror and changed lanes, “I don’t feel like airing the CIA’s dirty laundry with some overzealous federal prosecutor.”

“I thought that’s what you’d say.”

“So why are we going downtown?”

“Because that’s where Johnson is.”

Rapp glanced sideways at Coleman. “And why would I want to see him right now?”

“Because he’s running with a crowd that should make you nervous.”

“Who?”

“Russians. Lots of them.”

“Is he working for them?” Rapp asked, more than a little surprised.

“I couldn’t prove it in a court of law, at least not yet, but these aren’t the kind of guys who hang out with fat, fiftysomething retired CIA security officers because they have a good sense of humor.”

“What kind of Russians?”

“The kind with lots of money.”

“Shit.” Rapp was pissed off. “The worst kind. Former KGB guys?”

Coleman shrugged. “Maybe in his entourage, but the main guy is too young. He’s a thirty-six-year-old whiz kid. Peter Sidorov, you ever heard of him?”

“The name rings a bell.”

“He’s got a Ph.D. in physics from Cambridge.”

“What does he do?”

“Uses all that brain power to run a hedge fund. He’s made billions the last couple of years. Mostly, and this could be a lot of jealousy talking, by manipulating commodity prices.”

“A Russian hedge fund manager, manipulating commodity prices,” Rapp said with feigned surprise. “I’m shocked.”

“I know… but you know how people are with success. Especially with this new crowd out of Russia. Everyone wants to believe they’re in bed with either the FSB or the mob.”

“Or both.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s also a few of them who play it up so they can act like tough guys.”

Rapp was familiar with both types. His preference was clearly for the ones who were acting. “So which is it with this guy?”

“I don’t know. This isn’t my area. I never operated in that part of the world.”

“Well, I have, and I happen to know someone who is probably our top expert on the subject.”

“Irene?” Coleman asked, referring to Kennedy. “Yep, but I think I already know the answer.”

“How?”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Russians over the years it’s that rules and laws are nothing more than obstacles. For them, hiring a guy like Max Johnson to rig the game in their favor would be like us hiring an accountant to do our taxes.”

“So how does that tell you who they are?”

“If it was the Russian Mafia they’d try to hire someone like you or me. Besides, none of our intel says they’re in D.C. Los Angeles, Chicago… most of the big cities on the East Coast and a few in the Rust Belt, but not the capital. Irene says Putin doesn’t want them screwing things up things for the SVR.”

“So what… you think this is straight industrial espionage?”

“I don’t know, but whatever it is, Max Johnson has decided to hang out with the wrong crowd.”

THEY agreed it was better to travel eleven more miles and cross into Arkansas rather than backtrack north from Branson to a less-populated area. It seemed to them that the more state lines they could put between themselves and the farmhouse, the better off they’d be. Hakim was not in disagreement that it was a good idea to get off the road for the night. He did, however, fear the unknown, and by unknown, he meant what Karim would do to the unfortunate occupants of the house they happened to choose.

Not far across the border, they found a few interesting prospects just off Highway 65 on Old Cricket Road. Karim carried the computer over to Hakim and showed him the two homes he’d zoomed in on. Hakim knew instantly which house they would be visiting. They were adjacent to each other, but more than a quarter mile of woods and pasture separated them. They shared a gravel driveway for several hundred feet and then it split off. To the left the drive led to a series of buildings that, even from space, did not look well cared for, and then a house. Hakim stared closely and identified eight vehicles that were parked randomly in clusters around the main portion of the property. A couple of them could have been farm equipment but it was too difficult to discern. The place had a disorganized feel to it. Hakim imagined a large extended family living on the property, people of all ages coming and going. Lots of dogs. Too many variables at play to go wandering into at this late hour, or any time, for that matter.

The other property was uncannily similar in layout and geography to the farm in Iowa. The gravel road ran for a thousand feet up the side of a gentle rise and then hooked around the top to dump into a gravel courtyard that was situated between the house and a large barn. A thick picket of trees encircled the house on three sides, and then beyond, as the hill fell away, there was pasture. It was precise, immaculately maintained, and by far the better choice.

Karim pointed at the screen and asked, “Does that remind you of anything?”

“The house in Iowa.”

“Yes. It is almost the exact same.”

Hakim kept his eyes on the screen searching for other clues. “I don’t know how old this image is, but there are no livestock trails in the pasture.”

“What does that mean?”

“If they had cows or sheep,” Hakim pointed at the screen, “you would see lines in the pasture. Like a goat trail in the mountains. The cattle use them to get from the barn to the pasture and back.”

“Is this good?”

“Yes. If they have cattle, they have to be taken care of. Especially if it’s a dairy operation. The milk has to be picked up daily. That would mean someone showing up tomorrow morning.”

“We might be gone by then.”

Hakim said, “If we are lucky this might even be what they call a hobby farm.”

“What is that?”

“It is no longer used as a farm. People live there and that is it. Some people use them as vacation homes. They live in a bigger city and spend their weekends at a place like this.”

“So it might be empty?”

“It’s possible.” Hakim hoped so.

Karim conferred with Ahmed briefly and explained what they would do. He laid out a precise plan in less than sixty seconds. Hakim had to admit this was where his friend shone. He had a mind for such things. From the moment they had arrived in Afghanistan all those years ago, he proved almost immediately that he was a battlefield commander.

Karim climbed behind the wheel of the RV and pulled back onto the highway. They drove the exact speed limit through Branson and took some comfort in the increased traffic. A few miles later they crossed the border into Arkansas. Two miles after that, they turned onto Old Cricket Road. Karim saw the driveway on the left a short while later and slowed to get a better look. There were two mailboxes, one in perfect shape, the other tilting and looking as if a strong wind might push it over. Karim took note of the name on the nicer box. Ten feet back there was a private driveway sign and a no trespassing sign. Karim checked the odometer and continued. Six-tenths of a mile later he slowed to a near crawl and gave the signal.

Ahmed had changed into black coveralls, a tactical vest, and black floppy hat. Holding a silenced M-4 rifle, he stepped from the RV at a trot and then disappeared into the night. Karim picked up speed and continued down the road at a leisurely pace. Four miles later he pulled into a driveway with a gate. He backed up and went in the direction he’d just come from. The Motorola radio sitting in the cup holder crackled to life with Ahmed’s voice.

“No sign of people. One faint light.”

Karim picked up the radio and pressed the transmit button. “Any animals?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Security system?”

“Not that I can see.”

Karim paused. “Dogs?”

“No.”

“Are you in position?”

“Yes.”

“I will be there in a minute.” He placed the radio back in the cup holder and began looking for the turn. A short distance later he found it. Karim wrestled with the big wheel as he made a near 150-degree turn. He stayed to the right and a hundred feet later cruised past the turnoff for the other house at a respectful twenty miles an hour. As they began the slow, steady climb up the driveway, Ahmed announced that he could see the RV and that the situation in the house hadn’t changed. Karim was feeling more confident by the minute that they had found the perfect place.

Then, as they swung around the rise and pulled into the courtyard, the place lit up like a shopping mall parking lot. Two floodlights on the barn flickered to life as well as the entire front porch of the house. Karim slowed and grabbed the radio. “What is happening?”

“No movement.” Ahmed’s voice came back steady. “I think they are motion lights.”

Karim slowed to a stop, directing the RV headlight at the front door of the house. He put the vehicle in park and climbed out of the chair. With the radio in one hand and his silenced 9mm Glock in the other, he exited the RV and began to walk across the gravel toward the house. He glanced to his left and right and was careful to keep his gun close to his right thigh. He was forty feet away when the front door opened.