The Last Man (17 page)

They banked to the right, which gave Coleman a good vantage point to fire at the building with the men on the roof. No one, however, was getting up to shoot at the helicopter. They were either all dead or had finally taken the hint that it was a good idea to stay down. As they gained elevation and distance Coleman released his rifle and strapped himself in. That was when he noticed that Rapp was out again. He reached in and slapped him on the cheek. Coleman had seen a lot of concussions, and this was not the norm. Gould was lying next to Rapp with a bullet hole in his shoulder, his face tight with pain. Coleman seemed to remember seeing some blood on Maslick as well. A hospital was more important than getting back to the embassy. Plus, the CIA had its detention facility at the Bagram Air Base.

Leaning forward, he shouted above the roar of the rotors and engine, “We need to go to Bagram. Straight to the base hospital.”

The pilot nodded and began speaking into his lip mike. About five seconds later the Little Bird and one of the Black Hawks broke formation and headed to the northeast for the fifteen-minute flight to the main U.S. air base and its level-one trauma center. The Black Hawk pulled alongside, and Coleman could see Mike Nash sitting in the back of the much larger Black Hawk talking on a headset. The fallout from what had just happened was going to be huge. Nash was probably already dealing with it. Coleman checked on Rapp again. He was still unconscious, which from a medical standpoint was a concern, but there was a silver lining. If Rapp were awake right now, he’d probably have them on their way to assault the police headquarters in Kabul.

No Afghani politician or State Department official would be able to calm Rapp down. Even Kennedy would have a hard time convincing him to stand down. The only thing that could stop him would be a hospital bed. Once Rapp started, Coleman knew there would be no stopping him. He’d kill every last corrupt official he could get his hands on.

Chapter 21

Jalalabad, Afghanistan

Rickman no longer wondered if his ribs were broken—he was convinced. Three of them, he was pretty sure. Both eyes were now firmly closed, the skin so swollen and tight that he probably looked like he was morphing into an insect. His tongue told him that two of his teeth were knocked out and a third was chipped. He had finally broken. He’d heard the maxim many times before—everyone broke. He was no different, of course, and no one would expect him to hold out for very long. He had lived a life insulated from physical pain. He’d been hired for his intellect, not, like Mitch Rapp, for his predatory instincts. Emotional agony Rickman could write the book on, but this physical stuff was an entirely different game. He had prepared himself. In a broad conceptual sense, he understood what it would be like and that it would not last forever, that the physical scars would heal.

Nothing, however, no amount of meditation and careful consideration could prepare him for the absolute brutality, the hair-splitting agony that would result from his nerve endings being so assaulted. There was some embarrassment that he couldn’t even last two days. Barely twenty-four hours after the torture started, Rickman caved. The secrets came flowing out in a torrent. He babbled from one subject to another like a crack addict who could not keep a train of thought. It would take multiple experts to decipher what he had really said, and that was intentional on Rickman’s part. There was just enough truth in his words to make them believe him, but there were also traps and deceptions that would give the CIA the time they would need to maneuver and possibly save a few people. There were also a few scores to be settled, some enemies who would now have to answer to the Taliban and defend what he’d said they’d done. The words would be a waste, as they always were with groups like the Taliban. The group was all that mattered. Individual needs were not important. The more the person tried to deny something that couldn’t be proven, the more it looked to these obtuse fools as if that person was putting himself before the needs of the group. Unable to decipher what had really happened, the Taliban would act predictably. They would kill the perceived traitor. It was a complex mix of facts, outright lies, half-truths, and complicated misinformation that was possible only with Rickman’s genius.

They thought they were in control, but they weren’t. By the time he was done with them, Rickman would have these fools killing each other. Terrorist would be pitted against terrorist. Unfortunately, a few allies would be killed, but his side was not without fault. Soldiers died every week in this war. A few intelligence assets weren’t worth getting too spun up about.

Rickman heard the door open, and he didn’t bother to try to open his eyes. He’d stopped trying hours ago. They were too puffy to work properly. He felt a certain sense of calm. The end was near, and then the pain would stop.

“It is time,” a steady, soft voice announced.

Rickman sighed. He so much preferred this one to the others. He was smart and actually knew what questions to ask. “But I’m having so much fun.” Rickman tried to smile through his swollen lips.

“I know you are, but we all have our orders to follow.” “Yes,” Rickman said, “we all must be good soldiers.”

The man squatted next to Rickman, keeping his back to the camera. Deftly, he slid an unseen syringe into the crook of Rickman’s left arm while pretending to take the man’s pulse. He depressed the plunger. He doubted Rickman noticed the prick. The man’s body was so overwhelmed with pain that this little stab wouldn’t even register.

“So now that I’ve begun talking it would be nice if we could conduct the follow-up questions in a more civilized setting.”

“Hmm . . .” The man seemed to be pondering Rickman’s request. “There’s only one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“You lied to us.”

“I did not lie to you. I told you what you wanted to know.”

“Ahh . . . I find it interesting how you phrased that. ‘You told me what I wanted to know.’ That is not what I wanted. I wanted the truth.”

“I gave you the truth.”

“You did not,” the man said in a voice bereft of emotion.

Rickman grew nervous and began coughing up blood. “I’ve told you everything,” he managed to blurt out in his defense.

“You are a devious man.” His tone had shifted to that of a disappointed father. “We all know this. So the beatings will have to continue, but don’t worry. You will learn very quickly that your games are not worth the effort.”

“Please.” Rickman blindly reached out, clutching for the man’s arm. “I am doing everything you have asked of me.”

The man stood and took a step back. “Not everything. You have told us a few of your secrets, but you have also told us many lies. That means we will have to do this the hard way.”

“Please!” Rickman started crying. “I will tell you what you want to know.”

The man was wearing a mask over his face and shook his head sadly. “You will tell me the truth . . . not what I want to know. The truth is the only thing that will save you.”

“I will tell you the truth, then,” Rickman pleaded.

“Yes, you will.” The man turned and walked past the camera, its red light glowing. In the hallway he took off his hood and tossed it on a wooden table. The two men were waiting like obedient dogs for instructions on what do next. Vazir Kassar was apprehensive about how to proceed. He didn’t have much confidence in these men. One of them started to speak, but Kassar held up a hand. The men had at least learned that much. Kassar despised people who talked too much and had explained to the two halfwits that there was nothing they could say that he hadn’t already thought of.

After fishing out a cigarette and lighting it, Kassar exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, “It is time to increase the pain.”

Both men nodded eagerly. The taller of the two said, “The genitals . . . can we hit him in the genitals now?”

“Yes, you may hit him in the genitals.” Kassar took no joy in this. It was simply part of the job. “I have given you the area I want you to focus on. Where I know he has lied. You will increase the pain until he tells us the truth. Yes?”

“Yes,” both men answered.

Kassar waved for them to proceed. He took another puff of his cigarette while the two simpletons put their masks on. Kassar couldn’t shake the feeling that these two fools might somehow mess this up. There were no guarantees in life, and definitely none in the dangerous waters where they were swimming. Kassar settled into a wooden chair and watched the single monitor. He checked the time on his watch and made a quick calculation. “This shouldn’t take long,” he said to himself.

Rickman was strung up once again by his wrists. They had yet to lay a hand on him, but he was already sniffling. The men began taking turns slapping him in the head and heaving insult after insult at him. Kassar could tell that the CIA man was losing control of his legendary wits. He’d been awake for a day and a half and he’d been beaten so severely that he could barely stand. He was exhausted and on the verge of a complete collapse.

The men paused for a moment and then without warning one of them took a rubber hose and swung it up between Rickman’s legs, striking him in the groin. A glob of blood exited Rickman’s mouth as his entire body convulsed forward. His sniffles turned into sobs and his chin was coated with spit, tears, and blood. Rickman was begging for them to stop, but the men paid him no heed. They were literally kicking the crap out of him as Rickman defecated in his boxers. This only upset the men more. The slaps were now replaced with punches.

Kassar watched Rickman slump suddenly, his legs completely giving out. The Pakistani moved closer to the screen and tried to see what was wrong. It was not unheard of for a subject to lose consciousness during an interrogation. Kassar checked his watch again and frowned as the two men continued to beat their unconscious prisoner.

It took them another minute to realize that something was wrong, and by then it was too late.

Chapter 22

Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan

Rapp heard voices. He opened his eyes and looked up at a ceiling he was pretty sure he’d never seen before. His brain didn’t seem to be working quite right as the only thing he could figure out was that he was in a bed and his head hurt. The voices were coming from somewhere down by his feet. Moving his eyes caused discomfort, but he caught a glimpse of two men and a woman talking. None of the their faces were familiar, but one of the men and the woman were wearing white coats. The other man was in what looked like light-blue pajamas. Rapp didn’t know why, but their clothes had some meaning to him that he couldn’t grasp.

He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. Suddenly the three people were standing over him, two on his right and one on his left. He opened his eyes and could see their lips moving, but it was all scrambled. Suddenly the woman shined a bright light in his eyes. Rapp didn’t like it one bit, but his limbs felt as if they were encased in concrete, so all he could do was lie there. Thinking of moving them hurt his head, so he gave up on the idea and let the woman move the light from one eye to the other. When she finally clicked the light off he was so relieved he fell back asleep.

Rapp had no idea how long he’d been out, but sometime later he woke to find a familiar face. His head rolled to his right, and there in a chair next to his bed was someone who he knew was very important to him. He couldn’t come up with her name, or how he knew her, but he knew he should have known. In a moment of panic he asked himself if he knew his own name. He came up with that one pretty quickly, but when he asked himself where he was, a half dozen cities popped into his head, which got him wondering what he did for a living. Then things got really murky.

“You’re awake,” the woman said with a warm smile.

Rapp noted the familiar brown eyes, the glasses, and the auburn hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and then something clicked. “Boss.”

Irene Kennedy said, “You had us a bit worried.”

“Where am I?”

“Heath Craig Joint Theater Hospital . . . Bagram Air Base.” Rapp frowned and another link popped into his head. “Afghanistan?”

Kennedy looked at him with appraising eyes. “Mitch, what is your last memory?”
Rapp looked past her at the far wall. Some part of his brain was telling him to bluff his way through this, but another part was telling him he needed to tell her the truth. He couldn’t remember everything about her, but he knew she was someone he could trust—perhaps the only person he could truly trust.

“Is there any water around here?”

Kennedy grabbed a covered plastic glass with a pink straw sticking out of a round hole in the center of the lid. She raised the elevation on Rapp’s bed about six inches and then held the straw to his lips. After he’d had a good gulp, she repeated the question. “So . . . what is the last thing you remember?”

Rapp tried to recall, but nothing was coming to him. He gave a slight shrug and said, “I don’t know.”

“But you remember who I am? Where you work? Things like that?”

“It took me a moment to remember you . . . it didn’t come right away.”

“And where you work?”

“Ahh . . . I think it’s in Washington, but I’m not sure exactly where.”

“My title?”

“You’re my boss.”

Kennedy nodded. The doctors had warned her that things could be patchy. “I’m the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“Oh,” Rapp said as something fell into place. “It’s coming back to me now.”

“Good. Do you remember my son?”

Rapp started to shake his head and then stopped because of the pain. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right. His name is Tommy. The two of you are rather close.”

“What happened to me?” Rapp reached a hand to his head and winced.

“There was an explosion. You hit your head. You have swelling on the brain. They call it a subdural hematoma.”

“Explosion?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think we want to get into that right now. The fact that you’re awake and fairly lucid is a good sign. The doctors tell me all of this is normal and with time you should regain most if not all of your memory.” Kennedy smiled and put on a brave face. Rapp was her top operative. Even at 90 percent he could be exceptional, but that depended on which 10 percent was lost.