“Agreed.”
“And then there’s what happened to Scott.”
“What did happen? Was he ambushed?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking. It was one guy.”
“One man? Are you sure?”
Rapp dropped onto a bench. “I’m sure. And this guy went through Scott like he wasn’t there.”
“That doesn’t seem possible.”
“I’d say the same thing if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“Marginal.”
“And?”
“White guy around my size. Dark hair. Mid-thirties. Medium complexion.”
“You didn’t recognize him?”
“Nope.”
She fell silent for a moment, considering what she was being told. The number of people who could hope to even survive a confrontation with Scott Coleman was incredibly small. But to do it easily? If there was someone like that out there, how could Mitch Rapp have never run across him?
“Look, Irene. A guy like this doesn’t work for the Mob and he doesn’t take contracts from a bunch of half-assed terrorists. In fact, he doesn’t contract himself out at all or I’d have heard of him.”
“But you think he’s important.”
“My gut says that if we can find him, we’ll have the key to this thing.”
“The key? Or a target for revenge?”
Rapp ignored her question. “I figure there’s a seventy-five percent chance that he came up through a solid spec ops program. So, probably European. And since the Russians seem to have their fingerprints all over this thing, I’d start there.”
“What about the other twenty-five percent?”
“He could have been trained by the ops side of one of the intelligence agencies like I was.”
“That’s not a lot to go on, Mitch. Elite white soldiers in their thirties casts a pretty wide net.”
“One more thing to add to his profile, Irene. This guy’s an athlete. Maybe he stopped competing when he was young, but at some point, people noticed him.”
“So, gifted white male teens playing some sport in some country. Not that helpful.”
“Yeah, but again, we know that the Russians are involved. So I’d start with the former Soviet athletics program. Records still exist and people who worked in it are still alive. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
CHAPTER 21
ABOVE SOUTHWESTERN VIRGINIA
U.S.A.
“WE’RE on our final approach,” Rapp said into his headset. “Could you give us runway lights?”
No response. They were coming in between two heavily wooded mountains, the outlines of which were barely visible in glow of the moon. The colonel whose name Rapp still didn’t know had managed to scrounge up one of the Air Force’s Gulfstream IIIs but, ironically, pilots had been in short supply. That left Rapp and his rusty flying skills in the right seat.
“I repeat. We are on our-”
“I can’t find the fucking switch,” a familiar voice interrupted. “Hang on. I think it’s behind this bush. Yeah, I’ve got it.”
Two rows of lights appeared to the north, outlining a runway that had been used probably no more than ten times since the Cold War. The pilot banked toward it and steepened their descent.
“Some genius,” Rapp said into the mike hanging in front of his mouth.
“What, I’m an electrician, now?”
“We’ll be on the ground in two. Try not to touch anything else until then. I’d rather not put this thing into the trees.”
“No problemo, man.”
Rapp glanced back into the cabin. The luxurious seats he was used to in the CIA’s G550 were conspicuously absent, replaced with a few frame-and-canvas benches bolted to the rear bulkhead. Joe Maslick had piled some blankets and cushions next to the warhead and was sound asleep with his head propped against the nosecone.
“Mas! Get your ass up. We’re landing.”
The former Delta operator jerked awake.
“Is that thing secure? We don’t need it chasing us around in here when we touch down.”
“We’re good,” he grumbled. “But there are better things to wake up next to.”
Rapp faced forward again and watched the approaching lights. Surprisingly, Maslick’s comment made him think of Claudia Gould. He tried to shake it off by telling himself that any relationship between them was doomed, but her image wasn’t so easily dismissed.
His relationships had always been a study in extremes. Maybe Claudia was the right balance. But was it worth the inevitable pain? The responsibility? The constraints? And more than that, was it fair? Anna was dead. Hurley was dead. Scott was likely dying. The people closest to him didn’t do well and Claudia was responsible for more than just herself. She had a young daughter who needed her.
The wheels hit the ground and a set of headlights flashed to their eleven o’clock. Rapp pointed them out to the pilot before trading his headset for a phone and heading back into the cabin. Irene Kennedy’s private line rang a good five times before she picked up. When that happened it usually meant she was in the midst of the three hours a night she managed to sleep.
“Have you landed?”
“Just touched down,” he said, helping Maslick unstrap the warhead. “What’s the update on Scott?”
Rapp expected the long silence that always preceded reports of the death of a friend, but the news turned out to be slightly more upbeat.
“The calf was all soft-tissue damage and the shot that hit him in the shoulder shattered his collarbone but isn’t anything a metal plate can’t fix. The dislocation was worse than the bullet wound. The head injury was more serious than we initially thought. Beyond the concussion, he has some hairline skull fractures.”
“And the knife?”
“He just got out of a four-hour surgery and they think they’ve repaired the damage…” Her voice trailed off.
“But?”
“But the blood loss and heat stroke were extremely serious. The doctors have induced a coma and the expectation is that he’ll never regain consciousness. If he does, they don’t know if he’ll have brain damage.”
Rapp grabbed the nuke’s nosecone and began dragging it toward the door. “Where is he now?”
“On his way to Bethesda in the C-17 you evacuated him in. I’m sure you already know this, but I want to say it anyway. We’re bringing in the world’s top people. Everything that can be done will be done.”
“His mother’s still alive,” Rapp said. “That’s the only family he has. Did you tell her?”
“I haven’t. She’s in the early stages of dementia and I think it would be better if we didn’t contact her until we know more. Certainly not until he’s in an American hospital bed.”
“Or an American grave.”
“I don’t think there’s any point in considering that possibility right now.”
“What about the guy who’s responsible?”
“We have some shaky cell phone footage. He had facial wounds that obscured his features somewhat but our people were able to clean it up and get some solid stills. We have them out to intelligence agencies worldwide but so far no hits.”
Rapp jumped out of the plane and moved away. The night had turned cool but the humidity still hung in the air. He crossed the runway as the lights blinked off and walked into the damp brush at its edge. There was no wind. The only sound was an engine starting up a few hundred yards to the west.
“Tell your people to find him, Irene. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now.”
“I understand what you’re feeling, Mitch. Believe me, I do. But we’re doing the best we can.” She paused for a moment. “In the meantime, I need you back in Pakistan. After what happened, the Pakistani army is tightening its procedures for moving the country’s arsenal, but there’s the danger that this wasn’t the only warhead targeted. In fact, the army pulling back could make the problem worse.”
“Terrorist groups trying to make a move before the window closes,” Rapp said.