Extreme Measures Page 4

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I’m not sure, sir, but I think they might be at the Hilton.”

  Garrison was in the midst of pulling on his flight suit. He stopped with both feet in and fixed a stare on the young captain. “The Hilton?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The anger spread across the general’s face. “How in the hell did you ever graduate from the United States Air Force Academy?”

  CHAPTER 7

  NASH and Rapp had made it clear to General Dostum that, as much as they would like to hand al-Haq over to him, it was not going to happen. The general was reluctant at first, but when Rapp offered to deposit a sizable amount of cash in his bank in Geneva, the general agreed to the plan with enthusiasm. Their little charade had been rehearsed in advance, and was so far proceeding according to plan. Nash reasoned that once al-Haq agreed to talk, Dostum would be the perfect person to initiate the interrogation. The two men had fought alongside each other for eleven years. Al-Haq had committed his unforgivable sin during a pitched battle against the Taliban for the city of Mazar-i-Sharif. When it became obvious that the Taliban was going to carry the day, al-Haq crossed over with his men and switched his allegiance. Dostum was forced to retreat and eventually flee the country. Al-Haq would think long and hard before he lied to his former friend.

  Nash and Rapp monitored the first few minutes of the session from a one-way viewing window. When it was obvious that Dostum wasn’t going to choke al-Haq to death, Nash relaxed a bit. His plan was to move onto the other prisoner while Dostum got things rolling. He turned and looked at Marcus Dumond, who was sitting behind the watch desk. Rapp had brought him from Langley. The thirty-one-year-old was the Clandestine Service’s resident genius when it came to security systems and computers.

  “You getting all this?” Nash asked.

  “Yep,” Dumond answered.

  “And you have control of the cameras? Base security isn’t catching any of this?”

  Rapp had made Dumond shave his Afro for the trip, and he couldn’t stop rubbing his newly polished head. He looked at Nash the same way he looked at anyone who dared question his ability to work magic.

  “Base security is looking at a one-hour loop from every camera in this facility. I am recording the interrogations, both audio and video, onto this flash drive.” Dumond held up a small silver box no bigger than a checkbook.

  “Good.” Nash turned back to Rapp and said, “Are you ready for a little fire and brimstone?”

  “In a minute. Where do they keep the towels?”

  “Storage closet over here.” Nash led Rapp down another hall and opened the door to a janitor’s closet where fresh orange coveralls, bedding, and towels for the prisoners were kept. Rapp grabbed a towel and wet it in the mop sink.

  Already concerned over the cut above Haggani’s eye, Nash asked, “What do you have in mind?”

  Rapp wrung out the towel and said, “You’ve seen his type before. The only thing you can do is beat on him until he heels.”

  “Mitch, we have to be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, no matter how pissed off I look, it’s all part of the act.”

  “Right. And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “No,” Rapp said with a smile. “You just do your fire-and-brimstone thing, and I’ll play the sadistic bastard who looks like he wants to tear his head off and piss down his throat.”

  “That’s a real stretch for you. You sure you don’t want to switch roles this time?”

  “I’m sure.” Rapp laughed. “I don’t have your ministerial zeal.”

  “Fine. Just remember…no more marks.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Rapp said, as if he was already admitting he couldn’t.

  Rapp’s attitude gave Nash pause. “You’re looking for a fight, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then maybe we shouldn’t go in there. Al-Haq is already talking. Let’s get as much out of him as we can tonight, have Irene bring it to the president, and if all goes well, he’ll be transferred to our custody, and we can spend the next thirty days debriefing him.”

  “No,” Rapp said with conviction. “I want a shot at Haggani. I’ve wanted to get my hands on him for a long time. I want to hear from his own mouth how he thinks it’s noble to kill little kids, and then I want him to feel some real pain. I want him to understand what he’s put these people through. I want to break him down bit by bit, and then I want to suck his brain dry. And then I’m going to personally hunt down every person in his little pipeline of suicide bombers and put a bullet in their head.”

  Nash had known Rapp long enough to know he meant every word of what he’d just said. “Mitch, it might take weeks just to get him to talk.”

  “It might, but he also might break within an hour.” He jerked his head toward the interrogation room. “Let’s get started.”

  Nash reached out and grabbed Rapp’s arm. “Mitch, I’ve been here all week. These senators put the fear of God into these air force guys. Let’s not give them any reason to call Washington.”

  “I’m not going to back down from this fight, Mike. I’ve had it with these damn politicians who don’t have the stomach to take on these bastards. It’s only a matter of time before we get hit again and then you watch these pricks run for cover. Every single one of them who’s been handcuffing us is going to blame us for failing to stop these guys.”

  “You’re probably right, but there’s a smart way to do this and then there’s the…”

  Rapp held up a hand and cut him off. “You don’t have to go in there with me. You’ve got a family to worry about. I don’t. I’m free and clear. I’ve got nothing to slow me down. Nothing they can hold over my head.”

  Nash was tempted to take him up on the offer, but they had been through too much together. He owed Rapp too much. “Just try not to leave any more marks.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Rapp walked back down the hall and paused to look in on General Dostum and al-Haq. He took it as a good sign that the two men were talking. Rapp moved down the hall and opened the door to the other interrogation room. As he entered, he said, “Abu, I hear you’ve been playing dumb all week.” Rapp reached Haggani’s side and added, “We both know you understand English.”

  Rapp expected it this time. Was waiting as the same feral look spread across Haggani’s face. With his arms and legs bound to the chair, the prisoner tilted his head back, cleared his throat and then lunged forward unleashing a gob of spit. Rapp held up the towel and blocked it.

  “Bad move, Abu,” Rapp said as he draped the towel over Haggani’s head and reached into the right cargo pocket of his pants. He fished out a black stun gun and gripped it firmly in his right hand. Haggani was violently trying to shake the towel from his head, but was having little success. As soon as he stopped moving, Rapp placed the two charge electrodes against the wet towel in the general area of the terrorist’s mouth. He pulled the trigger and pressed firmly, holding it down for three long seconds. The high-voltage, low-amperage electrical charge crackled as it spread through the wet towel. Haggani’s body went rigid for a second and then convulsed several times.

  Rapp withdrew the gun, grabbed the towel, and took a step back. A disoriented Haggani fought to keep his head up.

  “Abu, have you ever heard of Ivan Pavlov?” Rapp searched the man’s still-dazed eyes. “Based on your limited educational experience, I doubt it. He’s a Russian, or I should say, was. He’s been dead for a long time, but that’s not important. The man was a genius…the father of classical conditioning. Most people know him because of the study he did with dogs. He’d ring a bell, wait a few minutes, and then feed the dogs. After a while the dogs would salivate in anticipation of being fed when they heard the bell ring…pretty basic stuff. It’s called conditioned response and it works with humans as well as dogs. Take your little nasty habit of spitting on people, for example. The guards should have broken you of the habit right aw
ay, but they didn’t, so I’m going to have to do it. Not a big deal, though. It shouldn’t take us more than ten minutes to cure you of the tendency.”

  Haggani’s eyes blinked several times. He shook his head and then opened his mouth and flexed his jaw.

  Nash watched, unfazed, from the other side of the table. He’d seen Rapp go through this with prisoners on four other occasions. The towel was used to both block the spit and spread out the charge so they wouldn’t leave any marks on Haggani. Nash had used stun guns himself on many occasions. Especially on the prisoners who were fond of throwing their feces and urine at the guards. Every human rights organization had released statements condemning the use of stun guns on prisoners as torture. Nash wondered how they would feel if they had someone throwing shit on them every day when they walked into work.

  Rapp got the towel ready. He stepped a little closer and asked, “Are you done spitting?”

  Haggani tilted his head back again and pursed his lips.

  Rapp tossed the towel back over Haggani’s head and hit him with another three-second shot from the stun gun. The results were the same. Haggani’s recovery, though, took a good half minute longer.

  Nash and Rapp exchanged a brief look. Between the two of them they’d had only one prisoner go beyond three hits in a sitting. Almost all required shocks a day or two later, to help cement the conditioning. A minute passed and Rapp pulled the towel off Haggani’s head. He didn’t speak this time. He stood within striking distance locked in a stare with Haggani waiting for him to decide which path he would take.

  Nash stared at the cut and swollen bump above Haggani’s eye. The blood had run down his face onto his neck and was now soaking the collar of the orange jumpsuit. It showed no signs of slowing. Nash knew that sooner rather than later he would have to get a first aid kit and clean up the prisoner. There was no way of hiding the injury, though. That was going to create some major problems in the morning.

  There was a knock on the door. Nash walked over and opened it. General Dostum was standing in the hallway, smiling. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Nash did not want to talk in front of Haggani, so he said to Rapp, “I’ll be back in a minute.” He stepped into the hallway, and as soon as the door was closed he asked, “What’s up?”

  Dostum rolled his eyes. “The man is a snake. He thinks only of himself. I knew he would want to strike a deal.”

  “Did he give you anything?”

  “He says he has information that would be very helpful and timely to the U.S.”

  “You believe him?”

  “He was in a position to know important things, but he is a liar. It is up to you to sort it all out.” Dostum grinned.

  Nash thought of his strategy. He knew from experience that you never walked into an interrogation room without a plan. He had an idea where al-Haq would want to take this. He patted Dostum on the shoulder and said, “Thank you. I will go in alone. Please watch, though, and don’t be afraid to interrupt if you think he is lying.”

  CHAPTER 8

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  WHERE in the hell is Mitch Rapp?”

  The question was tossed out like a hand grenade lobbed at an enemy position. It rolled down the long, shiny mahogany conference table, striking fear in all. Eyes were averted, a few throats were cleared, and one man was actually smart enough to get up and head for the door. One by one, though, all eyes turned to the woman sitting at the opposite end of the table. As director of the CIA, she was responsible for Rapp.

  Irene Kennedy looked down the length of the ridiculously long table at her questioner. He was a lawyer, of course. They were all lawyers these days; the FBI agents on her left, the Department of Justice people on her right—even the handful of people from State more than likely had law degrees. Kennedy had intentionally left her lawyers back at Langley for this early-morning meeting. Tactically speaking, this was a reconnaissance operation, and for that she’d brought along two men with plenty of experience. She eyed the antagonist at the far end of the table. Over the last two weeks she’d heard a steady stream of complaints about the man. Watching him operate for the first time, she wondered how two parents could have so thoroughly failed to equip their child with the most basic manners.

  Wade Kline was the newly appointed chief privacy and civil liberties officer at the Department of Justice. He was a fairly attractive man, at least until he opened his mouth, at which point he became decidedly less so. His new position at Justice was created to appease the ACLU crowd on Capitol Hill, who felt that America had become a police state. Before taking the post, Kline had spent a decade as a prosecutor working for the New York State Attorney General’s Office.

  “Well?” Kline asked with obvious impatience.

  Kennedy’s face remained unimpressed. She had learned the espionage business at the arm of Thomas Stansfield, a Cold War legend. Like her mentor, she was widely known to be an unflappable player; respected by most, despised by a few and feared by more than she realized. All of that went with the job, of course. She was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and it was easy for people to imagine a hidden, sinister side to an otherwise classy and pleasant woman.

  Kennedy eyed Kline and told herself to stay calm. At thirty-nine he was too young to be throwing his weight around, and old enough to know better. Kennedy had seen plenty of men and women like Kline come and go over the years. Five months ago the New Yorker would have had no chance at getting under her skin, but a lot had changed since then. There was no doubt about the source of her discontent. It could all be traced to a single traumatic event that had sent her careening down a road of doubt and pain, an event she tried every day to forget.

  “This is not a difficult question,” Kline pressed. His suit coat was off, his tie loose, and his white shirtsleeves rolled up.

  Kennedy’s brow furrowed as if she was studying a strange insect. “Mr. Rapp,” she said in an even tone, “is unavailable.”

  “Unavailable.” Kline contemplated the word. “That’s pretty vague.”

  “Not really.”

  “I beg to differ.” Kline paused, scribbled a note to himself, looked directly at Kennedy, and asked, “Where is he?”

  It was obvious to Kennedy that Kline had spent a fair amount of time strutting in front of juries. Surely he didn’t think she would simply announce the location of her top counterterrorism operative to the Justice Department’s newest politically appointed watchdog. Feeling a tinge of anger over the man’s arrogance, Kennedy said, “Where and what Mr. Rapp is doing is none of your business.”

  “I couldn’t disagree more, Ms. Kennedy.”

  Despite the warnings by her legal counsel, Kennedy was shocked by the man’s arrogance. She took off her reading glasses. “It’s Director Kennedy, Mr. Kline, or Dr. Kennedy, if you would prefer.”

  A cocky, self-satisfied grin spread across Kline’s face. “Doctor, director,” he said in a more pleasant tone, “either one works for me.”

  Kennedy did not flinch. She made no effort to respond in any way. Her thoughts headed down an unconventional path, exploring the man’s potential weaknesses, wondering how he would react to pain.

  “Back to Rapp, if we could.” Kline tapped his pen on his yellow legal pad as if to refocus the conversation. “I’ve been asking to see the man for more than a month, and frankly, I’ve about run out of patience.”

  “Mr. Rapp is very busy.”

  “Aren’t we all, Madam Director.”

  “Some more than others,” she said, a touch of impatience creeping into her voice.

  Kline did not miss the change in tone. He nodded to Kennedy as if to say game on and then asked, “Where is he?”

  “I know you’re relatively new to Washington, but surely you are aware that much of what my agency handles is classified.”

  “So you won’t even tell me if he’s in the country?”

  “Not unless I’m authorized by the president, or you can prove to me that you have somehow miraculously
received a security clearance that is far above your pay grade.” The last part was a not-so-subtle reminder to Kline that in the power structure of the federal government, he was more than a few rungs beneath her.

  Kline clicked his pen shut, stuffed it in his shirt pocket, and closed his leather briefing folder. “I can play hardball as good as anyone, Madam Director.” He stood and snatched his suit coat from the back of the chair. “This is my last warning. If Mitch Rapp isn’t standing in my office a week from today, I can promise you, I will make your life miserable.”

  Kennedy felt her anger rushing to the surface. Part of her wanted to unleash it, wanted to teach this egocentric man a lesson, but there was another part of her that held back. Intuition warned her that no matter how satisfying it might feel, it would be a mistake. She watched him march to the door and then stop.

  “One other thing,” Kline said as he flipped open his briefing folder and scanned his notes. “You have a man named Mike Nash who works for you.”

  Kennedy returned his stare, wondering if he’d simply made a statement or was asking a question.

  “I want him in my office Monday morning. If he isn’t there, I’ll send the FBI for him.” Kline closed his folder and was gone.

  One by one the other people seated at the table turned to look at Kennedy. She ignored them, her gaze fixed on the open doorway. The man had just openly threatened the director of the most powerful spy organization in the world, which either meant he was insane or he had something on her. The fact that he had brought up Rapp was not all that surprising. People had been coming after him for years, but Nash was another story. Kennedy had taken great care to keep him under the radar. He was increasingly handling some of the agency’s most delicate operations.

  One of the two men she’d brought along leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I just got a text from the office. We need to get you out of here.”