Pursuit of Honor_A Thriller Read online

  “They’ll say they deadheaded it down to Richmond because they had an early hop the next morning.”

  “And when the feds want to talk to the exec who chartered the plane?”

  Rapp glanced at his watch. It was 6:58 A.M. “The plane is on its way to Mobile as we speak. And the man on board has no idea I even exist.”

  “I still don’t like it,” Hurley grumbled as he began digging for a pack of cigarettes.

  Rapp almost said, tough shit, but didn’t, because he knew this was harder on Hurley than he’d ever admit. He had been best friends with Adams’s father. Had served all over the world with him. Wanting to get off the subject, Rapp asked, “Did you listen to the audio from last night?”

  “Yeah.” Hurley exhaled a fresh cloud of smoke.

  “And?”

  Hurley stepped behind the desk and looked at the flat-screen monitor on the left. It showed Adams sitting in the next room talking to a fiftyish man with curly blond hair. His name was Thomas Lewis, and he was a clinical psychologist. Hurley wasn’t sure who he was more upset with, himself or the little turd sitting in the other room. “He’s a fucking traitor . . . an embarrassment to his family name.”

  Rapp didn’t know what to say, so he kept his mouth shut, and since Maslick wasn’t much for conversation the three of them stood there in silence watching the screen. Across the room, though, the man napping on the couch decided to make himself heard. From under his baseball cap he announced, “Embarrassing the family name is no reason to kill a man.”

  Rapp wasn’t surprised by the comment, but it still pissed him off. He’d been arguing with Mike Nash about this entire mess for the last few hours.

  “How about committing treason, boy genius?” Hurley asked.

  “Definitely a capital offense, but then again it doesn’t exactly fall under our jurisdiction.”

  Hurley’s eyes scanned the surface of the desk, his hands beginning to tremble with rage. He skipped the stapler, grabbed a ceramic coffee mug, and whipped it across the room. The mug hit the concrete wall just above the leather couch and shattered into a thousand pieces, shards raining down on Nash.

  Nash jumped off the couch shouting, “What the hell?”

  “You wanna argue with me, sport, you do me the courtesy of getting off your ass and looking me in the eye!” Hurley turned to Rapp and snarled, “What kinda shit show are you running? If I wanted personal opinions I’d join a fucking book club.” Hurley set out across the room, growling and cursing under his breath. When he reached the steel door he banged on it several times with his cane and then punched in the code to release the lock.

  Rapp looked at Nash and mouthed the words, What in the hell is wrong with you?

  Nash didn’t bother to reply. He was too steamed at Hurley to deal with Rapp.

  A moment later Dr. Lewis joined them and the door to the interrogation room was closed and locked. No one took a seat. Rapp and Hurley faced Lewis while Maslick stayed behind the desk to keep an eye on the monitors and Nash stayed on the other side of the room, still stewing about his rebuke.

  “Give it to me straight,” Hurley said to the shrink.

  Lewis started to speak and then paused as if deciding where to begin. He ran a hand through his curly blond hair and said, “Classic narcissistic personality disorder.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No, it’s quite a bit more complicated than that.” Lewis hesitated and then asked, “You knew his parents?”

  “Yep.”

  “Dad not around much?”

  “None of us were. That’s how it was back then.”

  Lewis nodded in understanding and studied Hurley with his blue eyes. “He was in the clandestine service with you?”

  “Yep.”

  “So he was around even less than the average dad?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Was his mother detached?”

  “Marge,” Hurley said, as his eyes became unfocused, as if trying to remember some distant memory. “She wasn’t exactly the warmest person.”

  “Not very affectionate?”

  “About as affectionate as that desk over there.”

  Lewis nodded. “It all fits the profile. Adams has an overinflated sense of worth and that carries over into a sense of entitlement. The flip side is that his self-esteem is very fragile. It would be extremely difficult for him to take criticism. To deepen the problem, he lacks empathy, which enables him to be extremely exploitative of others. He feels that he is special . . . and can only be understood by brilliant people. That he should only associate with others whom he deems talented enough, while at the same time he needs their real talent to validate his underlying insecurities.”

  “Martyr complex? Always thinks he’s getting screwed by someone and needs to let everyone know it?”

  “Very common. When he comes across someone like Mitch, for instance,” Lewis gestured to Rapp, “someone who is strong-minded, independent, results-oriented, not prone to handing out compliments, someone who is acknowledged as being at the top of their game. When that happens,” Lewis winced, “he feels that person is the enemy and has to be knocked down to size. It is not uncommon for people with this disorder to become lawyers. It makes them feel smarter than most other people, and they can use their knowledge of the law to bully those who do not validate their imagined genius.”

  Hurley thought back to some of the family trips they’d taken some forty years ago. He remembered his friend Mark getting mad as hell at the way his son would pout if he didn’t get his way. “Suicidal?”

  “No . . . virtually unheard of. He’s too in love with himself. Might fake it or threaten it, but most certainly would not follow through.”

  “Anything else?” Hurley asked.

  “He’s asked for you.”

  “He knows I’m here?” Hurley asked in surprise.

  “No, he has no idea you’re involved in this. He claims you’ll understand what is going on.”

  Hurley frowned. “Understand? How could he possibly think that of all people out there, I would understand what he’s doing?”

  “I wouldn’t read too much into it. As I said, he has an overinflated sense of his own importance. Also . . . remember, it is extremely difficult for someone with this disorder to ever accept responsibility for his actions. There is always a rationalization.” Lewis looked at Rapp and added, “He’s scared to death of Mitch because he knows nothing that he can say or do will change his mind. With you,” he looked at Hurley and shrugged his shoulders, “he’s hoping that he’ll find some empathy from an old family friend.”

  Rapp could see that Hurley was having a hard time with this new twist. He took no joy in seeing the tough old bastard like this, so he touched his arm and said, “Let me take care of it.”

  “No.” Hurley shook his head and stood up as straight as his seventy-eight-year-old frame would allow. “I need to do this.”

  CHAPTER 7

  WAPELLO, IOWA

  TED White slid out of bed and grabbed the pile of clothes sitting on the chair in the corner. Through the gap in the shades he glimpsed the gray predawn morning. He picked up the bundle, looked over his shoulder at his wife, and began to carefully tiptoe out of the room. As he walked past the open door he grabbed the handle and slowly pulled it until the door closed with a soft click. Safely in the hallway, he allowed himself to breathe. He waited for a moment to make sure she didn’t stir, and then he took two steps and entered his son Hayden’s room.

  The seventeen-year-old lay there twisted up in his sheets and blankets, two of his four pillows on the floor, one trapped under his body, and the last one on top of his head. He was due to graduate from high school in one month. White grabbed him by the shoulder and gently shook him. Nothing. He waited five seconds and tried again. This continued for another thirty seconds with increasing force until Hayden’s eyes snapped open with a dazed, crazy look.

  “What?” he asked, still delirious with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

&n
bsp; “Shhhh,” his dad said. “If you wake your mother up, there’s no way she’ll let you come with me.”

  The kid didn’t reply, he just looked around the room and tried to figure out what was going on.

  “Grab your hunting gear.”

  “But Mom said I couldn’t go. I have an English test third period, and I have a game tonight.”

  Hayden was headed to the University of Northern Iowa on a baseball scholarship. “You’ve worked hard enough over the past four years. I think you’re entitled to a little turkey shoot with your dad.”

  “But Mom . . .”

  “I know,” his father cautioned, shushing him with his hand. “As long as I have you back in school in time to take that test everything will be fine.”

  “Coach doesn’t like it if . . .”

  “I already talked to your coach. He likes to turkey hunt just like me, and he knows they’re randy as hell this week. He said it was fine just so long as I have you back in school in time for the test. We’ll head out to my uncle’s old place. Fifteen minutes out and fifteen back. If you get your butt in gear we should have no problem getting in a few good hours.”

  Hayden untwisted himself and put his feet on the floor. He raised both arms above his head and groaned. “Mom’s going to be pissed.”

  In a hushed yet forceful voice, White said, “I’m going to be pissed if you wake her up. Now get moving. I’ll make us a couple of fried egg sandwiches. We can eat them in the truck.” With that, White left his only child’s room and made it down the hallway to the kitchen. He started the coffee and warmed up the frying pan. Next came the hard part. He found a notepad and a pen and leaned over, placing his right elbow on the counter, and wondered how best to admit to the crime. Like most things in life he decided it would be best to be brief and hold his ground.

  Honey,

  I checked with Coach last night. He says it’s fine if I take Hayden hunting. I will make sure I have him back in school for third period. This is probably our last spring shoot. Next year he’ll be away at college. Where did all the years go?

  Love,

  Ted

  CHAPTER 8

  TOOLESBORO, IOWA

  HAKIM closed the door to the bedroom, and despite wanting to clear his mind, he began to think of the attacks. The lunchtime explosions, the bomb that had decimated the emergency personnel who were sifting through the rubble of the Monocle—a restaurant that was a favorite haunt of U.S. senators and lobbyists—and then the final bold move. Hakim considered it a stroke of genius. For all his recent disagreements with Karim, he had to admit that the audacity of the plan was impossible to ignore. Karim had asked Hakim to locate America’s National Counterterrorism Center—the nerve center for the Great Satan’s illegitimate war on terror, as he called it. Without telling any of the senior al Qaeda commanders, they put together a daring plan to assault the building. Karim wanted to turn the hunters into the hunted. They would hit the National Counterterrorism Center while the Americans were in disarray and focused on the initial attacks and the secondary explosion.

  Hakim had been there with Karim when their six comrades, dressed in SWAT gear, burst into the building. Having spent a decent amount of time in Washington, Hakim knew it was not uncommon to see big black SUVs driving down the street loaded with menacing men armed to the teeth. With the confusion created by the initial blasts, they would drive right up to the gate of the counterterrorism facility and easily dispatch the light security.

  The men had been trained for months in every detail of the plan, and from what they saw it had worked perfectly. The Suburban drove over the curb and right up to the front door with its emergency lights flashing. The men poured out of the vehicle, formed up in a single-file line, and entered the building engaging targets as they went. They were to avoid the elevators and take the stairs to the top floor where the nerve center was located. In addition to the M-4 rifles and Glock pistols, each man wore a custom-made suicide vest that was packed with C-4 plastic explosives and half-inch ball bearings.

  Karim had predicted that the attack on the facility would cripple America’s ability to effectively attack al Qaeda for years to come. And it couldn’t happen soon enough. The hunter-killer teams and the unmanned aerial vehicles with their missiles had decimated the upper ranks of their group. They expected casualties to exceed one hundred, but something had gone wrong. Either that or the Americans were lying. So far only eighteen individuals had been reported dead in the assault on the counterterrorism facility. Six days later, Karim still refused to believe the reports. He was convinced the Americans, in an effort to save face and reassure the public, were covering up the true damage.

  Hakim had noticed one little problem with that theory, though. News crews had been able to get shots of the building’s upper floors from outside the security fence, and they were still intact. If the suicide vests had gone off as planned, every window would have been blown out and there was a better than fifty-fifty chance that the roof would be nothing more than a jagged hole. He had mentioned this to his old friend and had suffered a harsh rebuke. He was told he was naïve in the ways of the world and the West’s ability to manipulate the media.

  Hakim was growing tired of his friend’s inflexibility. He was the one who had traveled the world, while Karim had done little more than hang out at cafés and mosques surrounded by like-minded men. He had done almost no traveling outside Saudi Arabia. There were things Hakim would like to say to his friend, but he knew the timing was not right. They needed to find a safe way out of the country and then, when things had settled down, he could confront him.

  When Hakim was done washing his face and brushing his teeth, he faced east, knelt on the floor, and began to pray. For most of his life he had prayed the required five times a day, often spending a total of two hours prostrate in an attempt to prove himself a good Muslim. It had been several years since he’d been that devoted, however. To accomplish his mission he’d been forced to abandon many of his habits and rituals. His travels to America and other countries required that he draw as little attention to his faith as possible.

  Even now, in the secrecy of his room, in the middle of America, with not a person in sight, he rushed through his prayers. He offered himself up to Allah and asked for his guidance on this dangerous journey, and then, as was increasingly the case, his mind began to wander. He was still talking to Allah, but instead of asking for guidance he was asking questions. He was trying to reconcile the irreconcilable. He stumbled through it, as he did so often lately—asking the question, giving half the answer, and then moving on to the next thing before completing the thought. Doing so prevented him from having to face the truth. These shortened prayers were turning into bleak sessions. Almost as if he were jotting down notes with Allah and saying, when I get through the hardest part of this journey, you and I will sit down and sort our way through this mess.

  Hakim still believed in Allah. That was not the problem. His lack of confidence had more to do with his followers—the men who claimed to know exactly what Allah wanted. As he slid under the covers, he tried to clear his mind. His faith, he realized, was not in crisis. It was his faith in his friend that was causing the problem. Hakim thought back to the day they had met, but quickly stopped himself. He had spent too much time wrestling with this of late. He was tired, and if he was ever going to sit down and discuss his concerns with Karim he would need to be rested. Using an old trick, he picked one of his best memories and began to replay it in his mind.

  The sun was glistening off the familiar cool blue water of the Florida Keys. Hakim leaned back in the chair and then let himself come forward almost as if he were praying to Allah, but he wasn’t. His right hand went round and round in tiny circles on the reel, drawing in as much line as he could in the few seconds he had, and then he leaned all the way back. Despite the strain of wrestling with the great big marlin for the better part of an hour, he had a look of childlike elation on his face.

  The trip to Cuba had been insp
ired by his reading The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway. For Hakim, it had been the single greatest experience of his life. A day didn’t pass without that beautiful marlin jumping into his thoughts, and rarely did he fall asleep without a glimpse of it. He knew it was a coping mechanism. There had been a lot of death and dismemberment—bullets and bombs that did horrific things to friends, strangers, and enemies alike. He’d seen men literally shredded by the shrapnel of an artillery shell. So bloody and fleshy and cut to pieces that you’d swear there was no way on earth they would ever survive, but by God’s mercy some of them did, and if they’d had the medical facilities that the enemy had, even more would have lived. And then there were other times where you would find a comrade after an air strike and you would swear he was simply knocked unconscious, because he had not a blemish on his body. You would nudge him, even splash some water on his face, and there was no bringing him back. Hakim learned later it was the concussive blasts of the big two-thousand-pound American bombs. The shock wave from the explosions would cause blunt trauma to the internal organs of individuals without leaving any outward mark of death.