CHAPTER 38

WASHINGTON, D.C.

RAPP had to laugh at the irony of the situation. Here he was in an orange prison jumpsuit shackled to a metal table in a room that reeked of urine. The cinder-block walls of the ten-by-ten-foot interrogation room were covered with a variety of body fluids that Rapp did not want to attempt to identify. The fact that America treated terrorists better than its own citizens was just another example of how upside down things were. He was in the Central Detention Facility, or D.C. jail, as it is more commonly known. A place located in one of the most run-down, crime-ridden neighborhoods in America. Every year for the last thirty, Southeast D.C. helped the capital city finish in the top five for most murders - usually number one. The jail was filled with gangbangers and crackheads and every other kind of reprobate that roamed the not-so-safe streets of the nation's capital.

It was obvious that the political forces behind his arrest thought they could somehow unravel him by sticking him in this place, which was proof that they were either very stupid or very petty or probably both. When they'd finished fingerprinting and photographing him, they took away all his clothes and gave him the orange jumpsuit and the paper slippers and stuck him in general holding. No lawyer, no phone call, just Ridley standing there, doling out threats like a kindergarten teacher on a field trip. Ridley warned them it was a mistake. Told them over and over not to dump him in general holding, but the jailers stuck with their official line that everyone gets the same treatment.

Rapp lasted less than five minutes in the big thirty-by-ten-foot cell. A wiry black perp, all strung out on drugs, got in his face almost the second he walked in the door. Rather than engage the man in conversation, Rapp hit him with a quick jab to the solar plexus and sent him to the floor, where he lay gasping for air like a fish out of water. Two slightly larger and younger black men took umbrage at this and strolled across the cell hooting and hollering about all the hurt they were going to put on their new bitch. In five seconds Rapp sized them up, drew them in, and dismantled them. The man on the left got a half a step ahead of the other guy and threw the first punch. Rapp moved his head a mere six inches and let the fist sail past. With a slight pivot he brought up his right leg and then sent his foot crashing down on the outside of the man's right knee. Having thrown his punch and missed, the man was left for a second with ninety-five percent of his weight resting on that front foot. When Rapp's foot made contact and pushed through the target, the man buckled as if he'd been walking on a pair of flimsy stilts.

The second guy was on him almost immediately and actually got ahold of Rapp's jumpsuit for a second, before Rapp broke free with a series of quick rabbit punches to several vital organs. He then took the man by the wrist, twisted the hand 180 degrees, and straightened his arm so that his elbow was in a locked position pointing directly up at the ceiling. One quick kick to the stomach sent the man to the floor. There was a moment where the entire room was still. Rapp looked across the cell at the other gangbangers and tried to gauge their mood. They were all paying rapt attention, and a few looked like they might join in. Rapp decided that the easiest way to stop the violence was to make an example. With the perp's arm still in a straight and locked position, Rapp dropped to his right knee, brought his left arm up above his head, and brought his elbow smashing down. When the blow struck, the other man's elbow socket exploded, sounding like a two-by-four snapping from too much weight.

When the guards showed up, the first perp was just regaining his ability to breathe, but the other two were rolling around on the ground screaming in pain with limbs pointed at very unnatural angles. The guards had a quick conference and decided to move Rapp to one of the interrogation rooms. That was where he had been sitting from roughly one in the morning until now. He was shackled around his wrists and ankles and chained to the metal table. The cinder-block walls were blank. With nothing to look at and nothing to do but wait, Rapp rested his head on the table and tried to sleep. He lost track of time but it felt like he'd been in the room for close to ten hours, which meant it was probably closer to five. Alone with nothing but his thoughts, he wondered how Kennedy was taking things. There was a good chance that she was raising holy hell, but one never really knew in this town.

When the door finally opened, Rapp looked up and saw a man roughly his age, wearing a blue suit and a mint green and blue striped tie. He was handsome, but not in a masculine way. He was too perfect, too deliberate. Like he put a lot of effort into his grooming and appearance. He entered the room holding a cup of coffee, a scone, and a leather briefing folder under one arm. He kicked the door closed and sat down across from Rapp.

After straightening his tie and taking a sip of coffee he said, "You have managed to get yourself into a lot of trouble."

Rapp stared back at him with his brown eyes that were so dark they were almost black and said nothing.

"Striking an officer of the United States Air Force is a very serious crime." He glanced at Rapp with his most serious expression and flipped open the briefing folder. "Not to mention this part about you donning the uniform of colonel and sneaking around a United States military installation without authorized access. I would say you've finally run out of luck, Mr. Rapp."

Rapp said nothing. He stared back at the man and wondered if he really thought he was going to somehow scare him.

"You're looking at ten years... maybe more."

Rapp chuckled.

"You find this funny?"

"I find your theatrical bravado funny."

The man took a sip of coffee and in a morose tone said, "I don't think you're going to be laughing when you're sitting in a federal prison getting buttfucked by a bunch of hard cons."

Rapp's eyes narrowed, the creases in his forehead deepening. He sensed something in the man across the table. Something he should be leery of. "Who are you?"

The man straightened his tie and said, "I'm Wade Kline... Department of Justice Chief Privacy and Civil Liberties Officer, and I'm your worst nightmare, Mr. Rapp."

"Really?" Rapp asked in a not-impressed tone.

"Yes. I'm incorruptible, and I don't like people who think they don't have to play by the rules."

Rapp nodded. "Speaking of the rules," Rapp glanced up at the camera in the corner, "would you mind telling me why I haven't seen my attorney?"

Kline grinned at Rapp and with an arched brow said, "Sometimes it's hard to track down a lawyer in the middle of the night. I'm sure he'll be along in time for your arraignment."

"Well, it is very considerate of you to come in here and talk to me without my lawyer present, but I think I'll pass."

Kline plucked a chunk of the scone from the wax paper and popped it into his mouth. "What if I were to tell you I could make this all go away?"

"How?"

"You cooperate with my investigation. You talk to me about your superiors at Langley. You fill me on your illegal domestic spying operations. It's your only chance."

"You're joking, right?"

"Mr. Rapp, do I look like the type of person who jokes around?"

Rapp thought to himself that it was a valid point. This guy took himself far too seriously to screw around. "You know what I think, Kline? I think there's a real shit storm brewing outside this room right now. I think there's a lot of pissed-off people at the Pentagon and the White House."

"Really?"

"Yep... I think you got wind of this little misunderstanding between Captain Leland and myself and you decided to run with it before checking in with your superiors. I think the attorney general has had his ass reamed by the president, which means the AG has now turned around and reamed your ass, and since you're a desperate type of fellow and you hate to lose, you've now decided the only way you can save face on this deal is to try this lame-ass Hail Mary attempt... promising you'll go light on me in return for me telling you about all the nasty shit I've seen the CIA do over the last eighteen years."

"I can promise you, Mr. Rapp, I don't make empty threats," Wade said seriously. "I've spent too many hours in a courtroom to say something I can't follow through on."

"Then help me understand your situation, because you don't have a case against me. This little scuffle between Captain Leland and myself... there's two sides to how that went down and even if you believe everything he's telling you, which would be a mistake, all you've got is a misdemeanor assault. You and I both know I'll never see the inside of a jail, let alone have to endure all these boyfriends you're talking about. And as far as me putting on the uniform of a colonel" - Rapp shrugged - "that's what we do in the Clandestine Service. So unless you've got something you're not telling me, you're wasting my time."

"Well," started Kline with a big smile, "there is this other matter."

"And what would that be?"

"The part about you beating and torturing a bound prisoner."

A small grin spread across Rapp's lips. He was waiting for this card to be played. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do. Captain Leland and General Garrison have already filed their official reports." Kline consulted his notes. "The prisoner's name is Abu Haggani. We have photos of his cut and bruised face attached to the report."

"Didn't happen."

"I have a security tape that says different." Kline stared unflinchingly at Rapp. "You'd better make this deal with me or you're going to get caught up in a media firestorm that is going to make Abu Ghraib look like a twenty-four-hour scandal."

If Rapp hadn't already spoken to Marcus Dumond, who had assured him that all recordings had been destroyed, he might have been slightly anxious, but even if Kline did have the tape he would never flip. Rapp glanced down at Kline's notes and said, "Show it to me."

"What?"

"The tape."

"The FBI," he said calmly, "is analyzing it for evidence."

"Sure they are." Rapp smiled and gave Kline a look as if they were both on the inside of a joke. "You don't have shit, Kline."

"I do, and you're going down... and you're going to bring the rest of that den of rats down with you."

"You're a big talker, Kline," Rapp said in a confident voice. "I've seen your type come and go every few years. You've got your righteous gung-ho attitude. You talk tough about cleaning up crime and defending Lady Liberty, but we both know why you do it."

Kline looked amused. "I can't wait to hear this. A knuckle-dragger from the CIA is going to impart a pearl of wisdom."

"It's your ego. It's not a sense of duty. You want to make a name for yourself. You want to climb the ladder of success. Maybe run for office someday or open your own law practice. You're nothing but a big pussy in a suit. You wouldn't last a day out there doing what we do."

"I would never stoop so low as to do your work."

"You mean killing terrorists and saving lives. Of course you wouldn't, because you're a selfish little prick."

"You know what I think?" said Kline hotly. "I think you're a sick man. I think you get off on beating defenseless men." Kline circled around and whispered in Rapp's ear, "I think it's a real thrill for you." He placed his hand on the back of Rapp's neck and began to squeeze.

"I'm only going to say this once," Rapp said in a firm voice. "Take your hand off me, right now."

"What?" Kline laughed loudly. "You can dish it out, but you can't take it."

In an almost disembodied voice, Rapp said, "You have no idea who you are dealing with."

"I'm dealing with a guy who gets his jollies slapping around men who are handcuffed." Kline playfully smacked Rapp across the back of the head with an open hand.

"Is that all you've got?" Rapp asked, his anger building.

Kline slapped him harder and then grabbed a handful of Rapp's thick black hair and yanked his head back. "Why should I play by the rules when you don't? Huh, Mr. Tough Guy?"

"Because I got out of my handcuffs, you idiot."

Kline's eyes froze for a moment and then moved from Rapp's face down to his lap, where he saw the handcuffs and chains lying in his lap.

Before Kline could move, Rapp's right hand shot up and grabbed him by the tie. Spinning out of the chair, Rapp stood and drove the Department of Justice employee back into the corner and delivered a quick knee strike to the groin. Then, grabbing Kline's tie with both hands, Rapp began to cinch the knot tighter and tighter.

As Kline's face began to turn purple, Rapp asked, "Who's the tough guy now?"

CHAPTER 39

FLORIDA KEYS.

HAKIM turned on the surface radar, noted the location of several vessels sitting just on the other side of U.S. territorial water, and then turned the radar off. Everything seemed normal, at least compared to the other three test runs he'd taken with the boat. He'd decided months ago that they would make their run on a Monday. For the Coast Guard down in the Keys, every weekend was a pain. Thousands of boaters took to the waterways, and while the vast majority were respectful and law-abiding, there was still a significant number who drank too much, acted like idiots, and caused a lot of trouble. So the Coast Guard was always a little slow to start after a busy weekend.

Now came the part that his friend would never understand. Karim was far too rigid. In many ways it was what made him such a great leader, but his lack of trust and inflexibility had also made things almost impossible. At some point they needed to move outside their group. Without help from within America, Hakim knew it would be impossible for them to succeed, so he had acted unilaterally.

Pretending as if he'd dropped something, Hakim bent over and withdrew his mobile phone from his cargo pocket. He quickly punched in the number and held the phone to his ear. He counted the rings, each one making him more nervous. On the sixth, the person on the other end answered.

"Hello."

"Mike," said Hakim, "it's Joe. How are you doing?"

"Good."

"Are we still on for breakfast?"

"Yes. I'm here waiting for you."

"Good. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"I'll be waiting."

Hakim stuffed the phone back into his pocket and stood. He looked over at Karim and gave him the thumbs-up signal. Karim, looking as serious as ever, gave him a slight nod. Hakim had a moment of hesitation. Not for himself, but for his friend. For all of Karim's drive, intellect, and talent, he lacked polish. He was too stiff, and in a relatively laid-back country like America, Hakim feared he would stand out too much. He had a plan for that as well. At least to get them as far as D.C.

Hakim grabbed the large headphones off the dash and held them high above his head. He waved them back and forth until Karim saw what he was doing and then he put them on his head. Once they started the engines it would be the only way they could hear each other. Karim put on the headphones as well, and after a brief radio check they turned the powerful outboard engines on. One by one they rumbled as the pistons started cranking. Outside of the offshore racing circuit these boats were about as fast as you could get. Even so, they could never outrun the helicopters the Coast Guard used.

A gust of wind blew across the bow, forming ripples on the calm water. Hakim cranked his head around and looked to the east. The seas still looked pretty calm, but it wasn't likely to last. Weather was one thing he did not want to have to contend with. If they had to open up the boats to near full throttle in rough seas, they were in trouble. Karim was nowhere near a good-enough seaman to contend with big swells.

Thumbing the transmit button on the headset, Hakim said, "Charlie, I'll race you in for breakfast." Hakim had gone over the plan the night before. This was just like Afghanistan, where you had to assume the Americans listened to everything. "Remember, don't stop for me." He looked across the water at his friend, who gave him the thumbs-up.

Hakim pushed the three throttles forward a fifth and marked his heading. He'd done this exact run before. Point the boat straight at Marathon and head in at a steady 20 mph. Karim fell in behind him, fifty meters back. Two minutes later, Hakim turned on the surface radar and left it on this time. As they prepared to leave international waters, Karim called down below for Ahmed. He handed the young Moroccan the binoculars and told him to start scanning the sky for helicopters.

All of the drugs had been transferred onto Hakim's boat, and all of the men, except Ahmed, were now on Karim's boat. Hakim had revealed this part of his plan while they were at sea during the night and Karim had been none too pleased. He hadn't realized until they had left Cuba that all of the cargo and all of the men could have easily fit onto one boat. Karim had learned firsthand in Afghanistan that the more simple the plan, the better chances there were of success. The idea of using two boats, when one would suffice, made no sense to him. Hakim explained his reasoning, but Karim, stubborn as always, held his ground and disagreed.

"Why can't we simply transfer everything onto one boat and set the other adrift?" he had asked.

Hakim wanted to strangle him. They had ended up out on the bow of Hakim's boat arguing in hushed angry tones. It finally ended when Hakim told his old friend he was acting like one of those overfed Taliban commanders who never ventured to the front, but claimed to know everything. Karim, having spent months without a soul questioning anything he said, almost threw his friend into the water. With great restraint, he calmed himself down and consented to allow Hakim to continue to run this part of the operation.

The two boats crossed into American water without fanfare. Knowing that his friend was a bit overwhelmed with the task of staying on course, Hakim doubted he even noticed the significant event. They continued on for two more miles, heading directly for Marathon. This was the trickiest part. The American Coast Guard was very well funded, and had some of the best equipment that money could buy, but there were limits. With thousands of vessels coming in and out of the Keys every day, the Coast Guard had to deploy its assets judiciously. If a vessel were on course to enter port at a decent-sized city like Marathon, the Coast Guard would deal with it when it got there or send one of its many vessels out to inspect. The helicopters were expensive and far more rare than the hundreds of patrol boats that were used to keep the waterways safe.

At the five-mile mark, Hakim's pulse began to quicken. He looked at the surface radar and then scanned the horizon. With the wind whipping through his hair, he noted the location of a half dozen contacts, none of them close enough to identify as Coast Guard or not. The sky was thankfully clear.

As they neared the three-mile mark, Hakim could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was what it was like to live, to really experience the grand thrill of blazing a trail through life. Hakim laughed loudly as the wind buffeted his face. He looked over at his friend, who was hunched behind the windscreen frowning with intensity. Hakim laughed louder. His friend had never understood his fascination with Ernest Hemingway, but then again, Karim was anti anything American. Especially someone as American as Hemingway. But Hakim had read everything the man had written as well as a few biographies. He'd been to the house in Key West as well as the one in Cuba, but he couldn't bring himself to visit the home in Idaho where he'd blown his head off with a shotgun. Hakim didn't like to think of him in that phase of his life. He preferred the younger version of Hemingway who seemed to be running off on grand adventures every other month.

Hakim glanced down at the navigation system. The turn to the north was a mere twenty seconds away. He was not sure if he had ever been this excited about anything in his life. He flipped the transmit button on his bulky headset and counted the seconds. At zero he began the turn. Karim stayed back on his port side and executed the turn as he'd told him so he was now the boat closest to shore.

Hakim tapped Ahmed on the shoulder and shouted, "Get down below and get the rifle ready." Hakim saw the Moroccan look nervously to the north. "Don't worry, I haven't seen them. I just want to be prepared."

Ahmed grabbed the railing and went down the four steps into the cabin. A moment later the triangular muzzle break of the .50-caliber rifle appeared. Ahmed adjusted the legs on the bipod and got behind the scope. When he was satisfied that he had a comfortable shooting position he set the butt stock of the rifle on the carpet and picked the binoculars up.

Topside, Hakim gave Karim the signal to increase speed and then began to push his own throttles forward at a slow, even pace. The three Mercury Pro XS 250 HP outboards came to life, growling with power. The boats responded immediately. In less than five seconds they were slicing through the water at close to 60 mph. Five seconds after that they reached 80 mph and, as per the plan, eased back on the throttles and held the speed. The boats settled into a side-by-side tack, Hakim allowing his friend to take a half-length lead as they raced on a northeasterly heading.

Hakim settled into a pattern. His eyes steadily swept from right to left 180 degrees, and then checked the surface radar before scanning skyward. The Coast Guard helicopters topped out around 150 mph, but tended to cruise close to 100 mph. Because of that he was less concerned that one of them would catch them coming up from Key West. The problem was straight ahead at Islamorada and even they were quickly running out of time. The navigation system ticked off the distance to the next course adjustment. It was now a mere four miles and the sea was still calm. If need be they could easily increase their speed.

Hakim was half regretting that they wouldn't have a run-in with the Coast Guard when he spotted the speck on the horizon. He almost missed it, but the sun caught the windscreen just right. The quick flash of light brought his head back around and he focused on the speck. They were so close, but now, if they got their next turn too fast, the helicopter would be able to report their new course heading, and he didn't want that.