by Vince Flynn
“Fine.” Hayes turned his attention back to Kennedy. “We’ll keep Ross off your back. You just stay out in front of Justice and the FBI.”
“What about Mitch?”
The president leaned back and gave the matter some thought. After a lengthy pause he said, “Officially…I want him involved in the CIA’s international aspect of this investigation. Please take special note of the word international.” Hayes paused for effect. “Unofficially…he has my consent to kill anyone who had a direct hand in this.”
44
VENICE, ITALY
T he cruise ship turned into the Canale di San Marco, churning up a muddy wake as it slipped slowly through the water. The vessel seemed ridiculously large to be entering such a narrow body of water, but Abel reasoned they knew what they were doing. Tourism was after all Italy’s biggest industry and it wouldn’t do to have one of these steel behemoths ramming its prow through the intricate façade of the Palazzo Ducale. This was the third such ship this afternoon and by far the largest. Abel was lounging on the terrace of his $2,000-a-night penthouse that overlooked the confluence of the Grand Canal and the San Marco Canal. During the peak summer season the room ran $5,000 a night, but only a fool would come to Venice in the summer. The city was overrun with tourists. Heat and humidity combined with sweat to give off a sour odor that could be exceedingly unpleasant. Prices were obnoxiously high and service was shoddy. Fall or spring, though, was a different matter. The temperature was mild and with the humidity gone the ripe summer smell of the canals was gone. The narrow streets were passable, and the service was good.
The ship let loose three quick bursts from its horn. Abel glanced up at the passengers who seemed to be on top of him. They lined the railings of all four decks, towering over him, taking photos, waving, and gawking. If there was one common denominator among them it was that they in general seemed unconcerned with physical fitness. While he perched atop his penthouse sundeck, they looked down on him like plump birds in search of a morsel of food. His initial awe over the engineering it took to assemble such a ship and then maneuver it through the tight channel was now gone, replaced by a sense of irritation that these commoners were intruding on his privacy. Abel did his best to ignore them and read the screen of his laptop.
It had been an interesting day. He had risen from a sound night’s sleep at 7:00 a.m. and showered and shaved. Breakfast in the grand ballroom was followed by a long walk around the city. He’d crossed over the Grand Canal to San Paolo and then Santa Croce with no intent other than to observe how the unique floating city prepared itself for another day. Garbage barges came and went. Water taxis and ferries brought people from the mainland and the surrounding islands to work. Food, office products, mail, wine, merchandise, and everything else it takes to keep a city functioning was brought in by water and off-loaded by young, strong men wielding carts of varying shapes and sizes. It was a way of commerce that was unique to Venice.
Abel returned to the hotel before 10:00 and checked his e-mail. He was both pleased and shocked to find a message that Mitch Rapp was dead. And not only was he dead, but the assassin had managed to make it look like an accident. Abel was absolutely floored by the speed and apparent ease with which the contract had been carried out. Saeed Ahmed Abdullah would be a very happy man. It was no surprise that the assassins were demanding payment immediately. As tempting as it was for Abel to call Abdullah and give him the good news, he knew that he should confirm the story from an independent source. With the time difference between Venice and Washington, DC, it took a while. For fear of raising unwanted attention he did not want to call any of his contacts in the international intelligence community. At 2:00 in the afternoon he was finally able to track down the story on the Washington Post’s Web site. Abel read the words with his heart in his throat. A quarter of the way into it he began dancing around the room. He had just made an additional six million dollars without having to lift a finger. Abel was not a dancer, and he was not someone accustomed to spontaneous celebration, but this was an exception.
After finishing the article he called Abdullah directly via an encrypted satellite phone and told him the news. The father began sobbing. In between sniffles he praised Allah and thanked Abel profusely for giving him his just retribution. Not wanting the call to last too long Abel brought up the issue of payment. Abdullah said it would be taken care of before the close of business today and thanked Abel over and over for helping him. Abel demurred, and then ended the call by warning the billionaire to be very careful. Even though the American press was calling it an accidental explosion, there would surely be people at the CIA who would never believe it for a second.
Now the close of business was approaching, and Abel was nervously waiting for confirmation from the various banks that the funds had been received. Twelve million dollars in total. After Prince Muhammad bin Rashid requested that Abel make the murder look like an accident, the German had ignored the request to shoulder the cost himself and had taken the matter to Saeed Ahmed Abdullah. The billionaire seemed entirely unconcerned by any investigation that might take place after Rapp’s death. Abel tried to impress him with the potential gravity of the aftermath, but Abdullah cared not how Rapp was killed—only that he was killed. Abel pressed him further until the billionaire finally agreed to foot the bill.
Twelve million dollars total, and it had taken less than two weeks. Abel thought that it must be a record in his line of work. It was going to be difficult not to brag about his payday, but there was an obvious disincentive. If the assassins found out they would likely kill him, and if the Americans found out they would torture him and then kill him. He would keep his mouth shut for some time. Maybe in twenty years, when he finally slowed down, he could write his memoirs and take credit for killing America’s top counterterrorism operative. He knew where the real risk lay, and unfortunately there was nothing he could do about it. The father would want to brag. He would want to take credit for killing the mighty Mitch Rapp.
A thought occurred to Abel as he stared at his in-box waiting for confirmation. He was surprised he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Why not use some of his newfound fortune to take out a contract on the father? He decided he’d have to explore the option. An e-mail landed in his in-box with a chime. Abel opened it and smiled as he read the confirmation that two million dollars had arrived in his account, and as per his instructions, one million of it was immediately wired to the designated bank in the Bahamas. Five more e-mails arrived in short order, all basically saying the same thing. Abel picked up the phone and asked for a bottle of 1989 Pichon Longueville Baron to be sent up. He looked out at the bulbous domes of Santa Maria della Salute across the canal and thanked God for the efficiency of the Swiss.
45
CIA SAFE HOUSE, VIRGINIA
R app woke up, once again hoping it was all a dream, but one look at the unfamiliar surroundings told him it wasn’t. His own personal nightmare was upon him. His wife and unborn child were gone. Those horrible memories that had haunted him after his girlfriend had been blown out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland, came flooding back, only this time they were worse. He’d spent years getting over her tragic death. The passage of time and taxing nature of his work combined to slowly mend him. And then Anna came along, and all was perfect again. The painful wound was healed, and he was left with a small scar that was the fleeting memory of a woman who had died more than a decade ago. Now in a flash Anna was gone and with her all his hopes and aspirations. The old wound had been torn asunder and it ached with a pain that was white-hot compared to the previous one. The love of his youth seemed utterly naïve in comparison to the absolute devotion and adoration he felt toward his wife. The pain gripped him in a writhing agony that he knew would have no end.
Rapp fought back the tears and forced himself to assess the situation. He had vague memories of being moved in the night. He could tell by his splitting headache, foggy vision, and general lethargy that he had been given a sedative. He lifted his head
just enough to confirm what he’d already guessed—that his arms and legs were tied down with straps. He didn’t like this one bit and immediately began to test how secure the bonds were. After a brief struggle he gave up. The room was dark, but there was enough light for him to realize that he was not in a hospital. It was more like a hotel room, or a bedroom in someone’s house.
His only vivid memory of his time in the hospital was hearing Kennedy telling him Anna was dead and then having to be restrained by some very large men. After that there was a vague recollection of an ambulance ride. Kennedy must have moved him to a more secure location. Rapp went over a brief list of possibilities, and then whispered to himself, “How in the hell did this happen?”
He sensed movement somewhere in the building—like a heavy door had been shut. Now he could hear footsteps. He rolled his head toward the door and watched as the brass knob began to turn. It occurred to him that he was probably being monitored by a low-light camera. The door opened with barely a sound and a dark figure stepped into the room. Rapp couldn’t make out his face, but there was something familiar in the way he moved. The man approached the bed cautiously, and Rapp wondered for an instant if he was in danger.
“How are you feeling, buddy?”
It was Scott Coleman. Rapp relaxed a notch and asked, “Where am I?”
“Agency safe house.”
Rapp surveyed the former Special Forces operator. “Which one?”
“Near Leesburg.” Coleman walked around to the other side of the bed and opened the blinds.
Light filled the room and Rapp turned away. “What time is it?” he asked with squinted eyes.
“Almost noon.”
Rapp was bothered by the simple fact that he couldn’t bring his hand up to shield his eyes. “Untie me.”
Coleman hesitated. He weighed the alternatives. Kennedy had left orders that she wanted him to be kept sedated and tied until she had a chance to further assess his attitude. Coleman didn’t like seeing him tied up as if he was some prisoner, and given all that he’d been through he didn’t feel right ignoring him. He reached down and grabbed one of the canvas straps that held his wrist to the bed frame. “Don’t do anything stupid, Mitch. You’ve got a broken arm, two broken ribs, a deep thigh bruise, and your knee is still swollen from surgery.” The former SEAL finished with the straps and gently placed a couple of pillows behind Rapp so he was propped up.
Rapp guessed from the view that he was on the second floor. The slight greenish hue of the glass also told him the window was bulletproof. He had been here before but had never ventured to the second floor. To the average unsuspecting person, the place looked no different from all the other horse farms and corporate retreats that dotted the rural Virginia landscape. It was very charming on the surface, but the subterranean levels beneath the main building held a secret the CIA guarded very closely. The place was so covert, it didn’t even have a name. To the handful of people who knew of its existence, it was referred to as The Facility.
It was off the books, not even listed in the black intelligence budget submitted in secret to Congress every year. The Facility was a place where they could clinically drain information from people. In decades past the subjects were usually traitors or spies, almost all of them atheists or agnostics. More recently the guests were decidedly more fervent in their religious beliefs. The place was located near Leesburg, Virginia, and was situated on sixty-two beautiful rolling acres which had been purchased by the Agency in the early fifties. The Facility was a necessary evil in the sometimes brutal high-stakes game of espionage.
Rapp was about to ask Coleman about Anna, but he choked on his words. After he got control of his emotions he asked, “What happened?”
“Do you remember the explosion?”
Rapp shook his head.
“As near as I’ve been able to piece it together, you came home after your knee surgery and the house blew up. Somehow you ended up in the bay. A nearby fisherman pulled you out of the drink and you were mede-vacked up to Johns Hopkins.”
“Anna?”
Coleman shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “She ended up in the front yard. The EMS people said they think she hit a tree as she was blown out of the house. Massive trauma to the head. They operated,” Coleman shook his head sadly, “but she never had a chance.”
Rapp looked away from his friend and stared out the window. He was trying desperately to keep it together. To keep his mind focused on what had happened, and not on what had been lost. “Who did it?”
“We don’t know yet, but we have some leads.”
“Bring me up to speed,” Rapp ordered with clinical detachment.
“I got to your house last night around ten. Skip McMahon was there with some other feds, but they were letting the locals run the show.” Coleman paused and then said blandly, “The fire chief says it was an accidental propane explosion, and so far the feds concur.”
Rapp frowned.
“Don’t worry, we’re not buying into it for a second. Let me finish with the official version, and then I’ll fill you in on the rest. The fire department found traces of an accelerant. They’re pretty sure it’s gasoline.”
“Where?”
“Between the garage and the propane tank. They figure you kept your gas for the boats on the side of the garage.”
“I fill my boats at the marina.”
“I thought so. Besides, I told them there was no way in hell you’d leave gas stored that close to a propane tank.”
“You’re right. What else?”
“This is where it gets tricky, Mitch.” Coleman folded his arms across his chest and widened his stance as if he was preparing himself for stormy seas. “You know how people like us tend to make the feds real nervous.”
Rapp nodded.
“I brought Wicker with me last night and we found some stuff they overlooked.”
Rapp knew Charlie Wicker well. They’d worked together many times, and occasionally they trained together. There was no better shot with a long barrel in the world. “Like what?”
“Someone was in the woods yesterday across the street from your house.” Coleman studied Rapp for a reaction.
“Go on.”
“Irene sent us out there because she knew we’d know what to look for. When we got there the feds and the locals were focused on the house. You know how good Charlie is…it took him all of two minutes to pick up the scent. We think one tango was in the woods when you got home. He had a bicycle with him. Wicker thinks the guy was careful enough to carry the bike into the woods, but then in the excitement after the explosion he wheeled it out, leaving a clear trail through the tall grass on the side of the road.” Coleman made a curved gesture with his right hand. “The guy headed south where your street dead-ends. Charlie knew there were paths down there, so he took off with his flashlight and followed this guy’s trail to the dirt road that runs along a landing strip a few miles from your house.”
Rapp was proceeding along the trail in his mind. He’d covered it hundreds of times on both foot and bike.
“Charlie found a fresh set of tire tracks on the edge of the dirt road about where the bike tracks ended. We think the guy threw the bike in the back of a truck, pulled a U-turn, and vanished.”
“Why do you say truck?”
“Fortunately, Skip is running the show for the feds so he ordered his people to take molds of the tracks. Apparently the tires were new, and they left very clear marks. The FBI says the tire is made by BFGoodrich and is used on a lot of the Chevy pickups, Tahoes, and Suburbans.”
Rapp thought about what Wicker and Coleman had discovered and asked, “So why are the feds calling the explosion an accident?”
“Not all of them are. Skip knows this was no accident, but there’re others who would prefer it if this investigation was closed by the end of the week.”
“Why?”
“Do you have to ask?”
“Why?” Rapp asked again in an angry tone. He
knew the answer, but he didn’t care. He wanted to hear Coleman say it.
“You make people nervous, Mitch. They’re afraid of what you’re going to do when you get out of here, and they don’t like people like us rubbing shoulders with their law-and-order types.” Coleman walked over to the window. “Skip told me the attorney general went nuts this morning when he found out that Wicker and I were at the crime scene poking around. He says this evidence we discovered is trivial at best, but since it was discovered by a couple of spooks, it’s now tainted and worthless.”
Rapp had never cared for the attorney general, but now he felt an intense hatred toward the man. Rapp told himself that was fine. People needed to decide which team they were on. “Let’s be clear about two things, Scott. First of all, when I’m well enough to walk…I’m out of here, and no one is going to stop me. Second, no one is going to be put on trial for this.”
Coleman looked out the window and slowly nodded his head. None of this was a revelation. “Whatever you need…just let me know.”
46
FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA
P rince Muhammad bin Rashid finished his morning prayer and went downstairs to greet his guests. The sun was shining, the air was a bit cold for his tastes, but it could have been snowing and it wouldn’t have spoiled his mood. Mitch Rapp was dead, and that was all that mattered. Rashid had spent the previous day following the story as it unfolded on MSNBC. Throughout the day so-called experts debated whether or not the explosion was an accident and then finally in the early evening the local authorities held a press conference and announced their findings. A gas leak and accidental propane explosion had killed the husband and wife. Several of the experts, former government types, refused to believe what they called rushed findings and protested that there were ways to trigger these types of explosions and make it look like a mishap. The debate raged into the night, with conspiracy theorists who refused to believe anything the government said, a cabal of former Special Forces types who said the local authorities were in over their heads, and the reporters for the most part buying into the official story.