by Vince Flynn
LIDO, ITALY
A bel never got on the cruise ship. In the end he stood there on the pier and looked at all of the plus-size people being led onto the ship like cattle being led away to slaughter and balked. He was a man of great wealth now, and he reasoned that hiding at a five-star hotel would be every bit as effective as trying to blend in on a cruise ship. So he turned around and went right back to where he’d come from. Well, not exactly. Instead of returning to Venice proper he took a ferry to Lido, the skinny eight-mile-long island that runs south of Venice and forms a barrier between it and the sea. Abel thought if anyone was lucky enough to follow him to Venice, the last place they would look would be out on one of the outer islands. So he booked a suite at the sumptuous Hotel des Bains.
Saturday and Sunday were spent strolling up and down the beautiful sandy beaches of the island, enjoying the unseasonably warm October weather and trying to figure out where he would buy his villa. He was back to that now. Rapp was alive, the assassins had failed, Rashid was trying to track him down, and his future was clear. He would have to divest of everything he owned, and start over with a new name and identity. He’d done basically just that when he’d immigrated to Austria twelve years ago. He’d kept his name, but nothing else, and he had done it with limited resources. This time he had eleven million dollars plus, he estimated, another million or so once he sold the two apartments and a few other things.
He had decided to keep Saeed’s money. The assassins had yet to send their six million back, and in a way they’d made Abel’s decision for him. He had no way of tracking them down quickly enough, and he wondered how wise it would be to even try to find them. They knew far more about him than he did about them, and the man had warned him that he would kill him if he tried to discover their true identities. Abel never again wanted to feel that man’s hot breath on his neck. He would let them be. Let them keep the six million, and since Saeed was no longer honoring their original agreement by asking for the entire twenty-two million back, Abel felt no need to honor any aspect of the deal either. It was every man for himself.
The other deciding factor had been his worsening relationship with Rashid. Things always ended badly with men like Rashid. The key was knowing when to get out. Abel had felt for some time that he was disposable in the prince’s eyes. Now that this thing with Rapp had ended in failure, he had no doubt that Rashid had ordered his henchman Tayyib to find him and kill him. Giving Saeed his money back would change none of that, so it was with complete confidence that he had decided to keep the money and start a new life.
The apartments he didn’t care about, but the Alpine house would be difficult to part with. Maybe he could keep it and see how things went. He had used a lawyer and a front company to purchase it. He’d always envisioned it as a place that he could hang on to if things got bad. Over the years, however, he’d brought people like Petrov there, and for that reason alone he could not totally rely on it as a safe haven. For now, though, he would keep it.
It was a big world with lots of nice places, but Abel preferred Europe. Especially the areas around Switzerland: northern Italy, southern Germany, Austria, and France. On the other hand, South America was probably the logical choice. Largely untouched by terrorism, they still had not modernized their customs and immigrations agencies enough to make it difficult to obtain entry with fake passports. The major cities, though, the ones like Rio and Sao Paolo, places where a European could disappear, were filled with some of the worst poverty he’d ever seen. Poverty was something that irritated Abel. He didn’t like crowds, and he yearned for order. The complete lack of self-control displayed by the masses, the way they lived on top of each other in the most unseemly conditions and spat out child after child like rats in a sewer, disgusted him. South America might be the smartest choice, but Abel wasn’t quite ready to surrender so easily. There had to be a better way.
Monday morning arrived with Abel desperately searching for a way to stay in Europe. The warm weekend weather gave way to a cool front coming in off the Adriatic and Abel found himself practically the only man on the beach. He took a long walk all the way to the southern tip of the Lido, which from his hotel was about four miles. The idea of changing his identity had grown on him. It was time—time to start a new chapter in his life. Paris, Milan, and Zurich had some of the world’s best plastic surgeons. He wouldn’t do anything drastic. Maybe a chin tuck, a new nose, and one of those new micro face lifts. Nothing too drastic. Just enough to make him look younger. The rest he could accomplish with a new wardrobe. For the last twelve years he’d cultivated a European aristocratic look. Maybe the metro chic look would suit him better? The younger women appeared to be more drawn to that.
Abel made it back to the des Bains a little after 1:00 in the afternoon and took lunch in the garden. He ordered a light salad and a cup of bean soup. He’d been eating rich foods for five days now and decided he’d better get back to his old ways or he would have to portray a fat man in the next life. He knew a good forger, a man who used to work for the Stasi. He was in his seventies now, but had kept up with the technology of his trade. The man had moved to Vienna and set up shop. As he finished his soup, Abel decided he would have the plastic surgery, convalesce for a month until the swelling went down, and then go see the forger. He would be a new man, and if he was careful enough in building his history, he might be able to stay right in Europe. Maybe the South of France or Monaco. He could hide right in plain sight with all of the other jet-setters.
Abel wiped the corners of his mouth and sighed. He had time and he had money. The world was a big place. Surely he could disappear. The waiter took away the finished dishes and asked if he’d like anything else. Abel ordered a cappuccino and then decided to check on his finances.
He turned on his PDA, and held it in front of his face cupped in both hands, his thumbs working the small keys. He logged onto the Internet and then pulled up a list of sites that he commonly visited. All of his banks were near the top. Abel scrolled down to the first bank and clicked on it. Five seconds later he was entering his account number and lengthy password. Five seconds after that he was staring at his balance.
Abel blinked several times. It was impossible. His heart started to race. There had to be a mistake. Abel logged off the Internet and was about to call the bank directly when he thought better of it. He logged back on and checked another account. He gripped the small plastic device and willed it to connect faster. When the second account appeared on the screen, he stood up so quickly his wrought-iron chair fell over and landed loudly on the stone patio. Abel ignored the waiter, who had come to see if everything was all right. He rushed into the hotel, cursing under his breath, the veins on his forehead bulging. His thumbs worked furiously to verify this horrible news. He pulled up the third account and then the fourth. By the time he reached his suite there was no denying it. All five accounts had been emptied. His balance was zero in each one. Just like that, eleven million dollars was gone.
Abel paced back and forth across the wood floor of his twelve-hundred-dollar-a-night suite. He screamed once at the top of his lungs, for just a few seconds, and then he got control of himself. He had to think this through. There had to be a mistake or a way to fix it. He knew all of these bankers personally. What had happened was impossible, but then again it wasn’t. Saeed was worth billions. His pull at these banks could be immense. The Swiss were cautious and Abel knew of situations where they had placed money in escrow accounts until the two parties could sort out their differences.
Abel was as mad as he’d ever been. He’d had it all planned out and he was damned if he was going to let some amateur like Saeed get the best of him. In the end Abel had the leverage, not Saeed and not Rashid. He was nobody. A professional intelligence operative who could disappear. They could not.
Abel opened the room’s safe and turned on his encrypted satellite phone. As soon as he had a signal he dialed the number for Rashid’s office in Riyadh. When the man answered on the other end, Abe
l identified himself and said that he would wait exactly ten seconds for him to put the prince on the phone. Any longer than that and he would hang up. Abel knew Rashid was looking for him and guessed correctly that the call would be put through in a speedy manner.
He was on nine when the prince answered.
“My friend, where have you been? We have much to talk about.”
“You’re damn right we do.” Abel had never spoken to Rashid in such a manner. “Tell Saeed that he has until the close of business today to put that money back in my account or I will make sure Mitch Rapp finds out he was the one who took out the bounty on him.”
“I think you’re a bit late,” Rashid said in a no-nonsense tone.
Abel detected no false bravado. “What do you mean?”
“Saeed was just killed in an explosion.”
“When?”
“An hour ago.”
“Where?”
“In front of his office.”
“By who?”
“Who do you think?”
“I don’t know,” growled an angry Abel.
“Mitch Rapp.”
Abel stopped pacing. “How? That’s impossible.”
“Apparently not.”
Abel could feel a monstrous headache coming on. He started pacing again, looking at the floor as he went from one end of the room to the other. “I want my money back,” he blurted out.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The eleven million dollars Saeed paid me to have Rapp killed.”
“Rapp is still alive.”
“I don’t care. The deal was I keep the deposit whether he was killed or not. I want my money back.”
“Come to Riyadh and we will talk about this.”
“Rashid, don’t be a fool. I will never set foot in your country again.” Abel had never spoken to him in such a discourteous manner. It was always prince this or prince that.
“Then come to Spain. I am leaving for Granada tonight. We can discuss your money and figure out how we will deal with Rapp.”
“No,” Abel said firmly. “You will pay me eleven million dollars by five o’clock Zurich time today, or I will tell Rapp this was all your idea.”
There was a long silence and then Rashid said, “Don’t be foolish. Two can play that game. If you do that you will be signing your death warrant.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I am nobody. A single individual who can disappear. You are the powerful and wealthy Prince Muhammad bin Rashid.” Abel spoke the name with disdain. “Rapp will have a hard time finding me. You, on the other hand, will be easy to find.”
“Erich, think about what you are doing. You do not want me as an enemy.”
“And you don’t want to end up like your friend Saeed, so you’d better give me the eleven million dollars by five or I promise you, Rapp is going to find out that you orchestrated this whole thing. I’ll send your assistant wiring instructions for the money.”
“Give me until five tomorrow. I am wealthy but not in the way Saeed was. I need time.”
“Noon tomorrow! That is all you have.”
Abel hit the end button on the phone and threw it on the bed. He clasped his hands behind his neck, took several more laps around the room, and then grabbed his suitcase. He had to get moving. He needed cash, but he couldn’t trust the banks. That meant he had to get to the Alpine house. He had close to $100,000 in the safe. It would be enough to get the surgery done and buy a new set of identification. Hopefully Rashid would see the light and give him the money. He did not want to spend the rest of his years looking over his shoulder for Mitch Rapp.
69
THE WHITE HOUSE
K ennedy’s armor-plated sedan pulled up to the Southwest Gate. The Secret Service officers were accustomed to her coming and going, but checked the undercarriage and trunk nonetheless. Kennedy had been to the White House so many times she’d stopped counting years ago. There were still moments, though, like now, when she could feel her pulse quicken and her stomach tighten. Most of these visits were simple, standard intelligence briefings. Occasionally there was a crisis to handle, but more often than not her duty was to inform and advise the president and the rest of the national security team as was needed.
This afternoon was going to be different, though. Nothing boring, benign or otherwise. It was going to be a high stakes game, and the players were some of Washington’s most powerful. Three people in particular wanted her head on a platter—the director of National Intelligence, her supposed boss; the secretary of state; and the attorney general. On top of it all, her recent travels had tired Kennedy out. DC to Zurich and back in less than sixteen hours. Add to that the murder of Anna Rielly, the attack on the safe house, and a boss who had no idea what he was doing and you ended up with a frayed and worn-out director of the CIA. Kennedy would have preferred to go straight home to see Tommy and then go to bed early, but there was no postponing this meeting. They were too upset, and to be completely honest, there was a devious side to her that was looking forward to it. She’d learned from Rapp. Sometimes it’s best to let it fly. Especially when the deck is stacked in your favor.
Kennedy checked her watch. It was 5:18 on Monday. Fortunately, she’d managed to get a few hours’ sleep on both the flight over and the flight back. When she’d decided to follow the lead to Zurich, she did so with the comforting knowledge that the president would at least privately support her. She was always prepared to play the game and kiss the ring fingers and curtsy, in order to keep the Cabinet members and other important types happy. She herself, after all, was one of the important people, but that wasn’t going to help her out on this one. These people were above her and she had committed the ultimate insider’s sin. She had kept them out of the loop and she had stepped all over their toes. In the end, at least in their eyes, she had made them look bad. That was the problem. This group didn’t like being made to look bad.
Kennedy left her large briefcase in the backseat and grabbed a brown leather folder. She stepped from the car and stood on the curb for a second. Her shoulder length brown hair was pulled back in a simple black clip that matched her black pantsuit and black shoes. Kennedy slid a hand between her blue blouse and her pants waist to make sure the shirt was tucked in. She adjusted her glasses and then set off through the door and into the West Wing where she was stopped by another Secret Service officer. Kennedy flashed her badge and signed her name in the logbook. From there she went upstairs and straight to the president’s gatekeeper, Betty Rodgers, a DC native and extremely competent assistant.
Betty’s office was small, like most of the rooms in the West Wing with the exception of the Oval Office and Cabinet Room. Betty looked up at Kennedy over the top of her reading spectacles. She was in her early fifties, but she already had that grandmotherly look. She pursed her lips as if she had something to say and then stopped.
Kennedy liked Betty, which was important. As the president’s top assistant she got to see some of the country’s most treasured secrets. She was someone who needed to be tough and discreet. She was both.
“Good evening, Betty.”
“Irene, what have you been up to?” Betty asked in a friendly but accusatory tone.
“Very little.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard, honey. You’ve got some very angry people in there. They’ve been burning up the phones all day.”
Kennedy cared about their reaction, but she was most interested in getting a read on the top boss. “How is the president?”
“Different.”
“How do you mean, different?”
“I don’t know…he just hasn’t been himself lately. It has nothing to do with your little trip to Switzerland. He’s actually been pretty calm about that. It’s the other ones who’ve been raising a stink. They all called individually to complain and then they came over here together at lunch to do it all over again.” Betty took her glasses off and let them hang from the chain around her neck. In a hushed voice she asked, �
��I hope you got what you were looking for, because they want to burn you at the stake.”
Kennedy smiled and patted her brown leather folder.
“Good.” Betty looked at her watch. “Get in there and give them hell. And be quick about it. I have dinner plans.”
Kennedy thanked her and entered the Oval Office. They were all waiting for her. The president, Ross, Secretary of State Berg, Attorney General Stokes, and even Vice President Baxter. Baxter and the president were sitting in the two chairs directly in front of the fireplace. The power chairs. Ross, Berg, and Stokes were lined up on one couch like a firing squad. The identical couch opposite was empty. That was where they wanted her to sit. Isolated, like some child being called to the principal’s office. Kennedy gladly accepted her seat of solitude. She set her leather folder on the glass coffee table and leaned back, confident that their argument would be emotional whereas she had some pretty damning evidence on her side.
Ross was the first to speak. He was wearing another one of his perfectly tailored Brooks Brothers suits. It was dark blue, almost black, and made out of a light wool. He had on a white shirt with some type of special weave, the kind that costs more than some people’s monthly rent. His silver tie complemented his silver and black hair. Just two weeks ago Kennedy remembered thinking the man was handsome. Now all she saw was a man obsessed with his own vanity.
Ross shifted his position on the couch and straightened up a bit. He looked at Kennedy with a no-nonsense glare and asked, “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Kennedy shook her head. She wanted to draw them out.
“Well, let me tell you how my day went,” Ross said in an irritated tone. “Shortly before lunch I got a call from Secretary of State Berg. She wanted to know if I knew you were in Switzerland.” Ross glanced at the president and then back at Kennedy. “Do you think it’s acceptable to leave the country and not inform me?”
“You’re a busy man, Mark. I didn’t want to bother you.”