by Vince Flynn
“Let me guess…it’s parked at the Vienna International Airport.”
“No. It was actually parked in Zurich, but six minutes ago it started moving.”
Rapp paused and looked at the little black radio again. “Where is it headed?”
“South is all they said. Out of the city.”
Rapp didn’t press the transmit button right away. He knew Zurich well and was trying to picture what lay south of the city. The lake was dead south. Everything flowed around it either to the east or west. He hit the button. “Is the car headed southeast or southwest?”
It took a few seconds for Milt to reply. “Southeast.”
Rapp’s mind was racing ahead. Southeast was either the Austrian border or Italy. “Milt, I’m on my way over. Get me a fast helicopter, and find out who we have on the ground in Zurich.”
Rapp clicked off and looked at Coleman. He pointed at the bound Saudi on the floor. “He’s coming with us. Tell them to get that box back up here and get him down in the van ASAP.”
78
WESTERN AUSTRIA
A bel was not worried about tracking devices. The car was new, and it had been stored and covered at a local garage while he was gone. There was no way for anyone to know that he had kept the car there. Still, his years of spycraft made him cautious. On the way out of Zurich he got off the autobahn twice and doubled back. When he was absolutely sure no one was following him, he set out for his destination like a rocket. The 493 hp engine propelled the silver Mercedes down the Swiss autobahn at speeds sometimes approaching 150 mph. That was only on the straightaway, though. The police were fine with fast driving, but not reckless. When he made his way into the mountain passes, the winding, climbing, and then falling road caused him to reduce his speed greatly. The trip from Zurich to Bludenz took two hours and forty-seven minutes.
Abel pulled into the quaint town and was immediately hit with a feeling of melancholy. He loved this place and it made him sad that he would be denied its simple pleasures because of some sadistic Saudi and a crazy American. On impulse, he stopped the car in front of the small grocery store. He was hungry and he might as well pick up some of his favorite foods. Abel walked in the front door, and a bell chimed to announce to the owner that a customer had arrived. Abel breathed in the smells. The pastries, the meats, the fresh coffee, this place was heaven.
The butcher was standing at his post behind the meat counter, a fresh white apron tied around his waist. Abel watched him carefully for any type of reaction, any hint that strangers had been in town asking about him. Who knew what the Americans might do? With their new war on, it was very possible they would alert Interpol and the state police in both Switzerland and Austria.
The butcher smiled warmly at him. He looked Abel directly in the eye and although he did not know the customer by name, he told him it was good to see him again. This was all a relief to Abel. He was one step ahead of the people looking for him. He asked for several links of sausage and then picked up some vegetables, a few small wedges of cheese, milk, fresh coffee, a couple of pastries, and a few eggs. By the time he checked out, he was considering spending the night. He knew he shouldn’t, but he also knew this would be the last time he would see his beloved Alpine house for some time.
Abel drove the silver SL 55 AMG Mercedes up the switchback road with the sunroof open and the windows down. It was chilly outside, but he didn’t care. It felt so good to breathe in the clean mountain air. Abel would miss the majestic views and the quaintness of the village. If only there was a way to stay, to simply hide out here in the Alps and hope that no one discovered him. Petrov knew about the place, though, and the Americans would eventually find out that Petrov had been his handler all those years ago when the Iron Curtain still divided Europe.
Abel looked back on it all and wondered where he had made his mistake. Was it when he agreed to take the job from Saeed? Was it when he pushed the assassins and threatened to hunt them down? At the time, it seemed like his only option, but looking back on it now, it had been a foolish and emotionally inspired move. He had no idea who they were, and they knew far too much about him. It was clear now what they had decided. He had threatened them, and rather than hunt him down themselves like the man said he would, they decided to put the CIA and this monster Mitch Rapp onto his trail. It was a brilliant move on their part, and one that Abel should have foreseen. His second mistake was leaving the money in the accounts. He should have moved it. It pained him to no end to think that he had let eleven million dollars slip through his hands.
Abel rounded the last switchback. There was no guardrail, just a tiny stone ledge and then a steep drop over the edge. His place was ahead on the right. The tires left the pavement and moved onto the crushed rock |of his driveway. He skidded to a stop in front of the house and looked around. It appeared at first glance exactly as he had left it. He grabbed the keys and got out, standing there for a moment, looking back up the hill through the thick branches of the pine trees and the golden fall leaves of the aspens. Other than the slight rustle of dry fall leaves there wasn’t a sound.
Abel left the groceries in the backseat and entered the house. He locked the door behind him and went straight downstairs. The house was built into the side of the mountain, so the basement had an earthy, musty smell. A single door with triple windows offered a shaded view of the valley. The deck from above cast a shadow. It was not quite 4:00 in the afternoon. The German went to a door at the back of the basement, opened it, and turned on a light.
A furnace and water heater sat in the far corner. The cement floor was painted a burnt red and was cracked. Skis and poles were hung on a set of pegs. Boots, gloves, goggles, and hats, and a variety of other outdoor accessories were neatly placed on two shelves. A wood pallet with paint cans stacked on top sat in the corner opposite the furnace. Abel grabbed one of the slats and dragged the pallet to the middle of the room. He took a small crowbar hanging on the wall and wedged the straight end into a small crack in the floor. A small section roughly the shape of Australia rose above the rest of the floor. Abel stuck his free hand under the lip and grabbed hold. He tossed the crowbar to the side and slid the section out of the way, revealing a large floor safe. He dialed the combination, jerked the handle clockwise a quarter of a turn and pulled up. He removed one black nylon bag and then a second, a third, and finally a fourth.
Everything was put back just as it had been and then he grabbed the four bags and went back upstairs. When he reached the front entryway he was breathing heavily and for a moment was concerned he’d stirred up some mold in the storage room and was having an asthma attack. He stood up straight, placed his hands over his head, and concentrated on taking deep, full breaths. After a half minute he felt better. It was nothing more than the thin mountain air. Suddenly, he remembered the groceries in the car. He was famished.
Abel threw the dead bolt and yanked open the heavy wood door. He crossed the timber porch and stepped down onto the crushed rock. He glanced to his left and right and then again up the slope of the mountain. It was his favorite place on earth. Maybe he could stay one last night. Cook a nice meal, build a fire, and sip a little cognac. He had a bottle of Louis XIII. It would be a shame to waste it. Abel made a note to clear out the wine cellar. There would be room in the trunk. He would stay the night and say good-bye the proper way.
Abel opened the back passenger door and grabbed the bag of groceries. He put them under his left arm, stepped away and closed the door with his right. As he turned to head back into the house he found himself staring down the length of a thick black silencer at the face of the last man he wanted to see. Abel dropped the bag of groceries, and said, “I can explain.”
“I’m sure you can.” Rapp took half a step back and then kicked Abel in the balls, dropping him to the ground.
79
I t was the two exits off the autobahn and the doubling back that told them it was Abel behind the wheel. Milt had tapped into the Mercedes mainframe, and they were following t
he car’s progress on a color screen that showed the exact road the car was on. It showed gas stations, churches, restaurants, rivers, lakes, parks, everything. As soon as the car doubled back for the second time, Rapp knew it was their man. Two of the Agency’s people from the embassy in Bern had been camped in front of Abel’s Zurich apartment for the better part of a day. They were pulled off their assignment and put into pursuit of a car they never caught up to.
Finding a helicopter proved more difficult than they would have thought, but that also didn’t matter. An hour into tracking him, the car headed due east, straight for the Austrian border and according to the map a town called Bludenz. Milt worked the computers and found out they had a regional airport. By plane, the flight was less than thirty minutes. Rapp, Coleman and his men, and the big Saudi all took off for the airport. While in flight, Milt arranged two rental cars: a Volvo sedan and van. The vehicles were waiting for them when they landed. The only difficult part was transferring the Saudi. Rapp decided to leave him in the plane under the watchful eye of Stroble, rather than risk one of the locals seeing a bound and gagged man being stuffed into a rental car.
It took eight minutes to get from the airport into town. Milt had given them constant updates on the car’s progress. It had arrived in Bludenz just before they’d landed and it had stopped for exactly seventeen minutes. It then headed north, up what Milt assumed was a residential road. He had been right. They took the Volvo slowly up the switchbacks, beyond where Milt said the vehicle had stopped. Rapp and Wicker got out and silently worked their way back down the hillside. They found the big, expensive Mercedes parked right in front of what they assumed was Abel’s house. Rapp radioed Coleman to come back down and block the driveway while he picked his way from tree to tree. Wicker found a good spot and covered Rapp with a silenced special-purpose sniping rifle. Rapp maneuvered to a spot where the woods were closest to the house and then made his way onto the side of the porch and crawled to a spot near the front door. Before he could even check the lock, the door opened, swinging toward him, and then Abel appeared.
THE LIGHT WAS fading. The sky had gone from blue, to orange, to gray. Rapp stoked the logs in the large stone fireplace with a black iron poker, and then left the tip of it sitting in the midst of the blazing red coals. He took two sturdy chairs from the dining room and placed them in front of the fireplace. Coleman sat Abel in one and the big Saudi in the other. Their lower legs and ankles were duct taped to the chairs, as were their waists and chests. Both men were blindfolded and gagged. Neither knew he was in the other’s presence. Rapp and Coleman had already searched the house and found nothing of interest other than the black bags, which were loaded into the trunk of Abel’s Mercedes.
When Rapp was ready he asked Coleman to remove their shoes and socks and then told Wicker, Hackett, and Stroble to wait outside. When Coleman was done with the shoes and socks he gave him the option to leave. Coleman declined.
Rapp stood in front of the two men with his back to the fire. He reached out and grabbed the silver tape that covered Abel’s eyes and yanked it off his face. Two thirds of both eyebrows stayed attached to the tape. Abel tried to scream, but his cry was muffled by the tape covering his mouth. Rapp yanked the tape off his mouth, and Abel began gasping for air. Rapp yanked the tape off the Saudi’s eyes, and the man barely flinched. The Saudi had yet to utter a word other than when he was screaming in Abel’s office and that had been because he knew his only chance was to have one of the neighboring office workers call the police. Since then he’d remained silent. Rapp could see it in his eyes. This one was a true follower. It would take months to break him, and even then the Saudi might prefer to die. That was why Rapp kept the tape over his mouth.
Rapp held up a phone and said, “On the other end of this line is a man who has thoroughly read your KGB file. He has access to every database you could imagine. We know all about your time with the Stasi. We know how you started out as gay bait for Westerners traveling to East Germany, and we know about the blackmail operations you ran. You are only going to get one chance at this.” Rapp held up the forefinger of his left hand and repeated himself, “One chance.”
Rapp turned around and grabbed the hot poker from the fire. The tip was bright red. Rapp held it in front of Abel’s horrified face and said, “We’ve talked to your buddy here.” Rapp moved the poker over to the Saudi. “I think he lied to us. He blamed everything on you.”
The Saudi looked at the tip with a frown.
The poker swung back in front of Abel’s face. It was still glowing hot. Abel turned his head away. Rapp pulled the poker back and said very calmly, “Look at me. If I catch you lying to me…even once, this is what I’m going to do to you.”
Rapp took the poker, held it vertically in his left hand, and jammed it straight down through the top of the Saudi’s right foot. The Saudi’s entire body looked as if it would break through the duct tape for a second. Coleman stepped up from behind and grabbed the man so he wouldn’t tip over in his chair. Rapp yanked the poker free and held it in front of Abel. A hunk of charred skin hung from the end, and the room filled with the awful smell of burnt flesh.
“One chance,” Rapp said. “That’s all I’m going to give you.”
That was all it took. Earlier, Abel had thought his biggest mistake had been threatening the assassin. Then he thought it was leaving the money in the accounts. Now he was convinced the biggest mistake he ever made was entering into a business relationship with Prince Muhammad bin Rashid. Abel sang and kept on singing for twenty solid minutes. He told how Rashid had sent for him. How Rashid had arranged the meeting with Saeed. How later he learned that this whole thing had been Rashid’s idea. Abel didn’t know that for a fact, but he suspected it. Rashid was a sick sociopath. He lived to manipulate people, and it was important to give Rapp someone bigger to go after. Some fresh meat. He’d already killed Saeed, and if this was the end of the road for Rapp, Abel was a dead man. If he could offer him someone like Rashid, someone who was really guilty, he might survive. He told Rapp that Rashid was in Granada, Spain, at his villa for the rededication of some ridiculous mosque on Friday. Abel had been to Rashid’s villa before. He explained how the Saudi prince viewed himself as the new caliph for the reclaimed Muslim lands of southern Spain.
He spat on Tayyib and told Rapp everything he knew about the Saudi intelligence officer. He’d never liked the man. At one point the big Saudi tried to knock his own chair over and go after Abel. Rapp grabbed the red hot poker and held it up to the Saudi’s groin. Tayyib instantly turned into a statue.
Rapp put the poker back in the fire and asked Abel, “Tell me about the assassins you hired.”
Abel hesitated.
Rapp reached for the poker.
Abel answered, “A man and a woman. I met them in Paris. I had never worked with them before.”
“How did you find out about them?”
Abel hesitated before answering. “Rashid had heard of them.”
Rapp saw the lie. He could tell by the way the man had looked quickly down and to his right before answering. It was the first time he’d done it. Rapp grabbed the poker, held it out in front of Abel, and then jammed it through the top of his right foot.
Abel howled in pain and began screaming.
Rapp told Coleman to get some ice from the kitchen and then said to Abel, “I told you not to lie to me. Now, how did you come to hire the assassins?”
Abel had tears streaming down his anguished face. Coleman returned with the ice wrapped in a kitchen towel. Rapp tapped the other foot with the hot poker and said, “Last chance.”
“Petrov…Dimitri Petrov.”
Rapp had also read the file. “Your old boss from the KGB.”
Abel nodded.
Rapp set the bag on top of his foot. “Now tell me everything you know about the assassins.”
“I never saw the man. I only spoke with him. He spoke perfect French and English. His Russian was also very good, but not as good.”
Rapp remembered the man’s perfect Americanized English from when he’d run into him near his house. “What do you remember about the woman?”
“Very beautiful. Black hair, high cheekbones, very nice skin.”
“Eyes?”
“I never saw them. She never took her glasses off.”
“Nationality?”
“French. I am almost certain.”
That jibed with what Rapp had guessed. “Do you think they were a couple? Beyond the business end of things?”
“Definitely.”
Rapp stopped asking questions for a moment.
Abel grew nervous. He knew once Rapp had gotten what he wanted from him, it would likely be the end. “I would like to say that I was nothing more than a courier. I was never told who Saeed and Rashid wanted killed. I simply handed over an envelope to the assassins.”
Rapp placed a hand on the fireplace mantel and looked at Coleman. “Why don’t you drag our other friend outside and leave us alone for a minute?”
Coleman grabbed the Saudi’s chair, tilted him back and dragged him across the hardwood floor and out the front door.
The door closed with a thud and Abel said, “I am very sorry about your wife. They went too far.”
Rapp felt like shoving the hot poker through Abel’s heart for even mentioning his wife. “Nothing more than a courier, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“A courier who got paid eleven million dollars.” Rapp’s eyes were locked on Abel’s. Once again he looked down and to the right and then he looked back at Rapp with pleading eyes.
“Please, you must believe me. All I did was deliver an envelope. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Rapp pushed himself away from the fireplace and walked into the dining room. Coleman had found the bottle of Louis XIII cognac. Like the modern-day pirate that he was, the former SEAL wanted to keep it. Rapp told him maybe. Now he had a better idea for it. He walked back in front of the fireplace, the ornate bottle in hand. Rapp took off the cap and thought about taking a swig. He thought about his wife and the life they had had together. He thought about the child they would never have. Then he thought about how their entire future had been ruined by this greedy prick sitting before him.