by Vince Flynn
Abel was really nervous. When men like Rapp got quiet, nothing good ever came of it. He had to keep him talking. “We are both professionals, you and I. I know the rules. Professionals never harm each other’s families.”
“You were a Stasi pig who used to kidnap people and hold them for ransom. You were never a professional.” Rapp brought the bottle to his lips and took a big gulp. It went back smooth and then bit his throat with a mellow burning sensation.
“How old is this place?” Rapp looked up at the timber rafters.
“It was built in nineteen fifty-two,” Abel answered, a confused expression on his face.
Rapp nodded. “I bet the wood is pretty dry at this altitude.” Rapp turned the bottle on its side and some of the cognac spilled onto the wide plank hardwood floor and then onto the carpet. Rapp splashed out a little more.
“What are you doing?” Abel yelled.
“Arranging your funeral pyre.” Rapp splashed a little more liquid on the carpet by Abel and then some close to the fireplace.
“No!” Abel screamed. “I know more!”
“I’m sure you do. More lies.” The cognac splashed into the flames and caught fire. It shot out from the stone hearth and spread to the rug. Rapp bent over and grabbed the side of the copper kettle that was filled with kindling. He dumped it onto the floor and it caught fire almost immediately.
Abel was screaming. Pleading for his life. “You can’t do this!”
“Oh yes, I can,” Rapp said as he started toward the door. He opened the heavy wood door and never bothered to look back. Didn’t even bother to close the door. He figured the air would be good for the fire.
Rapp took one more swig of the cognac and then handed it to Coleman. “I’ll drive.”
The other guys got into the rented Volvo van, and Rapp got behind the wheel of Abel’s Mercedes. Coleman climbed in the passenger seat.
The former SEAL took a sip of the $2,000-a-bottle cognac and sighed. “Where to now?”
Rapp put the car into reverse and said, “Granada, Spain.”
80
GRANADA, SPAIN
R app looked up at the country estate on the hill and assumed the bastard Rashid was hiding behind its walls. It was midafternoon on Wednesday. They’d arrived in the city of 300,000 late the previous evening and rented two minivans. The first order of business was to find a hotel and get some sleep. Langley had confirmed what Abel had told them; that Rashid was in the Spanish town to rededicate an old mosque that had been converted into a church. The ceremony was to take place on Friday. Rapp decided that they would start their reconnaissance in the morning.
They found the country estate right away. It was impossible to miss. It sat high on a hill just to the north of the world-famous Alhambra. Rapp had toured Alhambra in his early twenties. The part citadel/part palace was built by the Nasrid Kings, the last Moors to rule southern Spain. This was where they took their last stand in 1492 before they were defeated by the forces of Spain’s Catholic monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella. According to the report provided by Langley, Rashid had bought the country estate in severe disrepair and had poured millions of dollars into it and every other Muslim landmark he could find in the historic town. Abel had said that this was all part of Rashid’s grand plan to retake southern Spain and claim it for Islam.
Rapp was sitting behind the wheel of a dark blue minivan. He looked down at the laptop balanced on the center console, and read the report the researchers at Langley had sent along. The house that Rashid bought even had a name. The place dated back to the twelfth century and in Arabic it was called al Yannat al-Arif—the garden of lofty paradise. Rapp picked up a set of binoculars and looked at the place high up on the hill.
“That’s as close as you’re ever going to get to paradise, Rashid.”
Rapp lowered the binoculars and looked up the street at a small outdoor café. He was parked on the Carrera del Darro. Coleman was sitting at a small table negotiating with a man who looked like he could have been his brother. They were the same height, the same build, the same fair hair, and about the same age. Rashid had called in the reserves. On the first reconnaissance sweep of the morning they noticed the men in the blue coveralls, with the berets and Enfield rifles. It was immediately obvious that these guys were no rent-a-cops. The way they carried themselves, their berets, their Enfield rifles all pointed to one thing—these guys were British commandos. Probably former SAS guys, some of the best soldiers in the world.
Their presence presented a real problem tactically. They would not be easy to get past, and even more importantly, neither Rapp nor Coleman had any stomach for killing men they saw as comrades in arms. They had both worked with the British before and considered them America’s best ally. Stuck in this seemingly no-win situation Coleman came up with an idea. He ran his own security company. Almost all of his men were former SEALs, Delta Force, Green Berets, Rangers, or Recon Marines. They were almost always guys who got out because they were tired of the bullshit that went along with being in the service. That and the fact that they could make six to ten times more in a year what they were getting paid in the military. Personal protection, guns for hire, it was a pretty specialized field. There were a few pretenders, but most of the players were real, and they were all interconnected, either from their military days or the time they spent hanging out in crappy Third World bars while they either protected diplomats or plotted to kill terrorists and thugs.
Coleman had contacts in Britain, and he got on the phone. Within an hour he had a pretty good idea which company had taken the job guarding Rashid. It was an outfit called Shield Security Services, and as they’d guessed, it was run by a couple of former SAS guys. Coleman called the office directly, and a nice young woman answered. He explained who he was and that he was in the business. He asked to speak to the owner, a guy named Ian Higsby. The woman informed him that he was on assignment at the moment. Coleman pressed her for details telling her he needed to subcontract a job and that he’d heard good things about the company. The prospect of new business did the trick and she gave Coleman Higsby’s mobile phone number.
Coleman called him up straight away, introduced himself, and gave the commando his military credentials. Higsby had heard of him. By the tone of his voice, Coleman got the idea that this was not good. Coleman saw no point in bullshitting the guy, so he came straight out and asked him if he was in Spain. The dead silence on the line said it all.
“Granada,” Coleman said.
The man still didn’t answer.
“We need to meet,” Coleman told him. “Face to face. As soon as possible.”
“Why?”
“You ever heard of a guy named Mitch Rapp?”
“Most certainly. I was just given a picture of him and told to shoot him on sight.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Wasn’t exactly thrilled. It was dropped on me after I took the job.”
“Well…like I said. We need to meet. I think we can help each other out.”
They agreed on a place in the Albaicin neighborhood and set a time.
Rapp had been watching them for the better part of an hour and was starting to get frustrated. It appeared to be going well, but enough already. Finally, the two shook hands, and Coleman got up and walked down the street. Rapp watched the Brit head the other way. Coleman got in the van and gave Rapp the thumbs-up.
“It’s all taken care of.”
“It was that easy?” Rapp asked, surprised.
“Higsby had read about your wife. He offers his condolences.”
Rapp started the car and said nothing.
“He received a call on Monday and was offered fifty thousand to do five days of security. He’s got an eight-man team, and Rashid sent a plane for them. The job was five days in southern Spain babysitting some Saudi billionaire. He takes ten grand off the top and the rest of them get five grand apiece for what they thought was going to be a cakewalk. Then they got here and the head of Rashid’s security
detail showed them a picture of you and told them to shoot you on sight.”
“How’d they like that?” Rapp asked as he pulled out into traffic.
“They didn’t. Some of these guys have served over in the sandbox, and they’ve had friends killed by Saudi suicide bombers. They consider you an ally and Rashid the enemy. Higsby told me he practically had a mutiny on his hands.”
“So did he agree to play ball?”
“Yeah, he was a little worried about what this might do to his reputation. None of us like to lose a protectee. It’s not exactly good for business.”
“Did you offer him the cash?” Rapp was referring to the money they’d taken from Abel’s Alpine house.
“One hundred thousand euros. Plus I told him I’d make sure the U.S. government sent some contracts his way. I’ll leave it up to you to tell Irene.”
Rapp nodded. “No problem. I’ll take care of it. What’s the plan?”
“He’s eating dinner tonight with the mayor. Up at the house. Seven o’clock. Higsby said he went to bed at nine last night so he doesn’t expect him to stay up late.” Coleman unfolded a piece of paper. “He gave me a layout of the place and showed me where he sleeps. He also offered a uniform.”
“Good.” Rapp stared straight ahead. “I’ll go in alone as soon as the mayor leaves.”
81
T hey sat and waited. They watched the mayor arrive, or at least they assumed it was him. Who else would travel with a local police escort? The cars pulled up to the main gate just before seven in the evening, just as the sun was disappearing and the light was fading. The temperature began to drop like a stone. They knew it would be a while so they got something to eat and went over the plan one more time. All the gear was stowed and Hackett was sent to the airport to get the plane ready in case they needed to make a hasty departure.
The mayor left shortly after nine, and they roused Tayyib from his drug-induced slumber. He’d already been cleaned up, and put in a fresh set of clothes and a new suit. His blindfold remained on and he was placed in the back of the van with Stroble. Rapp sat in the front passenger seat. Rapp had shaved his beard and cut his thick black hair down to a bristly flattop. He was wearing blue coveralls and a beret. The same as Higsby and his men. Coleman and Stroble were dressed in the same manner.
Rapp turned around and looked at Tayyib as the van wound its way through the narrow streets. He didn’t look too bad considering what he’d been through, but most of his wounds were covered by his clothes. In addition to the shattered right elbow and the nerve damage done to his right foot, Rapp had also sliced all the tendons on Tayyib’s left wrist, rendering his hand useless, and leaving him with only one fully operational limb—his left leg. People reacted differently to drugs and this guy was pretty big. If he came out of it too quick, Rapp didn’t want to have to wrestle with him.
Coleman pulled over before reaching the road that led to the hilltop estate. He pulled out his mobile phone and called Higsby. The Brit answered and Coleman listened to him for fifteen seconds and then said, “We’ll be right there.”
Coleman hung up and looked at Rapp. “He’s praying.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
They’d gone over it all in the plan. There was a small mosque on the property, located closer to the main gate than the residence. Rashid had anywhere from three to six of his own bodyguards near him at all times. Rapp hoped they were all with him. It would make things easier.
“What about the bodyguards?”
“Three of them are standing outside the mosque. The other three he’s not sure about.”
Rapp frowned. He turned around and looked at Stroble, silently communicating that it was Stroble’s job to make sure the other three bodyguards didn’t show up unexpectedly. Stroble nodded. They’d gone over it all in the permission briefing. Wicker was already on site. He’d scaled one of the perimeter walls and had slithered onto the rooftop of the tallest building. From his perch he could cover the entire length of the inner courtyard that led from the main gate to the three-story main house.
The engine groaned as the van continued up the steep hill. Suddenly, Higsby and one of his men were visible in their headlights standing in front of the main gate. Coleman pulled over and turned off the van. Everyone got out, including Tayyib, who practically had to be carried, which was just fine. Stroble got under one arm and Coleman the other. Rapp led the way past Higsby and his man without a word.
The three of them plus Tayyib went through the main gate and took the walkway to the left. Up ahead on the left side of the open-air court Rapp sighted three men in suits. They were all smoking.
Rapp headed straight for them, stopped ten feet away, and in his best British accent said, “This man just showed up at the main gate asking to see Prince Muhammad. He said his name is Nawaf Tayyib.”
The men froze for a moment, their cigarettes dangling in their mouths.
“He keeps saying that the Malik al-Mawt is here.” Angel of death. “The man named Mitch Rapp that you spoke of.”
One cigarette fell to the ground and the other two were thrown. All three men grabbed their guns. Two of them ran forward to grab Tayyib, and the third went into the small mosque to get Rashid. The blindfold was yanked from Tayyib’s eyes and he howled in pain as one of the men grabbed him by his right elbow.
Coleman and Stroble were already retreating, their silenced MP-5 submachine guns aimed down but gripped firmly in both hands. Rapp had only his silenced 9mm Glock and a knife, which were both still holstered. He too began to retreat. His whole plan could fall apart any second and if that happened, the shooting would start and Higsby and his men would be forced to answer some very difficult questions.
Rapp started to step back. One of the men holding Tayyib got on a radio and started yelling in Arabic. Rapp took another step back slowly. Tayyib was trying to talk. Rapp heard his own name mentioned. Five seconds later three men burst through a door on the opposite side of the court and dashed across a path lined with sculpted cypress trees.
“Bees to the honey,” Rapp said to himself as he continued his slow retreat. He looked toward the door to the mosque wondering just what in the hell was taking Rashid so long. Rapp couldn’t wait much longer. He extracted the remote detonator from his pocket. This time rather than using a vest, Rapp had simply wrapped Tayyib’s entire torso in C-4 and covered every square inch with ball bearings. Rapp made it to a pillar and stopped. He looked over his shoulder quickly to check on Coleman and Stroble. They were standing next to each other one more pillar back. Rapp jerked his head for them to get behind it.
He looked back just as the bodyguard reappeared from the mosque and said, “Prince Muhammad wants to know if you’ve checked him for explosives.”
Everybody froze. Rapp hadn’t really thought he’d be able to get away with it twice, but the bomb would still serve its purpose.
The men on each side of Tayyib pulled back his suit coat and the man standing in front placed his hands on Tayyib’s waist. Rapp stepped behind the large stone column and pressed the button on the remote. There was a loud explosion, followed almost immediately by the sound of breaking glass as hundreds of ball bearings were hurled outward by the force of the explosion.
Rapp counted to three and peered back around the column. All six bodyguards were down and Tayyib was in two pieces—head and shoulders pointing toward the door to the mosque and his legs and ass pointing the same way. The other six men, and much of the courtyard, were covered in what used to be Tayyib’s torso and arms.
Rapp stepped over the bodies and went straight for the mosque. He stood next to the door and counted. He knew curiosity would get the best of Rashid and by the time Rapp got to seven Rashid proved him right. His pointy black beard poked its way into view followed by a pair of shocked brown eyes.
Rapp’s left hand shot out and grabbed Rashid by the end of his beard. He yanked him forward and at the same time brought his left knee up, delivering a vicious blow to the older man’s solar
plexus. Rashid fell to the ground right on top of one of his nearly decapitated bodyguards. Rapp rolled him over and placed his boot on the man’s chest.
He looked him in the eye and said, “Why?”
Rashid had a fire in his eyes. He spoke in Arabic and said, “Because you are an infidel.”
Rapp shook his head with disgust. “And my wife.”
There was no smile, no fear, no pleading, there was nothing other than total conviction in the man’s eyes. “She was an infidel. You are all infidels.”
Rapp nodded and said, “And you are going to hell.” Rapp grabbed a phosphorus grenade from the cargo pouch on his right thigh. The incendiary device reached a temperature of 2,000 degrees in less than two seconds. Rapp lifted his boot from Rashid’s chest and sent it crashing down once more, this time into Rashid’s stomach. The Saudi’s mouth opened wide, gasping for breath. Rapp was ready. He was holding the grenade by the top third, and he brought it crashing down with such force that it shattered Rashid’s front teeth and wedged itself firmly in his mouth.
Rapp got right in his face and said, “Fuck you! And fuck your sick, twisted, perversion of Islam.” Rapp yanked the pin and walked away. Three seconds later there was a pop followed by a blinding white flash, and then Rashid’s head literally melted from his body.
Epilogue
R app watched them for three days from a house on the hill overlooking the beach, which was probably one day too many. Coleman didn’t say anything. Didn’t make any observations. Didn’t offer any advice. It had been nine months, one week, and three days since Rapp’s wife had been killed. Wicker was with them, as were Hackett and Stroble. Wicker could have ended it more than a dozen times with his rifle. The winds were calm in the morning and the evening. It was just under 800 yards from one terrace to the other, and the trajectory was steep. For most people it would be an impossible shot, but for Wicker it was business as usual. The sniper waited for the word, but it never came.