Enemy at the Gates

by Vince Flynn

  “Weird,” Coleman said. “More like theater than an op. But theater for whose benefit?”

  Rapp just shrugged and his old friend pointed to a stone path leading to the other side of the compound.

  “Ward’s house is up that way. He said he wanted to see you when you got here.”

  * * *

  Modern bungalows constructed of wood, steel, and glass began to appear, set back into the trees on either side of the path. Having built something of a compound himself in Virginia, Rapp had to appreciate the design. Clean, modern, and conceived from the ground up for off-grid use. With the moderate climate, they had it easier than he did—no cooling necessary and small woodstoves would be enough for the few times a year that heat was necessary. On the other hand, everything that wasn’t locally sourced would have had to be flown in by cargo helicopter. Not cheap. But then, at some point it all became play money. His own brother had reached that level a while back. And his net worth was less than one thousandth of Ward’s. Rapp let that sink in for a moment. His mega-millionaire brother was a literal pauper compared to the man who owned this compound. Poor Steven. The kid was just barely getting by.

  Ward’s house was unlike anything Rapp had ever seen. Its two stories cantilevered out on every side and the exterior walls consisted of wood louvers. At this time of day, all were open, allowing a view straight through, past a large central kitchen to the panorama beyond. Machinery camouflaged in the corners suggested that the entire place could be closed up at the touch of a button.

  The man himself was sitting cross-legged on a terrace by the pool, absorbed by the book he was reading. Rapp’s approach went unnoticed until he was about ten feet away.

  “There you are!” Ward, said, tossing the book aside and getting to his feet. “I saw your chopper come in. Can I get you a beer?”

  Because some of the louvers had been raised instead of just being opened, there was no obvious entrance. In this configuration, the structure was more like a giant covered deck than a house. Rapp picked a random spot and climbed into what seemed to be the living room.

  “Sure.”

  He watched the richest man in history pull a couple of bottles from a stainless-steel refrigerator that was the same high-efficiency brand that Rapp had in his Virginia house. It could run off of a single solar panel and had served him well during the blackout.

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for everything you’ve done, Mitch.”

  “Nice place,” Rapp said by way of a response. No gratitude was necessary. He was there because of Kennedy and Coleman.

  “You like it? I have to admit that I thought it was a little weird when my architect showed me the plans. But my motto is hire the best, then get out of their way. Usually it works out.” He grinned. “Though she tells me the roof’s not designed to support ICBMs.”

  Ward handed him one of the beers and then took a seat on a sofa, indicating the one across from him. He studied Rapp carefully, absently bobbing one flip-flop on his toes as the former CIA operative sat.

  “So, what’s the verdict? How did you like working for me?”

  “The private sector’s not as relaxing as I was hoping.”

  “I suppose not. But it wasn’t boring, right? And it was important. In my experience that motivates men like you. To the degree that there are men like you.”

  Rapp took a pull on his beer. A home brew judging by the lack of a label. Pretty good.

  “So, what are your thoughts on my problems, Mitch?”

  “What problems?”

  “Gideon Auma. If I send my people back to that area, what’s to stop him from attacking them again?”

  “Nothing. Don’t send them back.”

  “I don’t really have a choice. We’re doing vaccine trials there and the people have a unique genetic resistance to a potential serious side effect. Probably from a plague they survived at some time in prehistory.”

  “Move them. Buy them all houses in Beverly Hills.”

  “I tried. But they like it here. It’s their ancestral home.”

  “Then I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “We could rebuild the facility with more security features.”

  “You could. But Auma’s a bad combination of smart and insane. And his people are happy to die for him. The problem with trying to defend yourself by living behind walls is that you have to be perfect. If you get a hundred things right and one thing wrong, you lose. And you always get one thing wrong.”

  “Then what would you recommend?”

  Rapp took another drink of his beer. “The one thing you’ve got going for you with Auma’s organization is that it’s all about one man. With him gone, most of his followers would probably just go home. If I understand right, a lot of them were kidnapped when they were kids. Without him to tell them what to do and think, they’d be lost.”

  “I’ve tried everything I can to get the Ugandan government to move against him, but they see it as too risky. And the American government’s even worse. The only person who cares less about Uganda than President Alexander did is President Cook.”

  Rapp pointed through the slats that made up the house and toward the horizon. “You’ve built yourself your own little principality here. And that means no government’s going to have much of an incentive to interfere with you. But they’re not going to have much of an incentive to help you, either. Being the master of all you survey is only half the job. The other half is defending it.”

  “I’ve never really thought of myself as a prince or the master of all I survey.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  Ward didn’t seem to have an answer. And it clearly bothered him.

  “Do you think it’s possible to find him, Mitch? No one else has been able to. But if we did, we could turn him over to the Ugandan government.”

  “Anything’s possible, Nick. But I don’t think turning him over to the Ugandans would be in anybody’s best interest. As long as he’s alive, he’s going to have followers who want him back. What you don’t need is some suicide squad turning up in Kampala to try to break him out of prison.”

  “Then what?”

  “Put a bullet in the back of his head and feed him to some hyenas.”

  Ward gazed thoughtfully at the bottle in his hand. “Having a lot of money doesn’t give me the right to sentence people to death.”

  “You talk like governments have legitimacy. Most leaders aren’t elected—they cheat, inherit, or murder their way to the top. How does that give them any more right than you to preside over a legal system? You’re a hell of a lot smarter. And a hell of a lot less crazy.”

  “That’s a very dangerous philosophy.”

  “If you say so.”

  Ward finished his beer and put the empty bottle on the coffee table between them. “You think I’m a do-gooder walking around with stars in his eyes.”

  Rapp shook his head. “Do-gooders with stars in their eyes don’t make a trillion dollars. But now you want to change the world in fundamental ways. And that is going to take more than a little grit and a fat wallet.”

  “What if I say yes?”

  “To what?”

  “To giving you what you need to…” His voice faded for a moment. “To resolve the Gideon Auma issue.”

  “I think you might be getting a little ahead of yourself, Nick. I’m not looking for a job. Scott’s your man. He and his guys are the best shooters on the planet.”

  “But I don’t just need a shooter, Mitch. Like you said, I want to change the world in fundamental ways. In the context of the pushback I’m going to get over the rest of my lifetime, I’m guessing that Gideon Auma’s just a bump in the road. As much as I’d like to avoid straying into your world, I’m not sure it’s going to be possible. I need a guide.”

  “You might think you know what you’re asking, but I’m not sure you do.”

  “Show me.”

  A smile spread slowly across Rapp’s face. “That sounds like a recipe for the worst r
etirement in history.”

  “I’m not so sure. You define the job and I pay you whatever you want. Offers like that don’t come along every day.”

  “Look, Nick. I like you. And I respect what you’re trying to do. But I’m not your man. Thanks for the beer, though.”

  Rapp stood and started for the nonexistent door but only made it a few feet before Ward spoke again.

  “Would you at least talk to Irene about me?”

  Rapp jumped to the ground but didn’t look back. “Next time I see her. Sure.”

  19

  FRANSCHHOEK

  SOUTH AFRICA

  RAPP slowed the SUV to let a young couple cross the street in front of him.

  No hurry, he reminded himself as they settled into a seating area in front of a café bathed in afternoon sunlight. Other than this quick errand, he didn’t have anything else that had to get done that day. Absolutely nothing. How many times had he been able to say that in his life?

  Rapp yawned as he accelerated up the picturesque street, feeling a familiar sense of exhaustion settle into him. Not from the Uganda op, though. From the ninety-mile training ride he’d done that morning with a group of amateur racers about half his age.

  His power output had been way below his triathlon days, he’d suffered like an animal, and he was still too heavy. Despite all that, though, they hadn’t been able to shake him off until the last climb. In a few months, the roles would be reversed. He’d make them wish they’d never been born. And he’d do it without a gun, blowtorch, or set of pliers.

  His phone rang over the SUV’s sound system, forcing him to try to figure out how to pick up. It was Claudia’s vehicle, and he didn’t have much experience with the endless array of modern conveniences. Finally, he managed to connect on the fifth ring.

  “Hello? You still there?”

  “I’m here,” Claudia said in French. “You couldn’t find the button again, could you?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “We could always get something smaller and sexier.”

  “Haven’t we had this conversation?”

  “This isn’t the CIA, Mitch. I don’t just salute every time to speak. Conversations can be revisited.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a salute every now and then. Maybe you should try it.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  “What’s up? I’m on time. ETA under one minute.”

  He was on his way to pick up Anna, a chore Claudia normally dealt with personally. She didn’t have a lot of faith in his ability to carry out life’s more mundane tasks and was likely checking up on him again. To her credit, though, she always made an effort to come up with some lame excuse. That they needed milk. That she was afraid she’d left the gas tank almost empty. That she wasn’t sure if he’d prefer a steak for dinner or Mexican.

  “I just got a call from Ahmale’s mother.”

  He was surprised and strangely proud to realize that he knew who Ahmale was. Anna’s new BFF.

  “And?”

  “Her toddler’s come down with something and is apparently vomiting every few minutes. Would it be possible for you to pick her up and drop her off at home?”

  Rapp was about to give her a simple yes but was suddenly invaded by some kind of evil domestic spirit.

  “Why don’t we just keep her for a day or two? Anna’d love it and it’d take the pressure off her mother.”

  Claudia was silent for long enough that Rapp thought he might have inadvertently disconnected her. Finally, she spoke. “Are you serious? I was thinking that but didn’t want to suggest it. Two girls are four times as much work as one.”

  “I just crawled through the jungle being hunted by an African death cult. How bad could it be?”

  “Much worse than that. But since you’re in a generous mood, I’ll call Ahmale’s mother and make the offer. I’m certain she’ll take us up on it.”

  “Sounds good. Got to go, I’m pulling up out front.”

  Anna and Ahmale were among the other children crowding the sidewalk. They spotted him, said some quick good-byes, and a moment later were climbing into the backseat.

  “Hey, Mitch. Mom said you could give Ahmale a ride home. Her mom couldn’t come because her brother’s sick.”

  “Hi, Mr. Rapp!”

  “Hi, Ahmale. Hey, since your brother’s not feeling good, do you want to just stay with us for a couple of days?”

  They froze in the rearview mirror, both looking a bit stunned at the offer but then exploding into enthusiastic squeals.

  By the time he pulled away, he’d already faded into complete irrelevance. They were busy making plans for their time together and plotting aloud how they could extend it.

  God help him.

  * * *

  “And after that would you—”

  “Hang on,” Rapp said, cutting Claudia off and opening the kitchen window. “Anna! Stop feeding the dogs ice cream!”

  She gave him a guilty look and put the cone behind her back as Ahmale giggled uncontrollably. The dogs circled, trying another line of attack. Hopefully, an unsuccessful one. Something he didn’t need in his life was two Rhodesian ridgebacks tearing around the house with diarrhea.

  “Sorry,” he said, closing the window again. “What were you saying?”

  “I was wondering if you could go pick up a few of Ahmale’s things later. Her mother’s leaving them on the porch, so you don’t have to go in the house.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “What?”

  “Who are you and what have you done with Mitch Rapp?”

  “Funny,” he said, continuing to stack plates in the dishwasher.

  “What are you thinking about? Gideon Auma?”

  “Nope.”

  “President Cook?”

  “No.”

  “Really,” she said, unconvinced. “Just focusing on the dishes, huh?”

  “And strategizing for Operation Get Ahmale’s Stuff. After that, I’m going to fully devote myself to drinking a couple beers on the patio.”

  “Sounds like a nice afternoon. Can I join you?”

  “If you play your cards right.”

  She turned on the oven light and peeked at the croissants inside. “You know, Nicholas Ward’s hired us to design security features into the research facility he’s rebuilding.”

  “Really?”

  “Scott says he’s going to suggest a moat full of hippos.”

  “Hippos are good,” Rapp said absently. “Mean.”

  “You’re seriously not interested?”

  “You and Scott will get along fine without me.”

  “What about a croissant hot out of the oven? Surely, you’re interested in that.”

  He shook his head. “It’s either a croissant now or the beers later. Calories.”

  “I’m finding this sudden change in you a little hard to believe.”

  “You’re complaining?”

  “No. I’m just wondering how long it’s going to last.”

  20

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  USA

  THERE was a quiet knock on the door and Irene Kennedy looked up to see one of her assistants poke his head in.

  “Marcus Dumond would like to see you, Dr. Kennedy. He says it’s urgent.”

  She felt her eyebrows rise involuntarily. Dumond was a young hacker whom Mitch Rapp had stumbled over a few years ago. He’d been on his way to jail when they’d provided him another option: give working for the Agency a try. The combination of gratitude and genius had turned out to be a good one and Dumond had become a critical part of her team. Having said that, he was easily intimidated and a bit of a recluse. In fact, she was having a hard time remembering an instance of him requesting a face-to-face meeting.

  “How am I looking for the next fifteen minutes?”

  “We can juggle.”

  “Then tell him to come up.”


  “Actually, he’s standing in front of my desk.”

  “Really?” Kennedy said, even more surprised. “Then by all means send him in.”

  Dumond entered a moment later, looking a bit haggard for his thirty-four years. Other than that, he didn’t seem much different than the day they’d first met—same thin frame, slightly crooked Afro, and vaguely stunned expression. He seemed perpetually unable to believe that he was working a high-level CIA job and not in a prison laundry.

  “What can I do for you, Marcus?”

  “There’s been an incursion into our system,” he said, a little breathlessly.

  “From the outside?”

  He shook his head. “Inside.”

  “How far were they able to penetrate?”

  “That’s what’s weird. They seemed to be after one very specific thing. Information on Nicholas Ward.”

  “Ward?” she said, reflecting for a moment on how often the man had come up in her life over the past few weeks. “I wouldn’t think we’d have much sensitive intelligence on him.”

  “We don’t. What little’s classified is classified at a low level. The truth is that you could dig most of it up from Wikipedia and old magazine articles.”

  “If it wasn’t particularly critical information, why do you look so worried?”

  “It’s not what the person was after, it’s how they did it. Whoever they were, they have a lot of clearance and a lot of brains.”

  “But not so much of either that you didn’t discover them.”

  He didn’t respond, looking even more concerned.

  “Marcus?”

  “The only reason I caught it is because I was running an unannounced diagnostic when the query came in,” he blurted. “I’m sorry, Dr. Kennedy. But it was just dumb luck. If I hadn’t been running it at that exact moment, they would have had pretty much full access to all our databases, and I would have never known anything about it. I’m really sor—”

  She held up a hand, silencing him. In a way, Dumond was one of the most trustworthy people she worked with. He was brilliant, obsessive, and driven by motivations that were easy to decipher. Despite his history of draining corporate bank accounts that didn’t belong to him, he genuinely wanted to please her and do the right thing.