The Survivor

by Vince Flynn

  Shirani opened his mouth to object, but Chutani held up a hand, silencing the soldier. “It’s convenient to fan the flames of extremism in the short term but now we’re in danger of being engulfed ourselves. Changes must be made. The country has to modernize and come together. Our future can’t be financed with charity from countries that fear we’re on the verge of collapse. Trust. Respect. Wealth. These are the things that must be cultivated.”

  “What are you proposing?” Shirani said suspiciously.

  “The expansion of the Khushab reactor will be halted,” Chutani said with a tone that suggested the decision wasn’t up for debate. “As will all production of weapons-grade fissile material. The weapons we have are more than enough to deter an attack.”

  Shirani was too stunned to respond, so Chutani continued. “Further, the defense of our nuclear arsenal will be shifted from the army to the ISI, effective immediately.”

  Taj feigned surprise, though it was the outcome he’d been working toward for more than two years. “Mr. President, I don’t—”

  “It’s done, Ahmed. You and General Shirani will start coordinating the transition right away.”

  “Yes, sir,” Taj said, watching Shirani’s face out of the corner of his eye. It was an incredible insult but the soldier managed to hide his rage. Undoubtedly he was calculating the extent of his own power versus Chutani’s and the feasibility of engineering a coup.

  Shirani’s gaze finally shifted to Taj and this time he didn’t bother to hide his contempt. Instead of looking away, as was his custom, Taj met the man’s stare. It was time to allow Umar Shirani a brief, unobstructed glimpse into the heart of his new master.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE FARM

  OUTSIDE HARPERS FERRY

  WEST VIRGINIA

  U.S.A.

  LOUIS Gould pretended to study the enormous scale model but was actually concentrating on the other men in the room. He had to stay calm and professional. The smallest slip was almost guaranteed to end in his death.

  Mike Nash, whom he knew very little about, had been called away. That left three men. Stan Hurley wasn’t just old, he was ancient. It was hard to separate legend from fact with regard to his past, but if even half of the information out there was true, Hurley had at one time been very dangerous. Now, though, he was just a bag of bones with a death hack and a perceptible limp. Taking the geriatric bastard seriously would require some effort, but completely dismissing him would be careless.

  Coleman was a different matter. He was probably pushing fifty but still looked like he was chiseled out of stone. As a former SEAL, it was a given that he was a top operator. The fact that Rapp chose to work with him suggested he was a standout in a fraternity that only accepted standouts. The difference between qualifying for the Olympics and walking away with gold. If he had any weaknesses, they were psychological. He came off as a bit of a Boy Scout—a man who believed too much in God, country, and the camaraderie of battle.

  Finally, there was Mitch Rapp. A man in a category all his own. No discernible physical or mental weaknesses. Uncanny instincts, no hesitation, no remorse. Decades of experience and training. Simply put, one of the most dangerous men who ever lived.

  Despite all that combined history, the three killers were hanging on his every word. It would be easy to start thinking of them as idiots. To let his well-earned arrogance kick in and categorize them as typical marks.

  He’d tried to kill Rapp twice before and failed even though he’d had the element of surprise both times. It was a fact that Gould was already beginning to rationalize away, and he fought against that tendency. The day he forgot who he was up against was the day he ended up with a bullet in his head.

  “I know you’ve been planning this since the day you signed on with Obrecht,” Rapp said. “What have you got?”

  What he had was an entire plan from start to finish. Ironically, though, it was entirely inspired by Leo Obrecht—the man Rapp incorrectly believed was the target of this operation.

  Work will be done primarily at the owner’s home in Switzerland. We are looking to take the most obvious route to finding a good fit.

  Obrecht knew the CIA was after him and assumed that they would have no choice but to mount an assault on the mansion. Clearly he hoped that Gould could convince them to carry out the operation using the most obvious strategy. It would be an easy sell, particularly to Coleman. Soldiers tended to look at battlefields in predictable ways, and the navy man would have a strong bias toward the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid.

  Gould used a pool cue to tap a rocky knoll to the west of the property’s iron gate. “This is the highest point in the area and it’s right where you want it. Range to the wall is just over six hundred meters, and the wind tends to get disrupted by the ridgeline to the south. Easy sniper range.”

  Coleman nodded. “My guys have been up there. It’s the only place high enough to get a good view over the wall and you can see right through the gate. Cover’s good, and there are multiple lines of retreat if it comes to that.”

  “What about the tunnel?” Hurley said.

  “I had Wick crawl down there and take a look. He found the entrance but didn’t go inside in case there were sensors. Based on the pictures he took, the door’s steel. No way to know how thick, no visible way to open it.”

  Gould nodded. “There’s a hidden keypad with a twelve-digit combination. I tracked down the man who installed it and convinced him to put in a back door when he serviced the unit. The tunnel comes out behind a shelf in Obrecht’s basement.”

  “Convinced him?” Coleman said

  In truth, Obrecht had given Gould a personal code that could be temporarily activated should the assassin ever need to access the mansion.

  “People tend to get real cooperative when you have a gun in their mouth.”

  Hurley took a swig of his bourbon. “True that.”

  Gould pointed at the representation of the tunnel entrance. “I’d suggest that me and Mitch go in through there just before five o’clock.”

  “Why five?” Rapp said. “That’s still daylight.”

  “Yeah, but it’s also happy hour. Obrecht’s careful about never creating identifiable routines outside the mansion, but inside he feels safe. As near as I can tell, he opens a bottle of expensive French wine and lights a Cuban in his study at five on the dot every day. We grab him there, slip him back out the tunnel, and he’s on your plane in an hour.”

  Gould let his eyes linger on Rapp, but the man was impossible to read. Was he buying all this?

  “In my experience, wine snobs like to choose their bottle based on their mood,” Rapp said. “Wouldn’t that put him in the basement with us just before five?”

  It was yet another reminder of why the CIA assassin was not to be underestimated. Gould would have asked the same question, but he wasn’t sure he’d have come up with it that quickly.

  “Good thought, but Obrecht had an auxiliary wine cooler installed in his den. He picks his vintage from there, and if he restocks it on a regular schedule, I don’t know what that schedule is.”

  “The twelve guards we’ve identified mostly stay outside,” Rapp said. “Are there dedicated interior guards that we don’t know about?”

  “Not that I’ve ever seen,” Gould said. “Obrecht likes his privacy and sticks to a few servants who’ve been trained to stay out of his way. But since you’re telling me he’s laid on additional security, I can’t swear to that.”

  “I think there’s a good chance you’re right,” Coleman said. “We’ve been watching the windows and we’re not seeing anyone we don’t recognize as a member of the core security team.”

  “So we have twelve men, primarily in outdoor postings,” Hurley said. “All well-armed, solid operators in defensible positions. All recently hired, so not one of them is going to be bored or complacent. That’s not a great scenario for us.”

  “I agree,” Gould said. “Trust me when I tell you that I’m not happy about b
eing half of a two-man team if something goes wrong and all those guys come running through the door with guns blazing. But I’m not seeing a lot of alternatives.”

  The men across from him looked at each other for a moment. Finally, Rapp spoke.

  “Three.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not half of a two-man team. You’re a third of a three-man team. A while back, Hurley knocked on the gate and gave one of Obrecht’s guards a fake Interpol business card. He told him to let Obrecht know that Interpol was interested in talking to him about you. Obrecht’s secretary just called and set up an appointment at the mansion for the day after tomorrow.”

  Gould allowed a smile to spread across his face. Not for the reason the other men in the room thought, though.

  Personal and work history will be verified through Interpol.

  That line in the Post ad had perplexed him. Now it was crystal clear. Obrecht had figured out who Hurley was and would be ready for him.

  “What time?” Gould said, still processing how this new piece of information would affect him.

  “Three o’clock,” Rapp said.

  It was perfect. The entire thing was starting to look like child’s play. Obrecht and his men would not only know that the “obvious route” would be Gould coming through the tunnel and putting his backup on the high ground, but they’d know the time of the breach.

  “That works even better,” Gould said, finally. “He’ll meet with Stan in his office, which is easier to access from the basement than his den. And we have a third man that no one’s going to expect. Heck, if it comes to it, we could even play like we’ve taken Stan hostage.”

  “So you can use me as a human shield?” Hurley said. “My ass.”

  “You just follow my lead, pops. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Hurley lunged, but Rapp saw it coming and held him back.

  The Frenchman stood his ground, a broad grin on his face. He was starting to feel almost giddy about the situation. Everything was lining up in his favor. It was beginning to feel like fate. He was going to be the man who killed Mitch Rapp.

  “Careful,” Gould said, leaning over the plastic representation of Obrecht’s estate. “We don’t want you breaking a hip before we even get there.”

  “Keep talking, kid. While you still can.”

  Gould laughed and walked to the bar.

  “Maybe we should talk about what I get when I pull this off?” he said, reaching over and retrieving a beer from the refrigerator on the other side.

  Of course, the real answer was fifteen million euros and the undisputed status of being the best in the world. But these morons didn’t know that.

  “I thought we already covered that subject,” Rapp said as the others looked on.

  “You not killing me? That doesn’t seem like much for me handing you a man like Leo Obrecht.”

  “Seems like a lot to me,” Hurley said.

  Gould shifted his gaze to the old man and twisted the top off his beer. At first, he’d thought this nursing home reject would be a nice cherry on top of Rapp’s corpse. Doing both of them at once would be something people in the business would talk about for the next hundred years. After thinking about it, though, maybe he’d just cripple the man. Let him spend the rest of his short life sitting in a wheelchair crapping himself and knowing that he wasn’t even worth a bullet.

  “If I remember right, Kennedy said something about putting me on retainer.”

  Rapp didn’t answer immediately, instead just staring through him with those black eyes. Gould wouldn’t allow himself to look away, but he felt his confidence falter.

  “But I didn’t,” Rapp said finally. “All I’m offering you is a chance to go back to your wife and daughter. If you ever take another contract, you won’t live long enough to collect the money.”

  “Seems like you could use someone with my skills,” Gould said.

  The conversation was meaningless but he refused to back down. Who was Rapp kidding? He’d gotten lucky in Afghanistan. If Gould’s employer hadn’t betrayed him, the great Mitch Rapp would already be dead. And him surviving the explosion at his house years before had been a combination of dumb luck and Gould overcomplicating the hit by trying to make it look like an accident.

  “Listen to me, Louis. Take the deal. Watch your daughter grow up. Get old with your wife. Stan’s right. That’s a lot.”

  CHAPTER 15

  ROME

  ITALY

  KABIR Gadai checked the map on his phone as he strolled casually up the sidewalk. The weather was sunny and cool, allowing for a collared coat and bulky sunglasses. Neither provided sufficient anonymity to make him feel comfortable.

  Sending him personally to Rome was one of Ahmed Taj’s rare tactical mistakes. There were any number of well-trained ISI operatives who could have successfully completed the mission. It was impossible in the digital era to travel unphotographed, and too risky for someone with Gadai’s high profile to enter an EU country under an alias. So the Italians had a record of his arrival under the rather thin guise of a security review being carried out at Pakistan’s London embassy.

  Taj’s obsession with the Rickman files seemed to grow with every passing day. Admittedly, accessing the information they contained would be the greatest intelligence coup in the last seventy years, but Taj seemed to be forgetting that his plan had never required them. His focus was beginning to wander and, for the first time, Gadai could see his insatiable greed for power affecting his judgment.

  It was this that made Gadai’s physical presence in Rome even more dangerous. Their preparations were at a critical juncture, and he was very much needed in Islamabad. Someone had to monitor the endless details of Taj’s plot, and he was the only man other than the director himself who had knowledge of all its facets. Further, arrangements for the U.S. secretary of state’s delegation were in motion and were proving to be more time-consuming than he had anticipated.

  A former Secret Service executive named Jack Warch was spearheading the American side of the security measures and he seemed almost childlike in his need to question every detail. The state dinner was the key to Taj’s plan and Gadai would not let it be endangered by a single dangerously inquisitive consultant. He had taken to dealing with the man personally and being outside the country was jeopardizing his control over the situation.

  Across the lightly traveled street, a turn-of-the-century apartment building gave way to a football pitch. The open field was separated from the sidewalk by a chain-link fence designed less for security than to keep errant balls out of the road. Beyond the well-tended grass was a modern concrete structure that stood in stark contrast to the ancient suburb surrounding it. Behind the rows of reflective windows was the middle school attended by Isabella Accorso’s sixteen-year-old daughter.

  No children were visible, which was to be expected at that time of the morning. They would briefly appear between classes at various points during the day, with a somewhat longer break for lunch. In the afternoon, sporting activities that these Westerners happily allowed their daughters to participate in were held.

  Gadai dug his hands into his pockets and resisted shaking his head in disgust. They cared nothing for purity or chastity. The women in this country were allowed to do whatever they wished. The very thought of his own daughter running across that field with bare legs and arms filled him with rage. He would beat her to death without a moment’s remorse and the Islamic courts would support his decision wholeheartedly.

  Gadai cut across a cobbled courtyard and entered the lobby of the apartment building at the back of it. He ignored the elevator and instead took the stairs, climbing five stories before exiting into an unoccupied corridor. He walked purposefully toward the fourth door on the right, adjusting his collar and letting his eyes sweep the intersection between wall and ceiling to confirm the reported lack of cameras.

  He used the key he’d been provided to enter, immediately closing the door behind him and examining the s
mall space. It was typical of the area—plaster walls, a wood floor warped with age, and a small galley kitchen full of cheap appliances. Having been leased only days before, it was devoid of furniture. The only sign of habitation was a few boxes of food on the countertop and a teapot on the stove.

  Lateef Dogar appeared in the entrance to the bedroom and nodded respectfully. “Captain Gadai. How was your journey?”

  He ignored the question, striding across the living area and brushing past the man. In the bedroom there was a sleeping area consisting of blankets piled on the floor and a wall covered with photos. Each depicted the same young girl. Most were close-ups of her playing football in front of her school, the focus often not on her face but on her young body and obscene shorts.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “They were left by the surveillance team, Captain. I—”

  “Are you so stupid that you need them to recognize your target?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “Then destroy them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Perhaps Taj hadn’t been so unwise to send him after all. The fact that these photos were ever printed was inexcusable, but hanging them on the wall verged on insubordination. It would be something he would have dealt with quite harshly if Taj hadn’t already arranged for these men to disappear when they returned to Pakistan.

  The shades were almost completely closed and Gadai knelt to peer through the three-centimeter crack at the bottom. It offered an unobstructed view of the school at a reported range of 212 meters. The fence would have the potential to deflect a shot, but that wasn’t important. It was the video image he was interested in, and it would be quite -acceptable.

  Gadai went to a long metal case resting against the wall and turned the combination dials on it. Inside was a rather unusual item that he held out to Dogar. The assassin took it, turning it over in his hands with a confused expression.