by Vince Flynn
“Oh…and you’re the picture of mental health.”
“Good point,” Rapp laughed, “but seriously…what’s up? You just find out you have testicular cancer or something?”
“Worse…the fucking IRS called me this morning. They want to see all my records…personal and business.”
Rapp didn’t like the sound of this. He got noticeably more serious. “Have you ever had any problems with them before?”
“Hell no. I was an officer in the Navy for almost twenty years. We don’t make enough money for them to mess around with.”
“And now that you’re getting all of these government contracts…”
“Shit, I suppose. I mean, Mitch, we’re billing seven-plus figures every month. I’ve had to hire five people just to handle all the paperwork.”
“How are your records?”
“How the fuck would I know…I’m not an accountant.”
Rapp stared at him with his hawklike eyes. “Do you have anything to hide?”
Coleman looked down and kicked a rock. “I don’t know. Like I said, I’m not an accountant.”
“Scott, it’s me…Mitch. If I’m going to help you out here, you have to be straight with me.”
“Can you make this go away?” Coleman asked hopefully.
“As long as you haven’t fucked up too bad…yeah.”
Coleman kicked another rock. “As far as I know all the domestic stuff is in order, but I’ve got an offshore company that I run most of the foreign contracts through.”
“And you keep the money offshore.”
“Yeah.” He looked up at Rapp uncomfortably.
Rapp nodded. “Don’t worry. You’re not alone. Anything else happen in the last few days?”
“Like what?”
“Anyone poking around asking questions? Anyone from your past try to contact you? Any new unexpected business come in?”
Coleman thought about it for a moment. “No.” He studied Rapp. “Why?”
Rapp leaned against his car and put his hands in his pockets. “I got a call from a source over at the DOD this morning.” By DOD, Rapp meant Department of Defense.
“You mean a mole?”
“I wouldn’t call the chairman of the Joint Chiefs a mole.”
“General Flood called you?”
“Yes.”
“What’d he want?” asked Coleman.
“He didn’t want anything. It was a courtesy call. It appears someone in Washington has a real hard-on for you this week.”
Coleman closed his eyes. “Please tell me the IRS didn’t call the Pentagon and ask to review my contracts.”
“No. Someone else called and asked for a copy of your personnel file.”
“They can look all they want. That file is clean.”
“They called back and asked for your classified file. They wanted to know how many times you’ve been sheep-dipped by the CIA, and if you’ve ever worked with yours truly before.” Rapp pointed to himself.
“They asked General Flood this?”
“No…they tried to browbeat someone much further down the totem pole. It got kicked up to the Joint Special Operations Command, who in turn called Flood.”
“So who’s asking?”
“Someone who works for the director of National Intelligence.”
“Why would they give a rat’s ass about me?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I think it has something to do with our meeting the other day.”
“In Irene’s office.”
“Yeah…that was a mistake.”
“Hold on a minute. We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You’re kidding…right?” Rapp looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
“Well…nothing recently. I mean for Christ’s sake we’re on the same team. Aren’t we?”
“That doesn’t always matter with these pricks.” Rapp shook his head. “It was stupid to meet at the CIA the other day.”
“You’re telling me that’s what this is all about? Mark Ross didn’t like my smart-ass attitude, so he’s going to have the IRS bend me over and give me an exam?”
“Scott, we’re in the middle of the biggest power grab this town has seen in fifty years. Mark Ross is trying to exert his new authority over the CIA and the rest of the intelligence community, and the billions of dollars that goes along with their budgets, and I’m guessing he wants full disclosure by everyone under his command.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“He’s not stupid. He wants to know what we were talking about with Irene. He called her the next day and asked her to brief him.”
“What’d she tell him?” asked Coleman.
“We’re looking at using your firm for some of our overseas security needs.”
“Well, you are.”
“And we’re also thinking about using you to do a few other things.”
“Yeah, but he can’t know that.”
“He suspects something, and I’d say based on your audit and the request for your jacket at the DOD, he’s not satisfied with the answer Irene gave him.”
“Fucker.” Coleman’s fists were clutched so tight the veins on his forearms were bulging.
“Don’t worry…I’ll figure out a way to make this go away.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll figure something out.”
“The IRS is coming by tomorrow.”
“I know a lawyer.” Rapp smiled. “A real bastard. He specializes in this stuff. They hate him at the IRS. I’ll have him call you. He’ll have no problem putting them off until I can call off the dogs from the other end. In the meantime, keep working on what we talked about. I don’t want this to slow us down one bit. I’ll have you all freed up by next week, and then we can get moving.”
Coleman nodded. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Anything else unusual happens I want you to call me right away.”
The former SEAL nodded.
17
PARIS, FRANCE
T he assassin had been wandering the streets in a seemingly aimless pattern for over two hours, which was about how long it had taken him to sort things out. He could be an exceedingly patient man when the situation called for it, and this was one of those times. The first thing he had to do was dump the motorcycle. It had been waiting for him two blocks from the hotel. He would miss the agile, high-powered Ducati, but scooters and motorcycles in Paris were like beautiful women; they were everywhere. He would find another motorcycle in the morning, and he was done chasing beautiful women.
He no longer considered himself a Frenchman. He was a man without a country, but he supposed if there was any place that he had to call home it would be France. He knew Paris very well and had a network of motorcycle and scooter garages that specialized in servicing the underbelly of Paris. They sold new machines, but always had plenty of used bikes, and preferred to deal in cash, which suited him perfectly. When he was actively engaged in new business, like now, he sometimes changed bikes daily, and even resorted to stealing them himself. Among his many skills, he was a mechanic. He knew how to take a pile of junk and turn it into a dependable machine in a matter of hours. If it had an engine and two wheels, he could fix it.
He drove all the way out to the Grand Arch, turning sporadically, doubling back, and in truth, not paying too much attention to whether or not he was being followed. That would come later. If they’d found the bike while he was in the hotel they could have concealed a transmitter. These types of devices kept shrinking in size and increasing in sophistication. He did not have the wherewithal to keep up with such things, so he had to take other countermeasures. As he drove through the city he was in no rush to finish the first act. There would be many tonight. It would all depend on what his very acute sixth sense told him. For this leg of the journey he went through the motions and thought more about the contract he’d been offered than the real or imagined people who might or might not be following him.
/> He parked the bike near the Victor Hugo metro stop in the Chaillot Quarter and left the keys in the ignition. It would be stolen within thirty minutes. He took the blue line clear across town. From there the assassin found his way up the steep steps, took in a few breaths of the cool night air, and lit a cigarette. He was a handsome man in a very masculine way. He was of average height and build, standing one inch shy of six feet and weighing 172 pounds. His longish dark hair was the color of his black leather motorcycle jacket, and was tucked behind his ears. He hadn’t shaved in two days and his face was covered with a thick dark stubble. He had the uncanny ability to blend into a crowd when he wanted to, which was strange when one considered the fact that he was quite striking.
He finished the cigarette, flicked it end over end, and then ground it into the sidewalk with his boot. While he did this he looked around, noting any parked cars and people who seemed to be standing about. As soon as he had a complete picture in his mind he went back down into the metro. It was now that he went on full alert. The subterranean tunnels were not very crowded at this time of night so it was relatively easy to catalogue the various faces. He timed it just right and at the last second jumped onto a departing train. Five minutes later he got off at the St. Ambroise Station, where he took a casual five-block walk to the St. Paul Station and descended once again. And so it went for nearly an hour. After that, he walked awhile, stopping at a few off-the-beaten-path taverns where he had a beer and thought about the turn his life had just taken, and how she would react when she heard the name. He had a pretty good idea. He knew her well enough. As the clock struck midnight he decided he couldn’t put it off any longer. He was confident he had not been followed, so he drained his glass and went to the apartment.
She was up waiting, as she always was. Beneath her calm demeanor she was as taut as a wire. She knew he wasn’t reckless, although he walked a fine line. It was just that they did not lead an average life. She cast her book and afghan to the side, revealing a silenced Glock pistol. She was in tactical mode just like he had taught her. They had been through this drill so many times it had become second nature. At this late hour she should have been in bed or at least in her pajamas, but she wasn’t. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a tight black sweater. Two backpacks, loaded with only essentials, sat ready to go by the door. They always had to be prepared to run at a moment’s notice.
She stood and walked over to him, raising her arms and enveloping him in an embrace. In French she whispered in his ear, “Louie, why must you always make me wait?” She rested her head against his shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief.
He had many names, but the one given to him at birth was Louis-Philippe Gould. That part of his life seemed like ancient history now. She was the only person who ever used his given name. He gently placed one hand on the back of her head while his other hand found the familiar exposed skin of her bare hip. His groin began to swell almost immediately. He had been with many women—so many in fact he had lost count, but she topped them all.
“How did it go?” she whispered.
He kissed the top of her head and smelled her freshly washed hair. “I think we need to open a bottle of wine.” The sex would come later.
She lifted her head and took a step back. “That bad?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t say bad…just…” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence.
Taking him by the hand, she led him into the tiny kitchen. She was a good listener. “I’ll get the glasses. You get the bottle.”
The one-bedroom apartment came furnished, and they’d paid for the first six months in cash. They’d only been there eight days, and they would leave in the morning. The chances of them returning were slim. There was some cheap art on the walls, a couch, a chair, and a color TV that didn’t work. The bedroom consisted of a bed barely big enough for the two of them, and a rickety dresser. The kitchen hadn’t been remodeled in thirty years, but none of this bothered them. They were used to living a life void of material possessions. They had traveled the world together, staying in cockroach-infested hostels and war-ravaged villages. Hot water and indoor plumbing were luxuries. The rest of the stuff was mere distraction. He was thirty-two and she was twenty-nine. They were still young. Someday they’d spoil themselves with the finer things in life, but not yet. Luxury softened the primal instincts, and they needed every last ounce of those instincts to do their job.
She sat on the couch while he opened the bottle of red. The path that led Louie to his current profession was unusual, but he doubted no more unusual than the road taken by his colleagues. One did not simply wake up one morning and decide to become a paid assassin. His father had come from old money that had been derived from old connections and knowing how to curry favor among France’s often changing ruling groups. The Goulds were professional diplomats who could trace their service all the way back to the coup d’état by Louis Napoleon in 1851. Five generations of Gould men had attended L’École Polytechnique, France’s premier technical university that specialized in preparing young French citizens for a life of civil service or military duty. With three daughters and only one boy, all his parents’ hopes of continuing the tradition were on young Louie’s shoulders and, indeed, he looked forward to following in his father’s footsteps.
More than half of Louie’s youth had been spent overseas while his father rose through the ranks of the French Foreign Service. There had been postings in French Guiana, New York, London, Berlin, and Washington, DC, where his father served as France’s ambassador to the United States of America. It was a life filled with excitement and privilege. Louie enjoyed every minute of it, embracing the language and culture where-ever the family went. He himself could think of nothing he’d rather do than become a career diplomat.
That was right up to the point where he learned of his father’s rampant infidelity. At seventeen he lashed out at the man he had spent an entire life idolizing. When Louie found out about his father’s inability to stay faithful to his mother, he surreptitiously applied for and received a scholarship to L’École Speciale Militaire, or as it was more commonly known, Saint Cyr. The institution was France’s equivalent of West Point. On the surface it may not have seemed much of a protest, but the Goulds had a long history of contempt for the French Army. Professional diplomats to the core, they believed most, if not all, of France’s great failures of the last two centuries to be the fault of the Army.
When his father found out he nearly lost his mind, but with his youngest child now legally of age, there was nothing he could do. After Louie left for Saint Cyr, things worsened between his mother and father. The secret out of the bag, his father became more brazen in his philandering, and his mother, a proud and deeply religious woman, retreated within the walls of the family’s estate in the South of France. During his final year at Saint Cyr, Louie’s mother took her life, and the heart and soul of the entire family was ripped from them. Devastated, Louie blamed it all on his father and decided to never speak to the man again.
She held her glass while he poured. “Did they try to follow you?”
“No.”
She frowned. “What took you so long?”
“Just being careful.” He poured his own glass and sat next to her on the tattered sofa.
“Herr Abel…did he wet himself when he discovered you in his room?”
“He was calmer than I would have expected.” Louie held up his glass. “To what just might be our last job.”
She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of this, and did not raise her glass right away. She stared at him with her piercing eyes. He prodded her by extending his glass farther and after a moment she relented.
They had met when Claudia Morrell was just eighteen. He was a twenty-one-year-old second lieutenant in the French Foreign Legion when he’d laid eyes on her in the village of Aubagne. He fell for her almost immediately, and over a two-month period their romance intensified. Then one day in early July he was called in to see his commanding officer. I
t turned out Claudia was the daughter of a certain Colonel Morrell, a highly decorated Legionnaire. The colonel had just returned from a six-month deployment in Bosnia and had been promoted to brigadier general. It appeared that the general was rather upset that someone new under his command was attempting to deflower his precious daughter.
Gould’s transfer to the island of Corsica and the 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment set a record for expedited paperwork. He was literally gone that very morning on the first transport out, with nothing more than a rucksack and a change of uniform to his name. There had been no chance to say good-bye to Claudia. The transfer was bittersweet. The bitter part was leaving the lovely Claudia. The sweet part was getting a transfer to the Foreign Parachute Regiment—the elite of the French Foreign Legion.
Once he arrived on Corsica, there was little time to feel sorry for himself. Word had been passed down from on high that this particular Legionnaire was to be worked to the bone. For months on end he rappelled down cliffs, shot everything in the Legion’s arsenal, went on grueling hikes in the hot summer sun wearing a fifty-pound pack, jumped out of planes, and swam for miles in the Bay of Calvi. The paratroopers bought into Nietzsche’s creed—what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. He looked back on it now and knew that the time he spent with the paratroopers had turned him into the man that he was today.
Several months into his banishment on Corsica, he found out that the general’s decision to have him abruptly transferred had come back to bite him in the ass. His very beautiful, but very stubborn daughter was making him suffer for his insensitivity to her emotions. She wrote to Louie under a pseudonym, and explained that she had moved to Paris and was refusing to speak to her “dictator of a father.” On the rare occasion that he received a leave of more than two days Louie began visiting her.
Gould, however, had found a home with the paratroopers, and as much as he missed Claudia, there was no abandoning this elite band of warriors. Over the next four years he traveled the globe, going from one hot spot to the next honing his skills and discovering that he was exceptionally good at killing other men. He and Claudia remained in contact, but as she entered university life they began to drift apart. Her new friends, a bunch of socialists, had great disdain for the military and he, like all soldiers, found it very difficult to be around people who had no concept of the sacrifice made by a professional soldier. He was not asking for gratitude, but he was not about to tolerate outright contempt.
