by Vince Flynn
Abel accelerated through another switchback and then pressed the gas pedal to the floor on the straightaway. The 493-hp engine launched the sedan up the mountain road like a rocket. Abel allowed himself a brief smile. The vehicle was a testament to West German engineering. More than a decade later he still drew the line between East and West. The country he had grown up in could never have produced such an exquisitely powerful and utterly dependable machine. And it wasn’t just an East German problem. There wasn’t a single communist country capable of such greatness. Abel had abandoned his country of birth and tried his best not to return. There were a myriad of complicated reasons. First and foremost he did not like the constant reminder that he had been on the losing side of the twentieth century’s great Cold War. Reunification had helped East Germany greatly, but it still had a ways to go before catching up. The scars caused by the neglect of communism ran deep. Years of tarnish had to be removed before the prideful luster and German efficiency could be fully restored.
Abel had lived a lie the first thirty years of his life, and he refused to waste a single day continuing to do so. He was now a Swiss citizen, and like his new country he had adopted a neutral, more businesslike attitude toward the world. Wars came and went, commerce was constant, and when the two collided great opportunity presented itself. Abel was simply a facilitator. A specialist in risk assessment, and sometimes when it was called for, like now, risk removal.
Abel approached the second to the last switchback and slowed quite a bit. This one was sharper than the others. Through a gap in the lush spruce trees he caught a glimpse of the local ski resort. It wasn’t set to open for another month. From Abel’s Alpine house it was a twenty-minute drive down into the village. The pristine, high mountain air was good for his asthma, and the solitude was good for both his mind and his business.
He had hesitated just briefly before calling Petrov. In his line of work everything had to be analyzed through the prism of risk/reward. There was always a trade-off. Abel had more than adequate resources when it came to the standard job, but this one called for something special. He needed fresh talent. Someone who was extremely good, but not yet known to all the usual suspects. As a general rule, the fewer people involved the better, but for a job of this level, he had no one in his Rolodex who he felt confident giving the assignment to. Petrov would know of someone, though. He was sure of that.
Abel swung around the last switchback and then turned onto his driveway which went back down the slope slightly parallel to the mountain road. The long driveway was lined with tall, skinny spruce and after a fairly steep initial descent it leveled out. Abel swung into the parking area in front and parked next to a rental car. He noticed his friend’s suitcase sitting on the porch next to the front door, and got out of the car. He walked around the wraparound porch to the left and found Petrov sitting in a chair, his eyes closed, basking in the sun.
Without bothering to open his eyes, the Russian asked in mildly accented English, “How long were you going to have me wait, you ungrateful Nazi?”
Abel smiled and noted the gray wool topcoat spread across Petrov’s lap like a blanket. With his silver hair he looked like a retired person on a sea cruise. A pack of cigarettes sat on one armrest and a well-used brass lighter on the other. “I have been watching you for over an hour, you old Stalinist dog. I thought you were either dead or napping…which considering your age, are both distinct possibilities.”
One of the eyes on the broad face shot open and Petrov began cursing Abel in Russian. Abel’s Russian had never been great, and had gotten much worse, but he got the gist of what his friend was saying. There was something about dogs fornicating and his lineage and then more of the standard Nazi stuff.
He laughed enthusiastically and then said, “Are you so old you can’t stand up to greet an old friend? Should I help you?” Abel put his hands out in an overly dramatic fashion. “Should I call a nurse?”
“I will break your pretty little nose if you lay a hand on me,” Petrov growled and yanked himself from the chair with surprising swiftness.
The two men embraced, and Abel once again tried to slap his Russian friend on the back as hard as he was being slapped. It was never enough, though. The two men were roughly the same height, both just under six feet, but the Russian had him by a good fifty pounds. Petrov was sixty-one and didn’t look a day under seventy. His silver hair, smoking, love of food and spirits, and undoubtedly the stress of his job had not been kind to him.
“Come,” said Abel, “let’s go inside. I stopped at the market and got all of your favorite things.” The two men walked around the porch and Abel unlocked the front door. “You know where your room is. Go in and get settled, and I’ll take care of everything else.”
Abel brought his own suitcase in and then unloaded three bags from the trunk. The first thing he did was take the bottle of Belvedere vodka and place it in the freezer. There was a better than even chance that his friend would polish off the entire bottle before they went to bed. Always aware of his asthma, he cracked a few windows to let some fresh air in. Next he threw a six-pack of Gösser in the fridge along with a six-pack of Kaiser. If that didn’t keep Petrov busy, there was a well-stocked wine cellar in the basement. He then placed the pickled herring, smoked ham, sausages, vegetables, and cake box in the fridge.
Petrov appeared right on cue, and Abel handed him a bottle of Gosser. He grabbed himself a Kaiser and held up his bottle for a toast. “To old friends and free markets.”
Petrov nodded and took a big swig. He was about to say something, but decided to take another drink. “I’ve been waiting for that all afternoon.”
“Sorry I didn’t get here earlier, but I just flew in this afternoon.” Abel looked at the clock. It was almost five.
“Where were you?” asked the Russian between swigs. The beer was already half gone.
Abel was about to tell him, but caught himself. “The better question would be where haven’t I been.” He opened a container of mixed nuts and placed them in a bowl on the counter. The key with Petrov was to keep feeding him.
“You’ve been busy doing OPEC’s dirty work.”
The Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries was headquartered in Vienna and was by far Abel’s biggest client. “Everybody needs to collect intelligence.” Abel held up his beer. “Even the Russian Mob.” The comment was a direct shot at Petrov’s sometime employer.
“Yes, well, the glorious experiment of communism has ended, and we are now left to fend for ourselves.”
“To freelancing and capitalism.” Abel raised his glass.
“I’ll drink to freelancing, but never capitalism. Those pigs have flocked to my country like vultures to pick at its carcass and prey on the weak.”
Abel laughed. “And what did the communists do?” This was a common argument between them, and Abel had never lost it. Capitalism was far preferable. If it was brought up again later, after Petrov was drunk enough, he could get him to admit it. The Russian would threaten to kill him if he told anyone, and then he would launch into a tirade about the corrupt communists and how they ruined a perfectly good idea.
Petrov was mumbling something about greed and the destructiveness of organized religion. Abel cut him off and said, “Go outside and have a cigarette. I’m going to get dinner ready. Here, take the herring. I brought it just for you.”
Petrov eagerly took the jar of salty pickled fish and then asked in a genuinely concerned tone, “What about cigars? Please don’t tell me I flew all this way and you don’t have cigars.”
“I have cigars. Don’t worry. They’re for after dinner.” Abel shooed him away and began preparing the meal.
Petrov came in to check on him periodically and shouted insults at him from the open porch door. By the time they sat down to eat, the six-pack of Gösser was gone. Petrov had only one Kaiser and immediately announced it was a girly beer. Too light. The bottle of vodka was placed in the center of the table and the bet was on as to whether or not
it would last to see the sun rise. Petrov said absolutely not and Abel agreed.
Abel was not a meek eater, but his Russian friend made him look like a sparrow. Soon all of the sausage and ham were gone, as well as the fried potatoes, and the lion’s share had gone to Petrov. Abel placed the dobosh torte on a platter and watched as Petrov’s eyes dilated as if someone had hit him over the head. The cake, a confection of layered chocolate sponge and chocolate buttercream covered with caramel, was mouth-watering. Abel had one piece to Petrov’s three, whereupon the Russian announced that if he didn’t get up and leave the table he would eat the whole thing. Abel was sure he’d be back in around midnight to finish the other half.
Finally, they retired to the porch and a starlit evening. Abel brought out two heavy wool blankets to ward off the cool air. There wasn’t a sound other than Petrov’s various attempts at aiding his digestion. Abel broke out the box of Montecristo cigars. He kept one and handed the box to Petrov.
“Yours to take home with you.” Abel rolled the cigar under his nose taking in the fine aroma.
“Thank you, my friend.” The Russian opened the box and looked eagerly at his bounty.
Abel would have only one cigar, and he would smoke it very carefully. The only time he chanced it was when he was in the mountains and even then he had to see how he was feeling. With his asthma he had to be very cautious. He would savor the moment, smelling the cigar for up to an hour before lighting it.
“I need some advice, Dimitri.”
Petrov snatched a cigar from the box, bit off the end, and lit it. After several heavy puffs, he said, “I was wondering when you would get around to business.”
“Always after dinner. You know that.”
Petrov pointed his cigar at his German friend. “You should be careful. You’re becoming far too predictable.”
Abel didn’t like the sound of that, and made a mental note to review his habits. He withdrew an envelope from his jacket and handed it to Petrov. “Your fee.”
The Russian hesitated while grimacing. “I don’t like this. I have done nothing.”
“I have confidence in you.”
“Ten thousand dollars.” He shook his head. “We are friends.”
“Yes, we are.” Abel slapped the money into his hand. “And I am being compensated very well. Think of it this way…it is not my money…it belongs to the man who hired me. You are a subcontractor.”
Petrov placed the envelope in his pocket. “Now that I have been hired, what is it you need?”
“A name.”
“What kind of name?”
Abel had already decided under no circumstances would he reveal the identity of his target. “I need someone killed.”
Petrov shrugged nonchalantly. “You know plenty of people who specialize in such things.”
“Yes, but this job requires someone who is better than your average plumber.”
Petrov’s brow furrowed in thought. “Can you tell me about the target?”
Abel shook his head.
“You must give me something to work with. Do you need it to look like an accident? Do you care about collateral damage? What theater will they need to operate in? What fee will they be paid?”
“I need the best. I need a real professional. Someone who looks at their craft as a higher form of art.”
“Ahhh…” sighed Petrov. “You want one of the crazy ones. The kind that treat the kill like it is a religion. And you want the best?”
It was obvious that Petrov was thinking of some names. “Yes,” said Abel, “I want someone who not only thinks they are the best, but someone who is hungry to prove they are the best.” Abel had thought of this distinction carefully. There was a good chance that a seasoned contract killer would turn down the job as soon as he learned the identity of the target. He needed someone who was on their way up. Someone who would want to mount Mitch Rapp like that leopard in Abdullah’s office.
“Your target must be someone very important.”
“I wouldn’t say that necessarily.”
“Someone who is well guarded?”
“Not necessarily.”
Petrov threw back a shot of vodka and puffed on his cigar. “I hope you are not working for those damn Saudis.”
“I never reveal my clients, you know that. But out of curiosity, why do you dislike the Saudis so much?”
“As bad as the communists were, they pale in comparison to the Saudis.”
Abel laughed. “How so?”
“The Saudis think that God is on their side, and people who think God is on their side are capable of the most inhumane acts.”
Abel was intrigued. He’d never heard his friend talk about religion this way. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but the great leaders of Mother Russia—Comrade Lenin and Comrade Stalin—managed to kill twenty million people, and as far as I know, they were atheists.”
“That number is greatly exaggerated.”
“Cut it in half then. A mere ten million.”
“I will not defend Lenin and Stalin. They were awful creatures, but these Saudis and their maniacal brand of Islam will be the end of us all.”
Abel did not want to wander too far from the task at hand. If there was time later they could continue their jousting. “I will tell you one thing and one thing only about my client. His motivation is as pure as it is rotten and is as old as man himself.”
“Your client is a prostitute?”
Abel smiled. “No.”
Petrov reached for the vodka. “Revenge.”
“Yes.”
After his glass was full Petrov asked, “Revenge for what? Did someone dare gaze upon one of his daughters without her veil on?”
“I never said he was a Saudi.”
“Why does he want revenge?”
“Someone killed his son.”
“Someone important?”
Abel shook his head. “Someone who is very dangerous.”
“Ahhh…I think I see. You need a killer to kill a killer.”
“Precisely.” Petrov seemed finally satisfied. Abel wondered if his old friend was getting a conscience in his old age.
“And this person is good.”
“Yes.”
“Anyone I’ve ever heard of?”
“I am done answering questions. I have already told you too much. Give me my name and then we can get back to talking about the atrocities committed by communism.”
Petrov snarled at him like an old dog who had been poked by a stick. “I have a name and a phone number for you. A woman will answer. She is French. I am told she is quite beautiful. She will act as the go-between.”
“And the shooter?”
“I know very little about him. I like it that way, and I assume so does he. My source tells me he is relatively young and very well rounded with the various tools of the trade.”
“Would you say he’s aggressive or cautious?”
“I would say aggressive,” laughed Petrov. “He’s done three jobs for me in the last seven months and God only knows how many others.”
11
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
T he motorcade turned off the highway and passed the lone, white guard post that had been added in 1993 after several employees were killed on their way into work. The two Suburbans and black armor-plated Cadillac limousine continued onto the narrow tree-lined drive and over a rise without slowing. They appeared to be in a hurry. Once over the rise, an intimidating security checkpoint came into view. All visitor traffic was directed to the right by large, easily readable signs. Other signs warned people that this was their last chance to turn around without risking arrest and prosecution. If they missed the signs, the men in black Nomex jumpsuits carrying submachine guns provided further warning that this place was not part of the local sightseeing tour.
The motorcade stayed to the left and came to an abrupt stop in front of the yellow painted steel barricade. Men with guns were everywhere and there were more of them behind the greenish tinted bulletproof Ple
xiglas of the blockhouse. Three of the guards who had been talking when the surprise visitors came over the hill immediately spread out. No one had to tell them; it was part of their training. Clusters made for easy targets. This wasn’t Hollywood. There was no racking of the slides and flicking of safety switches. When these men were on duty they were hot, which meant they had a round in the chamber, and the only safety was their forefinger.
The motorcade was immediately flanked on one side by four of the black-clad men. Despite the gray overcast morning they were all wearing dark shooting glasses to cover their eyes. Their weapons remained pointing down, but fingers caressed trigger guards while eyes tried to peer beyond the heavily tinted windows of the vehicles. These types of motorcades were commonplace, but they were always expected—on the list and fully vetted. This one was not, and the men and women of the security force did not like surprises.
A captain came out of the blockhouse with a look of slight irritation on his face and approached the passenger side of the lead vehicle. The tinted window came down only to reveal a tinted pair of sunglasses. The captain, an eight-year veteran of the force, asked in a not-so-friendly tone, “May I help you?”
The man pulled out a black leather case and flipped it open to reveal his credentials. “Secret Service.” He jerked his thumb back toward the limo and said, “We have Director Ross. He’s here on official business.”
