by Vince Flynn
Rapp had been expecting a two-foot-square monochrome model with enough detail to make some general strategy decisions. What he’d gotten was a full-color model so large it had to be cut into three sections to jam it down the elevator shaft. Resolution was detailed enough to differentiate individual plants in Obrecht’s garden.
The portion of the model that represented the house was built in detachable layers so that each floor could be removed in order to examine the layout of the one beneath. The only thing missing was furniture—an omission that Dumond seemed genuinely embarrassed about. He still hadn’t been able to crack the banker’s encryption and tie into his security cameras.
“Voilà,” Coleman said, connecting the last section and crawling out from under it.
Rapp let his eyes drift from the mansion grounds out to the mountainous forest surrounding it. Every tree and rock, every road and stream, was faithfully represented. While he was normally suspicious of technology, this was an advance he could get used to.
Hurley set his drink down on a section of open meadow already covered with rings from his glass. “I remember when we’d have planned this op on the back of a napkin.”
“The world moves forward, Stan,” Coleman said, stepping back to admire the model.
“You’re wrong,” the old man replied, cigarette smoke rolling from his mouth as he spoke. “The world stands still. All that changes is the window dressing.”
“That’s why I’ve always liked you, Stan. Your sunny disposition.”
“What do we know about the place?” Rapp said before Hurley could formulate an expletive-laced response.
“The estate itself is about a hundred acres, and beyond that is a whole lot of rugged, heavily forested public land,” Coleman said. “I have Wick over there watching the place, and I can tell you that we’d be better off trying to break into Fort Knox.”
“Does the public use the area for recreation?”
The former SEAL shook his head. “No trail system. What you see on the model are just game trails or natural features.”
“The good news,” Hurley said, “is that Obrecht is no different than all the other royalty wannabes. He doesn’t want to mix with the unwashed masses. It’s miles before you get to his first neighbor.”
Coleman agreed. “There’s just the one road. It’s twenty-one miles long from where it turns off a two-lane rural highway. Obrecht’s at the end. The nearest house is nine miles south, and the owners aren’t using it right now. One caretaker. Guy’s older than Stan and just as deaf.”
“Fuck you,” Hurley said.
Rapp returned his attention to the model of the banker’s property. It was a common mistake made by men like Obrecht. The best security was to be packed in with a hundred neighbors who knew the rhythms of the area and would notice any change. Those kinds of densely populated subdivisions also tended to have solid police coverage with short response times.
“What’s the story with the fence?” Rapp said.
“It’s more of a wall,” Coleman replied. “A little less than a foot thick, constructed of cinder blocks covered with adobe. We talked to the contractor who built it and he said the whole thing is reinforced with concrete.”
“Height?”
“About twelve feet. One main gate about fifteen feet wide and one small delivery door. Both look like they could stop a tank. Add to that floodlights, cameras, hardened positions along the wall, and you’ve got the makings of quite a party.”
“What about the men?”
“We’re out of luck. The former special ops people Obrecht originally had in there are all gone. The guys he replaced them with look to be Middle Eastern and Eastern European.”
The personnel change was bad news. Their best bet had been to get to the Western contractors protecting Obrecht through their military contacts. Most were former special forces and that was a very small and very interconnected fraternity.
Coleman seemed to read his mind. “So, we can’t get them to hand Obrecht their resignation and open the gate for us, but I knew one of the GSG 9 guys he canned. He gave me good intel on stuff in the house that didn’t make it to the architectural plans. The highlights are that all the glass is bulletproof and Obrecht has a safe room in the basement.”
“How many men does he have now?”
“Twelve that we can individually identify. It’s possible that there are more inside who never come out, but I doubt it. Also five civilians. A butler, a cook, and three maids.”
“Dogs?”
Coleman shook his head. “We hav—”
The door to the bar opened and Louis Gould stepped through, followed by Mike Nash. The assassin had been cleaned up and was wearing a donated pair of slacks and a blue dress shirt. No shoes, though, in case he was stupid enough to try to run.
Coleman started to stretch out a hand but stopped under the force of Rapp’s glare. Gould had saved his life in Afghanistan and while he knew it was just because the assassin couldn’t afford to lose a good gun, there was no denying that he owed the man. There was also no denying that he wouldn’t live long if Rapp ever had reason to question his loyalty.
“I don’t think introductions are necessary,” Nash said, trying to cut through the tension. He had a gift for such things, but this time it didn’t work. Rapp remained silent, tracking Gould as he approached the model on the pool table.
“Wow,” he said, leaning over it. “They always said you guys had the best toys. Now I believe it.”
No one dared respond as Rapp continued to stare at the man. Gould was the only person he had ever felt conflicted about in his life. Sometimes he found himself wanting to trade places with him—living out a quiet retirement surrounded by his family. Other times he wanted to make Gould’s wife a widow and leave his daughter fatherless.
For now, though, they needed him.
“Welcome aboard,” Rapp said, finally.
The other men in the room relaxed and Gould nodded respectfully. “Thanks, Mitch.”
“Now start earning your keep,” Hurley growled.
“Okay,” Gould said, folding his arms across his chest. “The wall is a lot stronger than you think it is. It goes down three feet and Obrecht had the cinder blocks filled with cement. The windows are bulletproof, and he’s got a safe room in the basement.”
Coleman had already covered those bases, but the fact that Gould wasn’t starting out with his normal string of lies was promising.
“What about dogs?” Rapp said. Coleman hadn’t had a chance to answer the question.
“I’d bet against it. Obrecht got attacked by one of his father’s Dobermans when he was a kid. You can still see the scars on one side of his jaw. He’s terrified of them.”
Rapp glanced at Coleman, who gave a subtle nod, confirming the information.
“What’s he got by way of guards?” Gould asked.
“Twelve men,” Coleman said. “All serious operators.”
“That’s more than he’s had in the past. You must have spooked him. Can you get to any of them?”
“He canned all the Americans and Brits,” Hurley said.
Gould nodded. “He figured you might be able to turn them. That’s the problem with Leo. He’s not an idiot.”
“How secure is the safe room?” Rapp asked.
“It’s set into the bedrock in the basement. Foot-thick steel walls, separate oxygen supply, separate heating and cooling systems. You could burn the house down around it and Obrecht would never break a sweat.”
“So at the first sign of a breach, Obrecht’s going to lock himself in there and wait us out,” Rapp said. “Scott, what about his communications?”
“We’ll jam his wireless and cut his hard lines, but the amount of firepower we’re going to have to use to get in there isn’t going to go unnoticed no matter how far away and deaf his neighbors are. We can clip into the police station’s line and head off any phone traffic but that’s only going to buy us another fifteen minutes or so.”
The
y all fell silent, staring down at Dumond’s model. Finally, Gould spoke. “Since I’ve passed all the tests about bulletproof glass and dogs, let me tell you something you don’t know. The safe room isn’t all Obrecht has in that basement.”
He grabbed a pool cue and pointed to the base of a wooded knoll southeast of the wall. “There’s an entrance to an escape tunnel that comes out here.”
Rapp looked at Coleman, who shrugged. “It’s not on any plans, and his former guards don’t know anything about it.”
“Obrecht doesn’t trust anyone. The safe room’s good for the most likely threat—that some crook he works with decides he knows too much. The tunnel is there in case his own guards or a government comes after him. I got lucky and stumbled across it while I was probing for weaknesses in his security. The access is hidden inside a small natural cave.”
Mostly lies, of course. Obrecht used that tunnel to smuggle in contraband that he wanted to make absolutely certain authorities never discovered. Usually attractive young boys snatched from the streets of third-world countries, but occasionally also criminal associates like Gould.
“I can have my guys take a look,” Coleman said.
Rapp gave a short nod, authorizing it. “Can we get into the tunnel from that cave?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Okay, then,” Rapp said. “As tempting as it is to just kick up a bunch of dust and wait for Obrecht to pop out, we can’t risk it. With Rickman involved, there’s always a chance that one of the guards is compromised and will take Obrecht out before we can get to him. Even more likely, he’ll go for the safe room. In the end, the only way to be sure we get him out of there alive is to drag him out.”
CHAPTER 13
NEAR BHAKKAR
PAKISTAN
FOR this excursion, the aid agency Land Cruiser had been traded for an equally nondescript delivery truck. The vehicle was positioned in the middle of a regularly scheduled supply convoy, and Ahmed Taj was sitting in the passenger seat. The road was well maintained and the surrounding landscape stretched—empty and windswept—to the horizon. A stark contrast to the crush of Pakistan’s overcrowded cities.
The facility coming into view had been designed to be unremarkable, and it remained so despite recent events. The warehouse-style building was fashioned from local materials, making it blend into its surroundings to the degree possible. The razor-wire-topped fence surrounding it was a commercially available variety, indistinguishable from millions of similar chain-link structures throughout the country. Most important, the facility actually did produce the textiles described by the placard on the gate—albeit by trusted men sourced from Pakistan’s armed forces.
“I want to examine the damage myself,” Taj said as the lead vehicle eased to a stop in front of the gate. “I’ll get out here.”
His driver’s stoic expression turned fearful. “We have no way to know if the terrorists who carried out the assault have all been captured, Director. There could still be armed men in the area.”
His reaction was understandable. The Pakistani Taliban, bent on bringing down the government, had attacked the facility less than eight hours before.
Despite that, the ISI director threw the door open and stepped onto the running board, not bothering to acknowledge his man’s concerns.
“May I send a team with you, sir?”
“No.”
The skies were typically clear and a group of men encircling him could draw the attention of American satellites. According to his intelligence, the CIA was still ignorant of this and nineteen similar properties scattered across Pakistan. In light of the extreme challenges associated with building and maintaining them, he wasn’t anxious to jeopardize that ignorance.
The army had managed to regain the appearance of normalcy with workmanlike speed. The massive hole in the fence to the east of the gate had been strung with wire in a way that, while not secure, would obscure the fact that a truck full of explosives had struck it just before dawn. A second weaponized vehicle had failed to detonate and was resting on its side barely ten meters from the building’s main entrance. Now covered with camouflage netting, it would be invisible from above.
The bodies of the nine guards and sixteen Taliban fighters who died in the attack had been dragged inside and would be hidden within a shipment of fabrics when the convoy left. Even bloodstains and burn marks had been eradicated—covered with fresh dirt before the sun had fully cleared the horizon.
Taj slipped through a gap in the damaged fence, paying no attention to a soldier hidden in a stack of discarded pipes. The army sniper would have been made aware of his arrival.
Taj passed through a rusted door in the side of the building and found himself in a dilapidated office that stunk of the chemicals used on the factory floor. The man sitting behind the only desk wore the threadbare shirt and tie of a factory manager but was in fact the special forces officer in charge of security. He averted his eyes in well-deserved shame for what had happened and pressed a hidden button near his leg. The lock on the door across the room buzzed and Taj pushed through it.
The shop floor contained little to dispel the illusion of a legitimate factory. Workers manned a variety of industrial machines and massive plastic-wrapped bolts of fabric were stacked around the walls. It would take a well-trained eye to see the irregularities in the concrete floor that hid four of Pakistan’s 117 nuclear warheads.
These in particular were attached to Shaheen 1A ballistic missiles developed with the help of the North Koreans. They were currently Pakistan’s most technologically advanced, with a range of almost two thousand kilometers and the rudimentary ability to evade missile defense systems.
The building’s sloped roof was attached with explosive bolts that, when detonated, would cause the entire assembly to slide away. This would allow the missiles to be raised and launched within minutes of an attack order.
Ironically, much of the money for this structure came from the Americans. They were so fearful that terrorists might gain access to a WMD that they were willing to pump nearly unlimited funds into Pakistan’s nuclear program. All the U.S. politicians asked in return was that the army maintain the illusion of improved security.
The phone in his pocket began to vibrate and he glanced around him before picking up. The workers were taking great pains to ignore his presence.
“Go ahead,” he said, inserting a Bluetooth headset into his ear.
“You requested an update before I got on the plane to Rome,” Kabir Gadai said, his voice barely audible over the noise of the machinery.
He was on his way to convince Isabella Accorso to turn over the computer files her law firm had received from Joseph Rickman.
“Quickly,” Taj said, continuing toward a door on the far side of the expansive building.
“Per your instructions, Obrecht is running ads in all the major newspapers worldwide as well as the agreed-upon websites and magazines. He’s also left encrypted messages in all the predetermined drop sites. So far no response.”
Disappointing, but in no way surprising. It was certain that the CIA had captured Louis Gould, but no information was available on his fate. Based on the assassin’s history with Mitch Rapp, it was very possible that he was dead.
Kennedy was a clever female, though. She would be desperate to capture Obrecht and the most promising strategy would be to offer Gould his life in return for assistance. That presented an opportunity for getting rid of Rapp.
“We’re prepared to deal with an attack on Obrecht’s property, then?” Taj asked.
“Yes. Though he’s lodged endless complaints about being used as bait.”
Taj was forced to step aside to let a front loader pass. Obrecht was less than nothing. A criminal who fed off the excitement of his debauched lifestyle but only if the risks were laid at the feet of others.
“I assume you’ve offered him money to put his mind at ease.”
“Among other things.”
“And the America
n and British guards have been replaced?”
“Yes, sir. With men who have no history with the CIA or U.S. military, and no love for America in general. All experienced.”
“If anything should go wrong, it will be time to deal with Obrecht. Under no circumstances is he to fall into Mitch Rapp’s hands.”
“It would be a shame to lose him,” Gadai said. “He’s become very useful. But understood.”
Taj slowed as he approached the door at the back of the shop floor. “I expect another report when you land in Europe.”
“Of course.”
He disconnected the line and put the headset back in his pocket. Gadai was right. Obrecht had indeed been useful. Billions of dollars in Afghan heroin revenues had been laundered with his assistance. More than half of the profits had already been paid out by Taj to secure the loyalty of the many militant groups operating in Pakistan. Fortunately, Louis Gould was significantly cheaper.
In fact, it would have been amusing to offer him nothing for killing Mitch Rapp. Taj suspected the assassin would have agreed enthusiastically. But this was no time to take unnecessary risks. In the event that Gould saw the ad and managed to succeed, the fifteen million he’d been promised would be money well spent. While it seemed absurd to put this many resources toward killing one man, it would be even more imprudent to underestimate Mitch Rapp’s ability to interfere with his plans. With the CIA man gone, Kennedy’s teeth would be pulled. She and her pathetic country would be blind and defenseless in the face of what was to come.
Taj entered a broad corridor and saw President Chutani speaking with Umar Shirani, the army’s chief of staff. They turned toward him and Chutani raised a hand in greeting.
“Ahmed. Thank you for coming. I trust your journey was a good one?”
“It was,” Taj said, avoiding the man’s gaze. “Thank you for asking, sir.”
Shirani looked on with disdain and then enveloped Taj’s hand in an unusually deferential grip. The general was one of the most influential men in the country and, like so many others, considered Taj weak. Today, though, he found his position diminished. The security at these nuclear sites was his responsibility and this was the second attack on one in as many months. Taken together with Chutani’s growing stature and recent American threats to reduce military aid, the aging four-star’s relevance was beginning to slip.
