Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2

by Vince Flynn

  She had pressed him on the issue once, hinting that he might be just a little too cautious. He had told her that the only reason he was still alive was because he was so cautious. He had gone on to tell her that if any of those people from his not so distant past ever showed up, she’d be very happy that he was armed. At that point she had thrown a hypothetical at him. What if we get married and have kids? He thought about it for a moment and told her that some things would have to change. The answer had satisfied her at the time.

  Rielly took a sip of her beer and looked at Mitch. Leaning in, she asked in a whisper, “You’re not carrying a gun, are you?”

  Rapp pulled his beer away from his lips and said, “No. Just my love gun.”

  Rielly laughed and then purred like a cat.

  Rapp felt a slight twinge of guilt over his answer. But then again she hadn’t asked, are you bringing a gun, she had asked are you carrying one. His gun was nowhere near his person. It was carefully packed away in a half dozen pieces, stored in the bowels of the jumbo jet.

  They sipped on their beers for a couple more minutes, and when the line was down to just a few people they picked up their carry-on bags and walked hand in hand across the waiting area to the gate. Rapp handed over the first-class tickets and they proceeded down the jetway with their boarding cards. When they made the left hand turn for the plane they stopped at the end of the line of backed-up passengers. Rapp held Rielly close and looked into her beautiful green eyes. He could tell by the sparkle in her eye and the grin on her face that she was a little popped up from her one beer. After thirty seconds a man came down the jetway and replaced them as the last in line.

  Rielly looked up with a telltale smirk on her face and said a little too loudly, “Maybe he’s a spy.”

  Rapp pulled her head into his chest as she giggled louder and louder. All he could do was shake his head and smile. After she calmed down he said, “Get a hold of yourself or they won’t let you on board.”

  “What are you talking about?” Rielly exaggerated her state of drunkenness by intentionally slurring her words.

  “They won’t let you get on a plane drunk. Its against FAA rules.”

  “What if I’m drunk on love?” She closed her eyes pursed her lips for a kiss.

  Mitch laughed and gave her what she wanted. After that the line moved quickly, and before long they were settled into their first-class seats. Anna was next to the window and Mitch was on the aisle. While the plane pushed away from the gate, they got their reading material together. As they taxied over to one of the main runways, Rapp looked out the window and checked the weather. It was at least another hour before sunset, the temperature was in the fifties, and there was no sign of rain. The takeoff should go smoothly.

  Anna started paging through one of her magazines and then stopped. She closed it and looked at Mitch. “You never told me what exactly it is that you have to take care of while we’re in Milan.”

  “Just a little bit of business. Nothing that will take up too much time.” Rapp opened his book and hoped that Anna would go back to her magazine. Unfortunately, he knew it was wishful thinking.

  “What kind of business?”

  “Official business.”

  In a mocking tone Anna lowered her voice and said, “Top secret business.”

  “That’s right, baby.” Rapp winked. “Now why don’t you just sit back, look pretty and peruse your fashion magazine? I’ll take care of everything else.”

  Rielly expertly jabbed him in the ribs. “Don’t give me that crap. I think you can tell me a little more than, ‘official business.’”

  “No, I can’t.” Mitch said emphatically. They’d been down this road before, and he was tiring of it. He leaned in close to her ear and said, “There are certain things about my job that I will never be able to tell you. I’ve been up front about it from the start and you said you could deal with it. Now are you going to abide by that or are you going to change the rules on me?”

  He was right, and she knew it, but it still pissed her off. “No, I’m not going to change the rules, but I think there are times where you don’t need to be so vague. I mean you get all freaked out when I’m fifteen minutes late, and you expect me to just sit in our hotel room in a foreign city while you run off and take care of official business.” Rielly leaned in so close her nose touched his cheek. “I mean for Christ’s sake, for all I know the damn CIA is sending you over here to kill someone.” Rielly moved away and stubbornly folded her arms across her chest.

  Eyeing her with caution, Rapp thought about what she’d just said and then had to admit she had a pretty good point. He owed her a better explanation. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I have to meet with someone . . . someone I used to work with.”

  “Will it be dangerous?”

  “No.” He shook his head and meant it. He would be very cautious, but in truth he wasn’t expecting any trouble.

  “Does this person know you’re coming?”

  “No.”

  Rielly frowned, not sure that she liked the answer. “Is this person someone you can trust?”

  “Yes. Very much so.” Rapp’s words were sincere. “Don’t worry, honey. Everything will go fine. I’ll take care of it the first day we’re there, and then we’ll have the rest of the trip all to ourselves.”

  The plane stopped for a moment, and then the engines came to life. A few seconds later the big jet began to roll down the tarmac. Rapp reached over and grabbed Anna’s hand. He kissed the back of it and said, “I love you.” Rielly kissed him on the lips and told him the same. As the plane began to lift off the ground Rapp’s thoughts turned to the person he would be meeting in Milan. Donatella Rahn was much more than someone he used to work with. She was someone he used to share his bed with. For reasons that had nothing to do with national security he had decided to keep that a secret from Anna. That was all ancient history. It had nothing to do with the situation at hand. Rapp helped rationalize the omission by telling himself that he had never asked her about her ex-boyfriends. This almost worked until he realized that she, as of yet, hadn’t flown three thousand miles to have a secret meeting with one of her former lovers.

  Rapp didn’t like the way the argument was working out so he pushed it from his mind. In and out, he told himself. No big deal. I’ll go to dinner with her, ask her who hired her to kill Peter Cameron, and I’ll be done with it. Rapp grimaced as he looked out the window and down at his favorite body of water in the whole world. The Chesapeake Bay slid by, while a large container ship worked its way north toward the port of Baltimore. Rapp knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. In his heart of hearts, he hoped he was just being his paranoid self. For once he wanted something to be easy. All he wanted was a name. The name of the man who had tried to have him killed in Germany, and then he could make things right and get on with his life.

  Anna nestled in and rested her head on his shoulder. Rapp kissed the top of her head and took in the soft fragrance of her light chestnut hair. She was worth seeing this thing through to the end. He would get the name from Donatella, and he would eliminate the problem. Then they could start their family, and he would feel safer knowing that whoever had tried to kill him in Germany was dead. They could do no harm to his family.

  14

  MILAN, THURSDAY MORNING

  The transatlantic flight went well with one exception; neither Anna nor Mitch had slept. Rapp hadn’t really planned on it, but he was hoping the two glasses of champagne that Anna had consumed would knock her out. They didn’t. In fact, the spirits only heightened her excitement for the week ahead. Two days in Milan filled with shopping at the major fashion houses and a night at the famous Teatro alla Scala, Milan’s grand opera house, and then they would board a train and head south for warmer weather and the romance of Sicily. They had talked excitedly about the trip. The anticipation of what lay ahead was absolutely intoxicating. But for fear of ruining the moment, neither of them spoke directly about engagement, wedding rings, marriage or childr
en. There would be plenty of time to discuss all of that later.

  For Rapp, there was also a second reason why the elation was somewhat tempered. Before he could get on with his new life he had to confront his past, and not just anyone from his past, but someone with whom he had been romantically involved. Just being in Milan brought back a deluge of emotions. Most of them were good, but there were some bad ones too. Italy was his favorite place in the entire world. The history, the architecture, the smells, the people, even the dirt, it was all so real.

  Getting through customs at Malpensa Airport proved to be relatively easy, as the testosterone-charged Italian customs officials were more concerned with Anna’s lingerie than the various weapons that Mitch had stashed throughout his luggage. With the time difference, and the seven-hour flight, they arrived in Milan just in time for the morning rush hour. On the way into the city Anna was all eyes, taking in the sights of the capital city of Italy’s Lombardy region. While at the University of Michigan she had spent a semester abroad in Paris. During that time she had taken a week to visit Rome, and that was the extent of her exposure to Italy. They had debated the merits of the two countries, Anna siding with France and Mitch siding with Italy. Rapp planned on changing her opinion by the end of the week. He would be the first to admit that France had many redeeming qualities, but unfortunately that beauty was often overshadowed by the arrogance of its people.

  Not in Italy, though. If anything the people added to the passion and history of the ancient country. There was genuine willingness to connect with and help foreigners, especially Americans. Their cabdriver was a perfect example. As they plodded their way through rush hour he pointed out, in English, the various sights of interest. During the early part of the commute Anna was slightly disappointed at how modern and industrial Milan was. Mitch assured her that once they reached the heart of the city she would not be disappointed.

  He was right. As they turned onto the Via G. Mengoni, Mitch practically had to restrain Anna from leaping from the moving cab. The Duomo loomed so large she had to stick her head out of the window so she could take in the full height of the intricate spires.

  “Oh my God! I think that is the most beautiful church I’ve ever seen.”

  The cabdriver nodded proudly and answered, “And one of the biggest.”

  Anna continued gawking at the architectural marvel as the cab rolled slowly along the cobblestone street. “What’s it called?”

  “Duomo!”

  “I have to see it. Can we see it?” She turned to Mitch. “Can we see it right now?”

  Rapp laughed at her obvious excitement. “It’s a short walk from the hotel. Only four blocks. After we take a nap this will be our first stop.”

  “Nap?” she asked incredulously. “I’m not taking any naps, I’m too excited.”

  Rapp smiled and shook his head. It was nice to see her this way. Maybe this would work out for the best. If they stayed out all day she would collapse around dinnertime, and then he could sneak out and meet with Donatella. Then if all went well, he could get the information he needed and be done with the whole mess. As they passed the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, Rapp knew that was a lie. The harsh reality was that in all likelihood, whatever Donatella told him would only drag him in deeper. Donatella was one link in a chain that might be very long. Rapp would have to decide for the first time in his adult life if he was willing to turn something over to others and walk away. Anna kissed him on the cheek as they rolled down the old cobblestone street. Mitch pushed the depressing thought from his mind and forced a smile onto his lips. Maybe it would be simple. Maybe Donatella could answer all of his questions, and explain why he had been set up in Germany. Maybe? Mitch turned away, the smile melting from his face. This type of stuff was never easy, and it was one of many reasons why he needed to get out.

  THE ALITALIA FLIGHT pulled up to the gate at Linate Airport. It was one of more than a dozen Alitalia flights that would arrive from Rome throughout the day. Of the two major airports that service Milan, Linate handled mostly domestic flights. It was located just two miles from the center of the city, whereas Malpensa 2000 was more than thirty. The flight had left Rome shortly after nine in the morning and had taken less than an hour and a half to make the journey north. When the door opened a steady stream of businesspeople marched off the plane. An unremarkable man near the middle of the group scanned the faces of the people waiting for the flight, but was careful not to look too interested. He was dressed in a pair of olive slacks, a light blue button-down and a blue sport coat. A pair of dark sunglasses concealed his piercing eyes.

  On his first visual pass of the crowd he saw the man he was to meet, but instead of making his way over to him, he continued with the others toward the main terminal. This was Marc Rosenthal’s second flight of the day. The first had left Tel Aviv well before sunup. After his meeting with the director general of Mossad he had wasted no time in moving his assets into position. Within hours he had two of his people on their way to Milan, each on different flights, and each stopping in another country before entering Italy. One was to obtain weapons and transportation and the other was to establish surveillance with the target. Freidman had given him the go-ahead to use one of the safe flats in Milan despite the fact that officially Mossad had nothing to do with the operation. Rosenthal had told Freidman that the alternative was to use a hotel; a less than ideal situation, since it was highly likely the Italian authorities would be investigating Donatella’s disappearance and possible homicide. In a perfect operation they would take her out without a single witness, but that could not be counted on. There was always the chance that some neighbor, coworker or passerby might notice several men who seemed out of place. At some point the description of those men would be checked against the security tapes at the local hotels. If they found any matches the next step would be to check the security tapes at the airports, and so on and so on.

  When Rosenthal reached the main terminal he continued through the baggage claim area without stopping and walked out onto the curb. Along with the other travelers he got in line at the taxi stand. He noted the number of people in line ahead of him, tried to gauge who might be traveling together and who was traveling alone, and then he counted out the waiting cabs. Rosenthal marked the one that he would most likely be riding in and kept an eye on it. When his turn came, he took one last look around and climbed into the official white taxi. In fluent Italian he told the driver to take him to the Grand Hotel. It was not where he was staying, but that was none of the driver’s business.

  It was a sunny day, and unfortunately for Rosenthal, the tourists of summer were gone. It was nearing 11:00 A.M., and the streets were not very crowded. He frowned with concern as he looked out the window of the moving taxi. Rosenthal’s early experiences as a kidon had left an indelible mark on him. He had been assigned to penetrate the deepest circles of the enemy. There was no more dangerous assignment that could be thrust upon an agent of Mossad than to enter the Palestinian camps. He had been asked to go behind enemy lines and identify the leaders of the various terrorist cells. He’d had to assimilate with the very people he hated.

  Those early years had left scars. The shrinks at Mossad knew none of this, nor did anyone else. These were Rosenthal’s own private demons. The solitary bravado of his early years had cracked. He hated operating alone. As a predator he had gone from a lone wolf to developing a pack mentality. Never again would he hunt alone. He would never go back to the camps, never go back to the sleepless nights, worrying that he might let something slip in his dreams. No, that was all behind him. Now he did everything possible to stack the deck in his favor.

  And his discerning eye didn’t like the lack of cover on the streets. Over the last twenty-four hours Rosenthal had scoured the file Freidman had given him. It was obvious it had been heavily censored. Much of it was blacked out, and there were large gaps where entire operations had been omitted. Rosenthal had no doubt the old man had personally removed the information. Part of
it was for reasons of compartmentalization and secrecy, but Rosenthal knew the old man too well to think that was the only reason. Freidman had removed information that might cause Rosenthal to hesitate rather than assassinate. Rosenthal was no novice. Although he had not yet reached the age of thirty he had been doing this work for close to a decade. Despite the heavily censored file, Rosenthal knew that this Donatella Rahn had done a lot for Israel, but this was the ugly side of his business. One day you’re a prized asset; the next day you’re a liability.

  As the taxi neared The Galleria Vittorio, Rosenthal told the driver they were close enough to the hotel and asked him to stop. He paid the man and got out. He gave a quick glance over both shoulders and then entered the magnificent nineteenth-century architectural structure. The Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II was laid out in the formation of a cross, the north–south section connecting the Piazza del Duomo and the Piazza della Scala. Instead of open air between the buildings the large bisecting avenues were covered with an ornate iron framework and glass. It was closed to all but foot traffic. The floor was made of an intricate mosaic of colorful tiles and elegant shops lined the walk.

  Rosenthal stopped into a bookshop and purchased a copy of the London Times. He loitered near the front of the shop for a moment to see if he was being followed and then continued on his way out the north end of the structure and across the Piazza della Scala. On the other end of the plaza he leaned against a light post and acted as if he were reading the paper. After several minutes a maroon Fiat sedan pulled up to the curb and Rosenthal got in.

  It was the man from the airport. He pulled back into traffic and said, “You’re clean.”