Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2

by Vince Flynn

  “Good. And the woman?”

  “She’s at her office. Yanta followed her to work this morning. She got there at nine and hasn’t left.”

  “What about her apartment?”

  “We decided to wait for you before we made that move.”

  Rosenthal nodded. The man driving the car was Jordan Sunberg. Although he looked a good ten years older than Rosenthal he was actually two years younger. Sunberg had a thick black beard and an unruly head of curly hair. The two had worked with each other on many occasions in recent years. They were two of Freidman’s favorite katsas. “Did you get the things I requested?”

  “Yes. It’s all back at the flat.”

  Rosenthal checked his watch. “Good. We’ll make our move this evening.”

  15

  Rapp watched Anna twirl around the middle of the beautiful room, her arms spread and her little chin tipped up toward the vaulted hand-painted ceiling of the fifteenth-century monastic cell. She could not believe this was their hotel room and not a museum. Rapp couldn’t have been happier over her reaction. Watching her spin around in circles made him think of what Anna must have been like as a little girl. He felt a brief pang of sadness that he’d missed so much of her life. It was irrational, he knew. There was no way they could have known each other. She had grown up in Chicago and he in Virginia. Besides, if they had met it would have virtually guaranteed that they would not be together right now.

  Anna moved across the room and out onto the small balcony overlooking the inner courtyard. Mitch followed her and wrapped his arms around her waist. They stood together, front to back, looking down on the immaculately manicured courtyard. Every tree, every bush, every table, every umbrella was perfect.

  Anna reached up with her left hand and touched Mitch’s face. Turning her head back she found his lips and gave him a long kiss. As their lips parted she said, “I love you so much.”

  “I love you, too.” He squeezed her tightly and began kissing her neck. After a minute he led her back toward the king-size bed.

  “What are you doing?” asked Anna in a playful tone.

  “I’m trying to seduce you.” He held her tight, continued the kissing and made the last step toward the bed.

  Anna grabbed his hands, twisted free and pushed him onto the bed. Mitch willingly let her win and landed comfortably in the middle of the bed. With his hand held out he gestured for Anna to join him. To his great disappointment all he got was a defiant pose; hands on hips with a shaking head. “Come on, honey,” he pleaded.

  “Nope. We’re only in Milan for a day and a half, and I’m not going to spend it in bed.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

  “Come on,” he said baiting her. “It won’t take long.”

  “Maybe for you.”

  Rapp laughed. “Now . . . now. Be nice.”

  “It has nothing to do with being nice. I’m being a realist. If I get into bed with you, we’ll have sex, and then you’ll fall asleep. I don’t want to sleep right now. I want to get out and see the city.” She started for the bathroom. “Besides, you’re always better when I make you wait.”

  Rapp stared up at the mural on the ceiling. “I’ll have to work on that.” He let out a loud groan that was mostly for show and then got off the bed. After peeling off his clothes, he strutted into the bathroom.

  Anna turned from the mirror where she was touching up her makeup. She looked at her boyfriend’s naked body and asked in an incredulous tone, “You can’t want it that bad?”

  “You wish,” grinned Rapp as he slapped her on the butt and continued past her and into the shower.

  After the shower Rapp went out into the bedroom and put on a fresh set of clothes. He stood over his suitcase and wondered what was the best way to handle his next move. He was tempted to assemble the gun and slip it into the specially designed interior pocket of his leather jacket, but he knew that was an invitation for disaster. Anna would wrap her arms around him the second they got outside and she would check for the weapon. She always did. She had gotten used to it, at least in America. She had been raised in a house full of guns. Her father was a cop as well as two of her brothers. Rapp had met the family, and like all good Chicago cops they carried their sidearm with them when they were off duty.

  The best way to handle it with Anna was to be up front, but then again if the room was bugged he didn’t want to get into it with her here. He made the decision to tell her when they got outside. Rapp picked up his suitcase and carried it into the drawing room. After setting it on the ottoman he quickly grabbed the hair dryer, the can of shaving cream and the radio and pulled them apart. In less than two minutes he had the weapon assembled and the items put back together. Rapp’s leather jacket was on the arm of the chair. He opened it and put the automatic into an inside pocket designed to conceal the weapon.

  When Anna was ready they went downstairs to La Veranda for a quick bite to eat. They had the restaurant to themselves. It was post breakfast and just prior to the lunch rush. Anna ordered a bowl of soup and Mitch ordered a roast beef sandwich for which he received a concerned look from his girlfriend.

  “Doesn’t the mad cow thing scare you a little?”

  Rapp looked quickly over both shoulders. “Where? Is one on the loose?”

  Anna laughed and shook her head. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean, and I appreciate your concern, but I stand a better chance of getting hit by lightning than contracting mad cow disease.”

  Anna decided not to make a big deal out of it. She took a drink of water and then asked, “When are you going to take care of your business?”

  With a serious look he said, “I’d tried to upstairs but you shut me down.”

  “Oh,” she smiled. “I can see you’re in a real juvenile mood today.”

  “Just in love, darling. That’s all.”

  “Can we be serious for a minute?”

  “Absolutely.” Rapp grabbed a bread stick and bit off the end.

  “When are you going to meet with this person?”

  Rapp took another bite of the breadstick and said, “I’m going to try to make contact this afternoon.”

  “Is this going to interfere at all with our plans for this evening?”

  He thought about it for a second and then said, “It shouldn’t.”

  Anna shot him a disappointed look.

  “Darling, you’re not being fair. I told you I had to take care of this. We’re going to have a great trip, but I have to take care of this first.” He took another bite from the breadstick and waited for her to give him a sign that she wasn’t upset. When she smiled he reached across the table for her hand and said, “Besides, I have a sneaky feeling that you’re going to be wiped out by the time tonight rolls around.”

  Their food arrived in short order and they ate quickly. Before leaving Rapp ordered a double cappuccino for a little extra burst of energy and suggested that Anna do the same. He didn’t care how beautiful the Duomo was, tours made him more tired than a two-mile swim. Anna ordered a single cappuccino. The hot drinks came in to-go cups. Rapp signed the check and they left the hotel.

  It was a bright sunny day. The temperature was in the mid-fifties. It was perfect walking weather. Anna was dressed quite a bit more stylishly than Mitch. The fact that Milan was the fashion capital of the world was not wasted on NBC’s White House correspondent. Instead of heading directly for the grand church, Rapp led Anna half a block to the north and took a right onto Via della Spiga. A short block later they took a right onto Via Sant’Andrea. It was at about this point that the tour of the Duomo was put on hold. The first fashion designer that came into view was Hermès, quickly followed by Fendi. Rapp knew the street well, and it was having its intended effect on Anna. He was guessing that it would take them several hours to travel the next full block. They would have to run the gauntlet of Prada, Moschino, Chanel, Gianfranco Ferre and Giorgio Armani. Prada alone could ta
ke two hours.

  Anna stood gawking at the window of Hermès. Rapp could see her struggling over what to do. Finally, she looked at him and said, “I want to go in for just a minute.”

  Rapp laughed loudly. “Commercialism over Catholicism. Your mother would be very disappointed.”

  Anna scowled at him. “It’ll only take a minute.”

  “Don’t worry, honey. We’ve got all day. We can always see the Duomo tomorrow.” Rapp opened the door and gestured for Anna to enter. Before following her he looked down the street in the direction of the House of Armani. Donatella was in the building somewhere. Or at least she was supposed to be. Rapp had had Marcus Dumond do a little checking before he left for Italy. Dumond was the Counterterrorism Center’s resident computer genius. He’d hacked his way into Armani’s network, and with the help of Rapp’s linguistic skills they’d figured out that Donatella was scheduled to be in Milan for the entire week. Rapp had memorized her entire schedule for the two days he was to be in Milan. He glanced at his watch for a moment and thought the timing might be perfect. Another thirty minutes of shopping and he’d slip away.

  ROSENTHAL HAD SUNBERG park the car several blocks away and they walked to the café. When they rounded the corner onto Sant’Andrea, Rosenthal was pleased to see David Yanta sitting at a small wooden table talking in his always animated fashion to two drop-dead gorgeous women. Models no doubt. The city was crawling with them. Rosenthal was pleased that Yanta was talking to the women because he was hoping they would score a little sex while on the mission; he was also pleased because in their line of work, nothing stood out more than a lone man sitting at a café. The picture had surveillance written all over it.

  As they approached the table Yanta stood up and enthusiastically introduced his two coworkers to the beautiful women. The cover story and names were a variation on ones they’d used before. They worked for an international telecommunications company, and were based out of Paris. They were in Milan to try and get the Pirelli-Armstrong Tire Corporation to carry one of their new products.

  Yanta ordered more coffee for the table and produced a fresh pack of cigarettes. Everyone lit up and no one bothered to take their sunglasses off. This was Milan. Looking hip was of paramount importance. Yanta continued to entertain the models with wild stories of their travels. Rosenthal watched him with some slight amusement. Yanta was the biggest natural bullshitter he’d ever met. The man could strike up a conversation with anyone. He was a bit of dork, which he used to his advantage by piling on the self-deprecating humor and putting those around him at ease. The women more often than not fell for this ploy. Yanta always said he was playing to their instincts as natural healers. Rosenthal thought it had more to do with getting them to lower their guard and making them laugh. Whichever it was though, it worked.

  As the conversation bounced around the table, Rosenthal feigned interest. From time to time his eyes strayed across the street to the House of Armani. The showroom was on the first floor and the offices were on the floors above. Somewhere on the third floor was the office of Donatella Rahn. The file Freidman had given him outlined all the pertinent aspects of her life. Her flat was just eight blocks away in a nice upscale part of Milan on the east side of the Giardini Pubblici. She walked to work every day. In the summers she took her holidays at a small villa on Lake Como and in the winter she took ski trips to the Swiss Alps and warm weather trips to Greece. Her job required a fair amount of travel and brought her to Paris and New York on a monthly basis.

  She was the perfect honey trap. A gorgeous woman that the Institute could use in a variety of ways to tempt the enemy into letting their guard down. Rosenthal also guessed that they’d used her to seduce and blackmail quite a few powerful men over the years. The file that Rosenthal had received from Freidman had been so sanitized that it mentioned nothing of the woman’s operational missions, but Rosenthal could take a pretty good guess at it. He’d seen it done before. She was bait used to lure their enemies into an ambush.

  One thing was bothering Rosenthal, though. Back in Freidman’s office, the old man had told him that this woman had killed more men than the two of them combined. By Rosenthal’s conservative count that put the toll at over twenty people, a huge number for anyone in their business and unheard of for a woman. Rosenthal had decided on the flight up from Rome that the old man must have left out the word helped. Helped kill more men than you and I combined must have been what he meant.

  After all, the woman was a model strung out on heroin when Freidman had recruited her. From what he could gather in the file she had been brought up in a relatively normal environment in Italy. Nothing stood out that would lead him to think she was a highly skilled assassin. No, Rosenthal thought, she’s nothing more than a high-priced call girl who’s been doing a little too much talking. Either that or she’s hit Freidman up for some extra cash one too many times. Rosenthal cringed at the thought.

  He decided to let his curiosity rest. Freidman had ordered the woman dead and that was enough. What she had done to deserve it didn’t matter. Rosenthal had gone into battle for Freidman many times and would continue to do so without question. The man was a true patriot and Rosenthal would not let him down. By midnight tonight his bidding would be done. Israel’s problem would be dealt with, and the world would be none the wiser that agents of Mossad had had a hand in the death of a beautiful Italian model.

  16

  Donatella Rahn stood in front of her mammoth glass desk and studied a series of ten-by-eight Polaroids that had just been couriered to her office from a shoot that was going on across town. After more than twenty years in the business, the first ten in front of the camera and the next eleven working for the House of Armani, she had a pretty good eye for what worked and what didn’t. It was glaringly obvious from the Polaroids that the shoot was not going well. She swore to herself as she counted the thousands of dollars that were being wasted. It looked like she might have to get into a cab and go throw a fit. That was the way it worked.

  It was the way it had always worked. Theirs was a business driven by passion. No passion and everything was mediocre. From the designers, to the photographers, to the stylists, to the models, if any one of them wasn’t excited about the clothes and the shoot, the outcome was lukewarm at best. And when it came to the House of Armani, lukewarm just didn’t cut it.

  Many words could be used to describe Donatella Rahn, but lukewarm was not one of them. She had the practicality and decisiveness of her Austrian father and the creativity and passion of her Italian mother. It had taken her a good portion of her life to sort out these traits and learn to control them, or at a bare minimum channel them into the right areas of her life. It was easy for people to never make it past Donatella’s stunning beauty, but in reality she was an extremely complex person. Many men over the years had failed to see that she was more than a pretty face, and they had either been left with a broken heart or no heart at all.

  At thirty-eight, Donatella looked and felt better than at any other time in her life. Yes, there were a few more wrinkles around her eyes and her skin didn’t have the glow that it did when she was eighteen, but she had grown into herself. There was an air of confidence in everything she did. This had not been there when she was modeling, at least not in the early years. She was five feet ten inches of statuesque woman, with a mane of silky black hair. The hair had a slight kinky curl to it that hinted at her wild side. She had a pair of full firm breasts that had been surgically enhanced back in her modeling days, and from time to time she’d gone to see her favorite plastic surgeon to have some problem areas dealt with, but the face was untouched. Her body was the perfect mix of elegance and athleticism. Gone was the rail-thin anemic look of her modeling days. Her heroin polluted body had been cleansed, replaced by a layer of well-toned muscle. In short, she was the type of woman that men lusted after.

  DONATELLA’S GOOD LOOKS were all the more amazing when one considered the type of life she’d led in her early twenties. At the time sh
e had been impressionable, too concerned about her weight and about pleasing the photographers and creative directors. But more than anything she had been stupid and weak. Donatella had been seduced by the dark side of modeling. Every night of the week was a Friday night. And not just in Milan. The whole world was her playground. There were wild parties in exotic places with wealthy men. It had turned into one long party. Her life had been spinning out of control for almost a year when everything came crashing down around her.

  She’d flown to Tel Aviv for a shoot and ran into a bit of a snag trying to get through customs. Two ounces of heroin had been found in her luggage, and she’d been thrown into the clink. She had not been treated well. She couldn’t remember all of the details, the whole thing was a bit hazy, but there’d been a lot of screaming. They’d even slapped her a few times, but more than anything she remembered the cold. It had been so cold and then after what seemed like an eternity, a man had shown up.

  It was rather ironic that the first image she had in her mind of Ben Freidman was that he was a caring and compassionate soul. He had brought her a blanket; he had brought her warmth. And then after a brief visit he had brought her a doctor who gave her a shot to help with her heroin withdrawal. It was then that the stocky man had offered her a deal. It was a deal she couldn’t refuse. She could either spend the best years of her life in an Israeli jail or she could come to work for him. At the time it hadn’t been a difficult decision, since she had no idea what coming to work for him entailed. All she knew was that she didn’t want to stay in jail.

  Freidman had made all the arrangements. Donatella was checked into a treatment clinic in Israel. She called her booking agent in Milan and informed her that she had finally hit bottom and was seeking help. The agent wasn’t surprised. She’d seen it happen before and would see it again. She wished Donatella the best and told her to get well. There would be plenty of work for her when she was better. Next there was the tearful phone call to her mother. Her mother was relieved, as was Donatella that the charade was over. Now she could go about healing herself. As per Freidman’s instructions, Donatella explained to her mother that they could talk only once a week on Sundays. She gave her mother a phone number to use in case of an emergency and said good-bye. The phone number was not to the rehab clinic; it was routed to Mossad headquarters where a person would answer in the name of the clinic and relay any messages.