Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2

by Vince Flynn

  It was all part of a coordinated strategy, to keep the U.S. troops sharp and the enemy wary. The men manning the Iraqi air defenses were loath to turn on their targeting radar for fear that a patrolling U.S. fighter might slam a missile down their throats. The unlucky Iraqis charged with operating in the deserts of southern Iraq and the mountains of northern Iraq had heard one too many stories about their comrades going out on patrol and never returning. The few survivors who did make it back told stories of being ambushed in the middle of the night by men they never saw or heard. Morale in the Iraqi military wasn’t good.

  But for General Flood it was the opposite. His men were well trained, well equipped and ready to go. The Iraqi theater was one massive ongoing drill. The wealth of information that was collected was constantly fed to air force, navy, Marine Corps and army experts who continually updated their target assessments. The result was that an effective and concise battle plan was never more than twelve hours away.

  In essence, Flood did not need to let a half million American troops in on the secret. All he needed to do was tell the Joint Chiefs that the president wanted options. That Saddam had once again pissed off President Hayes. None of this was unusual. Since the Gulf War a single year hadn’t passed without some type of military action being leveled against Baghdad’s Bad Man. Flood could tell the Central Command that he wanted them to put together a comprehensive bombing plan, and he would have a preliminary report on his desk within the hour. The whole force would be ready to strike in a day or less. General Flood wielded a mighty stick.

  It was no small comfort to him that his front line troops were ready to commence such a large operation on such short notice. It gave him the peace of mind to tackle a far more complicated problem, the problem of trying to steal three nuclear weapons out from under Saddam’s nose.

  His intercom buzzed and one of his four administrative assistants announced that his visitors had arrived. Flood said to show them in. He stood and as he buttoned his green jacket, he looked down at the shelf of brightly colored ribbons on his barrel chest. He remembered in detail how each one had been obtained. Many of them were B.S. Given to him for things that he thought had little to do with soldiering, but there were a few that he was very proud of.

  A strange thought occurred to the general. How many ribbons and medals would Mitch Rapp have been awarded if he’d been in the army instead of the CIA? Flood had seen some great soldiers in action over the years, and there was no doubt in his mind that Mitch Rapp was one of them. Maybe the best. Flood desperately wanted to believe in Rapp’s abilities. He’d told no one of his dreams lately, but they horrified the old soldier. He had been visited in his sleep by the specter of nuclear battle. On a nightly basis he found himself looking out over a charred battlefield. The golden soft sand of the desert was burnt and black. The bodies of his soldiers were strewn about, thousands of them, charred from the heat wave of a nuclear detonation.

  General Flood had never met Saddam face-to-face. He’d never even talked to the man, but he’d studied him and felt he knew him well. Or at least he knew his type. The pages of history books were sprinkled with megalomaniacs just like him. It seemed that every century could count a half dozen as their own.

  Flood was willing to risk his entire career to make sure Saddam never got the chance to use those weapons. This would be the biggest gamble he’d ever taken. Sending a dozen Delta Force commandos into the heart of Baghdad, during the middle of an air strike, to steal three nuclear warheads was pushing the odds a bit. If the mission failed the critics would stone him from the bleachers and then they would go after the president. At a bare minimum he wanted Rapp leading the way. The man with the Midas touch. He had a way of succeeding where others failed.

  Irene Kennedy entered the room first. Her small stature was perfect for her profession. She was not the first person noticed in a crowd. Mitch Rapp, on the other hand, was a different matter. In his black leather jacket and two-day-old beard, he stood out like a sore thumb. Fortunately, General Flood’s staff practiced discretion with his visitors, especially when they arrived before 7:00 A.M. and were in the company of the director designate of the CIA.

  Flood met them midway across his large office. “Good morning, Irene.”

  “Good morning, General.”

  Flood reached out for Rapp’s hand. “Thanks for coming in to see me, Mitch.”

  “Not a problem, sir.” Rapp liked Flood, so he lied. There were other things that he would rather be attending to, but he would hear the man out.

  “Please, sit.” Flood motioned to an arrangement of two couches and several chairs on his right. There was a small table in the middle. On top was a basket of muffins, a coffeepot, sugar and cream and several cups, as well as side plates. “I figured you’d be hungry, Mitch. Help yourself to whatever you want.” Flood leaned forward and poured a cup of coffee. “Irene?”

  “Please.” Kennedy took the cup, but passed on the muffins. “Thank you.”

  Rapp poured himself a cup and took a muffin. “Irene tells me you have a little bit of a problem.”

  “I’d say so. How many times have you been in Baghdad?”

  “Before the war I spent a lot of time there, but since the war I’ve only been back three times.”

  The general looked at Kennedy. “How much does he know?”

  “Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to brief him. We had some other things that we needed to discuss.”

  Flood didn’t bother to ask what, but he was a little surprised that they could have something else cooking that would take priority over his current problem. “Mitch, you’re about to become part of a very select group. The Joint Chiefs don’t even know what I’m about to tell you. The president has asked us to keep an extremely tight lid on this.”

  “Understood.”

  “A week ago one of our allies came to us with some pretty damning intelligence that Saddam is about to go operative with three nuclear weapons.” Flood stopped so Rapp would have a chance to absorb the seriousness of the problem. To his surprise Rapp smiled.

  “I knew it.”

  “Knew what?” asked Flood. “Don’t tell me you already knew.”

  “No. I just knew sooner or later it would come to this. That’s why I disagreed when we stopped back in 1991. We should have gone all the way to Baghdad and ousted the nut bag.”

  “You don’t need to tell me. I was over there with my Rangers preparing a nighttime assault on several bridges when the truce was announced. We could have been in Baghdad in two days, but the man who previously occupied this office, in his infinite wisdom, convinced President Bush to stop. Thanks to him I am now confronted with a much bigger problem than the invasion and occupation of Kuwait.”

  “How much time do we have?” asked Rapp.

  Flood looked to Kennedy. She turned to Rapp and said, “This information was provided by the Israelis. We have a little more than a week to take the bombs out, or they will do it themselves.”

  In light of his recent trip to Italy, Israel was not at the top of his favorite country list. Rapp was tempted to say, let them, but kept his mouth shut. When he and Kennedy were alone he would probe deeper in regard to the veracity of the intelligence provided by Israel. “I assume we know where the bombs are?”

  “Yes.” Flood got up and went over to his desk. He came back with a file containing aerial photographs of the target. “We don’t have anybody on the inside, but we’ve been told they are located here.” Flood pointed to a building circled in red. “That’s the Al Hussein Hospital.”

  Kennedy added, “About a year ago they built a hardened bunker under the hospital.”

  Rapp looked up. “Saddam figured we’d never find it, and if we did, we wouldn’t have the balls to bomb it.”

  “Exactly,” Kennedy answered.

  “Do you know where the hospital is?” Flood asked.

  “Yeah.” Rapp threw the photos on the table. “I’ve been in the area before.” Not one to beat around the bush, Rapp
added, “So, where do I fit in?”

  Flood sat back down and let out a sigh. “We’ve already put a plan in front of the president to take out the bunker with some new bombs that are designed to penetrate command and control structures.”

  Rapp didn’t like the idea of dropping a bunch of bombs on a hospital. He liked the people of Iraq. They were caught between an inhumane dictator and a superpower that was hell-bent on destroying them. “What are the odds for success?”

  “Good. My fly-boys tell me they can virtually guarantee the destruction of the facility.”

  “Then why am I here?” Rapp knew at least part of the answer, but he wanted to hear it from Flood. He’d done this type of stuff before. Sneak into a country, sit on a rooftop and paint the target with a laser designator. The fly-boys weren’t quite as good as they liked to advertise. When they really needed to hit something, they usually put someone on the ground first.

  “Several reasons, actually. First of all, your old friend Colonel Gray asked for you. Apparently he thinks you’re pretty good at your job.” Flood grinned. “And as soon as the president heard your name mentioned, he insisted that you be involved.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “Bombing the target has some drawbacks.”

  “Like killing a bunch of innocent civilians?”

  “Mitch, we didn’t put those nukes under that hospital.”

  “I know we didn’t. I’m just pointing out the shitty reality of the situation.”

  “As always I appreciate your frankness, and I agree with you. So do a lot of others, and that’s one of the reasons we’re working on a second plan.”

  Rapp raised an eyebrow. “And would that involve Colonel Gray?”

  “Yes, it would. The colonel has come up with a bold but ingenious plan.” Flood went on to explain the use of the white cars to ferry the Delta team into Baghdad under the cover and mass confusion of an all-out aerial bombardment. He also told Rapp that the president hoped one of the bombs could be brought back as proof that Saddam was working on acquiring the ultimate weapon of mass destruction. Flood ended by saying, “This plan is quite a bit riskier than simply bombing the facility, but it offers two distinct advantages.”

  “We don’t have to kill a bunch of innocent noncombatants.”

  “Exactly, and we also make sure that the bombs are taken out. We could bomb the facility and still never really know if all three weapons were in the structure at the time.”

  Rapp leaned back, thinking about the plan, trying to calculate the odds of success, the areas where it was weak. There was no doubt that Colonel Gray had come up with one hell of a plan. After a lengthy period of silence, Rapp looked at Kennedy and said, “So, one more time, where do I come in?”

  31

  MILAN, FRIDAY EVENING

  She’d returned to the hotel after midnight, relieved to find that Mitch and the bitch from hell were gone. Rielly was in no mood for confrontation. The feeling of relief was short lived, however. It lasted as long as it took to take one lap through the suite. Mitch’s bag was gone, and there was no note. No letter saying he was sorry. No letter saying he blew it and that he loved her dearly, that he would do whatever it took to make it up to her.

  Rielly had collapsed on the bed in a huff of tears. She couldn’t understand what had happened. How two people with so much attraction and genuine love for each other could part so quickly. The tears turned to anger, as she placed all the blame squarely on Rapp’s shoulders. She did blame herself for one thing, however. Allowing herself to fall in love with a man who would just walk out on her was the dumbest thing she’d ever done.

  Rielly was well aware of the fact that she’d told him to get out of her life, but if he truly loved her, he would have ignored her request and proved his love. He hadn’t, though. He’d left with the little Italian slut, and he hadn’t even bothered to leave a note. A simple sorry would have gone a long way.

  When Rielly awoke the next morning she was still in her clothes from the night before. A hangover gnawed at her, the result of the three vodka tonics and the three glasses of wine she’d downed at a bar after she’d stormed out of the hotel. Her eyes were puffy from all the crying and in general she felt like shit, both emotionally and physically. Before entering the shower the thought occurred to her to go home, to just pack up and get the hell out of Italy.

  By the time she got out of the shower she was resolved to stay. She would not simply run home. None of this was her fault. She had six days of vacation left and she was going to enjoy it. Rielly dressed with a determination to make the best of the trip. To enjoy her day in Milan and then head south for warmer weather and a few days in the sun.

  The day had turned out to be a real roller coaster of emotions. There were tears and determination, longing and anger, second-guessing and righteous indignation. Anna Rielly was, in short, miserable. She’d explored the Duomo, the magnificent cathedral of Milan that had taken over 400 years to complete. The awe-inspiring beauty of the church could move even the most emotionally stable person. In Rielly’s fragile condition the tears flowed frequently, and she found herself asking God why. Why had he allowed her to fall in love with Mitch Rapp? Of all the men in the world, why him?

  God didn’t answer her question. After spending the entire morning at the Duomo she moved on to shopping. That helped for a while, but all too frequently she found herself looking at clothes and wondering if Mitch would like them. All in all the day had proved one thing to her. That she loved Mitch Rapp more than she had ever realized.

  Her last act of bravado was to go out for dinner. Anna Rielly was nothing if not stubborn, and she’d be damned if she was going to sit in her room and pout. The concierge at the hotel got her a reservation at Leo, a nice restaurant within walking distance of the hotel. The place was known for great fresh fish and an unpretentious atmosphere. Rielly dressed conservatively for the evening. She didn’t want to sit in her room and hide, but she had no desire to attract the attention of any male company.

  Upon arriving at the restaurant she was seated at a table for two by the front window. She ordered a glass of Foradori Pinot Noir and began perusing the menu. She was there for all of five minutes when a man approached her table. He asked Rielly if he could join her, and she politely declined. For dinner she ordered penne with prawns and grilled razor clams and a second glass of wine. It was delicious. Midway through her meal a second man approached her table and sat. He was dressed nicely in a dark suit and tie. He looked to be around fifty. Rielly was immediately irritated, and was about to tell him to get lost when something unusual happened.

  “Good evening, Ms. Rielly. I apologize for intruding like this, but a mutual acquaintance asked me to give you a message.”

  Anna’s heart leapt. “Mitch?”

  “No.” The man casually looked around the restaurant. “Dr. Kennedy.” Extending his hand he said, “My name is Tino Nanne. I work at the consulate here in Milan.”

  “The U.S. consulate.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Rielly lowered her voice. “Is everything all right with Mitch?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Ms. Rielly. I’ve only been told to give you a message.”

  Eagerly, Anna asked, “And what is that?”

  “Dr. Kennedy thinks you should return to the U.S.”

  Anna was instantly taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  “I know next to nothing. I’ve simply been told to give you a message. Dr. Kennedy, for reasons unknown to me, thinks you should return to the U.S. immediately.”

  “You work for the CIA?”

  The man winced at the acronym and looked around. “I work for the State Department, and please be careful about what you say.”

  Rielly, always the reporter, was used to asking what she wanted whenever she wanted. “I think you know more than you’re telling me.”

  “I know a lot of things, young lady.” The man stood. “But as far as you are concerned, and why you’re supposed to retur
n to the States, I know nothing.” He reached inside the breast pocket of his suit coat and grabbed a business card. “If you need anything, call me.” He placed the card on the table and left the restaurant.

  TEL AVIV, FRIDAY EVENING

  BEN FREIDMAN WAS busy pecking away at his computer. The younger people at Mossad called it surfing the Web; he called it doing research. Freidman did not look natural in front of a keyboard. His bald head, broad shoulders and thick forearms were more suited for heavy labor. His stubby index fingers pounded away at the keys. It was slow going but it worked. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a curved hunk of gray ash ready to break free at any second. At the last second Freidman snatched the cigarette from his mouth and deposited the spent vice in an ashtray. He grabbed his small four-ounce coffee cup in his meaty hands and gulped down the remaining few ounces of thick black coffee.

  “Adriana!” He yelled his assistant’s name without taking his eyes off the screen. “More coffee, please.” Freidman was worried. It had been a full day since the hit was to have taken place. Rosenthal was to have e-mailed him the results of the operation, and as of yet there was nothing. He was now checking the online version of Milan’s newspaper, looking for what would undoubtedly be a big story. So far he’d come up with nothing.

  It was possible that Rosenthal had killed her and disposed of her body without anyone knowing. That was what Freidman had asked him to do. Maybe Rosenthal had run into a few problems and it was taking longer to get out of Italy and back to Israel. Anything was still possible, but with each passing hour of silence, the chances that things had gone according to plan diminished. At this stage Freidman had no choice but to try to stay calm, despite the fact that his gut told him Donatella had not gone down without a fight.

  He’d trained her. He should have known better. It was the damn money Senator Clark waved in his face. He should have firmly told him not to worry. That he knew Donatella, and she would keep her mouth shut. Freidman had to be honest with himself, though. It was more than just the money. Donatella was a bit of a loose cannon and sooner or later, he figured he’d have to deal with her. She knew too many of his secrets, and with her temper there was no telling when she would explode and take him down with her.