by Vince Flynn
“Turn off the cameras, Stan.”
“Irene was pretty specific about that. She says they stay on.”
“Don’t make me repeat myself, old man.”
Hurley swore under his breath and took a seat in front of a computer terminal at the end of the corridor. He wasn’t exactly from the digital era, and it took him a few moments with the mouse to find the right application. Finally, he turned back to Rapp.
“I’ve still got the image, but it’s not recording. You need to leave him alive, Mitch. But if you can’t, do it close range and sloppy. That way we can tell Irene he went for your gun.”
Rapp reached for the door, trying to shut off his emotions as it swung open. This wasn’t about him or his past. It was about his job and the countless people who would die if he failed to do it.
The former French Foreign Legionnaire was sitting sideways on the cell’s only cot, his back against the concrete wall. He was just a bit shorter than Rapp with longish dark hair tucked behind his ears. The bruising on his face from their last meeting had mostly faded but a line of stitches was still visible on his right cheek.
“Are you here to kill me?”
Despite being a French national, there was no hint of an accent.
“That’s up to you.”
“Are Claudia and Anna all right?”
His wife and daughter. The reason Rapp hadn’t put a bullet in the man years ago.
“What do you care?”
The calculatedly disarming smile Gould always wore faded. It seemed likely that he didn’t want to go too deeply into the subject of family—the thing he’d stolen from the armed killer standing in front of him.
“I care,” he said finally.
“When I had a gun to your head, you told me you were getting out. That you were going to be the husband and father I couldn’t be.”
“I needed the money,” he said reflexively.
“Don’t lie to me, Louis. We track your bank accounts—even the ones you thought were so well hidden in the UAE. You wanted back in the game and now you sit there and tell me you care. Did you think about what would happen if you screwed up? Did it ever occur to you that the men who hired you would go after your family? Or did you overlook that?”
He remained silent. Glaring. Inside, Rapp was daring him to get off that cot. Hurley was willing to lie but it would be so much easier if Gould really did make a move.
“Irene had to track them down in New Zealand and put them in protective custody in Greece,” Rapp continued. “If she hadn’t, your wife and daughter would be dead now.”
Gould gave a submissive nod. “Thank you.”
It was exactly the right body language and tone to stave off a confrontation that Gould knew he couldn’t win. To say the man’s reaction was calculated, though, would be an oversimplification. It was a natural facet of his survival instinct. He could become whatever he needed to be.
Many people had called Rapp a psychopath over the years, but they had no idea what they were talking about. He did what was necessary to protect innocent people from fanatics. If that threat ever disappeared, he’d put his guns in the attic and find another line of work. Gould killed for very different reasons. Money, certainly. But there was more. Like so many assassins for hire, he had a pathological need to dominate those around him.
Having said that, there was no denying the skills he possessed. The general consensus in the profession had long been that Gould was top four. And Rapp’s killing of the second best six months ago moved the Frenchman into a podium position.
“Leo Obrecht,” Rapp said simply.
“Did you get him?”
“He wasn’t a priority.”
“Until now.”
Rapp nodded.
“What do you want to know?”
The last time they’d discussed this subject, Gould had been less than forthright. It had been impossible to conduct an effective interrogation because Rapp hadn’t known anything. Now, though, the CIA had finished compiling a file on the banker. The job of teasing lies from truth would be significantly easier.
“The security at his mansion is a lot tighter than you described.”
“I told you what it was last time I was there.”
Probably accurate. Obrecht was smart enough to see his position deteriorating and would have reacted by locking down his property.
“Tell me about him.”
“Leo? He’s an interesting guy,” Gould said, putting a foot casually up on the edge of the cot. “He’s the controlling shareholder in a little bank that’s been in his family for more than a hundred years. It was pretty profitable and had a fairly select clientele until Leo took over. Now it’s very profitable, and its clientele is downright exclusive.”
“Criminals.”
“Yeah. Drug lords, corrupt politicians, dictators, tax dodgers. You name it. People who get Leo’s blood pumping and who are willing to pay a premium for anonymity.”
Rapp had suspected as much. Sparkasse Schaffhausen was a black hole. The problem for Obrecht was that it was impossible to hide in darkness that deep. The darkness itself gave you away.
“That still doesn’t explain you,” Rapp said. “How does a shady banker go from dodging international financial regulations to being the handler for a hired assassin?”
Gould shrugged. “Leo’s a born crook. If he could make a thousand dollars legally or ten dollars illegally, he’d take the ten. Did your people figure out that he had his own father killed when it looked like he was going to sell the bank and cut him out?”
“And who took that contract?”
The easy smile returned. “I figure you know the answer to that question.”
Gould was right. Rapp knew the answer to that question and a lot more. So far all of the assassin’s responses checked out.
“Obrecht’s stopped leaving his property,” Rapp said. “He seems to be running the bank remotely.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. As much as he’s attracted to the excitement of the criminal lifestyle, it’s just a game to him. He’s a coward who likes to see other people go down but never takes too many risks himself. He probably knows you’re after him—the guy’s intel is flawless. If you manage to get hold of him, you should ask him where he gets it. I’ve never been able to figure it out.”
“And how would I do that?”
“Get ahold of him? How would I know?”
“Because you killed your last handler for skimming money from you.”
The disarming mask flickered.
“Come on, Louis, we’ve been watching you for years. We know every hit, every place you’ve ever lived, and every woman you’ve been with right down to that nanny your dad got for you. Trust me when I tell you that you don’t have time for games.”
“Look, Obrecht is different. He—”
Rapp pulled his Glock from the holster beneath his arm and aimed it between Gould’s eyes. “Then what do I need you for?”
What Gould was saying was a load of crap and they both knew it. The first thing he would have done when he got involved with Obrecht was figure out how to do away with him if it became necessary. Rapp had made similar plans for Hurley, Thomas Stansfield, and even Kennedy when he’d first started out—studying their house plans, security, travel routes, and personal habits. It would have been careless not to. And while Gould was a sociopath and general waste of skin, he wasn’t careless.
“I might have some ideas about how to access his compound.”
The Glock went back into its holster.
“What’s in it for me if I help?”
Rapp would have thought there was nothing that could make him laugh in Gould’s presence, but the sheer stupidity of the question proved him wrong.
“I’ve got a shady spot picked out for you in the woods out back. Nice soft dirt. What’s in it for you is a chance to avoid lying in it covered with the bag of lye I bought yesterday.”
“I want guarantees.”
“You picked the
wrong business.”
“What about Kennedy?”
Rapp folded his arms across his chest. He saw no reason to lie. “She thinks you could be useful. If you help us get Obrecht, she wants me to put you on retainer and send you home.”
Another slip in his mask, this one more obvious. It was an offer that any sane man would take. Stay aboveground, be reunited with his family, and continue in the business he needed to feel alive. The question was, just how sane was Louis Gould?
Rapp pulled the door behind him open.
“Where are you going?”
He didn’t answer, instead stepping silently into the hall. Hurley turned and looked at him, an expression of mild disappointment on his deeply lined face.
“What?” Rapp said. “You told me not to kill him.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d listen. I freed up the next three hours for cleaning his brains off the wall. Now what am I going to do with my afternoon?”
“Hey!” Gould shouted as the door clanged shut. He ran up to it and peered through the open slot three-quarters of the way up. “Come on, guys, don’t leave me like this. I’ve been in here forever. The boredom’s killing me. You got a magazine? A newspaper? I’ll take anything.”
Hurley grabbed a Washington Post and shoved it through the slot before sliding the hatch shut. “Now shut up.”
He looked at Rapp. “I could turn the fire sprinklers on in there. We could say it was a malfunction.”
“No. Leave him alone. Give him some time to think about his options.”
“Suit yourself. In the meantime Irene wants to talk to you.”
“She’s here?”
Hurley shook his head. “Her office.”
“She wants me to go back to Langley? I was just there this morning.”
“Insisted on it.”
Rapp let out a frustrated breath but then managed a shrug. “I hear Marcus is having trouble with the map we’ve got him working on. I guess I can use the trip to straighten him out.”
• • •
Screw you very much, you old geezer.
Louis Gould gathered up the papers scattered across the floor, keeping his expression passive for the cameras.
By all reports, Stan Hurley had been quite a badass back when people still told time with a sundial. Now, instead of playing bingo at the nursing home, he got to play the tough guy. How big a man would he be without that steel door between them and Mitch Rapp backing him up? He’d be peeing in his diaper.
Gould retreated to his cot with the newspaper and began leafing through it, making sure he displayed nothing but bland interest despite the adrenaline Mitch Rapp’s visit had sent coursing though him.
Rapp was the pinnacle. Most people had become resigned to the fact that he was unkillable. Gould was one of the few people on the planet who had tried and lived to tell the tale—and even he had to admit that he’d been lucky. Twice.
Rapp wasn’t just unkillable, he was in many ways unstoppable. Gould kept track of whatever details were available about the CIA man’s hits, and there were a couple that even he couldn’t figure out. One in Damascus in particular. The takedown had been vaguely doable but getting out alive afterward seemed impossible. Everything he knew about this business, which was more than just about anyone, suggested that Rapp should be getting picked over by buzzards somewhere near Syria’s border with Lebanon.
Gould spent the next few hours reading every story in the paper Hurley had provided in case he was asked about them later. Not that it was at all likely, but he hadn’t lived this long by not being thorough.
Finally, when every other section was piled on the cot next to him, he turned to the pages that had been his target the entire time: the classifieds. Going straight for them would have been suspicious and he maintained his bored expression as he leafed through them.
Based on the increased security Rapp had mentioned, Leo Obrecht knew the CIA was after him. That Swiss jackass had undoubtedly thought that getting involved in framing Rapp for corruption would make for a nice ego trip. Now he’d be hiding behind his guards, sniveling like a little girl and looking for a way out.
Obrecht would have detailed reports on what had happened in Kabul and that meant he knew Gould was being held by the Agency. His degenerate little mind would come to the conclusion that the CIA might try to recruit Gould to help them get their hands on his old -handler. And in that, he would see an opportunity.
On the third page, Gould found what he’d been searching for—-a familiar logo printed in the corner of an ad for a personal assistant. He glanced up at the camera bolted near the ceiling and sagged a little farther into the cot before starting to read.
The candidate must be ready to fill the position immediately. Work will be done primarily at the owner’s home in Switzerland. Personal and work history will be verified through Interpol. We are looking to take the most obvious route to finding a good fit. The successful candidate can expect a salary of 150,000 euros. Please send resumes to [email protected].
Gould tossed the paper on the floor and closed his eyes, feigning an attempt to go to sleep. In reality, he would be up all night, staring at the dark ceiling as he ran through scenarios and turned details over in his head.
The same ad in various languages would be running in newspapers and magazines all over the world. It was a simple cipher, used by Obrecht numerous times in the past to contact him with jobs.
The candidate must be ready to fill the position immediately.
The contract was to be fulfilled as soon as possible.
Work will be done primarily at the owner’s home in Switzerland.
Obrecht knew that Rapp would have to try to take him at his mansion and was prepared to help Gould in any way he could.
We are looking to take the most obvious route to finding a good fit.
This was a way of saying that if Gould had a hand in planning the assault, he should use an obvious strategy that Obrecht’s people could anticipate and prepare for.
The successful candidate can expect a salary of 150,000 euros.
Compensation would be the largest payment he’d ever received—fifteen million euros.
Please send resumes to [email protected].
The email address would be live so that applications wouldn’t bounce back, but in fact it was the simplest part of the entire message. Remove every other letter and you got the name of the target. Rapp.
The only line that confused him was the one about Interpol verification. It wasn’t a code word that they’d agreed on and it didn’t have context that could help him decipher its meaning. Normally, he avoided any kind of uncontrollable risk or uncertainty but in this case it didn’t matter. And neither did the fifteen million euros. All that mattered was that he would be the man who killed Mitch Rapp.
He would finally be accepted for what he had always known himself to be. The best of all time.
CHAPTER 10
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
U.S.A.
MITCH Rapp gunned his Dodge through the underground parking garage, finally pulling into an empty spot labeled DAVID SANDERS. He had his own designated space, but never used it. The Charger was weighed down with a lot of armor but not enough to park beneath a sign with his name on it. Better to choose one at random. He assumed that when the people whose spaces he took saw his car, they just found a spot in the outdoor lot, but he’d never bothered to find out. All he knew for certain was that no one had ever been stupid enough to lodge a complaint.
Rapp activated the elaborate car alarm that a friend of Marcus Dumond had installed and walked briskly up the ramp, avoiding eye contact with the people he passed. Once inside Kennedy’s private -elevator, he relaxed a bit. He hated coming to Langley. About half the people working there—the sensible half—used any available excuse to scurry away when they saw him coming. The rest wanted to slap him on the back and drone on about what an honor it was to work with him. The only thing he despised more than
people recognizing him was being touched.
“Is she alone?” Rapp said as he entered the director’s suite. All three of Kennedy’s assistants were on the phone, but one gave him an energetic nod and motioned toward her door. Rapp banged on it a few times before entering.
Like her assistants, Kennedy was on the phone, but she stood and offered her cheek to Rapp. He gave it a quick kiss and then dropped into one of the chairs in front of her desk. She looked like she’d finally gotten some sleep. The dark circles beneath her eyes had faded, but the deep lines at their edges remained.
She wrapped up her call and slid a manila folder toward him. “I’m sorry to drag you out here, but I thought you’d want to see this.”
He pulled out two eight-by-ten photos taken in low light. The first was immediately recognizable—the naked corpse of Abdul Zahir wired to a chair. Judging by the lack of damage to his body and face, he hadn’t been interrogated. Someone had simply cut off one of his hands and then smashed him in the side of the head with a blunt instrument.
No great loss to the world. Zahir was a violent, backstabbing piece of human refuse even by terrorist standards. Unfortunately, he had been an occasionally useful violent, backstabbing piece of human refuse.
The second photo was of a man lying on a dirt floor with about a third of his face missing. The combination of the damage and his thick beard made it impossible to ID him.
“Who’s this?” Rapp said, holding up the photo.
“That is your friend Abdul Qayem.”
Rapp looked down again at the man who was responsible for sending the better part of an Afghan police precinct to kill him. “Are we sure?”
“Our people did a digital comparison with photos we have on file. Ninety-nine percent.”
“And who sent us these?”
“They’re a peace offering from Ahmed Taj.”
Rapp threw the eight-by-tens back onto her desk in disgust. “Amazing how quickly he was able to track Qayem down when it was suddenly in his best interest.”
“I don’t think we should jump—”
“Where were they?”
“He says his people caught up with them in a small village in Afghanistan.”
