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A small desk in the living room contained much of the information they needed: bills, correspondence, an appointment book, and, most importantly, her laptop computer. It took less than five minutes to get past the password and copy all of her files. Her e-mail accounts were noted, as well as the passwords. Every aspect of Anna Rielly’s life would be monitored, though to what end they would never know. They didn’t care, either. Their jobs, their lives really, depended on asking few questions. They would hand the information over and disappear. In less than an hour and a half, they had it all and were on their way out, leaving no sign that they had ever been in the apartment.
CAMERON BACKED HIS shiny Lexus 400 out of the narrow garage down the street from his Georgetown apartment. The car was Cameron’s treat to himself. It had a 4.0-liter, 290-horsepower, four-cam, thirty-two-valve V8 engine and could fly like the wind. It came with leather interior, genuine bird’s eye maple trim and a seven-speaker, 215-watt stereo that would make a sixteen-year-old heavy metal fan wet his pants. All of it, plus a couple of free racing mats, had cost him fifty thousand dollars. The price didn’t bother Cameron. He was finally making good money.
The Professor was in no hurry this morning. He had to teach a class at eleven, but other than that, he had no official duties. Cameron hadn’t slept well. He had been too excited after his meeting with Senator Clark. The man was amazing; the way he cultivated loyalty, it was easy to see why he had done so well in life. The sky was the limit. Cameron had hitched his wagon to a rising star, and he was going right to the top. Hank Clark was going to be the next president of the United States, and Cameron was going to help make sure it happened. The senator hadn’t filled him in on all of the specifics, but he had once again promised that there would be a place for someone as talented as Peter Cameron.
For Cameron this was all new. At Langley no one had appreciated his skills. Occasionally, a superior would have a nice thing to say during a review, but that was about it. The place was known for turning out acolytes, not handing out accolades. And to make matters worse, the pay was substandard. Cameron had busted his ass for years, giving service to his country, and he had little to show for it. Hank Clark changed all of that. He had shown Cameron the light. How to work half as hard and make five times the money. And not simply five times the normal money but the bulk of it in wire transfers into an extremely discreet bank in the Bahamas. Money that would never be taxed.
Cameron was living the life he had dreamed of for years. He was helping manipulate the outcome of events by using his trade craft, and he was getting compensated properly. His life had never been so exciting. Mario Lukas was dead, Gus Villaume was on the run, and Mitch Rapp was about to walk right into his cross hairs. The thrill of it all caused him to smile broadly as his car maneuvered through the midmorning Georgetown traffic.
The last year had been a great learning experience for Cameron. Away from the constraints of Langley, his skills had expanded exponentially. Watching Clark had taught him to keep his enemies close and keep them off-balance. Cameron grabbed his phone from the center console. That’s what this call would be about. Cameron was confident that the death of Lukas would have Villaume scared. The trick now was to keep him guessing—to make him think that someone else was after him. That Cameron had no involvement in the hit on Lukas. And if he was really lucky, get Villaume to trust him enough to meet.
There was one thing about the previous evening’s meeting that Cameron was unhappy about. It was the way Clark had second-guessed him on his direct involvement with the hit on Lukas. The senator had a good point in theory, but in practicality Cameron disagreed. You needed to be in the field to really see what was going on. Cameron felt the freelancers, with their lack of loyalty, were prone to understate their screw-ups and overstate their accomplishments. They needed to be watched. The senator could criticize all he wanted from the comfort of his study, but Cameron knew better. He was going to have to see this thing through up close and personal. There was too much riding on it.
As Cameron rounded Washington Circle, he punched in the numberand listened to the rings.
“Hello.” The voice was Villaume’s, and it betrayed no emotion.
“What in the hell happened?” asked an eager Cameron.
There was a pause. “You need to be a little more specific.”
“Don’t jerk me around, Gus. You know exactly what I’m talking about. I watch the news. What in the hell have you two gotten yourselves into?”
Gus Villaume was sitting in a Starbucks just off Dupont Circle, a cup of French roast in one hand and his mobile phone in the other. He had left Baltimore as a precaution. He doubted this fool on the other end of the phone could track him, but he had found Mario Lukas, so until he knew more, he would stay away from his apartment. Villaume had little doubt that the Professor knew exactly why Lukas was dead. He didn’t buy into his feigned outrage for a second. “I assume you’re talking about Mario.”
“You’re damn right I am.”
Villaume watched a cop walk in front of the window. “How much did you pay Duser to kill him?” It was a shot in the dark but a well aimed one.
The response was instantaneous. “What are you talking about? I didn’t pay anyone to kill Mario.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard.” Villaume counted the seconds, waiting for the reaction from the Professor.
“I swear to you, I didn’t have anything to do with Mario’s death.”
The Professor actually sounded sincere, but Villaume had drawn his conclusions in the predawn hours and wasn’t about to be swayed. “Listen to me, Professor.” Villaume drew the name out with disdain. “I don’t know what your real name is, but my guess is you’re ex-CIA or NSA. You’re too soft to have been in the military. I shouldn’t have too much difficulty in finding out who you really are.” Villaume was overstating his contacts, but he doubted the Professor knew that.
Cameron laughed. It sounded a little forced. “Don’t bother wasting-your time. I’m a black hole.”
“No one is a black hole. You have a history just like everyone else. And more importantly, you have to be working for someone…you’re not smart enough to be on your own.”
The comment offended Cameron. “Keep talking like this, Gus, and I will put a price on your head. I’m trying to help you. I don’t like the fact that someone killed Mario. It makes me very nervous when business associates of mine start dying.”
“You must think I’m really stupid. I know who killed Mario, and I know who gave the order.”
Cameron’s hands were sweaty. “Gus, I think you should take a few days to calm down, and then we can talk. I want to know who killed Mario as much as you do. I have to go now.” He ended the call just before he pulled into the parking ramp at George Washington University. Cameron hadn’t expected the call to be cordial, but he definitely didn’t think Villaume would be so aggressive. Cameron concluded that he may have underestimated him. He would have to put a call in to Duser and take his leash off. Villaume could not be allowed to go digging around. Cameron could not afford to have the attention of his former employer brought to bear on his recent dealings.
The Ritz-Carlton on Massachusetts Avenue NW was one of the nicest hotels in Washington. Foreign dignitaries from almost every country had stayed there, as had many of America’s greatest industrialists. Mitch Rapp and Scott Coleman were parked across the street in a loading zone. Rapp was in the passenger seat of Coleman’s Ford Explorer, eyeing the front entrance to the hotel. He was looking for Michael Gould, the hotel’s concierge. They had found his name in Gus Villaume’s file. Gould was the contact Villaume used to talk to his employers. Rapp had done his homework on Gould. He was French and had dual citizenship. He was fluent in four languages, which helped greatly with his job. The CIA’s file on the man said that he had no official affiliation with any intelligence services, but Rapp was skeptical. He had dealt with these types often. They were sellers of information. They respected money, and they feared brute force. If enough money was waved in front of their faces, there was little they wouldn’t tell. Rapp hadn’t yet decided if he would use money or his fists to get the information he needed.
He had spoken to Gould more than an hour ago. His message to the Frenchman was simple: “I need to speak to Monsieur Villaume, and I need to speak to him immediately.” Rapp had given Gould the number to his mobile phone, and he and Coleman had driven to the hotel on the off chance that Villaume might show his face. That was, if he was still alive. With Mario Lukas dead, it wasn’t hard to imagine the same fate befalling Villaume. Rapp desperately wanted Villaume breathing. He was the only li
nk to the person who had ordered the hit in Colorado and, Rapp assumed, the same person who had ordered the hit on him in Germany. If Villaume was dead, Rapp was skeptical that he would ever find out who was behind it all.
Neither Rapp nor Coleman was big on conversation, so the stakeout had proceeded in near silence. The rain had subsided just after lunch, but the sky was still gray. Rapp had decided they would wait, keep an eye on the hotel for another hour, and after that they would go take a look at Gould’s apartment. At a bare minimum, the man had to have a way to contact Villaume and a way to receive payments. The longer Rapp waited to hear back from Gould, the more he was leaning toward getting the information out of the little Frenchman through less than pleasant means.
It was almost two in the afternoon when Rapp’s phone finally rang. Rapp pressed the talk button.
“Hello.”
