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Barboza knew something, to be sure, but Rapp wasn’t sure exactly what. Not wanting to complicate things he answered, “No.”
Moro nodded. The fact that the colonel was out of the loop seemed to offer him some comfort. “It appears you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Rapp. Why don’t we get back to what you were talking about earlier.”
“The part about large amounts of cash.”
“Yes,” said Moro, smiling.
Rapp returned the smile despite the fact that he hated the man. “As I already told you, I am a practical man. Your relationship with the Chinese will be handled at a later date. For now my main concern is dealing with Abu Sayyaf.”
Moro nodded.
“I want the American family back unharmed, and I want you to pursue Abu Sayyaf with such vengeance that they dare not take another American ever again. In fact I would prefer it if you wiped them out entirely.”
“This will not be easy.”
“Rotting in a Philippine prison for the rest of your life would be much more difficult.”
The general’s entire body tensed at the thought. “I did not say it couldn’t be done.”
Rapp nodded his approval. “General, fear can be a wonderful motivator, but it does nothing to build long-term relationships. That is why I am going to make you an offer that I think you will like very much.” Leaning forward, Rapp lowered his voice and said, “If you return the entire Anderson family to us unharmed, I will see to it that
one hundred thousand dollars will find its way into an account of your choosing. If by year’s end you have managed to pursue Abu Sayyaf to my satisfaction you will receive an additional one hundred thousand dollars. If you succeed on both of these fronts we will sit down and explore the possibility of further compensation in regard to your relationship with Beijing.”
With a wry smile Moro said, “You would like to turn me into a double agent.”
“Like I said,” said Rapp, shrugging, “let’s see how our first two deals turn out and then we’ll go from there.”
Moro sat there for a long moment pondering the offer that had just been made to him. Rapp had played all of this out beforehand in his mind and had a pretty good inkling of what would happen next. In fact, he would be disappointed if Moro didn’t do as he’d predicted.
Finally, Moro tilted his head back slightly and said, “Mr. Rapp, America is a very wealthy country. What you ask of me will take more resources than you have offered. If you wish to get the family of Americans back safely, I’m going to need more.”
Rapp remained impassive, meeting the general’s gaze with his own. Coleman and his men were obviously not in the position yet to carry out the mission or they would have called, so it was up to him. The entire time he’d been talking to Moro, he’d been refining a new plan. It would have to look like Moro had shot himself rather than face a court-martial for committing treason. The general carried the standard Special Forces 9mm Beretta pistol. Rapp would use his own suppressed 9mm Beretta to shoot him in the side of the head and then eject a round from the general’s gun and place the weapon in his hand. Rapp would then ask Colonel Barboza to come into the tent. They would wait for a minute and then leave. Barboza would then instruct the general’s aide-de-camp that the general was considering something very important and did not want to be disturbed under any circumstances.
They would then get on the helicopter and leave. Everyone would assume that the sound of the gun shot had been lost in the noise of the helicopter’s departure. Then General Rizal would just have to make sure that only a cursory investigation of the body and the weapon took place. The general’s body would be found sometime later along with the evidence of the bank accounts and phone records. It would be plain to even the most simpleminded officer that Moro had committed suicide rather than be publicly tried for crimes of high treason. The generals back in Manila would make sure the military investigators didn’t delve too deeply into the forensics surrounding Moro’s death. Most people would understand that the proud and arrogant general would rather commit suicide than face a humiliating court-martial.
Rapp finally answered the general. “I am prepared to go to two hundred thousand dollars to gain the safe return of the Andersons, but not a penny more.”
Moro frowned. “That is still a little light. I’m afraid this is a game you are not well versed in, Mr. Rapp.”
“Is that right?” Rapp asked in a doubtful tone. “General, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m the one holding all the cards. My offer is final. Two hundred grand to get the Andersons back and another hundred grand when you have effectively decimated Abu Sayyaf.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Moro with a shake of his head.
“Well, I am,” added Rapp quickly. “Push me any further, General, and you will be arrested right now and returned to Manila to face a court-martial. Colonel Barboza will replace you, and with the help of the U.S. Special Forces, he will free the Andersons and rid this island of any and every terrorist connected to Abu Sayyaf.”
The general scoffed at his adversary’s remark. “Colonel Barboza is an incompetent fool. If you want the Andersons back alive I am the man to do it. Give me three hundred thousand dollars and I will make it happen within forty-eight hours.”
Rapp was straining to keep his temper in check. The sheer arrogance of Moro was getting under his skin. He flexed his hands and then clenched them into tight fists, reminding himself that none of this mattered. It was all a ruse to get Moro to relax. A look of calm washed over his face and he said, “All right, General, I’ll agree to your terms.”
“Good,” said a jubilant Moro. “Now here is what we will do.”
Rapp smiled and nodded as Moro enthusiastically talked about how he would deal with Abu Sayyaf. He was saying something about arranging for the release of the American family. Rapp continued to look interested while his left hand slowly moved toward his gun. His fingers were just parting the folds of his vest when it happened. His hand froze with indecision, and Moro, noticing the change in his demeanor, stopped talking.
27
Coleman reached the summit of the small mountain huffing and puffing from the breakneck pace he’d kept for nearly twenty minutes. With sweat covering every inch of his body he took a knee and did a quick one-eighty of the relatively minute area before him. The summit was not big. A large, dark gray, almost black, rock occupied almost one entire side of the crest. It was covered with a few stubborn trees and bushes, their roots running down into the rock’s deep fissures. Directly in front of Coleman lay a gently sloping shelf covered in grass and shielded from the sun by several twisted trees. On first glance he missed Wicker.
Positioned between the base of a tree and a clump of bushes, the soles of Wicker’s jungle boots were all that was visible. Coleman dropped to his belly and crawled through the knee-high grass. When he reached Wicker he noticed that the more agile man had already unpacked and assembled his .50-caliber Barrett M82A1 rifle and was surveying the lay of the land through a pair of M19/22 binoculars.
