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The car came to a stop in the circle by the front door. Out of habit Rapp watched how Kennedy’s security detail operated. The man behind the wheel kept the car in drive and the guy in the shotgun seat jumped out and scanned the area a full 360 degrees. Only then did he open the director’s door. Kennedy emerged from behind the heavily tinted windows and a moment later the blond, almost white head of Steven Rapp appeared from the other side of the car. Mitch smiled briefly. His brother had always had that effect on him. Steven Rapp was one of those rare individuals who were funny without having to try.
Mitch Rapp was six feet tall and weighed 185 pounds. Steven Rapp was five six and couldn’t have weighed more than a buck thirty-five. Mitch had black hair; Steven had blond hair. Mitch had square broad shoulders; Steven had a slightly concave chest. Where Mitch had brown eyes, Steven’s were a brilliant blue, and so the contrasts went. There had been a lot of mailman and milkman jokes while they were growing up and who could really blame the wiseasses—Mitch himself had wondered how these two opposites could have come from the same womb. Their mother for years laughed about it and claimed it was because Steven was undercooked by a full five weeks in the womb, whereas Mitch didn’t want to come out and was two weeks late.
Where Mitch had been blessed with athletic ability, Steven had been blessed with intelligence, and not just your average Mensa high-IQ type intelligence. Steven was a certifiable genius with a master’s degree in quantum theory from MIT. For the past four years he’d been running the hedge fund department for Salomon Brothers in New York City. His annual bonus last year had been a cool twenty-seven million dollars. Mitch had been giving him money to invest for nearly a decade, and Steven had turned several hundred thousand dollars into more than four million. He was extremely good at what he did, and Mitch was very proud of him. He was also very protective, which was why this next part was going to be awkward.
Even before their father had passed away so unexpectedly, Mitch had watched over Steven like an eagle guarding its nest. When their father died, Mitch pummeled any kid who so much as looked at Steven the wrong way. It got so bad that even Steven told him he had to find other ways to deal with his grief. This coming from his eight-year-old little brother. Even then the kid had been wise beyond his years. When their mother died of cancer, Mitch had made the extra effort to check in on him, to make sure his baby brother didn’t feel alone in the big city, but Steven just kept plugging along. His work was all-consuming and that was at least something he could identify with.
Tommy Kennedy entered the room and stood next to Mitch. Rapp put his arm around the boy.
Tommy looked out the window and said, “My mom says your brother is really smart.”
“Yep.”
“Do you think he’ll want to check out my Game Cube?”
Rapp grunted, amused by the question. Steven was the original video gamer, crushing all takers in Pong, PacMan, Asteroids, and all of the original video games. His apartment in Manhattan had a separate room just for gaming, replete with two custom chairs and a fifty-inch, high-definition plasma screen. Rapp nodded and said, “My brother will definitely want to check out your Game Cube.”
Rapp made his way toward the front door. Most of the aches and pains he had felt when he finally got out of bed in the morning were now gone. His right thigh hurt a bit, and his ribs were still tender, but other than that, he felt pretty good. The wood-paneled door had one six-inch titanium dead bolt. Rapp turned the dead bolt with his left hand and opened the door with his right. A beeping noise sounded in the hallway behind him. Rapp knew that an employee of the CIA was sitting in a small security room under the horse stables noting the fact that the door was open.
Rapp was dressed in the clothes Coleman had brought him: jeans, a T-shirt, and hiking boots. The white cast on his right arm was the only outward sign of his ordeal.
Kennedy clutched her purse against her left side and allowed Steven to catch up. Rapp’s brother was wearing loafers, khakis, a white dress shirt, and a blue blazer. His black eyeglasses helped him look a bit older. He looked up at Mitch, who was standing under the portico, and pushed his glasses up on his nose a notch. “I’m sorry, Mitch.” Steven climbed the steps and wrapped his arms around his brother. “She was an awesome woman.”
“Yes, she was.”
“I’m so sorry,” Steven said again as he squeezed his brother tight.
“I know.” Rapp put his arm around his brother and kissed his forehead. “I’m glad you came. It means a lot to me.”
54
LEESBURG, VIRGINIA
T he stolen Mercedes ML 500 had only 8,456 miles on it. It was black and had dark tinted windows just as Tayyib had requested. He had seen quite a few of the mini sport utility vehicles since he’d arrived in America. They were fairly common, but still expensive. Tayyib thought it would be a good vehicle to both blend in and remain above suspicion. After leaving the shop in Alexandria, he had taken the expressway out toward Dulles International Airport. From there he’d taken the Hirst-Brault Expressway north toward Leesburg. About six miles south of the town he took a detour and headed west. He came upon the horse farm a few minutes later and kept his speed at 55 mph as he drove along the edge. Trees dotted the fence line and obscured the house that sat atop a hill a good four hundred yards off the road. The main gate had cameras mounted on both the left and the right. Tayyib guessed Castillo and his people would have little trouble getting past it.
He continued down the county road for a few more miles and then turned around to head back to town. It was twilight and he needed to get into position. On the way into Leesburg, Tayyib drove past the Loudoun County Sheriff’s Department. He’d found the address on the internet and printed directions from MapQuest. Six cruisers and a Suburban were parked in the lot along with another half dozen civilian cars. He continued into town and did a slow pass of the government center and the police department. He noted three police cars in the lot and another one pulling out. He had no idea when the shift changes took place but he doubted it was at 9:30 on a Saturday night. He drove slowly through the quaint town. It was filled with antique stores, bed and breakfasts, and a smattering of coffee shops, ice cream parlors, bars, and restaurants.
Tayyib parked on the street around the corner from a café. He walked back to the café and was greeted by an overly enthusiastic and underdressed young woman. He ordered an espresso to go and looked around the place. There were three other patrons inside: two teenagers making out near the front window and a young man pecking away on his laptop computer. Tayyib felt like slapping the young couple but reminded himself he had more important things to do. After paying in cash he went and stood in front of the café until the time was right. The air seemed a bit chilly, but none of the locals seemed to mind it. A woman in a tank top passed by walking a dog, and a couple of teenage girls sat in front of the ice cream parlor in skirts that barely made it a third of the way down their thighs. Across the street he could hear loud music spilling out of a bar, couples were out and about, and a few teenagers whizzed by on skate-boards. They all seemed to be having a grand time. Well, that’s about to end, Tayyib thought to himself.
Tayyib was standing next to a small tree. He studied the branches for a second and picked his spot. After checking his watch one more time, he drained the rest of the espresso and threw the cup to the ground. Turning to the side so the two young lovers couldn’t see what he was doing, he reached into his left jacket pocket and pulled out a hand grenade and a coil of fishing line. Tayyib turned his back to the café, looked to his left and his right, and then took the grenade and slid the spoon over one of the branches. The grenade dangled there like a piece of fruit—its matte green finish not quite blending in with the bright fall colors. Tayyib grabbed the end of the fishing line. One end was tied to the pin and he wrapped the other end around two fingers, dropping the loose coil to the ground. Casually, he started back for the car. A middle-aged couple passed him on the sidewalk and he edged closer to the street s
o they wouldn’t get their feet tangled in the line. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of shrapnel in his back.
When Tayyib reached the corner he stopped and turned around. He could only make out the first few feet of the fishing line and then it disappeared in the shadows. The middle-aged couple were almost to the café and two women were approaching from the other direction. The more mayhem, the better, Tayyib thought to himself. He grabbed the coil firmly in his hand and continued around the corner. Once he was shielded he drew in the slack and gave the line a good yank. The line popped free and Tayyib dropped the loose bundle of fishing line to the ground.
He started for the car, counting the seconds in his head. He got to five, and then it happened. A loud explosion ripped through the still night air. Tayyib unlocked the Mercedes, climbed behind the wheel, and put the car in drive. He drove down Plaza Street and two blocks later stopped for a red light. When the light turned green, he continued past the police station and headed out of town, careful to maintain the posted speed.
Tayyib reminded himself that the important thing was to stay calm. He put on a pair of gloves and grabbed a black ski mask from the passenger seat. A few minutes later he turned onto Catoctin Circle and pulled up in front of the Sheriff’s Department. Nothing had changed. The same vehicles were parked in the same spots. Tayyib pulled the ski mask over his head and threw the Mercedes in park. He calmly got out of the car, walked around to the rear of the vehicle, and popped the tailgate. Inside was an oily tarp from the garage. Tayyib moved it out of the way and grabbed a Chinese-made rocket-propelled grenade. It was loaded and ready to go. He shouldered the weapon and turned to aim it at the front door just as two deputies were rushing out. Tayyib widened his stance, put most of his weight on his back foot, and squeezed the trigger. The 40mm round traveled at a speed of 400 feet per second and Tayyib was a mere eighty feet from the building. There was a split-second delay and then a swooshing noise followed almost immediately by the detonation of the grenade.
Thousands of shards of glass flew in every direction. Tayyib lowered the weapon and looked at the two deputies. They were both on the ground just his side of the door. Neither was moving. Tayyib assessed the damage that had been done by the RPG round. Smoke was pouring out of the building and he could hear people screaming from inside. He dropped the RPG to the ground, and it clattered on the asphalt. In a nearly robotic fashion he pulled the last grenade from his pocket, yanked the pin, and threw the grenade through the shattered entrance, over the bodies of fallen deputies and toward the chorus of panicked voices. He turned, closed the tailgate, and was at the open driver’s door when the grenade detonated. He didn’t even flinch. He got behind the wheel, put the car in drive, and calmly pulled back out onto the county road.
Tayyib removed the ski mask and checked his watch. Castillo and his men would be moving into position and starting their attack any minute. As tempted as Tayyib was to go monitor the situation, he knew he needed to get rid of the vehicle as quickly as possible. He stepped on the gas and headed south for Dulles International Airport.
55
CIA SAFE HOUSE, VIRGINIA
S teven carried the conversation during dinner, regaling Irene and Tommy with stories of what Mitch had been like growing up. His quirky, self-depreciating sense of humor helped take everyone’s mind off the tragedy for a short while. Even so, there had been moments during the meal where Mitch would get that faraway look in his eye. To his brother, it was obvious he was thinking of Anna. Steven would respond by saying, “Remember that time…” and then he would be off telling another story.
