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Tayyib nodded. “It was more than likely Mitch Rapp. I don’t know how he did it, but it was probably him.”
“You must find Abel,” Rashid said in a slow, methodical voice. “I don’t know how the Americans know that Saeed was behind this, but my guess is that Saeed was too talkative about his role in the matter.”
“I warned you about that.”
“I know you did and I talked to him, but he did not listen. There is only one way we can be linked to this.”
“Abel,” answered Tayyib.
The prince nodded. “You must find him and kill him.”
“I will see to it myself.”
“Good. I am leaving for Spain tomorrow morning. The dedication of the mosque is on Friday. This is very important to me. Find Abel before then, interrogate him to find out if he has talked to anyone, and then kill him.”
“What about Rapp? If he is in Saudi Arabia you might not be safe.”
Rashid pursed his lips and looked out across the flat rooftops. “Maybe I will leave for Spain tonight.”
“I think that is a good idea. I will make arrangements to have your security detail strengthened.”
“Good.” Rashid had an idea. “In the meantime, I will call America and see if I can make things more difficult for Mr. Rapp.”
68
LIDO, ITALY
A bel never got on the cruise ship. In the end he stood there on the pier and looked at all of the plus-size people being led onto the ship like cattle being led away to slaughter and balked. He was a man of great wealth now, and he reasoned that hiding at a five-star hotel would be every bit as effective as trying to blend in on a cruise ship. So he turned around and went right back to where he’d come from. Well, not exactly. Instead of returning to Venice proper he took a ferry to Lido, the skinny eight-mile-long island that runs south of Venice and forms a barrier between it and the sea. Abel thought if anyone was lucky enough to follow him to Venice, the last place they would look would be out on one of the outer islands. So he booked a suite at the sumptuous Hotel des Bains.
Saturday and Sunday were spent strolling up and down the beautiful sandy beaches of the island, enjoying the unseasonably warm October weather and trying to figure out where he would buy his villa. He was back to that now. Rapp was alive, the assassins had failed, Rashid was trying to track him down, and his future was clear. He would have to divest of everything he owned, and start over with a new name and identity. He’d done basically just that when he’d immigrated to Austria twelve years ago. He’d kept his name, but nothing else, and he had done it with limited resources. This time he had eleven million dollars plus, he estimated, another million or so once he sold the two apartments and a few other things.
He had decided to keep Saeed’s money. The assassins had yet to send their six million back, and in a way they’d made Abel’s decision for him. He had no way of tracking them down quickly enough, and he wondered how wise it would be to even try to find them. They knew far more about him than he did about them, and the man had warned him that he would kill him if he tried to discover their true identities. Abel never again wanted to feel that man’s hot breath on his neck. He would let them be. Let them keep the six million, and since Saeed was no longer honoring their original agreement by asking for the entire twenty-two million back, Abel felt no need to honor any aspect of the deal either. It was every man for himself.
The other deciding factor had been his worsening relationship with Rashid. Things always ended badly with men like Rashid. The key was knowing when to get out. Abel had felt for some time that he was disposable in the prince’s eyes. Now that this thing with Rapp had ended in failure, he had no doubt that Rashid had ordered his henchman Tayyib to find him and kill him. Giving Saeed his money back would change none of that, so it was with complete confidence that he had decided to keep the money and start a new life.
The apartments he didn’t care about, but the Alpine house would be difficult to part with. Maybe he could keep it and see how things went. He had used a lawyer and a front company to purchase it. He’d always envisioned it as a place that he could hang on to if things got bad. Over the years, however, he’d brought people like Petrov there, and for that reason alone he could not totally rely on it as a safe haven. For now, though, he would keep it.
It was a big world with lots of nice places, but Abel preferred Europe. Especially the areas around Switzerland: northern Italy, southern Germany, Austria, and France. On the other hand, South America was probably the logical choice. Largely untouched by terrorism, they still had not modernized their customs and immigrations agencies enough to make it difficult to obtain entry with fake passports. The major cities, though, the ones like Rio and Sao Paolo, places where a European could disappear, were filled with some of the worst poverty he’d ever seen. Poverty was something that irritated Abel. He didn’t like crowds, and he yearned for order. The complete lack of self-control displayed by the masses, the way they lived on top of each other in the most unseemly conditions and spat out child after child like rats in a sewer, disgusted him. South America might be the smartest choice, but Abel wasn’t quite ready to surrender so easily. There had to be a better way.
Monday morning arrived with Abel desperately searching for a way to stay in Europe. The warm weekend weather gave way to a cool front coming in off the Adriatic and Abel found himself practically the only man on the beach. He took a long walk all the way to the southern tip of the Lido, which from his hotel was about four miles. The idea of changing his identity had grown on him. It was time—time to start a new chapter in his life. Paris, Milan, and Zurich had some of the world’s best plastic surgeons. He wouldn’t do anything drastic. Maybe a chin tuck, a new nose, and one of those new micro face lifts. Nothing too drastic. Just enough to make him look younger. The rest he could accomplish with a new wardrobe. For the last twelve years he’d cultivated a European aristocratic look. Maybe the metro chic look would suit him better? The younger women appeared to be more drawn to that.
Abel made it back to the des Bains a little after 1:00 in the afternoon and took lunch in the garden. He ordered a light salad and a cup of bean soup. He’d been eating rich foods for five days now and decided he’d better get back to his old ways or he would have to portray a fat man in the next life. He knew a good forger, a man who used to work for the Stasi. He was in his seventies now, but had kept up with the technology of his trade. The man had moved to Vienna and set up shop. As he finished his soup, Abel decided he would have the plastic surgery, convalesce for a month until the swelling went down, and then go see the forger. He would be a new man, and if he was careful enough in building his history, he might be able to stay right in Europe. Maybe the South of France or Monaco. He could hide right in plain sight with all of the other jet-setters.
Abel wiped the corners of his mouth and sighed. He had time and he had money. The world was a big place. Surely he could disappear. The waiter took away the finished dishes and asked if he’d like anything else. Abel ordered a cappuccino and then decided to check on his finances.
He turned on his PDA, and held it in front of his face cupped in both hands, his thumbs working the small keys. He logged onto the Internet and then pulled up a list of sites that he commonly visited. All of his banks were near the top. Abel scrolled down to the first bank and clicked on it. Five seconds later he was entering his account number and lengthy password. Five seconds after that he was staring at his balance.
Abel blinked several times. It was impossible. His heart started to race. There had to be a mistake. Abel logged off the Internet and was about to call the bank directly when he thought better of it. He logged back on and checked another account. He gripped the small plastic device and willed it to connect faster. When the second account appeared on the screen, he stood up so quickly his wrought-iron chair fell over and landed loudly on the stone patio. Abel ignored the waiter, who had come to see if everything was all right. He rushed into the hotel, cursing under his breath, the veins on his forehead bulging. His thumbs worked furiously to verify this horrible news. He pulled up the third account and then the fourth. By the time he reached his suite there was no denying it. All five accounts had been emptied. His balance was zero in each one. Just like that, eleven million dollars was gone.
Abel paced back and forth across the wood floor of his twelve-hundred-dollar-a-night suite. He screamed once at the top of his lungs, for just a few seconds, and then he got control of himself. He had to think this through. There had to be a mistake or a way to fix it. He knew all of these bankers personally. What had happened was impossible, but then again it wasn’t. Saeed was worth billions. His pull at these banks could be immense. The Swiss were cautious and Abel knew of situations where they had placed money in escrow accounts until the two parties could sort out their differences.
Abel was as mad as he’d ever been. He’d had it all planned out and he was damned if he was going to let some amateur like Saeed get the best of him. In the end Abel had the leverage, not Saeed and not Rashid. He was nobody. A professional intelligence operative who could disappear. They could not.
Abel opened the room’s safe and turned on his encrypted satellite phone. As soon as he had a signal he dialed the number for Rashid’s office in Riyadh. When the man answered on the other end, Abe
l identified himself and said that he would wait exactly ten seconds for him to put the prince on the phone. Any longer than that and he would hang up. Abel knew Rashid was looking for him and guessed correctly that the call would be put through in a speedy manner.
He was on nine when the prince answered.
