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“Nationality?”
“French. I am almost certain.”
That jibed with what Rapp had guessed. “Do you think they were a couple? Beyond the business end of things?”
“Definitely.”
Rapp stopped asking questions for a moment.
Abel grew nervous. He knew once Rapp had gotten what he wanted from him, it would likely be the end. “I would like to say that I was nothing more than a courier. I was never told who Saeed and Rashid wanted killed. I simply handed over an envelope to the assassins.”
Rapp placed a hand on the fireplace mantel and looked at Coleman. “Why don’t you drag our other friend outside and leave us alone for a minute?”
Coleman grabbed the Saudi’s chair, tilted him back and dragged him across the hardwood floor and out the front door.
The door closed with a thud and Abel said, “I am very sorry about your wife. They went too far.”
Rapp felt like shoving the hot poker through Abel’s heart for even mentioning his wife. “Nothing more than a courier, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“A courier who got paid eleven million dollars.” Rapp’s eyes were locked on Abel’s. Once again he looked down and to the right and then he looked back at Rapp with pleading eyes.
“Please, you must believe me. All I did was deliver an envelope. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Rapp pushed himself away from the fireplace and walked into the dining room. Coleman had found the bottle of Louis XIII cognac. Like the modern-day pirate that he was, the former SEAL wanted to keep it. Rapp told him maybe. Now he had a better idea for it. He walked back in front of the fireplace, the ornate bottle in hand. Rapp took off the cap and thought about taking a swig. He thought about his wife and the life they had had together. He thought about the child they would never have. Then he thought about how their entire future had been ruined by this greedy prick sitting before him.
Abel was really nervous. When men like Rapp got quiet, nothing good ever came of it. He had to keep him talking. “We are both professionals, you and I. I know the rules. Professionals never harm each other’s families.”
“You were a Stasi pig who used to kidnap people and hold them for ransom. You were never a professional.” Rapp brought the bottle to his lips and took a big gulp. It went back smooth and then bit his throat with a mellow burning sensation.
“How old is this place?” Rapp looked up at the timber rafters.
“It was built in nineteen fifty-two,” Abel answered, a confused expression on his face.
Rapp nodded. “I bet the wood is pretty dry at this altitude.” Rapp turned the bottle on its side and some of the cognac spilled onto the wide plank hardwood floor and then onto the carpet. Rapp splashed out a little more.
“What are you doing?” Abel yelled.
“Arranging your funeral pyre.” Rapp splashed a little more liquid on the carpet by Abel and then some close to the fireplace.
“No!” Abel screamed. “I know more!”
“I’m sure you do. More lies.” The cognac splashed into the flames and caught fire. It shot out from the stone hearth and spread to the rug. Rapp bent over and grabbed the side of the copper kettle that was filled with kindling. He dumped it onto the floor and it caught fire almost immediately.
Abel was screaming. Pleading for his life. “You can’t do this!”
“Oh yes, I can,” Rapp said as he started toward the door. He opened the heavy wood door and never bothered to look back. Didn’t even bother to close the door. He figured the air would be good for the fire.
Rapp took one more swig of the cognac and then handed it to Coleman. “I’ll drive.”
The other guys got into the rented Volvo van, and Rapp got behind the wheel of Abel’s Mercedes. Coleman climbed in the passenger seat.
The former SEAL took a sip of the $2,000-a-bottle cognac and sighed. “Where to now?”
Rapp put the car into reverse and said, “Granada, Spain.”
80
