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GRANADA, SPAIN
R app looked up at the country estate on the hill and assumed the bastard Rashid was hiding behind its walls. It was midafternoon on Wednesday. They’d arrived in the city of 300,000 late the previous evening and rented two minivans. The first order of business was to find a hotel and get some sleep. Langley had confirmed what Abel had told them; that Rashid was in the Spanish town to rededicate an old mosque that had been converted into a church. The ceremony was to take place on Friday. Rapp decided that they would start their reconnaissance in the morning.
They found the country estate right away. It was impossible to miss. It sat high on a hill just to the north of the world-famous Alhambra. Rapp had toured Alhambra in his early twenties. The part citadel/part palace was built by the Nasrid Kings, the last Moors to rule southern Spain. This was where they took their last stand in 1492 before they were defeated by the forces of Spain’s Catholic monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella. According to the report provided by Langley, Rashid had bought the country estate in severe disrepair and had poured millions of dollars into it and every other Muslim landmark he could find in the historic town. Abel had said that this was all part of Rashid’s grand plan to retake southern Spain and claim it for Islam.
Rapp was sitting behind the wheel of a dark blue minivan. He looked down at the laptop balanced on the center console, and read the report the researchers at Langley had sent along. The house that Rashid bought even had a name. The place dated back to the twelfth century and in Arabic it was called al Yannat al-Arif—the garden of lofty paradise. Rapp picked up a set of binoculars and looked at the place high up on the hill.
“That’s as close as you’re ever going to get to paradise, Rashid.”
Rapp lowered the binoculars and looked up the street at a small outdoor café. He was parked on the Carrera del Darro. Coleman was sitting at a small table negotiating with a man who looked like he could have been his brother. They were the same height, the same build, the same fair hair, and about the same age. Rashid had called in the reserves. On the first reconnaissance sweep of the morning they noticed the men in the blue coveralls, with the berets and Enfield rifles. It was immediately obvious that these guys were no rent-a-cops. The way they carried themselves, their berets, their Enfield rifles all pointed to one thing—these guys were British commandos. Probably former SAS guys, some of the best soldiers in the world.
Their presence presented a real problem tactically. They would not be easy to get past, and even more importantly, neither Rapp nor Coleman had any stomach for killing men they saw as comrades in arms. They had both worked with the British before and considered them America’s best ally. Stuck in this seemingly no-win situation Coleman came up with an idea. He ran his own security company. Almost all of his men were former SEALs, Delta Force, Green Berets, Rangers, or Recon Marines. They were almost always guys who got out because they were tired of the bullshit that went along with being in the service. That and the fact that they could make six to ten times more in a year what they were getting paid in the military. Personal protection, guns for hire, it was a pretty specialized field. There were a few pretenders, but most of the players were real, and they were all interconnected, either from their military days or the time they spent hanging out in crappy Third World bars while they either protected diplomats or plotted to kill terrorists and thugs.
Coleman had contacts in Britain, and he got on the phone. Within an hour he had a pretty good idea which company had taken the job guarding Rashid. It was an outfit called Shield Security Services, and as they’d guessed, it was run by a couple of former SAS guys. Coleman called the office directly, and a nice young woman answered. He explained who he was and that he was in the business. He asked to speak to the owner, a guy named Ian Higsby. The woman informed him that he was on assignment at the moment. Coleman pressed her for details telling her he needed to subcontract a job and that he’d heard good things about the company. The prospect of new business did the trick and she gave Coleman Higsby’s mobile phone number.
Coleman called him up straight away, introduced himself, and gave the commando his military credentials. Higsby had heard of him. By the tone of his voice, Coleman got the idea that this was not good. Coleman saw no point in bullshitting the guy, so he came straight out and asked him if he was in Spain. The dead silence on the line said it all.
“Granada,” Coleman said.
The man still didn’t answer.
“We need to meet,” Coleman told him. “Face to face. As soon as possible.”
“Why?”
“You ever heard of a guy named Mitch Rapp?”
“Most certainly. I was just given a picture of him and told to shoot him on sight.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Wasn’t exactly thrilled. It was dropped on me after I took the job.”
“Well…like I said. We need to meet. I think we can help each other out.”
They agreed on a place in the Albaicin neighborhood and set a time.
Rapp had been watching them for the better part of an hour and was starting to get frustrated. It appeared to be going well, but enough already. Finally, the two shook hands, and Coleman got up and walked down the street. Rapp watched the Brit head the other way. Coleman got in the van and gave Rapp the thumbs-up.
“It’s all taken care of.”
“It was that easy?” Rapp asked, surprised.
“Higsby had read about your wife. He offers his condolences.”
Rapp started the car and said nothing.
“He received a call on Monday and was offered fifty thousand to do five days of security. He’s got an eight-man team, and Rashid sent a plane for them. The job was five days in southern Spain babysitting some Saudi billionaire. He takes ten grand off the top and the rest of them get five grand apiece for what they thought was going to be a cakewalk. Then they got here and the head of Rashid’s security
detail showed them a picture of you and told them to shoot you on sight.”
“How’d they like that?” Rapp asked as he pulled out into traffic.
“They didn’t. Some of these guys have served over in the sandbox, and they’ve had friends killed by Saudi suicide bombers. They consider you an ally and Rashid the enemy. Higsby told me he practically had a mutiny on his hands.”
“So did he agree to play ball?”
“Yeah, he was a little worried about what this might do to his reputation. None of us like to lose a protectee. It’s not exactly good for business.”
