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“He’s done listening to you,” grumbled Walsh. “I told you, he’s a damn power-hungry peacock.”
“I’ll talk to him,” the president said quietly.
“I don’t want you to have to do that, Mr. President.” Hartsburg had pushed Ross on the president and he felt obliged to straighten out the mess. “Let me have one more shot at him.”
“Fine.” Hayes turned his attention back to Kennedy. “We’ll keep Ross off your back. You just stay out in front of Justice and the FBI.”
“What about Mitch?”
The president leaned back and gave the matter some thought. After a lengthy pause he said, “Officially…I want him involved in the CIA’s international aspect of this investigation. Please take special note of the word international.” Hayes paused for effect. “Unofficially…he has my consent to kill anyone who had a direct hand in this.”
44
VENICE, ITALY
T he cruise ship turned into the Canale di San Marco, churning up a muddy wake as it slipped slowly through the water. The vessel seemed ridiculously large to be entering such a narrow body of water, but Abel reasoned they knew what they were doing. Tourism was after all Italy’s biggest industry and it wouldn’t do to have one of these steel behemoths ramming its prow through the intricate façade of the Palazzo Ducale. This was the third such ship this afternoon and by far the largest. Abel was lounging on the terrace of his $2,000-a-night penthouse that overlooked the confluence of the Grand Canal and the San Marco Canal. During the peak summer season the room ran $5,000 a night, but only a fool would come to Venice in the summer. The city was overrun with tourists. Heat and humidity combined with sweat to give off a sour odor that could be exceedingly unpleasant. Prices were obnoxiously high and service was shoddy. Fall or spring, though, was a different matter. The temperature was mild and with the humidity gone the ripe summer smell of the canals was gone. The narrow streets were passable, and the service was good.
The ship let loose three quick bursts from its horn. Abel glanced up at the passengers who seemed to be on top of him. They lined the railings of all four decks, towering over him, taking photos, waving, and gawking. If there was one common denominator among them it was that they in general seemed unconcerned with physical fitness. While he perched atop his penthouse sundeck, they looked down on him like plump birds in search of a morsel of food. His initial awe over the engineering it took to assemble such a ship and then maneuver it through the tight channel was now gone, replaced by a sense of irritation that these commoners were intruding on his privacy. Abel did his best to ignore them and read the screen of his laptop.
It had been an interesting day. He had risen from a sound night’s sleep at 7:00 a.m. and showered and shaved. Breakfast in the grand ballroom was followed by a long walk around the city. He’d crossed over the Grand Canal to San Paolo and then Santa Croce with no intent other than to observe how the unique floating city prepared itself for another day. Garbage barges came and went. Water taxis and ferries brought people from the mainland and the surrounding islands to work. Food, office products, mail, wine, merchandise, and everything else it takes to keep a city functioning was brought in by water and off-loaded by young, strong men wielding carts of varying shapes and sizes. It was a way of commerce that was unique to Venice.
Abel returned to the hotel before 10:00 and checked his e-mail. He was both pleased and shocked to find a message that Mitch Rapp was dead. And not only was he dead, but the assassin had managed to make it look like an accident. Abel was absolutely floored by the speed and apparent ease with which the contract had been carried out. Saeed Ahmed Abdullah would be a very happy man. It was no surprise that the assassins were demanding payment immediately. As tempting as it was for Abel to call Abdullah and give him the good news, he knew that he should confirm the story from an independent source. With the time difference between Venice and Washington, DC, it took a while. For fear of raising unwanted attention he did not want to call any of his contacts in the international intelligence community. At 2:00 in the afternoon he was finally able to track down the story on the Washington Post’s Web site. Abel read the words with his heart in his throat. A quarter of the way into it he began dancing around the room. He had just made an additional six million dollars without having to lift a finger. Abel was not a dancer, and he was not someone accustomed to spontaneous celebration, but this was an exception.
After finishing the article he called Abdullah directly via an encrypted satellite phone and told him the news. The father began sobbing. In between sniffles he praised Allah and thanked Abel profusely for giving him his just retribution. Not wanting the call to last too long Abel brought up the issue of payment. Abdullah said it would be taken care of before the close of business today and thanked Abel over and over for helping him. Abel demurred, and then ended the call by warning the billionaire to be very careful. Even though the American press was calling it an accidental explosion, there would surely be people at the CIA who would never believe it for a second.
Now the close of business was approaching, and Abel was nervously waiting for confirmation from the various banks that the funds had been received. Twelve million dollars in total. After Prince Muhammad bin Rashid requested that Abel make the murder look like an accident, the German had ignored the request to shoulder the cost himself and had taken the matter to Saeed Ahmed Abdullah. The billionaire seemed entirely unconcerned by any investigation that might take place after Rapp’s death. Abel tried to impress him with the potential gravity of the aftermath, but Abdullah cared not how Rapp was killed—only that he was killed. Abel pressed him further until the billionaire finally agreed to foot the bill.
Twelve million dollars total, and it had taken less than two weeks. Abel thought that it must be a record in his line of work. It was going to be difficult not to brag about his payday, but there was an obvious disincentive. If the assassins found out they would likely kill him, and if the Americans found out they would torture him and then kill him. He would keep his mouth shut for some time. Maybe in twenty years, when he finally slowed down, he could write his memoirs and take credit for killing America’s top counterterrorism operative. He knew where the real risk lay, and unfortunately there was nothing he could do about it. The father would want to brag. He would want to take credit for killing the mighty Mitch Rapp.
A thought occurred to Abel as he stared at his in-box waiting for confirmation. He was surprised he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Why not use some of his newfound fortune to take out a contract on the father? He decided he’d have to explore the option. An e-mail landed in his in-box with a chime. Abel opened it and smiled as he read the confirmation that two million dollars had arrived in his account, and as per his instructions, one million of it was immediately wired to the designated bank in the Bahamas. Five more e-mails arrived in short order, all basically saying the same thing. Abel picked up the phone and asked for a bottle of 1989 Pichon Longueville Baron to be sent up. He looked out at the bulbous domes of Santa Maria della Salute across the canal and thanked God for the efficiency of the Swiss.
45
CIA SAFE HOUSE, VIRGINIA
R app woke up, once again hoping it was all a dream, but one look at the unfamiliar surroundings told him it wasn’t. His own personal nightmare was upon him. His wife and unborn child were gone. Those horrible memories that had haunted him after his girlfriend had been blown out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland, came flooding back, only this time they were worse. He’d spent years getting over her tragic death. The passage of time and taxing nature of his work combined to slowly mend him. And then Anna came along, and all was perfect again. The painful wound was healed, and he was left with a small scar that was the fleeting memory of a woman who had died more than a decade ago. Now in a flash Anna was gone and with her all his hopes and aspirations. The old wound had been torn asunder and it ached with a pain that was white-hot compared to the previous one. The love of his youth seemed utterly naïve in comparison to the absolute devotion and adoration he felt toward his wife. The pain gripped him in a writhing agony that he knew would have no end.
Rapp fought back the tears and forced himself to assess the situation. He had vague memories of being moved in the night. He could tell by his splitting headache, foggy vision, and general lethargy that he had been given a sedative. He lifted his head
just enough to confirm what he’d already guessed—that his arms and legs were tied down with straps. He didn’t like this one bit and immediately began to test how secure the bonds were. After a brief struggle he gave up. The room was dark, but there was enough light for him to realize that he was not in a hospital. It was more like a hotel room, or a bedroom in someone’s house.
His only vivid memory of his time in the hospital was hearing Kennedy telling him Anna was dead and then having to be restrained by some very large men. After that there was a vague recollection of an ambulance ride. Kennedy must have moved him to a more secure location. Rapp went over a brief list of possibilities, and then whispered to himself, “How in the hell did this happen?”
He sensed movement somewhere in the building—like a heavy door had been shut. Now he could hear footsteps. He rolled his head toward the door and watched as the brass knob began to turn. It occurred to him that he was probably being monitored by a low-light camera. The door opened with barely a sound and a dark figure stepped into the room. Rapp couldn’t make out his face, but there was something familiar in the way he moved. The man approached the bed cautiously, and Rapp wondered for an instant if he was in danger.
“How are you feeling, buddy?”
It was Scott Coleman. Rapp relaxed a notch and asked, “Where am I?”
“Agency safe house.”
Rapp surveyed the former Special Forces operator. “Which one?”
“Near Leesburg.” Coleman walked around to the other side of the bed and opened the blinds.
Light filled the room and Rapp turned away. “What time is it?” he asked with squinted eyes.
“Almost noon.”
