Font Size:  

Gould tossed the paper on the floor and closed his eyes, feigning an attempt to go to sleep. In reality, he would be up all night, staring at the dark ceiling as he ran through scenarios and turned details over in his head.

The same ad in various languages would be running in newspapers and magazines all over the world. It was a simple cipher, used by Obrecht numerous times in the past to contact him with jobs.

The candidate must be ready to fill the position immediately.

The contract was to be fulfilled as soon as possible.

Work will be done primarily at the owner’s home in Switzerland.

Obrecht knew that Rapp would have to try to take him at his mansion and was prepared to help Gould in any way he could.

We are looking to take the most obvious route to finding a good fit.

This was a way of saying that if Gould had a hand in planning the assault, he should use an obvious strategy that Obrecht’s people could anticipate and prepare for.

The successful candidate can expect a salary of 150,000 euros.

Compensation would be the largest payment he’d ever received—fifteen million euros.

Please send resumes to [email protected]

The email address would be live so that applications wouldn’t bounce back, but in fact it was the simplest part of the entire message. Remove every other letter and you got the name of the target. Rapp.

The only line that confused him was the one about Interpol verification. It wasn’t a code word that they’d agreed on and it didn’t have context that could help him decipher its meaning. Normally, he avoided any kind of uncontrollable risk or uncertainty but in this case it didn’t matter. And neither did the fifteen million euros. All that mattered was that he would be the man who killed Mitch Rapp.

He would finally be accepted for what he had always known himself to be. The best of all time.

CHAPTER 10

CIA HEADQUARTERS

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

U.S.A.

MITCH Rapp gunned his Dodge through the underground parking garage, finally pulling into an empty spot labeled DAVID SANDERS. He had his own designated space, but never used it. The Charger was weighed down with a lot of armor but not enough to park beneath a sign with his name on it. Better to choose one at random. He assumed that when the people whose spaces he took saw his car, they just found a spot in the outdoor lot, but he’d never bothered to find out. All he knew for certain was that no one had ever been stupid enough to lodge a complaint.

Rapp activated the elaborate car alarm that a friend of Marcus Dumond had installed and walked briskly up the ramp, avoiding eye contact with the people he passed. Once inside Kennedy’s private -elevator, he relaxed a bit. He hated coming to Langley. About half the people working there—the sensible half—used any available excuse to scurry away when they saw him coming. The rest wanted to slap him on the back and drone on about what an honor it was to work with him. The only thing he despised more than people recognizing him was being touched.

“Is she alone?” Rapp said as he entered the director’s suite. All three of Kennedy’s assistants were on the phone, but one gave him an energetic nod and motioned toward her door. Rapp banged on it a few times before entering.

Like her assistants, Kennedy was on the phone, but she stood and offered her cheek to Rapp. He gave it a quick kiss and then dropped into one of the chairs in front of her desk. She looked like she’d finally gotten some sleep. The dark circles beneath her eyes had faded, but the deep lines at their edges remained.

She wrapped up her call and slid a manila folder toward him. “I’m sorry to drag you out here, but I thought you’d want to see this.”

He pulled out two eight-by-ten photos taken in low light. The first was immediately recognizable—the naked corpse of Abdul Zahir wired to a chair. Judging by the lack of damage to his body and face, he hadn’t been interrogated. Someone had simply cut off one of his hands and then smashed him in the side of the head with a blunt instrument.

No great loss to the world. Zahir was a violent, backstabbing piece of human refuse even by terrorist standards. Unfortunately, he had been an occasionally useful violent, backstabbing piece of human refuse.

The second photo was of a man lying on a dirt floor with about a third of his face missing. The combination of the damage and his thick beard made it impossible to ID him.

“Who’s this?” Rapp said, holding up the photo.

“That is your friend Abdul Qayem.”

Rapp looked down again at the man who was responsible for sending the better part of an Afghan police precinct to kill him. “Are we sure?”

“Our people did a digital comparison with photos we have on file. Ninety-nine percent.”

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
Articles you may like