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“How many people are in this division?”
“It’s largely automated. Most of the work is done by computer or—”
“How many!”
Gadai opened the dossier again, shuffling to a photo of a plump woman with dyed blond hair. “Isabella Accorso runs the entire enterprise with a single administrative assistant.”
Taj picked up the photo and examined the woman’s face. She was probably in her mid-thirties, wearing a blouse that clung to her breasts in an obvious attempt to facilitate the faceless, nameless sexual -encounters so enjoyed by Western women.
It was hard to believe that this female had the keys to America’s heavily guarded intelligence apparatus. That she unwittingly possessed more information on the CIA’s operations than anyone outside Langley’s executive offices.
“What do we know about her?”
“She’s divorced. Clean. No drugs or illegal activity. No affairs or significant financial problems.”
Taj just glared at him. Again, his assistant’s expression suggested there was more.
“She does have a daughter, though. A sixteen-year-old who attends public school. Quite an attractive young woman.”
“Can I assume she’s accessible to us?”
Gadai smiled. “Easily.”
CHAPTER 12
THE FARM
NEAR HARPERS FERRY
WEST VIRGINIA
U.S.A.
DID you get it put back together?” Rapp said as he walked into the Farm’s basement bar.
Hurley was standing next to the pool table with the ubiquitous drink in his hand while Scott Coleman was beneath the elaborate scale model with a screwdriver.
“Just finishing,” the old man said, lighting a cigarette. “The little twit outdid himself.”
He was right. It was an impressive effort even by Marcus Dumond’s standards. The computer genius had used a drone-mounted camera to take more than a thousand high-definition photos of Leo Obrecht’s property. After stitching them together in Photoshop, he’d fed them to the railroad-car-sized 3-D printer at Langley.
Rapp had been expecting a two-foot-square monochrome model with enough detail to make some general strategy decisions. What he’d gotten was a full-color model so large it had to be cut into three sections to jam it down the elevator shaft. Resolution was detailed enough to differentiate individual plants in Obrecht’s garden.
The portion of the model that represented the house was built in detachable layers so that each floor could be removed in order to examine the layout of the one beneath. The only thing missing was furniture—an omission that Dumond seemed genuinely embarrassed about. He still hadn’t been able to crack the banker’s encryption and tie into his security cameras.
“Voilà,” Coleman said, connecting the last section and crawling out from under it.
Rapp let his eyes drift from the mansion grounds out to the mountainous forest surrounding it. Every tree and rock, every road and stream, was faithfully represented. While he was normally suspicious of technology, this was an advance he could get used to.
Hurley set his drink down on a section of open meadow already covered with rings from his glass. “I remember when we’d have planned this op on the back of a napkin.”
“The world moves forward, Stan,” Coleman said, stepping back to admire the model.
“You’re wrong,” the old man replied, cigarette smoke rolling from his mouth as he spoke. “The world stands still. All that changes
is the window dressing.”
“That’s why I’ve always liked you, Stan. Your sunny disposition.”
