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“In my experience, wine snobs like to choose their bottle based on their mood,” Rapp said. “Wouldn’t that put him in the basement with us just before five?”
It was yet another reminder of why the CIA assassin was not to be underestimated. Gould would have asked the same question, but he wasn’t sure he’d have come up with it that quickly.
“Good thought, but Obrecht had an auxiliary wine cooler installed in his den. He picks his vintage from there, and if he restocks it on a regular schedule, I don’t know what that schedule is.”
“The twelve guards we’ve identified mostly stay outside,” Rapp said. “Are there dedicated interior guards that we don’t know about?”
“Not that I’ve ever seen,” Gould said. “Obrecht likes his privacy and sticks to a few servants who’ve been trained to stay out of his way. But since you’re telling me he’s laid on additional security, I can’t swear to that.”
“I think there’s a good chance you’re right,” Coleman said. “We’ve been watching the windows and we’re not seeing anyone we don’t recognize as a member of the core security team.”
“So we have twelve men, primarily in outdoor postings,” Hurley said. “All well-armed, solid operators in defensible positions. All recently hired, so not one of them is going to be bored or complacent. That’s not a great scenario for us.”
“I agree,” Gould said. “Trust me when I tell you that I’m not happy about b
eing half of a two-man team if something goes wrong and all those guys come running through the door with guns blazing. But I’m not seeing a lot of alternatives.”
The men across from him looked at each other for a moment. Finally, Rapp spoke.
“Three.”
“What?”
“You’re not half of a two-man team. You’re a third of a three-man team. A while back, Hurley knocked on the gate and gave one of Obrecht’s guards a fake Interpol business card. He told him to let Obrecht know that Interpol was interested in talking to him about you. Obrecht’s secretary just called and set up an appointment at the mansion for the day after tomorrow.”
Gould allowed a smile to spread across his face. Not for the reason the other men in the room thought, though.
Personal and work history will be verified through Interpol.
That line in the Post ad had perplexed him. Now it was crystal clear. Obrecht had figured out who Hurley was and would be ready for him.
“What time?” Gould said, still processing how this new piece of information would affect him.
“Three o’clock,” Rapp said.
It was perfect. The entire thing was starting to look like child’s play. Obrecht and his men would not only know that the “obvious route” would be Gould coming through the tunnel and putting his backup on the high ground, but they’d know the time of the breach.
“That works even better,” Gould said, finally. “He’ll meet with Stan in his office, which is easier to access from the basement than his den. And we have a third man that no one’s going to expect. Heck, if it comes to it, we could even play like we’ve taken Stan hostage.”
“So you can use me as a human shield?” Hurley said. “My ass.”
“You just follow my lead, pops. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Hurley lunged, but Rapp saw it coming and held him back.
The Frenchman stood his ground, a broad grin on his face. He was starting to feel almost giddy about the situation. Everything was lining up in his favor. It was beginning to feel like fate. He was going to be the man who killed Mitch Rapp.
“Careful,” Gould said, leaning over the plastic representation of Obrecht’s estate. “We don’t want you breaking a hip before we even get there.”
“Keep talking, kid. While you still can.”
Gould laughed and walked to the bar.
“Maybe we should talk about what I get when I pull this off?” he said, reaching over and retrieving a beer from the refrigerator on the other side.
Of course, the real answer was fifteen million euros and the undisputed status of being the best in the world. But these morons didn’t know that.
“I thought we already covered that subject,” Rapp said as the others looked on.
