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“Yes, sir.”
Perhaps Taj hadn’t been so unwise to send him after all. The fact that these photos were ever printed was inexcusable, but hanging them on the wall verged on insubordination. It would be something he would have dealt with quite harshly if Taj hadn’t already arranged for these men to disappear when they returned to Pakistan.
The shades were almost completely closed and Gadai knelt to peer through the three-centimeter crack at the bottom. It offered an unobstructed view of the school at a reported range of 212 meters. The fence would have the potential to deflect a shot, but that wasn’t important. It was the video image he was interested in, and it would be quite -acceptable.
Gadai went to a long metal case resting against the wall and turned the combination dials on it. Inside was a rather unusual item that he held out to Dogar. The assassin took it, turning it over in his hands with a confused expression.
“This . . . This isn’t a gun.”
He was entirely correct. It was a shortened plastic rifle stock with a handgrip at the front, designed for bird-watchers to hold cameras and spotting scopes steady. It had been far easier to bring into the EU than a firearm and was impervious to both accidents and the stupidity that the Pakistani team had displayed thus far.
Dogar examined the video camera mounted on it, taking inventory of the controls and noting the crosshairs on the zoom lens. “Am I to continue surveillance with this?”
Gadai retrieved the laptop that had been sharing the case and turned it on. “Has the broadband connection been installed?”
“Yes, as you requested. We’ve verified upload speeds of four megabits per second.”
“Turn on the camera and aim it out the window.”
He did as he was told, and the image of the school appeared on the laptop screen.
“Do you see the woman on the sidewalk? Line up on her head.”
Gadai watched as the crosshairs centered on her right temple. It was all but indistinguishable from a rifle scope.
Perfect.
CHAPTER 16
NEAR LAKE CONSTANCE
SWITZERLAND
THE screen on the van’s dashboard had been built to look like a normal GPS but was in fact something far more sophisticated. Mitch Rapp watched the video feed being beamed to the screen from a drone controlled by Marcus Dumond.
Most of the image consisted of steeply rolling, heavily forested terrain. The empty rural highway they were driving along cut across the left edge, running north to south. Five miles to the east, he could see the winding road that dead-ended into Leo Obrecht’s mansion, also devoid of traffic. It was Wednesday morning, and this area was primarily a weekend retreat for Switzerland’s wealthy set.
“We’re coming up on the drop site,” the driver said. “Three minutes.”
Rapp didn’t know much about Maria Glauser other than she spoke German with the appropriate Swiss accent and knew the area like the back of her hand. Nash had worked with her in the past and said she was one of the most exacting people he’d ever met. It was a quality Rapp demanded in anyone supporting his ops. So far, she hadn’t disappointed.
The activity in the rear of the van intensified, but Rapp didn’t look back. Instead he began stripping off his sweatpants and jacket, revealing camouflage fatigues beneath. Nothing about this operation was ideal and the fact that they had to set out in broad daylight to coincide with Hurley’s appointment was just one of a long list of problems.
There had been a fair amount of debate as to whether to go in posing as hikers but he’d finally decided against it. There were no trails in the area, making the tried-and-true lost-backpacker cover a little far-fetched. And while Rapp’s beard and shaggy hair made him a little hard to pin down, Coleman and his men looked exactly like the elite soldiers they were.
“The bridge is just ahead,” Glauser said.
“We’re a go,” Rapp said loud enough for the men in back to hear. “The video feed looks clear. No cars in sight.”
They crossed over a slow-moving stream about five yards wide and Glauser eased onto the shoulder.
“I’ll have vehicles at the designated extraction points,” she said, keeping her eye on the side-view mirror. “But we’re not going to bring them in until the last minute. It could attract attention.”
“Just make sure they’re there,” Rapp said, throwing open the passenger door as his team piled out of the back. “We’ll be moving fast and there could be people behind us.”
“They’ll be here. I guarantee it.”
Rapp and his team were already running down the steep stream bank toward the water when she pulled away. The grass had grown to almost the height of a man beneath the bridge, and Rapp sank a good six inches into the mud as he pushed through. The backpacks were -exactly where Glauser said they’d be, each subtly marked to identify their owners: Rapp, Gould, Coleman, and Joe Maslick.
