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The trip from the knoll had taken longer than Wicker’s estimate but Rapp had anticipated that. Gould was good—making no mistakes that Rapp could see from his position five feet behind. He wasn’t fast, though. The assassin had been operating primarily in urban environments since he’d left the French Foreign Legion. It was no surprise that he couldn’t hold the pace expected by an elfin former SEAL who had been creeping around the woods since he was in diapers.
Gould wriggled between two trees and Rapp followed, thoughts of Anna intruding on his mind. Her courage during the White House op. The depth of her green eyes. How different his life would be if she had lived.
He cleared the trees and the bottom of Gould’s boot came into view again. What Rapp saw, though, was the whitewashed front of the man’s house in New Zealand and the sun reflecting off the ocean below.
It was a stark contrast to the dilapidated apartment Rapp called home. He’d been building a new house on a couple of acres just outside the Beltway when Anna died. Or more precisely, when the man in front of him had murdered her in a botched attempt to get to him. Construct
ion had immediately stopped, along with everything else in his life.
The burned-out bones of his old house were still there. Kennedy and Mike Nash had tried to convince him to have the lot cleared so it could be sold, but so far he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it.
In light of all that, why did he still feel conflicted about Louis Gould? Why had he passed up every opportunity to take the man out?
Tom Lewis, the CIA’s shrink, had gently suggested an answer: When Rapp looked into the Frenchman’s eyes, he saw a reflection of himself. Of course, he’d dismissed it as psychobabble, but there was no denying that Lewis was right more than he was wrong.
A small rock outcropping appeared ahead and Rapp took cover behind it. The entrance to the tunnel was just a few yards away, but they were the most exposed of the journey.
“Joe,” Rapp said into his radio. “I’m at the feature we designated echo three. Look six feet behind it.”
He put a boot against a sapling and gave it a gentle nudge.
“I’ve got you,” Maslick came back immediately.
“Any activity nearby?”
“A nice six-point buck about one twenty-five to the west. That’s it.”
Rapp started out again, using his elbows to drag himself forward at a pace that would allow him to close the gap to Gould. The light breeze was traveling from west to east, making it unlikely that the deer would be spooked by their scent.
It took an excruciatingly long time to cover the distance, but finally both men were lying in front of the cave’s entrance. Gould slid through the tight opening and Rapp put his head partially inside to let his eyes adjust to the lower light.
The Frenchman pried a piece of stone from the dirt wall, revealing the promised keypad. He glanced back before punching in the code. “Keep your fingers crossed.”
Rapp counted, confirming that the string of numbers was the twelve Gould had reported back at the farm. Not that he thought a pathological liar like him would make such an obvious mistake, but it made sense to keep close tabs on the man.
There was a quiet click and Gould pressed a hand against the rusted steel at the back of the cavern. It swung inward, revealing dim red emergency lighting beyond.
Rapp adjusted Hurley’s Kimber .45 holstered in the small of his back and activated his radio again. “We’re about to enter. Figure ten minutes to get to the mansion.”
“Roger that,” Coleman responded.
“Stan?” Rapp said.
The muttered response was barely intelligible. “Waiting, waiting, and more waiting.”
It wasn’t what Rapp wanted to hear. They needed Hurley to pinpoint Obrecht’s location in the building. A room-by-room search was not part of their quick-in, quick-out plan.
“Roger that. Do what you can, Stan. We’re moving.”
CHAPTER 20
ROME
ITALY
ONCE again, Allah had blessed their enterprise. Despite a forecast for rain, the sun was in full force, with only a few distant clouds to obscure it.
Kabir Gadai strolled casually along the gravel walkway, led by a leashed Labrador retriever puppy. He’d purchased it only a few hours ago and was already looking forward to putting its dead body in a dumpster as soon as this was over. Westerners’ affinity for these filthy creatures was inexplicable, but not acknowledging that affinity would be stupid. Nearly everyone who passed looked down at the animal and smiled. More important, Isabella Accorso had two Labradors of her own—the latest in an unbroken series of similar dogs going back to her childhood.
