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“We’re only aware of one so far. It resulted in Mitch Rapp killing a number of Russian agents in Istanbul. We anticipate further releases in the future.”
A broad smile spread across Ferris’s face. “Can we prove it?”
“Perhaps soon. It seems like a story your new image consultants would be interested in, no? Kennedy losing control of Rickman as he flooded Afghan warlords and drug dealers with American money. Sloppy security that allowed him to learn far more than he should have. And you trying desperately to stop it while she blackmails you with lies.”
Ferris didn’t seem to be listening anymore. His eyes stared blankly past Taj, undoubtedly seeing himself crushing Irene Kennedy and then rising meteorically to the Oval Office.
Taj glanced at his watch. “I know you have another commitment in half an hour, Senator, and I fear that traffic will be difficult at this time of day.”
That snapped the man out of his trance. He put down his drink and extended a liver-spotted hand. “Good talk, Ahmed. And I look forward to hearing from your people about those contributions.”
Taj nodded. “Perhaps we can find time to speak privately when you return with Secretary Wicka’s delegation.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
Taj walked Ferris to his office door, standing by respectfully as the politician barked at his handlers and headed for the exit. Only when he’d disappeared down the hallway did Taj return to his desk.
It was impossible to believe that the culmination of years of planning was only a week away. The assassination of President Chutani at his banquet for the Americans would be a trivial matter. Shaping the aftermath, though, would be more delicate.
The people of Pakistan and the Middle East would have to be made to believe that the United States was responsible. The story was admittedly clumsy. Why would the Americans kill such a steadfast ally? Like in U.S. politics, though, truth was unimportant. People believed what they wanted to believe, and the hatred of America was incredibly powerful in his country.
Following the president’s death, Taj would waste no time. Using Shirani’s army and his own influence with the Taliban, he would take control.
Pakistan, now a failing patchwork of competing factions, would become a monolith. And the world would tremble.
CHAPTER 27
NEAR LAKE CONSTANCE
SWITZERLAND
I CAN’T believe it was so easy,” Gould said, his gun still trained on Rapp’s head. “Either you’re slipping or your reputation came right out of the CIA’s marketing department.”
Rapp remained completely still, eyes locked on the Glock 17. Tom Lewis’s psychological profile of Gould portrayed him as a narcissistic sociopath. Once again, the shrink’s insights proved correct. The Frenchman had already managed to completely suppress the past, unable to admit that he could ever have been bested. Now he was busy building himself up into the legend he believed he deserved to be.
It was a weakness that could be exploited, but even with that possibility, Rapp recognized that this was about as deadl
y a situation as he’d ever faced. Nutcase or no, Gould wasn’t going to miss at this or any other range. The merc in Rapp’s peripheral vision had a crimson puddle growing around his left foot but the blood loss and pain weren’t preventing him from holding the MP5 rock steady. Finally, the man who’d shoved Hurley through the door was undoubtedly still standing right on the other side of it.
The old man looked like his head had cleared but that didn’t do anything about the fact that he was well past his sell-by date. Unlike Rapp, though, physical talent and the ability to instantly analyze tactical situations weren’t what had made Stan Hurley one of the most effective killers of his generation. He operated entirely on rage, and based on the expression on his face, the decades hadn’t dimmed it.
“What are you waiting for?” Gould taunted. “You think Scott’s going to rescue you? That knoll’s completely surrounded by Obrecht’s men. If Coleman’s not dead already, he will be soon.”
“Mitch, Stan. If you can hear this, get ready. Things are about to get a lot less subtle.”
Hurley’s fake hearing aid had been taken, making it impossible for him to hear Coleman’s warning.
“Scott might just surprise you,” Rapp said to get the old man’s attention.
He made a subtle motion toward Gould with his thumb. Hurley had the better angle on the Frenchman. That left Rapp tangling with a badly injured, no-name merc while an octogenarian with a freshly replaced hip took on one of the best contractors in the world.
The thermobaric charge worked as advertised, creating an eardrum-splitting explosion and shaking the mansion violently enough to cause Gould’s pistol to dip.
Rapp dove toward the mercenary, hoping to draw both men’s fire. Surprise and blood loss delayed the merc’s reaction, but not Gould’s. His shot struck Rapp’s flak jacket just above his navel, flipping him onto his side next to the Glock still lying on the carpet. Behind, Rapp could hear the muffled sound of Gould’s weapon firing repeatedly. He couldn’t worry about that, though. It was Hurley’s problem.
The MP5 opened up, stitching holes in the floor as it arced toward him. The statue was still blocking his line of sight to the man’s head so Rapp snatched up his Glock and pumped a round into the man’s other foot. This time he went down, losing control of his weapon and cutting through the plaster ceiling. Still lying on his side, Rapp lined up on the underside of the fallen merc’s chin and blew the top of his head off.
Rapp immediately rolled onto his back and aimed at the door. Predictably, it was thrown open by the man who had captured Hurley. Rapp squeezed the trigger and put a round through the man’s mouth, sending brain tissue, teeth, and shards of skull spraying out into the hallway.
