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“Why don’t we knock off?” he suggested.
“I hear that.”
Rapp was about to stand when Claudia appeared from around the house with Chucky in tow.
“Just as I suspected. Sitting in lawn chairs drinking beer.”
“What are you talking about?” Maslick said, feigning offense. “We got a ton done!”
She frowned in the general direction of the deck as Chucky took off across the yard. “It looks exactly like it did yesterday.”
“But flatter. Look at that level. Perfection.”
She shook her head. “Mitch is a bad influence on you. What about the gate?”
“We’ll get on that tomorrow.”
“You’llget on that tomorrow,” Rapp said, standing. “I need to hop a flight to Paris.”
“Paris,” Maslick muttered. This time the offense wasn’t feigned. “So, while you kick back in the Oval Office and Champs-Élysées, I get to sweat my ass off and suck sawdust.”
“Paris?” Claudia said. “Why?”
He retrieved his phone and handed it to her. Not surprisingly, her expression darkened when she saw the text.
“This isn’t good, Mitch. It isn’t good at all.”
“We knew it was coming.”
“I know. I guess I just didn’t think it would be this soon.”
“Me neither, but I think it’s too early for you to get worked up about it. He probably just needs someone to disappear.”
“Who wants someone to disappear?” Maslick asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
Claudia reread the seven words as though there was something hidden in them. Some clue of what was to come.
“You’re underestimating him,” she said, switching to French. “I never worked directly for him in my prior life, but I know people who have. He’s brilliant and polished, but beneath that, also incredibly ruthless. In a way, he’s the Irene Kennedy of organized crime. There’s no way he’d waste you on something he could get one of his people to do. He has a marker from Mitch Rapp, and I guarantee that he knows the value of it.”
CHAPTER 8
PARIS
FRANCE
TWOhours after sunset, the heat had diminished enough that Rapp decided to walk to the address he’d been given. The street he found himself on was devoid of the normal crush of tourists and instead lined with imposing villas. A perfect neighborhood to create a veneer of respectability for people who made their livings at the edges of the law. Behind the iron gates and well-tended gardens, he suspected he’d find an interesting mix of Russians, South Americans, and Chinese who had abandoned their homelands in favor of something more befitting their newfound wealth.
The man he was there to see, though, was the standout. Damian Losa—almost certainly not the name he was born with—had appeared as if from nowhere about thirty years ago. Despite a modest start, he’d managed to build a criminal empire so extensive that his picture would be more at home on the cover ofFortunemagazine than hanging in a post office.
Rapp found the gate he was searching for and stopped in front ofit. There was no buzzer, but it turned out to be unnecessary. A man appeared from the shadow of a tree and opened it before stepping aside to let Rapp pass. Despite looking like a serious operator, he seemed to have been relegated to the role of greeter as he led the way to a mansion that dominated the manicured grounds. He neither spoke nor showed any interest in checking for weapons before passing Rapp off to a woman waiting on the porch. She wore a vaguely disapproving expression and gave the impression of being of Latin American descent—a hypothesis confirmed when she addressed him in strained English.
“Welcome. Please go to the back of the house. Mr. Losa waits you there.”
Rapp started along the hallway, taking in the ornate portraits and general opulence of the place. Normally, he’d be assessing threats and looking for potential exits, but in this case, he wasn’t particularly worried. Losa wanted him alive. The question was, for what?
He found the man in an elaborate conservatory. Walls and ceiling were constructed entirely of glass, with an impressive dome supported by iron lattice. Losa rose from a sofa and strode across the room with his hand outstretched.
