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Based on the Agency’s network of informants, the two American nationals in question were being held in a village not far from there. Negotiations carried out by a local intermediary had gone nowhere, and after an offer of a million US dollars hadn’t even rated a response, Kennedy decided it was time to extract the hostages by a more direct method.
The question was, why didn’t this group want the money? Why were they looking to start a fight they were destined to lose? Based on the best intel available, they weren’t even Taliban. Just an extended family group consisting of maybe forty individuals living in the middle of nowhere. They had no dog in this race. Hell, therewasno race anymore.
In the end, Rapp suspected it had less to do with the Afghans than it did the former US president and his CIA chief. Anthony Cook had only managed to stay in the White House for a short time, but he still cast a long shadow—particularly at the Agency. His authoritarian views had found a surprising number of sympathetic ears in the organization, as had his plan to turn it into an apparatus with no purpose other than to consolidate his power. Kennedy was still trying to sort out who could be trusted and who needed to be shown the door, but it was a difficult and sometimes painful task. People they’d known and worked with for years had been seduced by Cook’s vision and were still working to undermine her.
With that hurricane blowing in Langley, it wasn’t particularly far-fetched to think that a faction still loyal to the former administration was trying to lure Rapp into an ambush. He’d been Kennedy’s operational right hand for decades and losing him would be a significant blow to her. Maybe even a fatal one given the current political environment.
A village perched on an east-facing hillside emerged from the darkness and Rapp signaled his column to stop again. He dropped tohis stomach, slithering to the edge of the creek and descending into it. A trickle of water at the bottom shone black as he passed silently over it and climbed the other bank. Propping his HK416 rifle over the edge, he used its thermal scope to examine the settlement in more detail.
The scree-covered slope leading to it was steep, climbing maybe two hundred yards before reaching the lowest of nine visible buildings. All were constructed of stone—simple rectangular structures with flat roofs and one or two wood-framed windows. None appeared to contain glass and there was no sign of life at all.
“Looks good for our original incursion plan,” he said into his throat mike. “No contacts and the layout’s as expected. Advise when you’re in position.”
CHAPTER 2
SALERNO
ITALY
“IT’Sa wonderful exhibit,” the young woman said in Spanish that suggested a privileged upbringing near Madrid. “You should take the time to see it if you can.”
Damian Losa nodded with a barely perceptible smile. His people had perhaps done their job too well with this girl. Her dark hair played across shoulders so smooth that they seemed to reflect the light of the terrace and the city below. Her smile flashed easily, revealing perfect teeth completely unaffected by the thousand-euro bottle of wine she was sipping. Was there a trick to that? Some kind of chemical film? Probably.
The problem was that she was so compelling that she attracted the attention of the other restaurant patrons. Furtive glances from both men and women, carrying differing degrees of envy, desire, and fascination. The exception was his ten-strong security team spread throughout the elegant dining area. They’d been trained to pretend not to notice him but, in this case, their disinterest madethem stand out. He’d have to remember to mention that to Julian at some point.
“I’m looking forward to the gnocchi. Did you see it? It’s the third item on the tasting menu. I’ve never been able to perfect it. Italy’s cuisine is simple on the surface, but it’s all about the quality of ingredients and technique. In this case, the right potato combined with the right flour in the right proportion.”
In their brief time together, she’d expertly covered subjects as diverse as politics, sports, art, and cooking in an effort to find something that elicited more than polite disinterest from him. His smile broadened a bit, so she ran with it. A moment later, he was being treated to very credible tasting notes on the wine he’d ordered and a description of the region that had produced it.
In truth, he didn’t care one way or another about Italian food and only pretended to sip the wine in front of him. His increased engagement resulted from a memory she’d triggered of his mother making tortillas. The sunlight flooding through the window over the sink, the worn pots inherited from ancestors long dead. The earthy aroma.
Not that she’d had to make their food by hand or use those ancient implements. His mother had been a nurse and his father an accountant—members of a small middle class that had afforded him opportunities rare in that part of Mexico. He’d attended a modest private school and an even more modest university. He’d lived in a safe neighborhood and always had enough to eat. And he’d had his mother—a round and unwaveringly positive woman who woke up every morning with a heartfelt prayer of thanks to her God.
What would she think of what he’d done with the opportunities she and his father had worked so hard to provide? If she were to walk into the restaurant at that moment, would she even recognize the fifty-five-year-old man who had risen to become the most powerful criminal in the world? Would she be dazzled by the girl sitting across the table from him? A young woman he’d never met before that night and would never see again after tomorrow morning? Would the mansions,jets, and yachts impress her? Would she mistake people’s fear of him for respect and social standing?
Doubtful. In retrospect, it was perhaps best that his parents had died young.
The Girl—he couldn’t remember her name—sensed his mind wandering and moved with impressive ease to the subject of technology. Something about augmented reality that he tried to track on because it was indeed important. The world was changing at a dizzying pace and over the last few years he could feel himself losing his grip. On it and everything else. A decade ago, he would have allowed everything else to fall away during their time together. He would have been engaged in the conversation and sharing the bottle. He would have been wondering if her incredible breadth of knowledge extended to the bedroom and looking forward to finding out. He would have recognized that these moments were the culmination of everything he’d worked for. A life of wealth and power so limitless that he existed separate from—indeed above—the rest of society.
The fact that none of this had crossed his mind over the course of the last thirty minutes was worrying. It took more than cunning and experience to stay on top in the business he’d chosen. It took a certain amount of passion.
A waiter appeared and laid two small plates in front of them, describing in detail the exotic nature of the ingredients and the chef’s motivation for selecting them. Losa gazed down at the elaborately decorated bite of fish contained on a single spoon. Not really the kind of food he gravitated toward, but he admired the artistry and precision of it. While perhaps not a connoisseur of Michelin-starred restaurants, hewasa connoisseur of expertise. In his experience, it was perhaps the rarest thing in the universe.
Halfway through the explanation, he lost focus and turned his attention to the coastline and the city of Salerno that bordered it. The commercial port dominated, with a single cargo ship currently docked and in the process of unloading. Despite the distance and rain, hecould discern individual trucks dropping their cargo and picking up new loads. Bringing the world to Italy and Italy to the world.
He lifted the spoon and slid the fish into his mouth, eliciting a smile from the Girl.
“Do you like it?” she said in a tone that suggested it was the most important question ever asked.
“It’s delicious.”
That prompted a charming story about her youthful penchant for stealing chocolate from a local restaurant’s kitchen. The fact that it was almost certainly fiction didn’t detract from its impact at all.
She was almost to the denouement of her tale when distant spotlights came to life over her perfect shoulder. He could just make out the urgent movements of a truck at their center and a moment later, the quiet pop of gunfire became audible, slightly out of sync with the corresponding muzzle flashes. Enough to furrow a few brows, but not enough to divert his fellow diners from their sea bass with asparagus. That took the explosion.
Everyone turned toward the percussive sound in unison. Losa thought he could see the flames reflected in the Girl’s eyes, but it was likely that he was just romanticizing the moment.
“What do you think it is?” she said.
