Consent to Kill (13 page)

H
e approached the table, his legs still unsteady. The attractive brunette looked up at him from behind her dark glasses, and asked,
“Ça t’amuse de faire attendre les gens?” Do you like to keep people waiting?

Abel cleared his throat and tried to look relaxed.
“J’ai eu un contretemps.” Something came up.

“Really,” she said in a doubting tone. “Like standing across the street pretending to read a magazine?”

“I was merely trying to be cautious.” Abel wondered how in the hell they knew what he looked like.

“Not cautious enough.” She tilted her head. “I noticed you met my business associate.”

Abel glanced back at the newsstand. The corner wasn’t crowded, but neither was it empty. People were coming and going in all four directions, but no one was standing there looking back at them. Abel was still a bit off kilter, and all he could manage to say was, “So that was your partner.”

“Yes.” She smiled. “He’s a rather resourceful man. Not the type of person you want to upset.”

Abel recalled the man’s hot breath on his neck, and he suppressed a shiver. He composed himself and gestured toward the chair with the umbrella on it. “May I sit?”

“By all means.” She grabbed the umbrella and hooked it to her arm rest. She did not bother to introduce herself. If they agreed to proceed to the next step she would provide him with an alias.

In an effort to lighten the mood, and get beyond his own professional embarrassment, Abel said, “I apologize for making you wait, but I am always a bit jumpy during these initial meetings.”

“You do this type of thing often?”

The dark sunglasses made it impossible to get a complete idea of the woman’s face, which he supposed was intended. “Often enough, but I have a short list of contractors that I usually use.”

“If you have other skilled people, why are you talking to me?”

The waiter approached before he could answer. Abel ordered a cup of coffee and when the waiter was gone he said, “My services have been retained by someone who would like a problem to go away. A very interesting problem. One that I’m not sure I’m comfortable using any of my ordinary contacts on.”

She studied him from behind her one-way glasses. “If things don’t go as planned, you don’t want anyone tracing the job back to you?”

She was a smart woman. Abel conceded the point saying, “That is part of it.”

“And the other part?”

Abel put on a humble face. “Some jobs require nothing more than brute force. I have many people who fit this profile, and to be honest, I do not enjoy doing business with any of them. Other jobs require a bit of cunning and deceit.” Abel shrugged. “I have a few people who aren’t so rough around the edges and are competent enough. Still other jobs require a true professional. Someone who is creative with solutions and adept with follow-through. I have maybe one man who I would put in this category.”

“So why not use him?”

The waiter appeared with the fresh cup of coffee. Abel held his answer until they were alone again. “I considered it, but in the end I decided there was one limitation that might prevent him from succeeding.”

“What, may I ask, is that?”

There was a line that Abel had predetermined he would not cross. This bit of information fell just shy of that line. “We are nearing a juncture in our conversation that I like to refer to as ‘the point of no return.’ ”

She nodded, but offered nothing more.

“I will answer this one question, and then it is my turn to do some asking.”

“You may ask all you’d like.” She pushed her chair back slightly and recrossed her legs.

“Some jobs require that nothing is left to chance. This is one of those jobs, and whoever takes it must be fluent in English. My man is not, and I feel that this could be a potential problem either before or after the job.”

“Is your target British or American?”

Abel ignored her question, and instead asked, “Can your partner speak in both the British and American dialects?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now I would like to go over your résumé.”

She put her hand up to stop him. “Before you go any further, I need to lay down a few rules. First, no heads of state. We don’t care how much money you’re willing to pay. We have no desire to spend the rest of our lives living under a rock. Second, we will set the terms and conditions. You will have nothing to say, operationally speaking. The only thing we will allow you to do is set a deadline.”

“And pay you, of course.” Abel smiled.

She smiled back. “Of course.”

Abel was struck by how beautiful her smile was. He desperately wanted to reach out and take her sunglasses off so he could complete the picture. “Now, on to your résumé.”

“I forgot the last point, and I doubt you will like it.” She folded her arms across her chest. “We reserve the right to back out at any time prior to the deadline. You will of course receive a full refund with the exception of the hundred-thousand-dollar retainer that you have already paid.”

Abel kept his cool even though his German temper was bubbling up just beneath the surface. “I have never heard of such a preposterous thing.”

“I’m afraid those are our conditions.”

“You cannot conduct business this way.” Abel pushed his cup and saucer away. “I have proceeded in very good faith. I have paid an obscene retainer for which I have received nothing in return other than a list of your conditions. I need to be protected just as badly as you do, and I must tell you that if you insist on being so one-sided in this negotiation I will be forced to look elsewhere.”

“Herr Abel,” she began, “you can look all you want, but if you need something done in Britain or America, you need to look no further.” She opened her purse and fished out a cigarette. “We are not in the business of sharing secrets. We are a fee-for-hire service and our reputation is everything.” She lit the cigarette and pointed it at him. “Things come up in this line of work. Unexpected things that we cannot control. A true professional knows when to walk away. I can guarantee that we will do everything possible to fulfill the contract, but in the end, if we decide to walk away, that will be the end of it. You will get your money back, and we will take your secret to our graves.”

Nothing was going as he’d planned. These two had done their homework. They had allowed him to think he was the smarter man and then they had knocked him off balance and set the entire tone. He was the one supposed to be doing the interviewing, not them. As much as he wanted to stay and continue chatting with this lovely woman he needed to show at least one sign of strength.

Abel pushed his chair back and stood. “I am sorry we have wasted each other’s time. The fee you stood to earn was extremely large.” He extended his hand more in hopes that he could touch her skin than as a courtesy. She did the same, and he held her hand delicately. “If you decide to be more flexible in your negotiations, I will reconsider doing business with you.” He gave her a curt bow and left.

A
BLOCK AWAY
a man stood leaning against his motorbike pretending to read a copy of
Rolling Stone.
Gnarled dreadlocks cascaded down to his shoulders. He had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and his helmet was hooked onto one of the handlebars. Clipped to the strap of the messenger bag was a two-way radio. A wireless earpiece was linked to the radio via Bluetooth technology. For the last fifteen seconds there’d been nothing but the background noise of the city.

Finally, her voice asked,
“As-tu tout compris?” Did you get all of that?

“Yep.”

“You don’t sound very concerned.”

“Nope.” He glanced sideways at his rearview mirror and just as he expected he saw the German walking in his direction.

“What are we going to do?”

“Give him a little private audition, I think.”

She sighed. “Why do you always insist on taking risks?”

He began tapping his foot and singing a Peter Tosh song replete with Jamaican accent. Once the German had passed he said, “We’re in the risk business, my darling. I’ll see you back at the place. Give me a ten-minute start.” He closed the magazine and shoved it in his saddlebag. After strapping on his helmet, he started the bike and raced out into traffic.

M
C
L
EAN
, V
IRGINIA

R
app pulled into the parking lot, shut off the car, and got out. He walked to the asphalt curb and looked out across the playing fields. His mood began to change almost immediately. It had been more than fifteen years since he’d been back, but the place was more familiar to him than perhaps any in the world. It was pretty much as he’d remembered it. Some of the trees were bigger, some were gone, and there were a few new ones planted near the parking lot, but other than that, it was the same old place—the place of his youth.

The view, the smell, the weather, all brought back a deluge of memories—most of them good, but not all. This was where he’d broken his arm at the age of seven. He’d gone running home bawling, only to have his father enforce his “no blood, no tears” rule. After a brief check, his father, who was fond of the phrase “Suck it up,” told Mitch it was just a sprain. When young Mitchell awoke in the middle of the night soaked in sweat, and his arm twice its normal size, his mother intervened and Mr. Suck It Up was ordered to take his son to the emergency room. It was not their first trip to get x-rays, but it was their last. The next year his father died of a massive heart attack and left behind a relatively young wife and two kids: Mitch and his younger brother, Steven.

Rapp didn’t think of his dad often, other than the brief periods when he lamented the fact that they never really got to know each other. They’d been together for just eight years, the first four of which Mitch had no real recollection, and the next four which were pretty vague. His dad, like most dads back in the seventies, wasn’t around much. He was a lawyer and worked long hours. He played golf on Saturday mornings, rain or shine, so Sundays were really the only time they spent together as a family. What he did remember about his dad was that he was a firm but decent and fair man. His mother, a deeply religious and eternally optimistic person, made it very clear to her boys just how responsible their father had been both alive and from beyond. Like the good attorney that he was, everything had been in order when his heart stopped pumping. The estate planning was all up to date and their father had purchased more than enough life insurance to take care of them. The mortgage was paid off and money put aside for college. Financially speaking, his mom never had to worry.

Mitch never heard his father raise his voice other than the few times that he or Steven had done something really bad—like the time Steven almost burned the house down or the time Mitch got the ladder out of the garage and got up on the roof with Steven. Mitch jumped and landed in a pile of leaves and Steven, who was only a year and a half younger but considerably smaller, didn’t quite make it. Little Stevey, as he was known by the entire neighborhood, landed instead on the sidewalk and ended up in the emergency room with two broken legs.

Mitch actually got slapped upside the head and spanked for that one. It was the only time he ever remembered his dad laying a hand on him, and even all these years later he still felt like shit about it. Not because his dad had hit him, but because he’d let his father down. Steven was the miracle baby. Born five weeks early, he’d spent the first three months of his life in the hospital, clinging to life. Mentally, Rapp’s kid brother was a phenom, but on the athletic fields of their youth, Steven was a runt. He was extremely small for his age, and to draw further attention to himself, he was topped with a shock of blond, almost white hair. He and Mitch could not have looked more different. Where Mitch had black hair and olive skin, Steven had light hair and fair skin that would turn pink inside fifteen minutes if a liberal coating of sunscreen wasn’t applied. Mitch spent summers in swim trunks or shorts, and Steven spent them covered with light-colored clothes or in the shade. Mitch took after his dad and Steven took after their blond-haired, blue-eyed mother.

Rapp looked over at the baseball diamond and remembered how Steven used to bellow out the pitch count, number of outs, and runs after every pitch. For a little kid he had an unusually deep voice, and he used it to great effect. Even back then the little genius had a thing for numbers. Because nobody wanted him on their team, he was designated permanent catcher and scorekeeper. In addition to his ability to never lose track of the score, he was also perfect for the job because he was incapable of telling a lie. There was no favoritism when he was behind the plate.

It was also decided at Mitch’s urging that Stevey didn’t need to tag the runner. All he had to do was catch the ball and touch the plate. This way there would be no collisions with kids twice his little brother’s size. Everything had gone fine that summer until Bert Duser, the fat neighborhood bully, decided to steamroll the minute and neutral catcher. Mitch had caught a fly ball on the run in shallow center field and one-hopped it on a line to home plate. Duser was on third and tried to tag. In direct relation to his size Duser was very slow. Knowing he was out with a good ten feet to go Duser brought up his elbows and nailed little Stevey. Rapp remembered his little brother’s black athletic glasses flying up in the air and the tiny white-haired catcher going ass over teakettle into the backstop.

What happened next became the stuff of neighborhood legend. Mitch was ten, Duser was twelve. Duser was half a head taller and at least twenty pounds heavier, and no one ever challenged him, but on this sunny summer day none of that mattered. After his father’s death, Mitch took his oath to protect his little brother very seriously. Overcome with rage, he broke into a full sprint. Somewhere between second base and home plate he threw his glove to the ground. He didn’t remember this, but it was recounted to him in great detail later. He also didn’t remember screaming like an Indian on the warpath, but that’s what his friends told him. He did remember leaving his feet and hitting Duser like a human missile. After that there was a flurry of punches thrown, all by Mitch, and then there was a lot of blood, all of it Duser’s.

It ended with Duser running home in tears, and Mitch getting grounded when Mrs. Duser showed up on their doorstep with her bloodied son. Mitch didn’t argue with his mother much, but he remembered saying some pretty mean things that day—most of it having to do with how his dad would have handled Mrs. Duser if he’d still been around. Not Mom, though, she was a Jesus-loving, turn-the-other-cheek Lutheran. Dad, on the other hand, had been an eye-for-an-eye Godfearing Catholic. Mom was New Testament, and Dad was Old Testament. Mitch was decidedly more in his father’s camp than his mother’s, and rather than suffer an unjust punishment he ran away from home. The next morning a Fairfax County deputy found him sleeping in Turkey Run Park and brought him home. When he saw what he’d put his mother through, he was sufficiently shamed to stay put until he graduated from high school.

Rapp shook his head. That day had been the start of it all—his first fight, and the first time he ever truly challenged authority. He wondered briefly if Duser turned out all right, or if he was still a prick. Rapp looked over at the practice fields, where he’d learned to play football and lacrosse, and where he’d first laid eyes on Maureen “the Dream” Eliot. He fell for her hard, and she ended up being the real reason why he decided to take a lacrosse scholarship at Syracuse rather than the one offered by the University of North Carolina. Maureen wanted to get into broadcasting, and Syracuse was the best. Looking back on it now, it seemed foolish, but the two of them believed with all their hearts that they would get married one day. Rapp honestly believed they would have, but unfortunately, they never got the chance because on December 21, 1988, Pan Am Flight 103 was blown from the sky on its way back to America with 259 passengers on board. Maureen had been one of thirty-five Syracuse students returning from a semester abroad. What Rapp didn’t know at the time was just how deeply that terrorist act would change his life.

Maybe it had changed before that, when he was fifteen and he saw Maureen for the first time, maybe it had changed when he felt the undeniable satisfaction of pounding the crap out of a bully. It was strange standing here looking back on his youth and the decisions he’d made at such a young age—decisions that eventually led him to where he was today. It made him wonder how things would have been if he’d never met Maureen and fallen in love with her. In the wake of the catastrophe he’d asked God a thousand times, “Why couldn’t she have missed that plane?” He’d analyzed all of the choices she’d made. If only she’d stayed at Syracuse instead of spending a semester overseas. If only they’d gone somewhere else to school. He’d done the same things people always do when they are visited with such unexpected tragedy. He asked why, and wondered endlessly how things could have been different.

It wasn’t until almost a year after the tragedy that he was approached by someone who got him to look at the disaster in an entirely different way. A woman from Washington came to visit him and after a lengthy discussion she had asked him, “What if someone could have prevented the attack in the first place?” That was the first carrot that had been dangled in front of him. The first trip was followed by a second, where an even more enticing question had been asked. “How would you like to track down the people who did this and kill them?” Rapp had the talent and the drive, and the CIA wanted him.

Only twenty-one at the time, and awash in a sea of self-pity and despair, he found the idea of retribution powerful. Desperate people need a cause, and this was a cause that spoke to him. The week after graduation he threw himself into the dark world of counterterrorism and clandestine operations. The CIA did not run him through their standard training program at The Farm, outside Williamsburg, VA. They had other plans for Rapp. For a year straight he was shuttled from one location to the next, sometimes spending a week, sometimes a month. The bulk of the training was handled by Special Forces instructors who taught him how to shoot, stab, blow things up, and yes, kill with his bare hands. Endurance was stressed. There were long swims and even longer runs. He’d always been in good shape, but these sadists had turned him into a machine. Between all of the heavy lifting, they worked on his foreign language skills. He had been an international business major at Syracuse and had minored in French. Within a month at the CIA he was fluent, and then it was on to Arabic and Farsi.

They taught him how to operate independently, how to blend into foreign environments, and how to cross international borders without being noticed. But most importantly they taught him how to kill. Rapp remembered a conversation he’d had with one of his Special Forces instructors. The man’s name was Mike. Mitch had asked him one time if he’d ever killed a man. Mike grinned and asked him, “What do you think?”

The question had come up while they were having beers at a dive near Fort Bragg. Mike had spent the entire day teaching Rapp how to kill people with everything from a pen to a stick to a knife. Mike had more intimate knowledge of the human anatomy than most doctors, and he knew the body’s weakest points. The last move they’d worked on involved grabbing a man from behind and shoving the knife up through the base of the skull at the point where the spinal column connects to the brain. As with everything Rapp did, Mike insisted he master the move with both hands. This particular move was punctuated with a quick twist of the wrist once the knife was all the way in. Mike informed Rapp that most people referred to this move as scrambling the brain, but he called it pulling the plug. He then described in great detail what the victim would be experiencing at this point. Yes, Mike had most definitely killed men before.

Rapp asked Mike if it ever bothered him. If he ever regretted the killing. Mike looked into his beer for a long time and then said, “Listen, we’re all wired differently. Some people aren’t cut out for this, but I was born for it, and I can tell you were too. Maybe we were warriors in a previous life. … I don’t know, but there’s a general rule out there. Don’t kill kids and don’t kill women and you’ll be fine. Kill a man who wants to kill you, and it’s the most healthy primal feeling you’ll ever experience.”

Rapp asked him, “If you could do it over again would you choose a different line of work?”

Mike laughed and said, “Hell no. This is the best damn job in the world. Your government gives you the consent to go out and kill terrorists. For guys like us, it doesn’t get any better than that.”