Consent to Kill (38 page)

Rashid had planned on bringing this up for two reasons. The first was that he wanted to see if he could discover more details, and the second was to deflect any suspicion from himself by making it seem that he cared about Rapp’s demise. After Rashid had delivered his condolences, he noticed that Ross’s demeanor had changed. In fact, he face looked as if he had bitten into a ripe grapefruit. Sensing something was amiss, Rashid asked, “What is wrong?”

Ross was hesitant to reply at first. He took another bite of his salmon and then slowly wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He looked at Rashid, tossed the napkin down on the table, and said, “I might as well tell you. You’ll know soon enough. Mitch Rapp is not dead.”

R
ashid remained surprisingly calm. His eyes narrowed slightly, but other than that, he showed no outward signs of his inner distress. He stared stone-faced across the table at Mark Ross and asked, “What are you saying?”

“He’s not dead. His wife was killed in the explosion, but he survived.”

“But the papers and the TV,” Rashid said with a disbelieving look on his face, “both yesterday and today have reported him dead.”

“And they are wrong.” Ross leaned in and pointed emphatically toward the window. “He’s at a CIA safe house not far from here right now. He was severely injured but he is very much alive.”

“Why hasn’t your government corrected the press?”

“It’s a complicated thing, Prince Muhammad.” Ross sat back and let out a deep breath. “Let’s just say there are a few people who think the explosion was not an accident.”

“Someone tried to kill him?”

“It looks that way,” Ross said without much enthusiasm.

“You do not sound convinced.”

Ross rolled his eyes. “The man has a lot of enemies. It’s not hard to imagine someone trying to kill him.”

Rashid was shocked that Rapp was still alive and also that Ross seemed distressed by his survival. He decided to take a gamble. “Mark, you are worried by this Mitch Rapp business.”

“Absolutely.”

“May I ask why?”

Ross thought it over briefly. He was here to build a relationship and that wouldn’t happen unless he opened up. “Mitch Rapp is a very dangerous man. Under the best of circumstances he is extremely difficult to manage. Now, I’m afraid he will be impossible.”

“You think he will want revenge against whoever killed his wife.”

Ross nodded. “I can’t say I blame him, but we can’t have him running around executing people. It would look very bad for the United States.”

Rashid nodded his agreement. “Is there any evidence?”

“There is one small bit of intel that points to one of your countrymen.” Ross arched his right brow. “But the evidence is so thin I can’t even remember his name.”

Rashid was trying desperately to stay calm. “What did this man do?”

“Apparently he placed a bounty on Rapp’s head. I doubt he’s the first person to do that.”

“Bounty,” Rashid repeated the word. “Was it a bounty or a fatwa?” Rashid knew several Islamic clerics who had laid down fatwas demanding Rapp’s death. He had no idea if Ross understood the difference.

“A bounty. The man is very wealthy.”

Rashid’s stomach tightened. “Why would a wealthy Saudi want Mitch Rapp killed?”

“Apparently Rapp killed his son last spring in Afghanistan during a counterterrorism operation.”

The entire room went out of focus for a second. Rashid regained his composure a moment later and told Ross, “Get me the person’s name and I will see what I can find out.” Rashid did not need the man’s name because he already knew it, but appearances must be kept up. “It is not good for anyone to have these loose cannons causing us such problems.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Rashid set his napkin down and pushed his chair back. He stood and Ross followed suit. The two men walked along the opposite end of the table and met by the door. Rashid reached out and touched Ross’s elbow. “This killing must stop. It is very bad for our two countries.”

“I agree.”

“I promise you, I will get to the bottom of this. If any Saudi had a hand in this, they will be punished.” Rashid stopped and faced the director of National Intelligence. “I warn you, though, that Mitch Rapp must not meddle in the affairs of Saudi Arabia.”

“I understand this and have already spoken to the president.”

“Good.”

The two men continued into the large entrance hall where Ross’s people were waiting. Rashid turned to Ross and said, “We have many beautiful horses for you to choose from. If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes I must freshen up and then I will join you in the paddock.”

The prince’s personal assistant came forward and gestured for the group to follow. When they were gone, Rashid walked quickly to the library. His calm, austere façade had vanished. His perfect morning had turned disastrous in a matter of minutes. Mitch Rapp would no sooner stay out of Saudi Arabia’s business than the sun would fail to set. His wife was dead and he was alive. Things could not have gone any worse. Rashid sprang through the library doors and slammed them shut behind him. Tayyib was pacing behind the desk, his arms folded and his chin down. A set of headphones lay on the desk next to an open briefcase. The curtains at both ends of the room were drawn.

“Did you hear everything?” Rashid asked.

“Yes.”

“Is it possible it is a trap? To see if I had a hand in this?”

“Possible, yes, but doubtful.”

“What course do you advise?”

“The German must die immediately.”

“Make it so.”

“And I regret to suggest that Saeed Ahmed Abdullah should meet an untimely end.”

This was Rashid’s oldest, closest friend. A devout Wahhabi and a good man. He could never abandon him. “No. You heard Ross. What evidence they have is thin. If the Americans want to persecute every man who has wished Mitch Rapp dead, they will have a list numbering in the millions.”

“But they just happen to be right in this case.”

“I will return to the Kingdom tonight and take care of Saeed. He will be fine. The Americans will never be able to prove a thing.”

“Mitch Rapp will not need proof,” Tayyib said in an ominous voice. “He will start killing and torturing until he finds out who was behind this.”

“Ross said the president has ordered him to stay out of this.”

“Rapp has never been one to follow orders. With his wife dead, the Americans have no hope of controlling him.”

“Then he must die,” Rashid snapped.

Tayyib nodded. “I know of two CIA safe houses in Virginia. One is very close. I helped interrogate several prisoners there after 9/11. They are fortified facilities but not heavily guarded.”

“I want him dead,” snarled Rashid.

Tayyib thought about this for a moment and then said, “It will cost a lot of money and it will be very messy.”

“I don’t care. Just so long as Rapp is killed and none of it is linked to us.”

“I will take care of it.”

V
ENICE
, I
TALY

T
he news of Rapp’s resurrection was for the most part lost on the general public. It appeared at first on news crawls—those obnoxious streams of words that flowed across the bottom of the twenty-four-hour cable news channels. Intelligence agencies weren’t proud of it, but they got a lot of their information from cable news, and the people whose job it was to monitor these channels stood up and took note that Mitch Rapp was alive. Phone lines burned, and e-mails flew back and forth between secretive buildings and across borders. The international espionage community was a loose affiliation of spies, analysts, and operatives who were bound by the unique nature of their careers. The mission of each organization was to collect and disseminate information, and not just within their own government, but to allies as well. Rapp was an icon in their world, admired by friend and foe alike. He was a man who had worked in the field and come up through the ranks—something they could all respect.

The news that he had been killed had been met with mixed reaction. Some thought his demise inevitable—no man could so aggressively wage a war against religious fanatics and remain unscathed. Those few who were ideologically opposed to Rapp’s stance and methods applauded his death, but most were saddened by the news. He was one of them, and his death was a reminder of how dangerous their jobs were. There was another element to the story, though, that gnawed at a great number of them. Rapp’s wife had been caught in the crossfire, and there was an unwritten rule in their line of work that families were off limits. Whoever had gone after Rapp had gone too far, so when news broke that Rapp was still alive, the vast majority of these men and women were secretly, and some not so secretly, hoping that Rapp would make the killers pay.

As a former Stasi officer and current freelancer Erich Abel was still connected to the fraternity, and it was safe to say that he was more surprised than anyone to hear that Rapp was alive. His day had started well enough. He’d gone for another long walk, this time through the Castello neighborhood of Venice, stopping in the Campo Santa Maria Formosa for breakfast and then continuing on his meandering walk through the narrow streets and alleys. He found two small galleries that showed promise. They were far enough off the main path that he knew he could negotiate a reasonable price for individual pieces. Abel was already spending his money. He would buy a small villa in the South of France and keep his place in Zurich. The place in Vienna, he decided, would be put on the market and his office closed. There were too many Saudis in Vienna, and it was time to sever that relationship. It had been profitable, but he no longer trusted Rashid. The man was on a jihad and everybody was expendable except himself.

He’d decided all of this before he’d been blindsided by the news that Rapp was still alive. Abel had been on his way back to his hotel after a late afternoon tour of more art galleries when he turned on his phone to check messages. For reasons of security and serenity, he’d been leaving the phone off but turning it on only a few times a day. He instantly knew something was wrong when the screen on the phone told him he had eleven new voice-mail messages and sixteen new e-mails. The first four were from his secretary in Vienna reciting a list of people who were trying to get ahold of him—almost all of them Saudis. The fifth message was from Saeed Ahmed Abdullah, and it was not pretty. In his thickly accented English he demanded that the job be finished or all twenty-two million dollars be refunded. Apparently the man did not remember the part where Abel had told him half of the money was a nonrefundable deposit. The sixth call was from Prince Muhammad bin Rashid’s personal assistant and then after that it was a jumble of people. The e-mails were pretty much the same. By the time Abel reached his penthouse he’d come to the reluctant conclusion that Mitch Rapp was in fact alive. How they had missed him, Abel didn’t know, nor did he care. The reality was the man was breathing and Abel’s entire world was in shambles.

Abdullah, in one of his messages, proclaimed that the job must be finished. Abel considered the feasibility of this only briefly. Going after Rapp when he didn’t expect it was one thing, but now that he was alert it was out of the question. Even before this disastrous news, Abel had felt he could no longer trust Prince Rashid. That was why he was in Venice, staying in a five-star hotel under an assumed name and paying for everything in cash. Now that the job had been botched, Rashid would want him silenced. Abel began packing his suitcase and pondering how quickly the Saudis could move on him. Their intelligence services were good within the Kingdom but they were anemic abroad. Rashid would have to hire someone like Abel, which would take time.

Abel closed the suitcase and zipped it shut. He walked over to the large window in time to see another cruise ship passing through the Canale di San Marco. Row after row of faceless people lined the starboard decks snapping photos, waving, and watching. The ship was massive. Abel considered how easy it would be to disappear on one of those ships. He would be lost in the myriad of tourists from around the world. A divorced man looking to take his mind off a disastrous marriage. He’d used it as cover before and in fact he was using it right now. That was the excuse he’d used to pay for the room in cash and use an alias. Abel had explained to the manager that he was going through a messy divorce and had decided to tour Europe in style rather than give the wretched woman a penny. Her lawyers, though, were right on his heels and if he had any hope of holding them off he needed to be discreet.

Abel stared at his phone for a minute and then turned it on. He dialed his personal assistant’s mobile number and waited for her to answer. After the eighth ring he got her voice mail. “Greta, it’s Erich. Remember that thing we talked about? Well, I’ve decided to take a sabbatical. If you need to get ahold of me, you know how to reach me. Good-bye.”
Sabbatical
was a prearranged code word that was a warning to Greta. She was supposed to stay away from the office until he told her it was safe to go back to work. In the meantime she would be paid for six months of work. After that she should assume something had happened to him and look for other employment.

He checked his e-mail quickly and then decided to send a message. He pulled up the address for the assassins and began typing. It read:
You failed. Finish the job, or return the money.
He didn’t bother attaching a name.

Abel scratched out a quick note and stuffed it in an envelope along with a thousand euros. He grabbed his bag and wheeled it to the elevator. When he reached the front desk, he asked to see the manager. A moment later Nico appeared from the back office and stepped out from behind the counter. He took one look at the suitcase and held his hands out in surprise.

“You are leaving us so soon?”

Abel adjusted his glasses and said in a low voice, “I’m afraid the lawyers are hot on my trail.” He handed the envelope to the manager and said, “I may try to make my way back in a few weeks. I left a number along with a generous tip for your judiciousness.”

The man clutched the envelope to his chest. “You are too kind.”

Abel leaned in a bit closer and said, “Call me if anyone comes looking for me.”

The manager winked. “I will.”

Abel wheeled the medium-size black suitcase out the front door and turned left to catch a water taxi. A valet from the hotel was there to assist him and Abel tipped him generously.

“Marco Polo Airport,” Abel said in a voice that was loud enough for both the driver and the valet to hear. The German sat on one of the long white vinyl seats and began mulling over his options. He would go to the airport, but he would not be getting on a plane. He would go to the terminal and then take a cab to the port where he would book passage on one of the floating buffets. And then he would try to fit in among the large people.