Consent to Kill (51 page)

Rashid scoffed at the idea. “You don’t find it at all coincidental that Saeed paid twenty million dollars to have Mitch Rapp killed? The killers miss him and end up killing his wife, and now Saeed is dead. You don’t find that odd?”

“Of course I do, but with all respect, Prince Muhammad, men like Rapp don’t blow themselves up.”

Rashid thought about that for a second. He had a point, but things had changed. “His wife was killed. Who knows what he is capable of now?”

Before Tayyib could respond his phone rang. Tayyib froze. The prince hated phones, and had a steadfast rule that when in his presence they were to be turned off. He struggled to get it out of his pocket and silence the ringer. His large hands fumbled with the tiny buttons. The screen told him it was his office. Tayyib hesitated. The call could be important. He looked at Rashid, held up the phone and said, “I’m sorry. This is my number two. He might have more information about the explosion.”

Rashid nodded reluctantly.

Tayyib answered the phone and listened intently. After about thirty seconds he said, “Are you sure?” He listened to the man for a little bit longer and said, “Call me if you learn anything more.” Tayyib shut the phone and exhaled.

“What?” Rashid asked impatiently.

“Several of Saeed’s sons were there. They had accompanied him to prayer and they were walking back to the office together when it happened. After they’d overcome the initial shock of the bombing they began cursing the body of the suicide bomber. They were spitting on it and kicking it when one of them suddenly realized he recognized the bomber.”

“Who was it?”

“It was their brother Waheed.”

“Waheed?” Rashid said in utter disbelief. “That cannot be. He is dead.”

“He is now,” Tayyib said, not trying to be funny.

“Rapp killed him six months ago,” the prince insisted.

“Apparently not.” Tayyib folded his arms and thinking aloud said, “The body was never returned.”

“Why would Waheed kill his own father?”

“He may not have.” Tayyib knew something the prince didn’t.

“You just said he did,” Rashid snapped.

“He may not have known what was happening. There is a security tape. It shows Waheed being led by another man. The two stop in front of the office building and wait there for several minutes. Then as Saeed starts to cross the street from the mosque to go back to the office the man leaves Waheed’s side and walks away. He looks over his shoulder once and then looks down at something in his hand. We think it was a remote of some sort. A second before the explosion the man raises his hand to the camera like this.” Tayyib held up his middle finger and made the gesture toward the wall, away from Rashid. “Then there is an explosion, and Saeed is blown in half.”

“Can they tell who the man on the tape is?”

“They are going to try, but it will be difficult. The man was wearing a kaffiyeh and sunglasses.”

Rashid looked back out the window, his mind running down the list of possibilities. “That gesture is very American.”

Tayyib nodded. “The Americans and the French.”

“What is your assessment now?” the prince asked.

“Six months ago, Mitch Rapp captured Waheed Ahmed Abdullah in a mountain village on the Pakistani-Afghan border. Shortly after that the U.S. government informed us that Waheed was dead. Now Waheed shows up back from the dead and ends up blowing his own father to pieces.” Tayyib shook his head.

“Who was the man in the surveillance video?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it.”

Rashid scoffed. “You know who it was.”

Tayyib nodded. “It was more than likely Mitch Rapp. I don’t know how he did it, but it was probably him.”

“You must find Abel,” Rashid said in a slow, methodical voice. “I don’t know how the Americans know that Saeed was behind this, but my guess is that Saeed was too talkative about his role in the matter.”

“I warned you about that.”

“I know you did and I talked to him, but he did not listen. There is only one way we can be linked to this.”

“Abel,” answered Tayyib.

The prince nodded. “You must find him and kill him.”

“I will see to it myself.”

“Good. I am leaving for Spain tomorrow morning. The dedication of the mosque is on Friday. This is very important to me. Find Abel before then, interrogate him to find out if he has talked to anyone, and then kill him.”

“What about Rapp? If he is in Saudi Arabia you might not be safe.”

Rashid pursed his lips and looked out across the flat rooftops. “Maybe I will leave for Spain tonight.”

“I think that is a good idea. I will make arrangements to have your security detail strengthened.”

“Good.” Rashid had an idea. “In the meantime, I will call America and see if I can make things more difficult for Mr. Rapp.”

L
IDO
, I
TALY

A
bel never got on the cruise ship. In the end he stood there on the pier and looked at all of the plus-size people being led onto the ship like cattle being led away to slaughter and balked. He was a man of great wealth now, and he reasoned that hiding at a five-star hotel would be every bit as effective as trying to blend in on a cruise ship. So he turned around and went right back to where he’d come from. Well, not exactly. Instead of returning to Venice proper he took a ferry to Lido, the skinny eight-mile-long island that runs south of Venice and forms a barrier between it and the sea. Abel thought if anyone was lucky enough to follow him to Venice, the last place they would look would be out on one of the outer islands. So he booked a suite at the sumptuous Hotel des Bains.

Saturday and Sunday were spent strolling up and down the beautiful sandy beaches of the island, enjoying the unseasonably warm October weather and trying to figure out where he would buy his villa. He was back to that now. Rapp was alive, the assassins had failed, Rashid was trying to track him down, and his future was clear. He would have to divest of everything he owned, and start over with a new name and identity. He’d done basically just that when he’d immigrated to Austria twelve years ago. He’d kept his name, but nothing else, and he had done it with limited resources. This time he had eleven million dollars plus, he estimated, another million or so once he sold the two apartments and a few other things.

He had decided to keep Saeed’s money. The assassins had yet to send their six million back, and in a way they’d made Abel’s decision for him. He had no way of tracking them down quickly enough, and he wondered how wise it would be to even try to find them. They knew far more about him than he did about them, and the man had warned him that he would kill him if he tried to discover their true identities. Abel never again wanted to feel that man’s hot breath on his neck. He would let them be. Let them keep the six million, and since Saeed was no longer honoring their original agreement by asking for the entire twenty-two million back, Abel felt no need to honor any aspect of the deal either. It was every man for himself.

The other deciding factor had been his worsening relationship with Rashid. Things always ended badly with men like Rashid. The key was knowing when to get out. Abel had felt for some time that he was disposable in the prince’s eyes. Now that this thing with Rapp had ended in failure, he had no doubt that Rashid had ordered his henchman Tayyib to find him and kill him. Giving Saeed his money back would change none of that, so it was with complete confidence that he had decided to keep the money and start a new life.

The apartments he didn’t care about, but the Alpine house would be difficult to part with. Maybe he could keep it and see how things went. He had used a lawyer and a front company to purchase it. He’d always envisioned it as a place that he could hang on to if things got bad. Over the years, however, he’d brought people like Petrov there, and for that reason alone he could not totally rely on it as a safe haven. For now, though, he would keep it.

It was a big world with lots of nice places, but Abel preferred Europe. Especially the areas around Switzerland: northern Italy, southern Germany, Austria, and France. On the other hand, South America was probably the logical choice. Largely untouched by terrorism, they still had not modernized their customs and immigrations agencies enough to make it difficult to obtain entry with fake passports. The major cities, though, the ones like Rio and Sao Paolo, places where a European could disappear, were filled with some of the worst poverty he’d ever seen. Poverty was something that irritated Abel. He didn’t like crowds, and he yearned for order. The complete lack of self-control displayed by the masses, the way they lived on top of each other in the most unseemly conditions and spat out child after child like rats in a sewer, disgusted him. South America might be the smartest choice, but Abel wasn’t quite ready to surrender so easily. There had to be a better way.

Monday morning arrived with Abel desperately searching for a way to stay in Europe. The warm weekend weather gave way to a cool front coming in off the Adriatic and Abel found himself practically the only man on the beach. He took a long walk all the way to the southern tip of the Lido, which from his hotel was about four miles. The idea of changing his identity had grown on him. It was time—time to start a new chapter in his life. Paris, Milan, and Zurich had some of the world’s best plastic surgeons. He wouldn’t do anything drastic. Maybe a chin tuck, a new nose, and one of those new micro face lifts. Nothing too drastic. Just enough to make him look younger. The rest he could accomplish with a new wardrobe. For the last twelve years he’d cultivated a European aristocratic look. Maybe the metro chic look would suit him better? The younger women appeared to be more drawn to that.

Abel made it back to the des Bains a little after 1:00 in the afternoon and took lunch in the garden. He ordered a light salad and a cup of bean soup. He’d been eating rich foods for five days now and decided he’d better get back to his old ways or he would have to portray a fat man in the next life. He knew a good forger, a man who used to work for the Stasi. He was in his seventies now, but had kept up with the technology of his trade. The man had moved to Vienna and set up shop. As he finished his soup, Abel decided he would have the plastic surgery, convalesce for a month until the swelling went down, and then go see the forger. He would be a new man, and if he was careful enough in building his history, he might be able to stay right in Europe. Maybe the South of France or Monaco. He could hide right in plain sight with all of the other jet-setters.

Abel wiped the corners of his mouth and sighed. He had time and he had money. The world was a big place. Surely he could disappear. The waiter took away the finished dishes and asked if he’d like anything else. Abel ordered a cappuccino and then decided to check on his finances.

He turned on his PDA, and held it in front of his face cupped in both hands, his thumbs working the small keys. He logged onto the Internet and then pulled up a list of sites that he commonly visited. All of his banks were near the top. Abel scrolled down to the first bank and clicked on it. Five seconds later he was entering his account number and lengthy password. Five seconds after that he was staring at his balance.

Abel blinked several times. It was impossible. His heart started to race. There had to be a mistake. Abel logged off the Internet and was about to call the bank directly when he thought better of it. He logged back on and checked another account. He gripped the small plastic device and willed it to connect faster. When the second account appeared on the screen, he stood up so quickly his wrought-iron chair fell over and landed loudly on the stone patio. Abel ignored the waiter, who had come to see if everything was all right. He rushed into the hotel, cursing under his breath, the veins on his forehead bulging. His thumbs worked furiously to verify this horrible news. He pulled up the third account and then the fourth. By the time he reached his suite there was no denying it. All five accounts had been emptied. His balance was zero in each one. Just like that, eleven million dollars was gone.

Abel paced back and forth across the wood floor of his twelve-hundred-dollar-a-night suite. He screamed once at the top of his lungs, for just a few seconds, and then he got control of himself. He had to think this through. There had to be a mistake or a way to fix it. He knew all of these bankers personally. What had happened was impossible, but then again it wasn’t. Saeed was worth billions. His pull at these banks could be immense. The Swiss were cautious and Abel knew of situations where they had placed money in escrow accounts until the two parties could sort out their differences.

Abel was as mad as he’d ever been. He’d had it all planned out and he was damned if he was going to let some amateur like Saeed get the best of him. In the end Abel had the leverage, not Saeed and not Rashid. He was nobody. A professional intelligence operative who could disappear. They could not.

Abel opened the room’s safe and turned on his encrypted satellite phone. As soon as he had a signal he dialed the number for Rashid’s office in Riyadh. When the man answered on the other end, Abel identified himself and said that he would wait exactly ten seconds for him to put the prince on the phone. Any longer than that and he would hang up. Abel knew Rashid was looking for him and guessed correctly that the call would be put through in a speedy manner.

He was on nine when the prince answered.

“My friend, where have you been? We have much to talk about.”

“You’re damn right we do.” Abel had never spoken to Rashid in such a manner. “Tell Saeed that he has until the close of business today to put that money back in my account or I will make sure Mitch Rapp finds out he was the one who took out the bounty on him.”

“I think you’re a bit late,” Rashid said in a no-nonsense tone.

Abel detected no false bravado. “What do you mean?”

“Saeed was just killed in an explosion.”

“When?”

“An hour ago.”

“Where?”

“In front of his office.”

“By who?”

“Who do you think?”

“I don’t know,” growled an angry Abel.

“Mitch Rapp.”

Abel stopped pacing. “How? That’s impossible.”

“Apparently not.”

Abel could feel a monstrous headache coming on. He started pacing again, looking at the floor as he went from one end of the room to the other. “I want my money back,” he blurted out.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The eleven million dollars Saeed paid me to have Rapp killed.”

“Rapp is still alive.”

“I don’t care. The deal was I keep the deposit whether he was killed or not. I want my money back.”

“Come to Riyadh and we will talk about this.”

“Rashid, don’t be a fool. I will never set foot in your country again.” Abel had never spoken to him in such a discourteous manner. It was always prince this or prince that.

“Then come to Spain. I am leaving for Granada tonight. We can discuss your money and figure out how we will deal with Rapp.”

“No,” Abel said firmly. “You will pay me eleven million dollars by five o’clock Zurich time today, or I will tell Rapp this was all your idea.”

There was a long silence and then Rashid said, “Don’t be foolish. Two can play that game. If you do that you will be signing your death warrant.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I am nobody. A single individual who can disappear. You are the powerful and wealthy Prince Muhammad bin Rashid.” Abel spoke the name with disdain. “Rapp will have a hard time finding me. You, on the other hand, will be easy to find.”

“Erich, think about what you are doing. You do not want me as an enemy.”

“And you don’t want to end up like your friend Saeed, so you’d better give me the eleven million dollars by five or I promise you, Rapp is going to find out that you orchestrated this whole thing. I’ll send your assistant wiring instructions for the money.”

“Give me until five tomorrow. I am wealthy but not in the way Saeed was. I need time.”

“Noon tomorrow! That is all you have.”

Abel hit the end button on the phone and threw it on the bed. He clasped his hands behind his neck, took several more laps around the room, and then grabbed his suitcase. He had to get moving. He needed cash, but he couldn’t trust the banks. That meant he had to get to the Alpine house. He had close to $100,000 in the safe. It would be enough to get the surgery done and buy a new set of identification. Hopefully Rashid would see the light and give him the money. He did not want to spend the rest of his years looking over his shoulder for Mitch Rapp.