The Survivor (14 page)

Perfect.

N
EAR
L
AKE
C
ONSTANCE

S
WITZERLAND

T
HE
screen on the van’s dashboard had been built to look like a normal GPS but was in fact something far more sophisticated. Mitch Rapp watched the video feed being beamed to the screen from a drone controlled by Marcus Dumond.

Most of the image consisted of steeply rolling, heavily forested terrain. The empty rural highway they were driving along cut across the left edge, running north to south. Five miles to the east, he could see the winding road that dead-ended into Leo Obrecht’s mansion, also devoid of traffic. It was Wednesday morning, and this area was primarily a weekend retreat for Switzerland’s wealthy set.

“We’re coming up on the drop site,” the driver said. “Three minutes.”

Rapp didn’t know much about Maria Glauser other than she spoke German with the appropriate Swiss accent and knew the area like the back of her hand. Nash had worked with her in the past and said she was one of the most exacting people he’d ever met. It was a quality Rapp demanded in anyone supporting his ops. So far, she hadn’t disappointed.

The activity in the rear of the van intensified, but Rapp didn’t look back.
Instead he began stripping off his sweatpants and jacket, revealing camouflage fatigues beneath. Nothing about this operation was ideal and the fact that they had to set out in broad daylight to coincide with Hurley’s appointment was just one of a long list of problems.

There had been a fair amount of debate as to whether to go in posing as hikers but he’d finally decided against it. There were no trails in the area, making the tried-and-true lost-backpacker cover a little far-fetched. And while Rapp’s beard and shaggy hair made him a little hard to pin down, Coleman and his men looked exactly like the elite soldiers they were.

“The bridge is just ahead,” Glauser said.

“We’re a go,” Rapp said loud enough for the men in back to hear. “The video feed looks clear. No cars in sight.”

They crossed over a slow-moving stream about five yards wide and Glauser eased onto the shoulder.

“I’ll have vehicles at the designated extraction points,” she said, keeping her eye on the side-view mirror. “But we’re not going to bring them in until the last minute. It could attract attention.”

“Just make sure they’re there,” Rapp said, throwing open the passenger door as his team piled out of the back. “We’ll be moving fast and there could be people behind us.”

“They’ll be here. I guarantee it.”

Rapp and his team were already running down the steep stream bank toward the water when she pulled away. The grass had grown to almost the height of a man beneath the bridge, and Rapp sank a good six inches into the mud as he pushed through. The backpacks were -exactly where Glauser said they’d be, each subtly marked to identify their owners: Rapp, Gould, Coleman, and Joe Maslick.

They started east, taking advantage of the sparser foliage near the water to keep their pace up. The team split at a fork in the stream twenty minutes in, Maslick taking the south branch, which would lead him to a position above the entrance to Obrecht’s escape tunnel. With his injured shoulder, he was a potential liability in a running fight. Dug in with a rifle on a tripod, he’d be close to one hundred percent effective.

The rest of them took the north fork, heading for the high point west of Obrecht’s mansion. There they’d rendezvous with Charlie Wicker and Bruno McGraw, who had been reconning the area.

Eventually, they were forced to abandon the streambed and start up the knoll. The angle of the terrain and the dense foliage slowed their progress to a seventeen-minute-mile pace. It felt painfully slow but it was roughly what Rapp had planned for.

They kept to the west, putting the bulk of the knoll between them and Obrecht’s property. Wick hadn’t found any surveillance equipment or sensors, so they didn’t have to worry about staying completely silent.

“Closing in on your position,” Rapp said into his throat mike as they crested the ridge.

“Come on,” Wicker responded.

They slowed, organizing into a single line with twenty-five-foot intervals. Gould had been solid on the climb and fell into second position, with Coleman keeping a close eye on him from behind. Rapp was pretty sure Gould was a few cards short of a full deck, but even he wasn’t crazy enough to make a move with that kind of firepower on his six.

The slope started to descend slightly, and Rapp raised a fist before coming to a stop. Something felt wrong but he couldn’t put his finger on it. What little wind there was beneath the clear sky didn’t have enough force to penetrate the forest. The gurgle of water had been left far behind and they hadn’t seen any sign of the deer that were indigenous to the area. Nothing but silence and the scent of pine. What was it?

His question was answered a moment later.

“On your eleven o’clock, Mitch.” Wicker’s voice over his earpiece. “Don’t shoot.”

A bush covered in wildflowers rustled about twenty yards away and then blended back into the landscape. Rapp started forward again, covering the first thirty feet to Wicker’s position in a crouch. When the roof of Obrecht’s mansion came into view through the trees, Rapp dropped and slithered the rest of the way on his stomach.

Even
less than an arm’s length from Wicker, the sniper was nearly invisible. He had created a tube from woven sticks and covered it in live plants before sliding in. All Rapp could see was part of his rifle’s silencer and the vague outline of the Unertl scope the man favored. At five foot six and barely 140 pounds, Charlie Wicker wasn’t what most people would picture when they thought of SEAL Team Six. In a fight, though, Rapp considered him one of the deadliest men alive.

“What have we got, Wick?”

“Not much has changed. Twelve guards, each with a sidearm and an assault rifle. No vehicles in or out. A delivery truck comes every few days but they don’t let it inside. Supplies are passed through the small gate to the south. That’s where the servants come in and out, too, but not very often. Most seem to be living on premises.”

“Any pattern?”

“Nope.”

The Swiss banker had clearly gone to ground. He was expecting the CIA to make a play, and if he couldn’t stop it, he was going to make sure things got bloody.

Rapp pulled out a small spotting scope and scanned the property. Gould was right. The knoll they were on had an excellent line of sight. The main gate was in full view and they were high enough to be able to take in a significant portion of the courtyard. Not that there was much to see. A few fountains, some tasteful landscaping, and a handful of armed men.

“I only see four guards,” Rapp said.

“That’s the minimum. If we can choose our moment, we can probably get six. That still leaves the other half, though.”

Rapp frowned. “The plan is quiet in and quiet out—leave those guys guarding their dicks. But if we do have to start shooting, I can guarantee you we’re not going to be choosing the moment.”

“Then I’d count on having to deal with at least eight serious bad guys.”

“You’ve been down to the tunnel from here?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s clear all the way?”

“Too
much wildlife for sensors or tripwires. They’d be dealing with false alarms all day.”

“Any surprises?”

“You’ve got to be really careful in the last couple hundred meters. That’s where the guys on top of the wall have a view of your position. Because of all the animals, you could brush a bush or two on your way in, but three or four might get you in trouble.”

Rapp nodded and started slithering backward, making sure the building was out of view before standing and returning to the clearing at the apex of the knoll. Coleman had pulled a large piece of netting from his pack and was collecting plants that he’d use to build his own camouflaged position. Gould was crouched next to a tree, blending in with the gnarled trunk. Rapp motioned him over.

“Wick says two hours. Scott, I assume that’s going to be enough time to set up here?”

The former SEAL nodded. “We’ll be locked and loaded well before you get there.”

“All right.” He looked at Gould. “You ready?”

The Frenchman had smeared his face with green paint, making it difficult to read his expression. “Yeah.”

“You’ve been down there before,” Rapp said. “So you lead out.”

In truth, Rapp knew exactly where they were going, having studied both the detailed overhead photos and Dumond’s model. But there was no way he was going to let Gould get behind him without Coleman watching.

The former French Legionnaire moved well. He kept a solid pace down the steep slope, silent and eyes constantly moving. His attentiveness to their surroundings was especially critical because Rapp was focused on the silenced Glock 17 in Gould’s hand. Coleman had suggested loading it with blanks, but Gould wasn’t going to miss something that obvious. Besides, if things went wrong, his skills would
be very much in demand. The hope was that his instinct for self-preservation would keep that weapon aimed in the right direction.

•  •  •

Scott Coleman kept collecting plants for another five minutes after losing sight of the two men and then switched to a frequency that Rapp had set up to exclude Louis Gould. “Okay. We’re clear.”

He started replacing the plants while Wicker slipped out of the shelter he’d built and disappeared into the trees with Bruno McGraw on his tail.

Coleman finished with the plants and used a dead branch to scrape away any boot prints that had defined themselves too clearly in the soft earth. A quick look around the clearing suggested it was more or less back the way they’d found it. Not that it would fool anyone like him, but in the unlikely event the Swiss cops came up here, they wouldn’t find anything unusual.

Coleman grabbed a spotting scope and slid into Wicker’s shelter, smiling when he realized that his feet just barely touched the back. Wick was a full five inches shorter than him but, knowing the plan, he’d made the shelter a perfect fit for his boss.

With the scope to his eye, Coleman swept the courtyard below. This was undoubtedly the best seat in the house and he wasn’t sure surrendering the high ground was a good idea. It was going to cut the effectiveness of his team by at least seventy percent, but there was nothing he could do about it.

A little less than a half an hour passed before Bruno McGraw’s voice crackled over his earpiece. “We’ve reached the secondary site. Starting setup.”

Hopefully the radio signal reached Rapp—they’d identified a few dead spots on the way to the tunnel entrance. There was no way to confirm, though. Gould thought he was getting all the radio chatter and a response from Rapp would tip the man off.

“Roger that,” Coleman said.

It was another twenty-three minutes before he spotted an old Citroën driving up the road below. Stan Hurley had the window open, and
the cigarette smoke flowing from it was visible through the scope. Right on time.

A guard came out of the door-sized steel grate south of the gate and signaled for the car to stop. It was exactly how Coleman would have set it up. Don’t let the vehicle get too close in case it contained explosives.

Hurley stepped out and held up a set of fake Interpol credentials. Coleman couldn’t hear what was being said, but he could clearly see the irritation on the old man’s face while he was being frisked.

Along the wall, the guards were all paying attention, but not getting overly focused on the man in case it was a diversion. Coleman let out a quiet breath. They looked to be even better than he’d expected. Reason number ninety-eight to hope that this didn’t turn into a shooting war.

Hurley was led to the gate, where another armed guard let him through. After that, Coleman lost line of sight.

“Hurley’s in. I’m starting to break down the shelter now. Should be approaching your position in approximately thirty.”

“Roger that,” Wick responded.

Coleman switched to the frequency accessible by Gould. “Hurley’s inside the wall and we’re ready to rock.”

T
HE
heavily reinforced gate swung open and Hurley shuffled through with a stoop meant to make him appear even older than he was. It didn’t have the intended effect of making Obrecht’s security overconfident, though. The man behind him maintained a careful interval and had his hands wrapped firmly around a Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle. The one in front kept the gate between them as Hurley passed. Ten yards away, another armed man watched through mirrored sunglasses. The remaining guards were focused elsewhere and were positioned in a way that would make the most of their manpower.

The gate closed behind him and he used the loud clang as an excuse to glance back. The wall seemed higher than the reported twelve feet and it was as smooth inside as it was out. There were strategically placed scaffolds along it, some hastily framed out of unpainted lumber and others more professionally executed from steel and concrete.

Cover was nearly nonexistent. The largest tree was about six inches in diameter, leaving nothing more than a few widely spaced fountains and a couple of parked cars. A sprint across that courtyard—-particularly at the speed his new hip would allow—wasn’t going to end well.

“Sir?”
the guard behind him said in accented English. “If you please.”

Hurley limped to an X-ray machine that looked like a more sophisticated version of something you’d find at JFK. “Is this really necessary?”

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” the man said in a tone that suggested he wasn’t. “If you could please remove your jacket and shoes, and empty your pockets.”

He did as he was told and then turned to walk to the other side of the conveyor, but was immediately stopped.

“Your belt, too, sir.”

He smiled accommodatingly but felt a surge of nervousness as he removed it. It had been made to order in Asia back in the seventies. The buckle was secured to the leather by a two-inch-long metal strip that had been sharpened on all sides. It was sewn in with permanent stitches, but the pattern and thread were purposely weak. One hard jerk and it would break free, giving him a weapon that was complete crap but still better than nothing.