Consent To Kill_ A Thriller Part 8

A BLOCK AWAY BLOCK AWAY a man stood leaning against his motorbike pretending to read a copy of a man stood leaning against his motorbike pretending to read a copy of Rolling Stone. 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. 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? "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 pa.s.sed 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.

14.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA.

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. 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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 ma.s.sive 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 s.h.i.t 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 n.o.body 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 gla.s.ses flying up in the air and the tiny white-haired catcher going a.s.s 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 G.o.d-fearing 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 p.r.i.c.k. 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 pa.s.sengers 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 c.r.a.p 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 G.o.d a thousand times, "Why couldn't she have missed that plane?" He'd a.n.a.lyzed 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 s.a.d.i.s.ts 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, "h.e.l.l no. This is the best d.a.m.n 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."

15.

PARIS, FRANCE.

D inner was lonely. Normally Abel didn't mind eating by himself, but tonight he felt restless. He was staying at Hotel Balzac, a small, luxurious establishment only a short walk from the Arc de Triomphe. He had decided to dine early in the hotel's restaurant and miss the rush. He was given a small but satisfactory table, and he was immersed in the menu when a couple about his age were seated within perfect view. He watched as they held hands and spoke intently. They appeared to be in love. About the time his main course arrived another couple was seated. They were a little younger than Abel, and it was soon obvious that they were also in love. She reminded him of the woman with the large black sungla.s.ses who he had met earlier in the day. She looked roughly the same age and had a similar hairstyle. inner was lonely. Normally Abel didn't mind eating by himself, but tonight he felt restless. He was staying at Hotel Balzac, a small, luxurious establishment only a short walk from the Arc de Triomphe. He had decided to dine early in the hotel's restaurant and miss the rush. He was given a small but satisfactory table, and he was immersed in the menu when a couple about his age were seated within perfect view. He watched as they held hands and spoke intently. They appeared to be in love. About the time his main course arrived another couple was seated. They were a little younger than Abel, and it was soon obvious that they were also in love. She reminded him of the woman with the large black sungla.s.ses who he had met earlier in the day. She looked roughly the same age and had a similar hairstyle.

Abel was haunted by the mysterious woman from the cafe. She exuded a quiet confidence more powerful than any aphrodisiac he could imagine. She had dealt with him from a position of strength from the moment he'd sat down. She'd known he'd been watching her from across the street. He cringed to remember how smug he had been. She'd even learned his ident.i.ty in advance and G.o.d only knew what else. The entire experience was very unnerving for Abel. He was the one who was used to negotiating from a position of strength. He was supposed to be the unflappable professional who saw all and gave away nothing in return.

Having lost his appet.i.te, he decided to go for a walk. After retrieving his black trench coat and new cashmere scarf from his room he left the hotel and began walking south toward the Seine. There was a chill in the evening air, but Abel didn't mind. It felt good to get out and stretch his legs, and the bite of the air seemed to help clear his mind. Something told him this strange couple Petrov had recommended were the perfect people for the job, but he needed to make sure. Abel had stopped at a pay phone after the meeting and called his old Russian master. Hours later he was still replaying the conversation in his mind.

After some brief banter he had casually asked Petrov, "Did you give this couple my name?"

"They called to make sure we knew each other," Petrov admitted. "I told them we did, and that you were someone who could be trusted."

"Nothing else?" Abel asked.

"Not a thing. What is wrong? You sound troubled."

"They tailed me to the meet," Abel admitted uncomfortably.

"What else?"

"They knew my name."

"I told you they were good." Petrov laughed loudly. "Hire them and be done with it. They will not disappoint you."

Abel got the distinct impression that Petrov was enjoying his discomfort. "They are a bit inflexible in their demands."

"Sounds like a certain German I know."

"Yes, well, I'm the one doing the hiring."

"And they will be the ones risking their hides. I'm telling you...hire them and get out of their way."

Abel considered telling him about the man, and how he'd threatened to sever his spine, and then thought better of it. Petrov would only laugh at him. "What can you tell me about the woman?"

"Did you meet her?"

"Yes."

"Ha," Petrov bellowed. "I have heard she is beautiful. Very mysterious. Do you agree?"

"She is an attractive woman," Abel admitted while trying not to sound too interested. "What do you know about her?"

"Get her out of your mind. I have heard that they are more than just business partners, and trust me...this man is not someone you want to upset."

"I gathered that. Where does he come from?"

"I do not know, and I do not care. I'm telling you for the last time, hire them and be done with it." The Russian hung up on him.

Abel did not like feeling like a fool, but that was exactly the way he felt as he walked the streets of this old city. By the time he reached the river he realized he would probably hire these two, but not yet. Petrov was getting old and the vodka had softened his normally keen intellect. There was too much at stake to simply hire them without having a say in how things would proceed. It was tempting, though. There was another ten million waiting for him as soon as Rapp was dead. Twenty million on the table minus the fee he would have to pay the killers. Abel had a number in his head. There were many variables to consider, but typically the going rate for killing an intelligence officer was in the low-to-mid six figures. This wasn't just any intelligence officer, however, this was Mitch Rapp, a spy's spy, who had the very nasty habit of biting back. They would have to track him. If they got lucky, they might catch him traveling. Getting him off American soil would help greatly. Very few contract killers liked working in America, because of the increased security with facial recognition systems at virtually every port of entry and the finger-printing of certain visitors. The cost of doing business in America would more than likely double the fee.

He turned east and began walking toward the Louvre, racking his brain to come up with his best contacts in France. He needed to send these two a message that they were dealing with a professional, not someone who they could toy around with and scare like an amateur. Unfortunately, he didn't trust the people he knew in France enough to get them involved in this. On the other hand there were some Hungarians he knew who were excellent at surveillance work, and they were cheap. It was a whole family for the price of one-grandparents, parents, children, even some uncles. When he got back to the hotel he would call and see if he could get them here first thing in the morning. He would wait a day to see if the woman contacted him, and if not he would e-mail and request another meeting. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. He did not want to look desperate.

He left the river and started back to the hotel. When he turned on to the Champs-Elysees he was faced with a cold breeze. Abel turned up his collar and quickened his pace. He decided that by ending the meeting himself, and getting up and walking away, he may have saved enough face to get them to come back to him. They were businesspeople after all, and he had been very clear that there was a large fee to be earned. When they called he would be prepared. He would have the Hungarians in place. They would get photographs for sure and possibly a thumbprint from her coffee cup if they met at a cafe again. The Hungarians could trail her back to an address that would provide more information. The man would be about, undoubtedly, and maybe they would spot him. All he needed was a single thread, and then from there he could begin unraveling. He would learn everything there was to know about the two and then he would shock them into dealing with him from a position of mutual respect.

Abel arrived back at the hotel refreshed and invigorated. He had a plan, and he was hopeful that they would call him back and renew negotiations. He took the elevator up to his suite and after taking off his coat and scarf he went into the bedroom to open the safe and get his PDA. He turned on a table lamp near the closet and punched in his four-digit code. He listened to the whirl of the locking mechanism retracting, and then opened the small, heavy door. The safe was empty.

Abel reached in and felt around to make sure, and then placed his hands on his hips. He was certain he had put the small handheld computer in the safe before he'd gone to dinner, but with the way the day had gone, he was already second-guessing himself. Maybe he'd left it in his briefcase. He turned to head back into the living room, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something in the shadows. Abel froze when he zeroed in on a pair of shoes that he immediately knew were not his. He followed the legs up to the dark, barely discernable outline of a man sitting in a chair. For some inexplicable reason his mind jumped to the conclusion that it was Mitch Rapp himself who had broken into his hotel room. It was the second time in a day that Abel had been surprised and overcome with this dreadful portentous feeling.

"C'est ca que tu cherches?" Are you looking for this? asked a low voice. asked a low voice.

A gloved hand emerged from the shadows. In it was Abel's PDA. Abel looked past the hand at the man. His eyes had adjusted just enough that he could see his visitor was wearing something to cover his face. The voice, unfortunately, was familiar and it made Abel think of coffee and warm breath on the back of his neck.

Straining to appear calm, Abel said, "I see you have lowered yourself to thievery."

The gloved hand reappeared and flicked the PDA across the room. It spun through the air and landed in the center of the king-size bed. "I have stolen nothing. A man in your line of work should know better than to trust hotel safes."

Abel listened to the man's words and decided he must be American, but he couldn't quite place the dialect. "You have a nasty habit of sneaking up on people...maybe I can return the favor someday."

The man scoffed, "That would be stupid."

"And why is that?" Abel was proud of himself for not sounding too nervous.

"If I returned to my hotel room and found a man sitting in the dark, I would put a bullet in his head."

Abel had been around some very unsettling individuals, but this man was in a league of his own. He was beginning to give Abel a feeling of inadequacy. "What if you didn't have a gun?"

"I always have a gun."

"But if you didn't?"

"I would still kill the man. It just might take a split second longer."

"So what do you think I should do?" asked Abel. "I have just returned to my very expensive hotel and have discovered a burglar in my room. Should I kill him?"

The man laughed in a very low, almost snickering way. "Impossible."

"Please tell me why." Abel folded his arms across his chest.

"For starters...you do not have a gun, and I do."

"How do you know I don't have a gun?"

"I watched you eat dinner. You looked very lonely, by the way," the man added. "I watched you put on your coat before you left for your walk. I can tell if a man has a gun on him. You do not."

Abel conceded the point with a nod. "Continue."

"I am a trained a.s.sa.s.sin and you are not, Herr Abel. While I know you are not a stranger to violence, you do not strike me as the type of person who gets his hands dirty."

"Don't be so certain." Abel held his ground. "Any other reasons I might be missing?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. One very obvious operational detail. You have registered under your real name and put the room on your credit card. If you were to succeed in killing me...which you wouldn't...you would have a mess to deal with."

"I have many contacts..." Abel paused in search of a name. "What should I call you?"

"We'll get to that later." The man crossed his legs and placed both hands on his knee. "You were saying?"

Abel noticed for the first time that the man was holding a silenced pistol in his other hand. "I have many contacts. I could easily make a phone call and have your body disposed of in a very discreet manner."

The man did not answer right away. "I suppose you could, but I do not see you as that type of a risk taker. It would be too impulsive. You are a man who must a.n.a.lyze every detail before you are moved to action."

"And you?" asked Abel.

"I am a killer. That is what I do for a living, and I live in such a way that the decision to kill or not to kill can be made instantaneously, without having to worry about how it will affect my life."

Abel was starting to enjoy this. With a slight smile he asked, "And how does one live their life in such a way as to be able to make such decisions instantaneously?"

"By any reasonable standard I am a wealthy man, but unlike you I own nothing. I am tied to nothing. You, on the other hand, own significant real estate in both Switzerland and Austria. If you have to run, those a.s.sets will be seized...bank accounts will be frozen. You have too many roots to kill a man, where I have none. I am like the wind. Here one moment and gone the next."

"I have taken certain precautions," Abel said with a tight voice.

"I have no doubt that you have, but the vast majority of your net worth is tied up in hard a.s.sets that are owned under your name. You are also a very meticulous and prudent man. You will not throw away the fruits of your labor so lightly."

Abel hated being wrong. He conceded the last point with another nod and announced, "I need a drink." He turned for the other room. Over his shoulder he asked, "May I get you one?"

The man followed him. "No, thank you. I never drink when I'm on the job."