“Well?”
“Don’t be impatient. These things take time . . . Yes. There.”
She held up the laptop so he could see the screen. Their newly formed company, Orion Consulting, now had bank balances that totaled just over seventy million dollars.
“That should keep you in ammunition and unfashionable leather jackets for a while.”
“So we’ve completely emptied bin Musaid’s accounts?”
“Down to the equivalent of twenty-eight thousand U.S. dollars.”
“Why did you leave him twenty-eight grand?”
“So the banks don’t close the accounts and notify him.”
“Does he have overdraft protection on any of them?”
“Yes. Two.”
“Okay, max out his overdrafts and get me that last twenty-eight grand.”
She worked for a few seconds more. “Done. I think you Americans would say that Prince Talal bin Musaid is officially fucked. He has multiple large mortgages and other loans, salaried staff, and various taxes coming due—none of which he’ll be capable of paying. He has whatever cash he keeps on hand. After that’s gone, he won’t even be able to buy groceries.”
“And you’re still confident that you can keep tabs on him?”
“My guess is he’ll run to Europe. He has a successful brother there who’s distanced himself from Saudi Arabia and the monarchy. When the prince discovers his accounts have been drained, I suspect he’ll go to him for money, advice, and protection.”
With a little luck, that’s exactly what would happen. It was impossible to know if Nassar and Faisal would tell the little prince that the CIA was onto him, but bin Musaid would be smart enough to realize that this wasn’t just some random hack. And when he made that connection, he’d start wondering if a foreign government was behind draining his accounts. More important, he’d start wondering what his life was worth in Saudi Arabia. How far would the king stick his neck out to protect one of his dumbass nephews? It wasn’t like he had a shortage of them.
“Once bin Musaid’s outside of Saudi Arabia, he’ll be isolated and easier to deal with. We just need to—”
Claudia’s phone started to ring and she held up a finger before picking up.
“Bonjour, chérie!”
Anna. Rapp frowned, reminding himself that these kinds of interruptions were part of his life now. That didn’t mean they weren’t going to take some getting used to, though.
“Yes, of course you can. It sounds like fun. How high? Well, you should be very careful, yes? Remember what happened last time.”
She was staying with Irene and being largely cared for by her son, with whom she’d developed an immediate rapport. It turned out that Tommy had always wanted a little sister and was being a startlingly good sport about the new demands on his time and teenage dignity.
“Yes, of course. Soon. Don’t run if it’s wet.”
She hung up and Rapp glanced over. “How’s she doing?”
“Oh, fine. Her life has always been chaotic. She’s used to it. Sometimes I wonder if she’d get bored if she was ever forced into a routine.”
“And you?”
“Me?”
“How’s your new routine working out?”
“Wonderfully so far.”
“You can back out anytime.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“I can think of about a hundred reasons. I never want you to feel like you’re trapped in this, Claudia. If it starts looking hairier than you’re comfortable with, or even if you just want to get back to Anna, you can walk anytime. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Stop worrying, Mitch. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this kind of work.”
They pulled up next to a group of parked cars that included Scott Coleman’s SUV and got out, walking toward an unadorned steel door. There was a single button above a brass plate printed with “SD&S, Inc.”—previously “SEAL Demolition and Salvage.” When Coleman moved his offices, he’d decided to use the acronym. It was as vague as he could go and still get his deliveries.
Rapp hit the bell and the door buzzed, letting them through. The interior was better appointed than anyone would guess from outside. Freshly painted walls, exposed brick, and carefully preserved industrial hardware further obscured the organization’s real purpose in the veneer of a San Francisco tech firm.
“We’re in the conference room!” Coleman shouted from the back.
Rapp and Claudia started down a hallway lined with offices that ranged from the OCD neatness of the one occupied by Charlie Wicker to the disaster of take-out food trays and partially disassembled weapons that belonged to Bruno McGraw.
The conference room was completely nondescript other than the people surrounding the table. Most were former spec ops—Coleman, McGraw, Joe Maslick, and Wick. The exception was Bebe McCade, whose grandmotherly look hid the fact that she was probably the planet’s top surveillance operative.
Claudia gave Rapp a subtle nudge and he singled out Maslick for a nodded greeting. It was the first time he’d seen the man since before the Morocco op, and the former Delta operator was apparently still on edge. As usual, Claudia was right and he relaxed visibly in response to the gesture.
Rapp stood at the head of the table, aware that everyone probably assumed that he was going to announce his decision to allow Claudia to take over Coleman’s logistics role. What he was actually there to do would be a hell of a lot harder.
“Earlier this morning, I gave Irene my letter of resignation,” he said.
The expected stunned silence ensued. Finally, Coleman managed to speak. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that the injuries I got on our last op are worse than the docs told me and I’ve had to admit that I can’t do the job the way it needs to be done. I want to be clear, though. You guys aren’t out. Cary Donahue is going to replace me and he wants you as his primary backup. All of you know him, and I know that all of you have the same respect for him that I do.”
“Can I have Claudia for logistics?” Coleman said with a calmness that seemed a little ominous.
“No,” she responded. “Mitch and I are going to be doing some traveling.”
“Really? Traveling? Let me guess. Bird-watching in New Zealand? Maybe a little boogie boarding in Hawaii?”
“I don’t—”
“This is bullshit!” Coleman said, flinging the pad in front of him against the wall. “Mitch Rapp is quitting the CIA because he got a few bruises in Pakistan? What the fuck are you even talking about?” He grabbed the cane next to his chair and held it up. “Look at me.”
“I’ve got some things I need to work out,” Rapp said.
“Yeah? Like what?” Coleman used the cane to point to the people around the table. “We’ve all bled for you, Mitch. And now you come in here and tell us some bullshit story about walking off into the sunset?”
A few of Coleman’s men actually scooted back a bit, but he just kept staring Rapp in the eye. He obviously believed that, after everything they’d been through together, he deserved better. And he was right.
“I need to go somewhere you and your boys can’t follow, Scott.”