“When you put it that way, it does sound pretty bad.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I know. It’s your job to think about this stuff and I agree with everything you said. But it’s the only hand we’ve got to play.”
She looked up at him, clearly wanting him to say more.
“Look, Claudia. I haven’t seen Donatella in more than ten years. We had a short relationship that we both knew wasn’t going anywhere. Don’t let her get to you. She just likes to make trouble.”
Claudia examined his face for a few more seconds and then took his hand. “Let’s go to bed. We can take our minds off our problems for a little while.”
CHAPTER 28
DONATELLA Rahn walked up the steps to the yacht’s upper deck, sipping a sparkling water. She had a light wrap over her dress but didn’t need more. Despite the fact that it was almost 10 p.m., temperatures were still in the low seventies.
The rest of their haphazard team was already there but, somewhat tellingly, all were occupying their own space. She did the same, settling into an empty lounge chair and taking an opportunity to study the people around her.
Kent Black was near the railing doing another endless set of push-ups. He was purported to be an excellent sniper but seemed impossibly young and desperate to impress. It was clear that he idolized Mitch almost to the point of deification. Saint Rapp. The Great and Terrible Oz. She’d known him when he was just another boy getting into the business. Talented, to be sure, but who could have guessed what he would become?
Grisha Azarov had his back to her, talking quietly into a satellite phone, as he did often. He was quite an intriguing figure, exuding calm confidence and that hint of clinical depression that she’d come to associate with Russian operatives. Claudia did a mediocre job of hiding her fear of him, while Rapp made no attempt to hide his respect. Donatella’s eavesdropping suggested that Azarov always talked to the same person but a name had proved difficult to make out. Probably Cara, but the fact that he never gave Donatella so much as a glance suggested that it could also be Carl.
She turned her attention to a table where Rapp and the little French girl were discussing something in hushed tones. What on earth did he see in her?
Unfortunately, the answer was obvious. There was the youth, of course—she was certainly no more than midthirties. And then there was the beautiful face and flawless body. Moreover, she appeared to be irritatingly competent. The name Dufort was complete nonsense, of course. There was little question that this was the woman who had played a significant role in the success of the late Louis Gould. While pulling a trigger could be quite difficult, equally difficult was making sure you were standing in the right place when you did it. Gould was always standing in the right place, and it was common knowledge that he had his wife to thank.
Finally, Donatella focused on Rapp, the man responsible for bringing them together. He’d never understood that they were made for each another. Instead, he’d left and taken up with that idealistic little reporter Anna Reilly. While she could understand what attracted him to Claudia Gould, what he’d seen in that Goody Two-shoes was a mystery.
Donatella turned to gaze out over the city lights but kept Rapp in her peripheral vision. What if something were to happen to the little French girl? Would getting rid of the competition create an opportunity for them to rekindle the romance that had been so powerful in their youth?
She took a sip of her water and finally looked fully away from her former lover. No. He’d find out and then she’d experience what so many had experienced before—the very brief and very final view down the barrel of his Glock.
The chime of a phone sounded and Claudia picked up, speaking a few unintelligible words into it before disconnecting.
“The prince has left his brother’s compound and is driving in the direction of Terry’s.”
*
Azarov looked between the front seats as Rapp eased into the crowded parking lot of Monaco’s most exclusive club. The former CIA man was wearing an inexpensive suit and had pulled his hair back into a neat ponytail. Combined with his general build and constantly sweeping eyes, he looked much like all the other bodyguards shuttling their -employers to Terry’s. Of course, those similarities were an illusion. He was unique. And, as such, utterly fascinating.
Azarov had done very little in his life beyond training. His athletic talent had been identified at a young age and he’d been taken from his home in favor of a Soviet biathlon camp. Later he’d joined the Russian special forces, where he’d learned and applied an entirely new skill set. Finally, he’d gone to work directly for President Krupin, continuing to hone his abilities with some of the most accomplished coaches in the world.
Rapp had enjoyed few of those advantages—lacrosse and track in his early years, then a relatively short involvement in triathlon. No, he was a far rarer animal. A pure talent. How Azarov had been bested twice by the American despite his haphazard training history, age, and almost comically thick medical file was difficult to fully understand. What he did understand, though, was that Rapp could be as good a friend as he was deadly an enemy.
It was this realization that had torn him from Cara and the life they had made together. An opportunity to observe Rapp up close and the excitement that he missed more than expected were just ancillary benefits. The American was someone who could be trusted to stand with those who showed him loyalty, and there could be no better ally than the one man better at this game than himself.
“Can you see, Grisha?” Rapp said, veering away from the valets and finding a space that allowed a view of the people entering Terry’s.
“Yes, but I don’t know any of those men.”
Rapp spoke into a phone patched through the BMW M5’s audio system. “Claudia, do you have an ETA on the prince?”
“A little less than two minutes if he makes the lights.”
“Kent. Give me a sitrep.”
“I’m setting up now. Thirty seconds and I’ll be ready to rock.”
“For God’s sake,” Donatella said in a typically exasperated tone. “None of this is necessary. I can just walk in there right now and in a few minutes bin Musaid and I will be on our way to my hotel suite. Instead, we’re sitting here waiting for someone who can get Grisha in. I’ve done this a thousand times, Mitch. And guess what? I somehow managed without you.”