Unlikely, but still his absence added a little spice to the drudgery of this gig.
The Frenchman followed a deep shadow to a tree he’d found with a drone flyover. It was one of four surveillance angles he’d need, and the branches looked sturdy enough to support his sixty-five kilos. Six or seven meters would be high enough to make the camera invisible from the ground and to keep the solar panel in the light.
He began fishing a unit out of his backpack but then stopped when he saw the security man inside head toward the stairs. A changing of the guard? Would he finally discover the location of the other man? Confirmation that he was inside would allow Moreau to move much more quickly and remove all danger of being late for his dinner reservation.
The guard went up the steps, walking with a level of caution that seemed a bit odd. Maybe el-Hashem was one of those rich assholes who didn’t like to see or hear his staff. Moreau himself had once worked in a similar environment. He’d left that job with his employer’s Bentley and the contents of his safe.
The guard stopped in the doorway of the room occupied by el-Hashem, raised his gun, and fired a single round. It hit the Arab in the head and pitched him forward onto his desk.
Moreau froze. Had that really just happened? Was he having a flashback from the drugs he’d been so enamored with at university? Were flashbacks really even a thing?
The guard walked calmly over and yanked what was left of the dead man’s head back. It was enough to break Moreau from his trance and he panicked. Scooping up his pack, he began sprinting toward the perimeter wall. Coming around the thick stump of an ancient tree, he suddenly found himself skidding face-first through the dirt. When he glanced back to see what had tripped him, he vomited into the dry leaves. The guard he’d been looking for was lying on his back, staring up at the sky with part of his head missing.
Moreau forced himself to his feet and stumbled to the tree he’d used to access the compound. He shot up it, pausing reluctantly on top of the wall to ensure that the street was still empty. A moment later he was walking with an awkward, hurried gait toward his vehicle. It was the longest six minutes and twelve seconds he’d ever spent, but finally he slid behind the wheel and pulled out.
His breath was coming too fast, making him light-headed. But not so much that he couldn’t dial Claudia. She picked up on the first ring.
“Julien! Where—”
“They killed him!” he screamed. “You screwed me! You didn’t say anything about anyone getting murdered.”
Her voice carried its normal sensual calm. “Do you ever check your messages?”
He glanced at the phone’s screen. Three from her.
“Fuck!” he said, unable to come up with anything more relevant.
“I need you to calm down, Julien. Tell me what happened.”
“Are you deaf? They killed him!”
“Who killed whom?”
“One of the guards. He killed el-Hashem. I saw it. He did it right in front of me. In that fucking glass house. It was like watching a movie.”
“I understand. But you—”
“The other guard’s dead, too! Part of his head was gone. I tripped over him.”
Moreau suddenly bolted straight up in his seat. “Oh my God. His blood. I think I have his blood on me!”
“Julien, stop talking and breathe, okay? I need you to go through with me exactly what happened.”
“Have you not been listening? Don’t ever call me again.” He disconnected and pulled onto a more heavily traveled street. For some reason the cars moving around him brought back a little of his calm. He glanced at the phone in the passenger seat but resisted reaching for it. After another minute he caved. How could he stay mad at such a magnificent woman?
Not surprisingly, it didn’t take her long to answer. “Are you all right, Julien? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“Where are you now?”
“In the car. Headed back to the city center.”
“Okay. Good. Now tell me this. Were both men shot in the head?”
“Yes.”
“Could you see the kind of gun?”
“What the hell do I know about guns? I’ve never shot one in my life!”
“Because you know about everything,” came the soothing answer.
Flattery? Really? Did she think he was that easy? Shit. Of course she did. And she was right.
“I was pretty far away. It had a silencer for sure. If I had to guess, I’d say a Glock.”
“Did you leave anything behind? Were the cameras installed?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Good. I’ve tripled your fee. You’ll find the money in the account we discussed. I’d suggest you get out of France for a while. And that you forget you ever heard of me or Ahmed el-Hashem.”
CHAPTER 36
Over Algeria
RAPP fished around in the tiny refrigerator, finally finding a beer at the back. His plan had been to ease up on the drinking until he managed to pull his life together. But since things seemed to be rocketing in the other direction, fuck it.
The door to the cockpit was closed, but he glanced in that direction anyway. The man inside was another one of Claudia’s—a drug runner out of Colombia. Not Scott Coleman by a long shot, but a solid pilot with a set of torture scars that suggested he knew how to keep his mouth shut.
“Everyone’s back in Juba, but there seem to be some problems,” Claudia said as he sat down in a facing seat.
“What kind of problems?”
“The man you killed. Apparently, the rebel leader he works for wasn’t happy. He has people watching the church. According to Kent, it would be suicide to go back. They’ve rented an empty safari hotel outside of town and are holing up there until we arrive.”
“Fine.”
She leaned forward in her seat with a concerned expression. “We need to talk about what happened in Brussels and Paris.”
It wasn’t a subject that was going to improve his mood, but there was no getting around it. Aali Nassar was making his play, and it was a good one. A decision had to be made about what to do. The president had asked him to find the highly placed Saudis allied with ISIS and kill them. Rapp intended to carry out that request, but the question now was how. Did he try to get clever and save himself, or did he just move forward with the hammer?
“Zaman was killed with a single shot from a nine-millimeter. To authorities, it will also look like he was first tortured for information. El-Hashem died the same way, and unless I miss my guess, he’ll be found tied to a chair with the same kind of injuries. Sound like anyone you know?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“And there are witnesses, Mitch. The security men you put down in the hotel as well as the people you talked to in the elevator. I’m also guessing that the bodyguard who took out el-Hashem is giving the police your description and telling them about how he barely escaped with his life.”
“Is that all?”
“No. There are still the cameras in Monaco as well as all the eyewitnesses who survived the attack.” She leaned back. “That’s all.”