Consent To Kill

Chapter 48-50
48

VENICE, ITALY

The news of Rapp's resurrection was for the most part lost on the general public. It appeared at first on news crawls-those obnoxious streams of words that flowed across the bottom of the twenty-four-hour cable news channels. Intelligence agencies weren't proud of it, but they got a lot of their information from cable news, and the people whose job it was to monitor these channels stood up and took note that Mitch Rapp was alive. Phone lines burned, and e-mails flew back and forth between secretive buildings and across borders. The international espionage community was a loose affiliation of spies, analysts, and operatives who were bound by the unique nature of their careers. The mission of each organization was to collect and disseminate information, and not just within their own government, but to allies as well. Rapp was an icon in their world, admired by friend and foe alike. He was a man who had worked in the field and come up through the ranks-something they could all respect.

The news that he had been killed had been met with mixed reaction. Some thought his demise inevitable-no man could so aggressively wage a war against religious fanatics and remain unscathed. Those few who were ideologically opposed to Rapp's stance and methods applauded his death, but most were saddened by the news. He was one of them, and his death was a reminder of how dangerous their jobs were. There was another element to the story, though, that gnawed at a great number of them. Rapp's wife had been caught in the crossfire, and there was an unwritten rule in their line of work that families were off limits. Whoever had gone after Rapp had gone too far, so when news broke that Rapp was still alive, the vast majority of these men and women were secretly, and some not so secretly, hoping that Rapp would make the killers pay.

As a former Stasi officer and current freelancer Erich Abel was still connected to the fraternity, and it was safe to say that he was more surprised than anyone to hear that Rapp was alive. His day had started well enough. He'd gone for another long walk, this time through the Castello neighborhood of Venice, stopping in the Campo Santa Maria Formosa for breakfast and then continuing on his meandering walk through the narrow streets and alleys. He found two small galleries that showed promise. They were far enough off the main path that he knew he could negotiate a reasonable price for individual pieces. Abel was already spending his money. He would buy a small villa in the South of France and keep his place in Zurich. The place in Vienna, he decided, would be put on the market and his office closed. There were too many Saudis in Vienna, and it was time to sever that relationship. It had been profitable, but he no longer trusted Rashid. The man was on a jihad and everybody was expendable except himself.

He'd decided all of this before he'd been blindsided by the news that Rapp was still alive. Abel had been on his way back to his hotel after a late afternoon tour of more art galleries when he turned on his phone to check messages. For reasons of security and serenity, he'd been leaving the phone off but turning it on only a few times a day. He instantly knew something was wrong when the screen on the phone told him he had eleven new voice-mail messages and sixteen new e-mails. The first four were from his secretary in Vienna reciting a list of people who were trying to get ahold of him-almost all of them Saudis. The fifth message was from Saeed Ahmed Abdullah, and it was not pretty. In his thickly accented English he demanded that the job be finished or all twenty-two million dollars be refunded. Apparently the man did not remember the part where Abel had told him half of the money was a nonrefundable deposit. The sixth call was from Prince Muhammad bin Rashid's personal assistant and then after that it was a jumble of people. The e-mails were pretty much the same. By the time Abel reached his penthouse he'd come to the reluctant conclusion that Mitch Rapp was in fact alive. How they had missed him, Abel didn't know, nor did he care. The reality was the man was breathing and Abel's entire world was in shambles.

Abdullah, in one of his messages, proclaimed that the job must be finished. Abel considered the feasibility of this only briefly. Going after Rapp when he didn't expect it was one thing, but now that he was alert it was out of the question. Even before this disastrous news, Abel had felt he could no longer trust Prince Rashid. That was why he was in Venice, staying in a five-star hotel under an assumed name and paying for everything in cash. Now that the job had been botched, Rashid would want him silenced. Abel began packing his suitcase and pondering how quickly the Saudis could move on him. Their intelligence services were good within the Kingdom but they were anemic abroad. Rashid would have to hire someone like Abel, which would take time.

Abel closed the suitcase and zipped it shut. He walked over to the large window in time to see another cruise ship passing through the Canale di San Marco. Row after row of faceless people lined the starboard decks snapping photos, waving, and watching. The ship was massive. Abel considered how easy it would be to disappear on one of those ships. He would be lost in the myriad of tourists from around the world. A divorced man looking to take his mind off a disastrous marriage. He'd used it as cover before and in fact he was using it right now. That was the excuse he'd used to pay for the room in cash and use an alias. Abel had explained to the manager that he was going through a messy divorce and had decided to tour Europe in style rather than give the wretched woman a penny. Her lawyers, though, were right on his heels and if he had any hope of holding them off he needed to be discreet.

Abel stared at his phone for a minute and then turned it on. He dialed his personal assistant's mobile number and waited for her to answer. After the eighth ring he got her voice mail. "Greta, it's Erich. Remember that thing we talked about? Well, I've decided to take a sabbatical. If you need to get ahold of me, you know how to reach me. Good-bye." Sabbatical was a prearranged code word that was a warning to Greta. She was supposed to stay away from the office until he told her it was safe to go back to work. In the meantime she would be paid for six months of work. After that she should assume something had happened to him and look for other employment.

He checked his e-mail quickly and then decided to send a message. He pulled up the address for the assassins and began typing. It read: You failed. Finish the job, or return the money. He didn't bother attaching a name.

Abel scratched out a quick note and stuffed it in an envelope along with a thousand euros. He grabbed his bag and wheeled it to the elevator. When he reached the front desk, he asked to see the manager. A moment later Nico appeared from the back office and stepped out from behind the counter. He took one look at the suitcase and held his hands out in surprise.

"You are leaving us so soon?"

Abel adjusted his glasses and said in a low voice, "I'm afraid the lawyers are hot on my trail." He handed the envelope to the manager and said, "I may try to make my way back in a few weeks. I left a number along with a generous tip for your judiciousness."

The man clutched the envelope to his chest. "You are too kind."

Abel leaned in a bit closer and said, "Call me if anyone comes looking for me."

The manager winked. "I will."

Abel wheeled the medium-size black suitcase out the front door and turned left to catch a water taxi. A valet from the hotel was there to assist him and Abel tipped him generously.

"Marco Polo Airport," Abel said in a voice that was loud enough for both the driver and the valet to hear. The German sat on one of the long white vinyl seats and began mulling over his options. He would go to the airport, but he would not be getting on a plane. He would go to the terminal and then take a cab to the port where he would book passage on one of the floating buffets. And then he would try to fit in among the large people.

49

MONTERREY, MEXICO

The drive from Indianapolis to the Mexican border took nineteen hours with a stop for dinner and a quick nap near Lake Texoma in Oklahoma. Along the way the gun, the rifle, and the ammunition were all disposed of piece by piece. Neither weapon had been used to kill anyone, and there was no way of tracing them back to Gould, but they weren't worth the trouble of trying to take across the border. Gould drove the entire time and despite feeling unsympathetic to Claudia's depressed state he continued to apologize and at least act like he was sorry about the woman. In truth, though, he could have cared less about Rapp's wife. He knew it sounded harsh, and there were many, including the woman who was carrying his child, who would think him a monster for such a callous attitude, but it was the nature of his business.

To survive, much less succeed, his work had to be approached with an analytical detachment that focused on maximizing success and minimizing failure. At first it had been relatively easy. The men he killed were not on the road to sainthood. Their corrupt, and sometimes vile, behavior made it easy, but as larger contracts came in, the ethical waters became murky. Who was to say which side was right and which side was wrong? Gould came to accept the fact that the players had all willingly entered the arena with a full understanding of the risks. This rationalization started him down a path of moral ambiguity. Rapp knew full well the risks his job involved and by association so did his wife.

The secondary figures in these operations, the bodyguards and spouses, for example, had signed on knowing who they were getting involved with, or they should have. Would it have been better if Rapp's wife had survived? Yes, but Gould felt he'd made an honest effort to spare her. In the end, however, it wasn't meant to be. As much as Gould wanted to engage Claudia in this debate, he knew that in her current state it would be foolish. He had always worried that she would not be able to handle the messy end of the business, and he'd done everything possible to shield her from it. She had seen him kill only one person, and that was in self-defense.

It was during the mid-nineties after the Soviet Union had collapsed and the tycoons and robber barons were dividing up the spoils and killing whoever got in their way. Politicians, journalists, competitors all were fair game. This had been Gould's proving ground and where he had made a name for himself. The work was steady and the money was exceptional. Gould had just popped a man in his hotel suite and was leaving the lobby when the warning bells were sounded. The crazy Russian bodyguards drew their guns and tried to shut the place down. Gould had to shoot his way out, and when he got on the street, there was one last Russian waiting. Fortunately for Gould the man was a bad shot. He squeezed off a long burst from an Uzi submachine gun. He was off balance, though, and shooting at an upward angle as Gould came down the steps. The bullets whistled high past his head. Gould took only one shot with his silenced pistol, striking the man in the face, dropping him to the ground right in front of Claudia, who was waiting behind the wheel of the getaway car.

Claudia had understood the need for him to kill or be killed. They'd even had passionate sex that night, but this was all different. Gould suspected she saw herself in Rapp's wife and wondered if she saw him in Rapp, if she was making some twisted Freudian parallel between the two couples. Nineteen hours of mostly silence in a car gives the imagination ample opportunity to run riot.

They approached the border during the peak of morning rush hour and had no trouble making it through customs. They were a man and a woman in a minivan headed to Mexico. If they had been trying to cross from Mexico into America they might have faced more scrutiny, but going south was easy. Gould relaxed almost immediately and Claudia smiled for the first time in days. They rolled down the windows, held hands, and cranked the radio. The drive along the toll road from the border to Monterrey was easy. Gould followed the signs to the airport and they parked the van in the crowded lot. He left the driver's window down and the keys in the ignition. They grabbed their backpacks and entered the airport. Gould purchased two tickets at the Mexicana counter from Monterrey to Mexico City and then on to Zihuatanejo. They had a little more than two hours to kill before the flight left. After passing through security, they found a caf?? with wireless Internet service. Gould finally felt like they could relax and ordered a margarita while Claudia turned on her laptop and began checking e-mail.

There was some strange game show on the television that was holding the attention of both the bartender and the waitress. Gould had to wave his arm to order a second drink. Claudia asked for a bottle of water. It wasn't quite noon and no one, including the other travelers, seemed to be in a hurry. Gould was starting to feel the buzz from the tequila when he realized something was wrong. He glanced over and Claudia had her face buried in her hands and was shaking her head.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't believe it," she mumbled, her hands still covering her face.

"What?"

She turned the laptop toward him so he could read the e-mail. "It's from the German."

Gould read it, his face contorted in disbelief. "This is bullshit. 'Finish the job or send the money back.' What in the hell is he talking about?"

"I'd say it's pretty obvious."

Gould kept his voice down but was intense. "The job is finished."

Claudia spun the laptop toward her and her fingers began dancing over the keys. Within seconds she was scanning the home page of the Washington Post. It didn't take her long to find what she was looking for. She turned the computer back to Gould and pointed at the headline that read RAPP STILL ALIVE.

Gould read it and said, "I don't believe it. It's a trick. See if you can find another source."

Claudia pulled up one newspaper after another. They were all running the same story. She suggested Louie call and check their messages. There were three. The first was from his father mumbling something about a family gathering. Gould skipped it and erased it. The next one was from the German. His voice was calm, but he was adamant as to what must be done. The third and final message was from Petrov, who said that he had been put in a very difficult situation. He had recommended them to the German and it was his reputation that was on the line. He ended by telling Gould he knew how he thought, and this was not some trick by the Americans. Rapp was very much alive and if Gould wanted to stay alive too he'd better do the right thing.

Gould turned off the phone and stood. His entire body was tense with frustration. He ran his hands through his hair and took a step to the left and then the right. "How the hell did this happen," he mumbled to himself. He looked at Claudia. "I was there. I saw the house blow up. I know he was inside."

Claudia pointed at the screen. "It says here he suffered a broken arm and several broken ribs. The explosion blew him into the water, where he was picked up by a fisherman who saw the whole thing."

"Damn it." He spun around and looked at the exit. "I can't believe this. Grab your stuff. Let's get out of here."

Claudia didn't budge. She looked at him with an icy stare and said, "Sit down."

Gould's head snapped around. "What?"

"You heard me. Sit down right now."

Gould placed a hand on the back of his chair, but refused to sit.

"Where do you want to go?" Claudia asked.

"Back," he said as if she was a moron. "We have to go back and finish this."

"No, we don't. We are done. We have the money and we are retiring."

"No." He shook his head emphatically. "We go back and finish the job."

"Why?"

"Because it's the right thing to do."

"The right thing to do," she mocked him. "Don't you think it's a little late for that?"

"What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You killed an innocent woman, and now you're talking about doing the right thing." Her brow furrowed and she began shaking her head. "Have you really become so sick that you believe yourself noble...that right or wrong has anything to do with this?" She lowered her voice and through tight lips said, "We kill people."

"I know what we do, but we have a code we have to follow."

"We used to. We're done. How does this change anything? We are retiring. You promised me. We are going to raise a family."

"They will come looking for us."

She laughed. "They would not even know where to begin. They know nothing about us, and we know everything about them." She pointed at her computer. "A single message telling them to leave us alone or we will kill them will solve the problem."

Gould shook his head. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Claudia tilted her head and looked at him as if she was searching for some clue deep in his mind. "Fine. We'll do the right thing. Let's send the money back."

"No...we're going to finish the job."

"It's about him, isn't it?"

"Who?"

"Rapp. You want to prove you are better than him."

"Pack up your stuff. Let's go."

"You were never going to retire, were you?" She was too angry to cry. "Go." She pointed toward the door. "At least you won't have me or your child to slow you down."

Gould shouldered his backpack and stared at her with angry eyes. "I'm going to finish this, and then I'll come find you."

"Don't bother. I don't think I want to see you ever again."

Her words hurt and they gave him a split second of pause. "What about the baby?"

"I think the baby would be better off without you."

Gould had never been more hurt by anything in his life, but he was too proud to let Claudia know. He simply turned and walked away.

50

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

The car, a black Infiniti Q35, belonged to a friend of one of the embassy employees. It was a little small for Tayyib's six-foot-three-inch frame, but given his mission he figured it suited him well enough. The car had been waiting for him in a parking ramp several blocks from the movie theater. Tayyib and three other embassy employees had pulled up to the theater fifteen minutes before the start of their movie and stood in line for tickets, popcorn, and refreshments. Thirty minutes into the show, the keys and a slip of paper were handed to Tayyib. He got up as if he was going to the bathroom and never came back.

The U.S. and Saudi governments had an unofficial understanding that they were not supposed to spy on each other. Tayyib, and every other serious intelligence officer, knew this agreement was a sham. He ordered his own people to keep a close eye on American intelligence officials when they visited Saudi Arabia, and he assumed the Americans would potentially do the same-although Tayyib knew from experience the Americans were far more worried about offending the Saudi royal family than the Saudis were about offending Americans.

Too much was riding on this operation to take any shortcuts, so Tayyib drove around for more than an hour to make sure he wasn't being followed. Finally at 9:47 he headed for the meet. Tayyib had dealt with this individual on only one other occasion, and the man had performed exactly what had been asked of him. At that time, a crisis had caused the Saudi intelligence officer to seek the man's aid. A Saudi citizen had been arrested in Virginia and was charged with importing ten million dollars' worth of heroin. He was in federal custody awaiting trial when word got back to Tayyib that the man was trying to strike a deal with federal prosecutors. In exchange for a reduced sentence, the man would provide proof that the Saudi Intelligence Service offered direct aid and training to al-Qaeda in preparation for the 9/11 attacks. Accusations made by a man who dealt in illegal drug trafficking would normally carry little weight, but this particular man had in fact been one of Tayyib's officers. He knew far too much and would do great damage if he was allowed to speak to the Americans. When Tayyib informed Prince Muhammad bin Rashid of the problem, the prince made it clear what needed to be done.

Tayyib's greatest asset had always been his resourcefulness. He had not grown up a violent person. Other than the occasional fight with his brothers and cousins, he'd never so much as raised his voice in anger. He had an excessively calm personality. Even on the soccer field where his size and speed would have allowed him to bully others he held back. He'd grown up in Riyadh, a city of some three million people where crime was as rare as rain. It wasn't until Rashid had gone to work for the Intelligence Service that he began to see why Saudis were so law-abiding. The legal system in Saudi Arabia was unbelievably harsh. Police beat confessions out of suspects, judges rarely offered leniency, and the prisons were wicked.

The prisons in Saudi Arabia and America were both very dangerous places, but for different reasons. In Saudi Arabia it was the guards the prisoners had to fear, whereas in America, it was the other inmates. Tayyib had an acute understanding of this because he had been involved in a top secret program regarding American inmates. For years Muslim charities had been providing funds, materials, and guidance to help convert American inmates to Islam during their stay behind bars. What most people didn't know was that Saudi intelligence officials had been keeping track of these new converts with the hopes that if need be these non-Arab men would join their fight. These men were tracked as they were released from jail and steered toward mosques where they could continue to get the proper Wahhabi indoctrination into Islam.

It was during a meeting with one of the Muslim charity workers that Tayyib learned of a group called Mara Salvatrucha or MS-13. The fastest-growing segment of the American prison system were Hispanic men. Tayyib could not understand why it was that they had not a single Hispanic recruit in the two years he'd been involved with the program. The man explained to him that the Hispanic prison population was overwhelmingly Catholic and that they were very organized and extremely violent. He cited two cases where African-American Muslims had been beaten to death for trying to convert MS-13 gang members. Tayyib did some research into the group and found out that the FBI now considered them to be the number one organized crime threat in America. The group had started in El Salvador and had spread across America like a cancer. Outside of New York City, the group's strongest presence was in the Washington, DC, metropolitan area.

The most difficult part had been making contact with the group. Like most street gangs they had an unofficial uniform. They gravitated toward pro sports jerseys. Their group colors were blue and white, the same as the Salvadoran flag, and they liked the numbers 13, 67, and 76. Tattoos of MS-13 were big, and they kept their hair buzzed short. Tayyib found out they had a strong presence in Alexandria and Fairfax, Virginia. With little time to spare, he was forced to take some risks. He drove to a particularly bad part of Alexandria in broad daylight and found two young men standing outside an auto repair shop. One was wearing a North Carolina tank top and the other a University of Michigan one. The numbers on the jerseys matched the profile as did the short hair and the tattoos. Tayyib pulled up to the two men and did not get out of the car. He handed them an envelope. It contained $10,000, a note, and a phone number. Tayyib told the men to give the package to their boss. Within the hour he received a phone call and met face to face with the local gang leader. More money exchanged hands, a deal was struck, and Tayyib's former employee was found dead in his cell the next day. When Tayyib met the man to pay him the rest of the money, he made it clear that he might again need his services and asked for the best way to get ahold of him. The man came right out and gave him a name and a number.

Tayyib was now back in that same part of town on his way to meet Anibal Castillo. When Tayyib had called him earlier in the day, Castillo had taken his number and called him back from a different phone. Tayyib pulled into the parking lot of the body shop and got out. An old backseat from a vehicle was leaned up against the front of the building. Two men were sitting on the backseat and two were standing, one on each side. The building was covered with bright blue, white, and silver paint. Despite the cool evening air the boys were all in baggy shorts and tank tops-their arms and necks covered in tattoos. Tayyib was armed, but he had no illusion as to what would happen if things turned violent. He was here all on his own. He grabbed the briefcase from the trunk and walked into the building without acknowledging the four men.

The small waiting room was occupied by four more men-larger versions of the boys who had been outside. These guys all had big guns stuffed in the waistband of their pants and one of them had a sawed-off shotgun resting on his shoulder. The air smelled sour-body odor and cigarettes. Tayyib paused for half a step. He was wearing jeans, a white dress shirt, and a blue blazer. His.45-caliber pistol was in a holster on his right hip. One of the men looked at it and stuck out his hand palm up. Tayyib handed the weapon over. There was no sense in trying to keep it. Another man came up behind him and began patting him down. A man with MS- 13 in gothic letters emblazoned across his forehead took the briefcase and nodded for Tayyib to follow. They continued through the shop. There were bays, and all of them were occupied. Even at this relatively late hour cars were being worked on.

Near the back of the garage, there was a short hallway that led to a bathroom and the back door. Tayyib spotted a fat man standing guard at the back door. Gripped in his beefy tattoo-covered fingers was a black submachine gun. They stopped in front of a steel-plated door and the escort clanged away with Tayyib's.45-caliber pistol. Metal could be heard scraping on metal and a second later the door opened. Tayyib followed the man into the room. A fifty-inch plasma TV dominated the nearest wall. Two men sat in recliner chairs playing video games. Behind the only desk a man had his back to them and was talking on the phone in Spanish. He slowly turned the chair around and Tayyib recognized the man as Anibal Castillo.

"My old friend," Castillo said, "you are back again." He made no effort to stand.

"Yes," Tayyib said. He had a serious expression on his face.

"What can I do for you?"

Tayyib looked around the room. "Would it be possible for us to talk in private?"

The man who had escorted the Saudi back to the office placed the briefcase on his boss's desk. Castillo looked at it. "Is it locked?"

"Yes," Tayyib said.

Castillo motioned for it to be opened. Tayyib spun the case toward him and went to work with his thumbs. When all six dials were in the right position he pushed the clasps and lifted the lid. Inside was a letter-size manila envelope and neatly stacked packets of $100 bills and a cell phone. Castillo moved the envelope out of the way and focused on the cash. His brow furrowed as he estimated the amount of money in the case. After a long moment he looked up and jerked his head toward the door. The other men left in silence. Castillo pointed to a chair and Tayyib sat.

"A hundred thousand?"

Tayyib nodded.

"You must really want someone dead this time."

"Yes."

"Who?"

The Saudi grabbed the envelope and extracted a photograph of Rapp. "Have you ever seen this man before?" Castillo shook his head and Tayyib silently thanked Allah. "He is in federal custody at a house not far from here."

"And you want me to kill him?"

"Yes."

"What did he do?"

Tayyib shook his head.

Castillo grinned, and responded, "Fine...it will cost you more."

"Before we get that far, I need to know something." The Saudi thought about what he'd seen so far. "How well are your men armed?"

Castillo laughed. "Better than the police. I will tell you that."

"Explosives?"

The Salvadoran nodded.

"What kind?"

"Some C- 4, a lot of hand grenades...hell, we even have a few antipersonnel mines."

"Rocket-propelled grenades?" Tayyib asked.

"RPGs...sure. We have plenty."

Tayyib was pleased. "I assume you have no problem killing federal agents?"

"No problem. But that will drive the price up a lot." Castillo placed his hand on the briefcase. "I'm not sure this will even cover the down payment."

"I only brought the money to show you I am serious."

"Well, you have my attention."

"Good. Let me show you the plan, and then we will discuss the price."

Both men stood and Tayyib extracted several satellite photos from the envelope as well as a map of the area. Tayyib pointed to the fence and explained in detail the perimeter security of the property.

"How many people outside?" Castillo asked.

"Usually four."

"Inside?"

"I don't know. I assume at least two plus the man I want you to kill. The difficult part will be getting in the house."

"Four guards are nothing."

"It's not the guards I'm worried about. The house itself has an extra layer of security...reinforced doors...bulletproof glass...you'll have to blast your way in. You'll have to hit them with everything you've got. Start with the RPGs, and if that doesn't work use the C-4. Burn the whole house down...I don't care."

Castillo smiled. "What about the police? This is going to make a lot of noise."

Tayyib had anticipated this. "I will keep the police busy. You take care of the house. I don't care how many people you kill...just make sure this man is dead." Tayyib picked up the photo of Rapp and held it up in front of the Salvadoran.

Castillo smiled and said, "For the right price I will kill him myself."