Consent to Kill

  Abel came to the sad conclusion that he was watching a once-great civilization slide toward the abyss. The masses wanted the state to provide for them in every way, and the politicians who promised the most largesse were the ones who were elected. They in turn gave the people what they wanted, which then placed an ever-increasing burden on the most productive members of society. This was, he supposed, democracy’s Achilles’ heel. It struck him at that moment that socialism was far more insidious than communism. In East Germany there had been nothing voluntary about communism. It was simply the only option. But the people of France, through their own selfishness, were choosing this road to ruin.

  Abel wondered if there was an investment opportunity to be exploited. Possibly a long-range trend in the financial markets? He made a mental note to talk to several of his clients about the possible implications. The dirty work he performed for his clients was extremely lucrative, but it was also inherently dangerous. In light of the advance for the Rapp job, Abel had started to think about shifting his focus to more legitimate work.

  Abel looked across the street at the woman and smiled. He was fooling himself. Going legitimate would be boring. Besides, spying was one of the fastest growth industries in the world, and if Abel was to be honest with himself, there was no other professional fraternity that he would rather belong to.

  One thing he would like to partake more in, though, was the company of women. The problem was that he was both too busy and too choosy. He liked intelligent women, but not too bookish, beautiful but not gorgeous, confident but not too extroverted, and they absolutely had to be classy in an austere way. He also wanted a woman who could enjoy silence. Talking was overrated, and Abel believed less was almost always more.

  The woman he was currently eyeing seemed to fall into many of his favored categories. She was average in height with black wavy hair down to her shoulders, an oval face with a delicate upturned nose, and a clear milky complexion. He wished he could see her eyes, but she was wearing large black sunglasses, the type worn by movie starlets in the sixties that had recently come back in style. She was in designer black from her coat to her form-fitting, spike-heeled suede boots. Her style was fashion-savvy without being ostentatious. It was the perfect form of urban camouflage for Paris in the fall.

  Abel was standing off to the side of a newsstand where he had just purchased a copy of the French magazine Nouvel Observateur. He was wearing a dark brown three-piece suit and had a reversible trench coat draped over his left arm. The woman was sitting at an outdoor café across the street. Abel had spoken to her only once, and it had been brief. She’d been polite but had asked him immediately for an e-mail address. Abel complied and then waited patiently by his computer for two hours before her e-mail arrived in his in-box. The first thing she wanted to know was how he had heard about her. Not wanting to name names, he gave her a description of Petrov and vaguely referenced the work she and her partner had done for him over the past year. She asked a few more questions that might trip him up, but Abel knew Petrov too well. Once she was satisfied that Abel was serious, she put forth her terms. Her “firm,” as she called it, charged a nonrefundable retainer of $25,000 to get things started. For that initial payment they would consider any job transmitted to them via e-mail. If he’d like to conduct business via a dead drop it would cost him $50,000 and a face-to-face sit-down would run him $100,000. All retainers, she reiterated, were nonrefundable. This woman was no socialist.

  Negotiating a job like this via e-mail was out of the question. While the dead drop was tempting, there was simply too much on the line. A sit-down was the only prudent way to handle it. Abel wired the money to the offshore account and she gave him a specific list of instructions, which he had followed with only one exception.

  Those instructions led him to where he was now—standing next to a newsstand on the Rue du Mont Cenis in the Montmartre neighborhood of Paris. He had come alone, as instructed, and had purchased the magazine she’d specified. She was sitting at the designated café, just as she said she would, with her Burberry umbrella saving his seat. She’d been sitting there for fifteen minutes and Abel was enjoying making her wait. That was part of his plan. He would go only so far in letting them set the tone and tempo of this new, and hopefully successful, business relationship. They had $100,000 of his money. They could wait a little bit.

  If she got up and left, that would be even better. That way he could follow her and learn a bit more before he set up a second meet. The most dangerous part of this was not the initial meeting, but rather the moment he chose to reveal the target. That was the point of no return. Once Abel told them the target was Rapp they would be locked in. Abel turned the page of his magazine and looked over the top of it at the intriguing woman he was to meet. Five more minutes, he told himself, and if she didn’t get up to leave he would go over and proceed as planned.

  He watched her look at her watch, and he wondered what she looked like naked. He doubted she would disappoint him. Abel let out a sigh of expectation, and just when he was ready to inhale he felt something pressed against his lower back and a warm breath on his neck.

  A man’s voice whispered in his ear, “Elle est belle…n’ est-ce pas?” She’s beautiful, isn’t she?

  Abel started to turn around, but was stopped by a gloved hand that clamped down on his neck with an alarming firmness. The man was so close he could smell the coffee on his breath. Abel started to bring his right arm up so he could strike a blow and pivot free.

  “Don’t.” The grip tightened. “Not unless you’d like me to sever your spinal cord.”

  Abel felt the blade against the small of his back. He struggled to remain calm. The man’s English was perfect. For a split second Abel was confronted with the horrible image that it was Mitch Rapp himself who was holding him at knifepoint. He managed to take another breath and in an embarrassingly unsteady voice said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Erich,” the man grunted, “you are not dealing with amateurs. Don’t play games with us, or I swear I’ll bone you like a fish, and you’ll spend the rest of your days with a limp prick.”

  Despite the cool autumn air sweat began forming on Abel’s upper lip. How in the hell do they know my name? he thought to himself. “I am merely trying to be careful.”

  “I appreciate professionalism, but don’t toy with us. I followed you here and have been watching you for the past hour. In case you doubt me, I saw you buy both the card and the pen.”

  Frown lines creased Abel’s forehead. He’d taken the metro and two separate taxis to the meet. He had diligently checked to make sure he wasn’t being tailed. How in the hell had this man followed him so closely?

  “I think you’ve made her wait long enough.” The man leaned in so his lips were just inches from the German’s neck. He knew his warm breath would further unnerve his prospective business partner, which was his intent. Fear was the only thing that kept people honest in this business. “Get going…and don’t even think of turning around. You’ll be dead before you see my face. Do you understand?”

  Fearing his voice would fail him, Abel decided to nod in reply. The pressure of the hand on his neck relaxed, and he was nudged toward the café. Abel’s knees were weak, and he staggered a bit. It was three steps to the curb where he stopped and started to check for traffic. He abruptly checked himself, fearing that the man would think he was trying to turn around. Moving only his eyes, he looked in each direction like an accident victim wearing a neck brace. When it was clear, he stepped off the curb. His stride was almost robotic as he crossed the street. In his mind he started going over all his movements since he’d left his hotel. The man knew he’d purchased the card and the pen, for Christ’s sake, and his English was perfect. Petrov had said the man and woman were French. Could there be a third person? Abel did not like to be so caught off guard. These two were either really good, or he was getting really sloppy.

  13

  H e approached the table, his le
gs still unsteady. The attractive brunette looked up at him from behind her dark glasses, and asked, “Ça t’amuse de faire attendre les gens?” Do you like to keep people waiting?

  Abel cleared his throat and tried to look relaxed. “J’ai eu un contretemps.” Something came up.

  “Really,” she said in a doubting tone. “Like standing across the street pretending to read a magazine?”

  “I was merely trying to be cautious.” Abel wondered how in the hell they knew what he looked like.

  “Not cautious enough.” She tilted her head. “I noticed you met my business associate.”

  Abel glanced back at the newsstand. The corner wasn’t crowded, but neither was it empty. People were coming and going in all four directions, but no one was standing there looking back at them. Abel was still a bit off kilter, and all he could manage to say was, “So that was your partner.”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “He’s a rather resourceful man. Not the type of person you want to upset.”

  Abel recalled the man’s hot breath on his neck, and he suppressed a shiver. He composed himself and gestured toward the chair with the umbrella on it. “May I sit?”

  “By all means.” She grabbed the umbrella and hooked it to her arm rest. She did not bother to introduce herself. If they agreed to proceed to the next step she would provide him with an alias.

  In an effort to lighten the mood, and get beyond his own professional embarrassment, Abel said, “I apologize for making you wait, but I am always a bit jumpy during these initial meetings.”

  “You do this type of thing often?”

  The dark sunglasses made it impossible to get a complete idea of the woman’s face, which he supposed was intended. “Often enough, but I have a short list of contractors that I usually use.”

  “If you have other skilled people, why are you talking to me?”

  The waiter approached before he could answer. Abel ordered a cup of coffee and when the waiter was gone he said, “My services have been retained by someone who would like a problem to go away. A very interesting problem. One that I’m not sure I’m comfortable using any of my ordinary contacts on.”

  She studied him from behind her one-way glasses. “If things don’t go as planned, you don’t want anyone tracing the job back to you?”

  She was a smart woman. Abel conceded the point saying, “That is part of it.”

  “And the other part?”

  Abel put on a humble face. “Some jobs require nothing more than brute force. I have many people who fit this profile, and to be honest, I do not enjoy doing business with any of them. Other jobs require a bit of cunning and deceit.” Abel shrugged. “I have a few people who aren’t so rough around the edges and are competent enough. Still other jobs require a true professional. Someone who is creative with solutions and adept with follow-through. I have maybe one man who I would put in this category.”

  “So why not use him?”

  The waiter appeared with the fresh cup of coffee. Abel held his answer until they were alone again. “I considered it, but in the end I decided there was one limitation that might prevent him from succeeding.”

  “What, may I ask, is that?”

  There was a line that Abel had predetermined he would not cross. This bit of information fell just shy of that line. “We are nearing a juncture in our conversation that I like to refer to as ‘the point of no return.’ ”

  She nodded, but offered nothing more.

  “I will answer this one question, and then it is my turn to do some asking.”

  “You may ask all you’d like.” She pushed her chair back slightly and recrossed her legs.

  “Some jobs require that nothing is left to chance. This is one of those jobs, and whoever takes it must be fluent in English. My man is not, and I feel that this could be a potential problem either before or after the job.”

  “Is your target British or American?”

  Abel ignored her question, and instead asked, “Can your partner speak in both the British and American dialects?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now I would like to go over your résumé.”

  She put her hand up to stop him. “Before you go any further, I need to lay down a few rules. First, no heads of state. We don’t care how much money you’re willing to pay. We have no desire to spend the rest of our lives living under a rock. Second, we will set the terms and conditions. You will have nothing to say, operationally speaking. The only thing we will allow you to do is set a deadline.”

  “And pay you, of course.” Abel smiled.

  She smiled back. “Of course.”

  Abel was struck by how beautiful her smile was. He desperately wanted to reach out and take her sunglasses off so he could complete the picture. “Now, on to your résumé.”

  “I forgot the last point, and I doubt you will like it.” She folded her arms across her chest. “We reserve the right to back out at any time prior to the deadline. You will of course receive a full refund with the exception of the hundred-thousand-dollar retainer that you have already paid.”

  Abel kept his cool even though his German temper was bubbling up just beneath the surface. “I have never heard of such a preposterous thing.”

  “I’m afraid those are our conditions.”

  “You cannot conduct business this way.” Abel pushed his cup and saucer away. “I have proceeded in very good faith. I have paid an obscene retainer for which I have received nothing in return other than a list of your conditions. I need to be protected just as badly as you do, and I must tell you that if you insist on being so one-sided in this negotiation I will be forced to look elsewhere.”

  “Herr Abel,” she began, “you can look all you want, but if you need something done in Britain or America, you need to look no further.” She opened her purse and fished out a cigarette. “We are not in the business of sharing secrets. We are a fee-for-hire service and our reputation is everything.” She lit the cigarette and pointed it at him. “Things come up in this line of work. Unexpected things that we cannot control. A true professional knows when to walk away. I can guarantee that we will do everything possible to fulfill the contract, but in the end, if we decide to walk away, that will be the end of it. You will get your money back, and we will take your secret to our graves.”

  Nothing was going as he’d planned. These two had done their homework. They had allowed him to think he was the smarter man and then they had knocked him off balance and set the entire tone. He was the one supposed to be doing the interviewing, not them. As much as he wanted to stay and continue chatting with this lovely woman he needed to show at least one sign of strength.

  Abel pushed his chair back and stood. “I am sorry we have wasted each other’s time. The fee you stood to earn was extremely large.” He extended his hand more in hopes that he could touch her skin than as a courtesy. She did the same, and he held her hand delicately. “If you decide to be more flexible in your negotiations, I will reconsider doing business with you.” He gave her a curt bow and left.

  A BLOCK AWAY a man stood leaning against his motorbike pretending to read a copy of 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.

  Finally, her voice asked, “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 so
ng replete with Jamaican accent. Once the German had passed 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.

  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 Mitchell 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 massive heart attack and left behind a relatively young wife and two kids: Mitch and his younger brother, Steven.