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
T he 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. H
e 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.”
51
CIA SAFE HOUSE, VIRGINIA
P hysical injury and mental anguish brought with them uniquely different problems. Individually, each can cripple. A physical injury immobilizes a person, whereas psychological trauma incapacitates by inflicting fear or taking away an individual’s desire to live. Separately, they are bad enough, but together they are almost always devastating. The last two days had been the worst of Rapp’s life. His mind bounced back and forth between overwhelming despair and vengeful rage. As much as he wanted to leave the house and begin the hunt he was unsure of himself. Physically, he needed to recuperate, mentally he was a basket case. Having spent years in the field operating by himself, Rapp was a master at self-assessment. The searing hatred that he felt toward whoever was responsible for Anna’s death would drive him to do whatever it took to find the culprits, and while Rapp understood the importance of motivation, he also understood the danger of being overly zealous. It caused people to take foolish risks that did not match the rewards. He would have to be smart about this. There would be times when extreme violence would be needed, but there would also be moments when he would need to be careful and judicious.
His body would heal soon enough. It had before and from worse injuries, but it was his mind that was the chief concern. Never before had he been so frightened to be alone with his thoughts. The black bottomless hole that his life had become was terrifying. He had done and seen terrible things, but nothing had so thoroughly unhinged him as the murder of his wife. It had gotten so bad that he actually asked to be given sedatives. It was the only way to turn off his mind and escape the horror of her death and the unending what-ifs.
But when he awoke it all came flooding back. The emotions had raged back and forth between hatred and complete despair. One moment he was swearing to himself that nothing would stop him from avenging her death and making the bastards pay, and the next moment he was curled up in a ball longing to touch her face one more time. And then came the inevitable—he blamed himself for her death. It was this lack of emotional steadiness, the ability to remove himself from the situation and think about the dilemma logically, that gave him great concern. If he couldn’t get control of his emotions, he would fail.
Failure was unacceptable. The thought of them getting away with it, the knowledge that the longer he stayed cooped up in this room, the more likely it was that the killers would simply disappear, was what stopped his descent into darkness and depression. Ultimately, though, it was the thought of how pathetic he must look, curled up in a ball sobbing, that forced him to throw back the blankets, ignore the aches and pains, and swing his feet onto the floor.
As soon as he was upright a stabbing pain hit him in the temple and he realized it was the sedatives. It was time to take a complete physical inventory. He was wearing a pair of pajama shorts. He briefly wondered where they’d come from and then it occurred to him that he no longer had any clothes. The house, the car, all of his possessions, they were gone. He assumed even S
hirley, his dog, had gone up in the explosion. Compared to the loss of Anna it was all trivial. He looked down at his leg and examined the deep purple bruise on his right thigh and then the small surgical marks on his left knee. The thigh looked far worse than the knee. His broken right arm felt fine, but his ribs were tender. He pushed himself off the bed and stood. The first step was more of a shuffle. His left knee was stronger than he would have thought. There was a robe on the back of the door and he hobbled over and grabbed it.
He made his way downstairs slowly, and in the process realized that his right leg was definitely in worse shape than his left. He paused near the front door and looked out the side window. The sky was gray and there wasn’t a person in sight. There was a mirror on the wall and he stopped to look at his reflection. His thick black hair was unkempt, and his face was covered with stubble. The entire house felt unusually quiet. Rapp, so used to being alone, suddenly felt the need to be around people. He wanted information. He wanted to know what was going on. He shuffled his way down the hall to the kitchen. His legs were beginning to work better. The smell of coffee caught his attention. The clock on the microwave told him it was 9:53 in the morning. He found a mug in the cupboard and poured himself a cup.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rapp caught some movement. He shuffled over to the sink and looked out the window. Two people were sitting at a table on the patio. It was Irene Kennedy and her eight-year-old boy, Tommy. Tommy was slouched in his chair looking bored, kicking his leg up and down. Irene was talking on her phone. Rapp took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. Tommy was like a nephew to him. The boy adored Anna. Rapp suddenly felt both foolish and selfish for thinking only of himself. Anna would be missed by a lot of people.
Rapp set his coffee down and made his way over to the door. He twisted the handle and pulled. The door didn’t budge. Rapp remembered he was in a secure CIA facility. Just like his house, the door jambs were reinforced and reversed so they only opened out. He pushed the door open and stepped carefully onto the brick patio. He pulled at the knot on his robe and slowly made his way over to them. Tommy noticed him and stopped fidgeting. He sat up straight and appeared hesitant. Kennedy turned around and told whoever she was talking to that she had to go. Rapp noticed movement on both his right and left and turned in each direction. Two of Kennedy’s bodyguards were standing post. Rapp made it to the table and little Tommy stood. His eyes were already welling with tears. Rapp opened his arms and the boy buried his face in Rapp’s stomach.