More than a decade and a half later, Abel got that same feeling when he visited Saudi Arabia. Change was afoot, and there was no stopping it. It wasn’t whether it would happen or not, it was a matter of when. The hugely uneven distribution of wealth itself was forcing the country toward a boiling point. Add to that the supercharged religious component and Abel was willing to bet his life that Saudi Arabia was headed for serious upheaval.
The worldwide economic implications of such an event were staggering. Change for most people was stressful, but for Abel, it presented opportunity. He’d already made millions, but at forty-seven he had grander plans still, and large multinational corporations, international banks, investment houses, commodities firms, and even a few governments were listening to him this time. They were all paying him adequately for his services, but that wasn’t enough for a man like Abel. Like a true German he believed one must always strive for efficiency and perfection in order to obtain complete self-realization. He’d built into all of his consulting contracts large bonuses that were contingent on his global predictions coming to pass. Some of those contracts were due to expire in the coming year, and Abel didn’t like the idea of being right, but late. The revolution was going to take place. It was inevitable. He might as well profit from it.
Abel stopped in front of Abdullah Telecommunications and stared up at the benign, monolithic six-story building. As someone who grew up in Leipzig, a city famous for its Renaissance architecture, Abel couldn’t have been more unimpressed. As much as the former spy tried to embrace the Saudi culture, its architecture was one thing that as far as he was concerned had no redeeming value whatsoever.
After checking with the man behind the large block of stone that fronted for a reception desk, Abel was told politely to wait. No more than thirty seconds later a very anxious man exited an elevator and walked stiffly and quickly across the lobby. The man extended his hand, and in English presented himself as one of Abdullah Telecommunications’ senior vice presidents.
Knowing how Arab businesses worked, Abel was unimpressed with the title. A company like this was likely to have dozens if not hundreds of senior vice presidents—almost all of them related somehow to the main man, Saeed Ahmed Abdullah. They all collected sizable checks, maintained generous offices, and with the exception of a handful of Abdullah’s most talented relatives, stayed out of the way of the Western consultants who ran the company’s day-to-day operations. Abel and his escort took the elevator to the top floor, where Abel was walked through three separate sets of gold-plated doors. He was reverently deposited in a room that oozed Arab masculinity.
The mahogany-paneled walls were covered with the heads of exotic animals. In the center of the room, no more than ten feet away, a spotted leopard was staring him down with his glass eyes. The beast was mounted in a permanent state of agitation, which was conveyed through a snarl that fully exposed the deceased animal’s jagged teeth. A large oil painting of a desert landscape hung above the granite mantelpiece of a fireplace that Abel assumed was never used. The entire room was intended to convey virility and strength. That was obvious. How far Abel should read into all of this he was not sure. Some of these Arab men used such decorations as a way to make their position in the pecking order crystal clear, while others did nothing more than pay an overpriced French interior decorator to do what he’d done for some other member of the royal family. They were not big on original thought or content.
A door at the far end of the room opened. Abel turned to see an older man dressed in traditional fashion come striding in. There was a look of tension on his face. Abel met him halfway, by the sneering feline.
“I am Saeed Ahmed Abdullah.” The right hand was extended.
Abel was not surprised to hear the man speak English. It was the language of business in the Kingdom. “I am Erich Abel.” The German took Saeed’s hand. “Prince Muhammad asked me to come see you. He tells me the two of you are very dear old friends.”
“We have known each other since the age of nine.” Saeed gestured for his guest to sit. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Coffee would be fine, please.” Abel sat on one of the long couches.
Saeed pressed a button on the nearby phone, rattled off instructions in Arabic, and then sat on a different couch. Almost immediately, a service cart was wheeled into the room by two Indonesian men in crisp white jackets. They served coffee and left small plates of delicious-looking pastries in front of each man, then vanished as silently as they’d entered.
“Prince Muhammad has been a very good friend to me.” Saeed took a sip of coffee. “I think he has been treated unfairly by his brother the king.”
Abel immediately thought the man a bit reckless for offering such a frank opinion to a stranger. Always cautious he replied, “I have great respect for Prince Muhammad.”
Saeed reached for a pastry and then decided against it. “Did he explain to you my tragedy?”
It was obvious to Abel that his host was very anxious. “No, he merely told me that you were a dear friend, and he would consider it a favor if I would see you.”
Saeed clasped his hands together and looked up at the painting of the landscape.
Abel took a sip of his coffee and then set it down. “Mr. Abdullah, let me be blunt. I am not a squeamish man. I doubt that you could shock me. Tell me why you seek my services, and I’m sure we’ll be able to come to an agreement.”
Saeed looked the German in the eyes and said, “I want a man killed.”
Abel nodded casually, signaling that the request did not surprise him. “And who is this man that you would like eliminated?” he asked as he reached for his coffee.
“He is an American.”
Abel took a sip of the rich coffee as his interest increased. “Continue.”
“He works for their government.”
The plot thickens, Abel thought to himself. “His name?”
Abel noted sweat on Abdullah’s forehead as he waited for the answer.
“Mitch Rapp is his name.”
Abel stopped in mid-sip, and carefully placed his cup back on its saucer lest his host notice his hand beginning to shake. “Mitch Rapp,” he said coolly.
“Have you heard of him?”
“I’m afraid so. I doubt there is anyone in my line of work who hasn’t.”
Impatient and nervous, Abdullah gave him no time to think. “So will you take the job?”
Abel could feel the pace of his heart begin to race. He held up a hand. “Slow down, Mr. Abdullah. To kill a man like Mitch Rapp is no small undertaking. There are many things to discuss. Many details to work out, and even then I am not so sure I would be willing to take the job.”
“Is it your fee? Tell me what you would demand for such a job. Let us begin to negotiate.”
Abel dug his right thumb into his left palm in an attempt at self-acupuncture. A man was a man after all, and with enough preparation anyone could be killed. “It would be very expensive.”
Saeed leaned over and pressed the intercom button. He said something quickly in Arabic and a moment later two unusually large Saudis entered the room carrying large black briefcases. The men set four cases on the table facing the German, opened them, and left the room.
“Five million dollars cash upon accepting the job. Five million more when you complete it.”
Abel stared at the money, increased the pressure on his palm, and began running all the permutations through his mind. In mere seconds he concluded that it would be difficult, but not impossible. Someone else would of course do the heavy lifting. The details could and would be worked out later, so his mind settled on the fee. He’d been involved in contract killings before, but had never heard of a ten-million-dollar fee. Rapp had done something personal to Abdullah, that was obvious. It was difficult to measure the wealth of these Saudis, but as best he could figure, Abdullah was worth in excess of two billion dollars. Ten million dollars was play money.
He knew there was no turning back from s
omething like this, and as crazy as it sounded he had no desire to. To kill a man like Mitch Rapp would be the ultimate statement of tradecraft. Suddenly almost euphoric with excitement over the prospect of such notoriety, Abel decided he would take the job, but first he would work on the already ample fee.
“Contract kills in America are a very difficult thing these days, and to go after someone like Mitch Rapp presents an entirely unique set of problems.”
“Name your fee, Mr. Abel,” the Arab said calmly.
“Twenty million dollars. Ten now…ten on completion.”
Abdullah stuck out his hand. “Twenty million dollars.”
Abel shook the man’s hand. “We have a deal.”
“How long will it take?”
“I will get to work on it immediately, but I wouldn’t expect any results for at least a month.”
“As soon as possible, Mr. Abel,” the Arab said in a dire voice.
His hatred of Mitch Rapp was palpable. “Do you mind my asking, Mr. Abdullah, what Mr. Rapp has done to cause you such obvious pain?”
“He killed my son.”
Of course he did, the German thought. Of course he did.
6
WASHINGTON, DC
R app called them at the appointed time, and told them he was across the street. This seemed to both unsettle and irritate them, which was just fine with Rapp. The most difficult part had been deciding to sit down with them in the first place, and then there was trying to find a place they could all agree on. They wanted him to come to one of their offices. They were the type of men who were used to getting their way, and on top of that Rapp trusted neither of them, so he flat-out told them no. They wanted the meeting which meant he would set the conditions, and the sooner he got it over with the better. This was a favor to Kennedy and nothing else.
It took little imagination to envision at least one of them trying to record the conversation. People bugging each other was a fact of life in Washington, DC. The problem for Rapp was that he no longer trusted what little tact he had left. He’d grown so callous, he was capable of saying anything. The one man, he was ambivalent about, the other, he despised. With nothing to lose, Rapp knew the odds of things getting heated were better than even. In truth, the thought of getting a few things off his chest was what appealed most to him. That was more of an afterthought, though. The real reason he had agreed to meet these men was Kennedy. He’d called her first thing on Sunday morning and left her a message. The problem was no longer a problem. Nothing more specific than that.
As of Sunday morning there had been no news of Khalil’s body. That was Sunday, however, and today was Monday. The story was everywhere now, and Kennedy wasn’t happy. There wasn’t much she could do though, until he was standing in front of her in her spacious corner office in Langley. Things like this were not discussed on the phone no matter how secure you thought your lines of communication were. So in an effort to forestall that confrontation, and hopefully give her some time to cool down, he had called up the two men she wanted him to meet with, and here he was in a part of town that he rarely visited, getting ready to meet with two men he had no respect for.
There was very little, if anything, that was soft about Rapp. His angular jaw was set in a very determined way and his dark brown eyes could portray a frightening intensity. They were the type of eyes that missed nothing, and revealed, only to those alert enough, that the man behind them was extremely dangerous. His jet black hair was starting to gray a touch at the temples, and his face was lined with a ruggedness that came from spending long hours outdoors exposed to the elements. A thin scar ran down his left cheek and along his jaw, a constant reminder of the dangers of his trade. He stood six feet tall and weighed 185 pounds—almost all of it solid muscle. He possessed the rare combination of strength and quickness that was usually reserved for strong safeties in the NFL, but instead belonged to a cunning and calculating killer.
Rapp had no problem admitting it, even if those around him didn’t want to. Contrary to what many might think, he slept like a baby. What he did was not complicated. He killed terrorists, plain and simple. Men who had either slaughtered innocent civilians, or had very publicly sworn to do so. It was not a job he had sought. He did not grow up pulling the wings off butterflies or torturing kittens. His life had been family, school, friends, lacrosse, football, and a suburban smattering of religion, which meant they went to church twice a year—Christmas and Easter. The thought of killing someone had never entered his mind until Pan Am Flight 103 was blown out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland. On that cold morning 259 innocent souls had perished, thirty-five of whom were fellow Syracuse University students, and one of whom was the love of Rapp’s life. Shortly after that, and unknown to him, his recruitment into this mysterious and treacherous world of international espionage had begun.
Rapp was dressed in a gray flannel suit, white shirt, and striped tie, all of which his wife had picked out for him. As always, he was armed. Rapp had gone over the room thoroughly with his BlackBerry. The small device doubled as a mobile phone and Internet browser. In addition to that, the Science and Technology people at Langley had retrofitted the small black box to detect and scramble listening devices. The eight-by-twelve-
foot room was clean. Rapp sat in one of the six wooden chairs, put his feet up on the table, and clasped his hands behind his head.
The two men arrived five minutes late, which was good since Rapp had told them he would wait no more than ten minutes past the appointed hour. Upon hearing the door handle turn, Rapp rose and casually slid his left hand under the fold of his suit coat. To the untrained eye, it looked as if he was smoothing his tie. The move was reflexive in nature and not done out of fear. In his line of work you never knew who was coming through the door, and it was much easier to draw a gun standing than sitting.
The two men were an unusual pair. One tall and bone-thin, with a hawkish nose, the other short and round, with the nose of a boxer who had lost one too many fights, which according to his bio, Rapp knew to be the case. Senator Bill Walsh was six and a half feet tall and hailed from Idaho. He was the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. It was Rapp’s guess that it was he who had requested this meeting. Though infinitely more appealing than the other man in his demeanor, he was also very difficult to get a good read on. His companion was Senator Carl Hartsburg of New Jersey. Barely five eight, Hartsburg grew up in Hoboken, where at one point he was the local Golden Gloves champ. The story on him was that he wasn’t that great a fighter, but he could really take a beating, hence the missing cartilage in his nose. Both men were in their mid-sixties, almost thirty years Rapp’s seniors.
Hartsburg spoke first and a bit testily. “The Congressional Library. We could have just as easily met across the street in my office.”
Rapp had picked one of the many study/meeting rooms at the Congressional Library on Capitol Hill.
“Neutral turf is more appealing,” replied Rapp.
Walsh extended his hand. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us.”
Rapp shook Walsh’s hand and when he was done didn’t bother to extend it to the surly Hartsburg, who returned the favor. After taking a seat, Rapp pressed a series of buttons on his BlackBerry before laying it flat on the table.
Hartsburg looked at the device. “What in the hell is that for?”
“To make sure you’re not recording me.”
“A jamming device?”
Rapp nodded.
“Good,” Hartsburg growled, “because I can tell you right now the last thing I want is a record of this meeting.” Under his breath he added, “I’m not even sure I wanted this meeting period.”
Rapp folded his arms across his chest and studied the senator, wondering if his grumpy mood was real or an act. Turning to Walsh, he asked, “So why in the world would two big shots such as yourselves want to meet with someone like me?”
Hartsburg frowned and said, “I keep asking myself the same question.”
&n
bsp; “Carl,” Walsh said in a disapproving tone to his colleague. Looking across the table at the no-nonsense Rapp, he cut to the chase. “We are concerned, Mitch…concerned that with all of this rhetoric, and the expansion of Homeland Security and the new director of National Intelligence, that we’re not doing enough to protect America.”
“You won’t get any arguments from me.”
“We didn’t think so. That’s why we wanted to meet with you.” Walsh flattened his palms on the table and hesitated. “What is your frank opinion on the restructuring of the intelligence community, and the creation of the new director of National Intelligence?”
Rapp took a moment to gauge the sincerity of the senator’s question. He doubted they were going to get an honest answer from anyone else so he said, “I think it’s a misguided, ill-conceived, overreaction brought on by a bunch of politicians who are in a hurry to act like they’re doing something…anything…so that when the next attack comes they can say they did everything in their power to stop it, when in reality all they did was get in the way of the people who were really defending the country.”
Hartsburg scoffed, “You think it’s easy…our job?”
“Easy doesn’t factor into it for me, Senator. I’m talking about right and wrong.”
“Well, I’d like to see you go on national television and stand up to pressure from groups like the 9/11 widows. See how far you get with your black-and-white attitude.” Hartsburg wagged an accusatory finger at Rapp. “The press would eat you alive.”