The Survivor (23 page)

It was one of the reasons Isabella had formed such a strong bond with her daughter. Bianca was everything to her. Probably too much. One day soon she’d be an adult and leave. She’d start her own life. Her own family.

For now, though, they were together. And she was safe.

“Is it something at work?” Bianca probed. “You didn’t lose your job, did you? At the Christmas party, Mr. Cipriani said the firm couldn’t run without you. I heard him.”

She’d been prepared for the subject of work to come up and didn’t let the weak trickle of adrenaline show as she accelerated onto a two-lane highway. “My job’s fine. Stop worrying. Everything’s fine.”

“No it’s not.”

Isabella tried to smile, but it came off as more of a grimace. She’d done everything the man had asked—wiping all trace of the anonymous client from the mainframe. There was nothing she could do
about the original copy of the instructions in the attorney’s office and the man appeared to understand that. He hadn’t seemed angry.

How could she be certain, though? Who was he? Why had these files been so important to him? He was well dressed and looked Arab or Indian but beyond that she knew nothing about him. Was he a drug trafficker? Did this have something to do with the heroin she knew was produced in the Middle East? If so, what business was it of hers? People wanted heroin. There was no stopping it.

“Where are we going, Mom? Home?”

She nodded. “So we can change. I thought we’d go out to dinner tonight. How does La Stiva sound?”

It was Bianca’s favorite restaurant, but money had been tight for the past few years and they never went anymore. The budget was hard on her—young girls needed to fit in and that had become an expensive enterprise. She never complained, though.

“It sounds great, I guess. But what’s the occasion?”

Isabella almost started crying again but managed to maintain control. The occasion was that her daughter hadn’t been murdered.

“You’re going to be a woman soon and we might not have time to spend together then,” she said, her voice sounding slightly strangled. “I thought it would be nice. We can talk.”

Bianca didn’t look like she believed any of what she was being told but realized she wasn’t going to get any more out of her mother on the drive. No doubt she was scheduling a full interrogation for after a bottle of wine had been opened.

They continued in silence and Isabella felt doubt creeping in. Was the Arab man really gone or would he come back for something else? Was it possible that he wasn’t a drug dealer? Could he be a terrorist? Was she putting people in danger by not going to the police?

Ahead, she saw a semitruck approaching in the oncoming lane. It started to swerve, almost rocking up on two wheels as its load of concrete pipes shifted. Isabella slammed on her brakes and threw an arm instinctively in front of her daughter as the truck crossed into the lane in front of them.

N
EAR
L
AKE
C
ONSTANCE

S
WITZERLAND

W
E’RE
clear,” Wicker said, motioning the team forward and starting to run again.

Mitch Rapp released the tree he was using for balance and lurched forward, falling in behind Scott Coleman. His knee felt like it was full of glass and most of his right side had gone numb. Despite that and a number of offers of help, he’d carried Hurley’s body the entire way by himself. He had been in command when his friend was killed. It was his responsibility to get him out.

They finally stopped where the stream took a hard bend, creating a deep pool that shimmered almost black in the late afternoon sun. Joe Maslick dropped to his stomach next to it, reaching down into the water.

“Got them.”

He pulled out two large dry bags while the rest of the men peeled off their packs. Rapp nearly fell trying to get Hurley off his shoulder and dropped the man’s body unceremoniously into a pile of rocks.

“Scott,” Maslick said, throwing a duct tape–wrapped package to Coleman. He reached back into the bag and retrieved another, almost identical package. “This is you, Bruno.”

Rapp stripped and dove into the water as Maslick pulled out the bundle meant for Stan. A body bag.

The sudden cold and darkness was strangely comforting, and he stayed under for longer than he should have, reveling in the stillness. When he and Anna lived near the Chesapeake, he swam almost every day. It was one of the many little pleasures from his past that had fallen away.

When he surfaced, his men were cutting open their packages. Business suits, uniforms, and jogging clothes appeared along with wallets full of carefully forged documents. All the things necessary to separate and disappear.

Coleman tore the tape off the package meant for Rapp and tossed him a bar of abrasive soap. He caught it and used it to wash away the dried blood that covered most of his body. Wicker was the first dressed, and he collected everyone’s discarded clothing, stuffing it into the dry bags. When he was finished, he headed for the road without a word.

Decked out in running clothes, he would do another ten miles on the shoulder before he got to the car waiting for him. It was a lightly traveled thoroughfare and having all of them drive out at one time could raise suspicion. Staggering the time and method of escape was more critical than getting out fast.

Rapp dunked under again, struggling to get his matted hair clean as Bruno McGraw slipped away in a tailored business suit. When Rapp resurfaced, Coleman was wearing a FedEx uniform beneath an apron and elbow-length rubber gloves. The ease and speed with which he got Hurley into the body bag was a testament to how much practice they all had in such things.

Rapp climbed onto the bank and toweled off, dressing in the jeans, collared shirt, and leather jacket laid out for him on a rock. It felt uncomfortable not to have a weapon, but his Glock was tucked away in the dry bags with the rest of the team’s gear. In light of the recent fireworks, running into a roadblock was fairly likely and carrying a gun was too much of a risk.

“We’re ready,” Coleman said. Everything, including Hurley, had
been consolidated into backpacks or bags and was piled up at the west end of the clearing.

Rapp glanced at his watch and picked up two of the packs. “Six minutes.”

They needed to ferry all of it to the edge of the road, where a van would pick it up.

“Mitch?” Coleman said, pointing to the side of his nose. “You missed a spot.”

Rapp wiped at his face and his fingers came back streaked with blood.

“Okay,” Coleman said. “You’re good.”

They managed to get everything moved in just over five minutes. Another thirty seconds passed before they heard an engine approaching from the south. The FedEx delivery truck slowed and pulled into a narrow indention in the trees just as the second hand on Rapp’s watch hit twelve. Next time he was in need of this kind of logistical support, Maria Glauser would be on his short list.

The driver opened the rear doors from inside, revealing boxes stacked floor to ceiling and a hatch open in the false floor. Rapp and Coleman grabbed the body bag first, sliding it inside the space that had been intended for a drugged Leo Obrecht. The driver helped them load the rest of the gear and then closed the well-disguised access door. After another thirty seconds of arranging boxes on top of it, Rapp retreated into the trees and watched the truck accelerate up the road with Coleman in the passenger seat. His blond hair and flawless German would minimize questions if they were stopped.

Rapp started walking south, paralleling the road. The slow pace felt odd, but he was wearing slick dress shoes and drenching himself in sweat wouldn’t do much to enhance his cover.

At fifteen minutes, he drifted closer to the road. Once again, Glauser was right on time. He stepped onto the shoulder, and she slowed just long enough for him to jump into the passenger seat.

He immediately leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to let his mind go blank. When he got back to Langley, it was going to be like a
bomb going off. What he needed now was a few minutes to clear his head.

“Are you all right?”

Normally, he would have ignored the question, but Glauser’s voice was shaking badly enough that even a half-deaf cop would pick up on it.

“Relax, Maria. You did great. It’s almost over.”

“I was told I’d have to move some people and equipment,” she said, the words tumbling breathlessly from her mouth. “You don’t transport people in body bags. You transport bodies in them. And were those Gatling guns? They sounded like Gatling guns! I blew up a house. A house! Then I had people call the police and lie about it.”

Clearly the subject wasn’t going to die on its own. “We told you about the house, Maria.”

“You said it was a last resort.”

“It was. Now take me to the airport.”

“The airport? We’re supposed to rendezvous with your people at—”

“Plans have changed.”

“But Director Kennedy said—”

“Airport, Maria. And don’t talk anymore until we get there, okay?”

ISI H
EADQUARTERS

I
SLAMABAD

P
AKISTAN

K
ABIR
Gadai knocked quietly and then entered the ISI director’s office. He found Taj sitting at his desk staring at an empty wall. The younger man stopped immediately, leaving as much space between them as the office would allow. Taj’s anger had clearly defined levels, and his deathly stillness was a sign of the last: a rage so intense that it couldn’t be processed. Gadai had seen him like this only once before and it had ended with seven men from the S Wing being summarily executed along with their families.

Thank Allah he was there to report good news. He had to assume that Taj’s anger was the result of the Obrecht operation, which had been carried out during Gadai’s time in Rome. The question was whether the prudent course was to inquire about it or to ignore the subject entirely.

“Things went extremely well with Isabella Accorso,” Gadai said, keeping his tone submissive. “Just as you planned.”

Taj’s eyes remained fixed and his body motionless. It was impossible that he hadn’t heard. Gadai began to wonder if he had done something to displease the ISI director. He racked his brain but could come
up with nothing. It mattered little, though. Only what Taj believed was of importance.

The silence stretched out long enough that Gadai could no longer endure it. No one knew for certain what had happened to Taj’s previous assistant. The man’s broken body was found by people scavenging a trash heap and his death had been quickly deemed an accident. Of what type no one had ever attempted to determine.

If that was to be his fate, it would be better to find out quickly—-to have an opportunity to defend himself before Taj’s anger grew further. And, if necessary, to beg for mercy for his sons.

“The Obrecht operation, sir? I trust it met with similar success?”

Taj’s eyes flickered and Gadai resisted an urge to step back, knowing that the wall behind him would prevent it.

“Obrecht is dead,” Taj said finally. “Rapp is not.”

Gadai didn’t let his relief show. He’d had no hand in planning that operation and in fact had pointed out its numerous potential pitfalls.

The ISI was in the business of knowing everything there was to know about Mitch Rapp. Its files were likely more extensive than those at any other intelligence agency in the world, including the CIA. What those files described was a man who had walked away from certain death on countless occasions, each time leaving in his wake the bodies of men who believed themselves to be assured of victory.

“And Gould?” Gadai prompted gently.

“Also dead.”

Gadai nodded. He also had warned against the killing of Abdul Qayem. While it was true that the Afghan general knew far too much to be allowed to fall into the hands of the CIA, it was also true that his death had left the ISI with no obvious path to Mitch Rapp. Qayem could have been used to bait a trap deployed on terrain they controlled: Quetta, North Waziristan, or any of a number of sites in Afghanistan. Rapp could have been isolated and pitted against an overwhelming force.

Of course, pointing this out would be unwise to the extreme. Better to accentuate the positive.

“Gould and Obrecht were loose ends that we would have been
forced to deal with sooner than later, Ahmed. Rapp has done our work for us while allowing us to remain in the shadows. And, in the end, he is only one man.”

That caused Taj to spin toward him. “
I
am only one man, Kabir. Sometimes one man is all it takes to change the order of things.”

“I hardly think it’s a fair comparison,” Gadai said. “Mitch Rapp is a simple enforcer constrained by a dysfunctional and cowardly government. You are a brilliant man who will soon lead one of the most powerful countries in the world.”

“Don’t patronize me, Kabir. I know what you’re thinking. Qayem.”

“Not at all,” Gadai lied smoothly. “In light of Rapp’s escape from Switzerland, it’s clear that you were right. The risks of leaving the general alive were too great.”

Taj’s eyes narrowed, but thankfully he chose not to pursue the subject. “I understand you have Rickman’s files.”

“Yes, sir. And they’ve been wiped from the law firm’s system.”

“Including the backups?”

“Absolutely.”

“The woman?”

“She and her daughter are both dead. The authorities are treating it as an accident. No criminal investigation has been initiated and none is planned, according to our sources.”

He nodded and seemed to relax a bit. Rapp’s survival was undoubtedly dangerous, but with the Rickman files in their possession, the assassin could be neutralized. Without the support of the American president and the CIA infrastructure, he would become less than nothing.

“Have you been able to access the information?” Taj asked, though he almost certainly knew the answer to the question.

“They’re encrypted.”

“You didn’t get the key from the law firm?”

“They didn’t have it. But the instructions for the files’ dissemination weren’t encrypted. In fact, the next release is scheduled for tomorrow. Our people think that this is the path to accessing the information.”