Consent to Kill (30 page)

“Irene,” said Ross as he looked at Prince Muhammad, “he is in certain ways the most powerful man in Saudi Arabia.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Kennedy reluctantly agreed. “And what a shame,” she added under her breath. Ross was too busy looking above the crowd to hear her, but Jonathan Gordon laughed softly. Kennedy turned to look at him.

“Prince Muhammad does not strike me as someone who is very receptive to change.”

Ross left them to go shake hands with someone.

“He’s a dyed in-the-wool Wahhabi. Change is not in their lexicon.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him, but he thinks his personality can win anyone over.”

Kennedy knew the type. The best politicians were all that way. They honestly believed in their personal power of persuasion. These were the men and women who never stopped campaigning. Every dry cleaner, bar, and café they stopped in, every golf outing and fund raiser they hit, they shook hands, smiled, remembered an amazing number of names and convinced people through nothing more than their personality that they were likable. These men and women excelled in politics. They were willing to make concessions and be flexible so others thought them reasonable. On the international stage, though, these types got taken to the cleaners. Neville Chamberlain, the British prime minister at the onset of WWII, was the classic modern example. He had met Hitler, looked him in the eye, made him laugh, and concluded that he was a decent chap despite the evidence to the contrary that had been provided by the British intelligence services. Hitler took Chamberlain for a fool and played him through the occupation of Austria, the invasion of Poland, and right on up to the invasion of France. Somehow Hitler had been able to resist the irresistible charm of Chamberlain.

Kennedy had dealt with Prince Muhammad in the wake of 9/11. Her station chief in Riyadh as well as her counterparts in Britain, Germany, France, Israel, and Jordan all came to the same conclusion about him. While they couldn’t prove that he knowingly provided money to al-Qaeda and other terrorist organizations, they did know that he had given more than twenty million dollars to charities that were linked to terrorist organizations. Across the board the intelligence chiefs agreed that Muhammad was far too cozy with the religious extremists in Saudi Arabia to be trusted to run the Kingdom’s intelligence services. The leaders of America, Britain, France, and Germany all convinced the king to move his half brother to a different position on his council of ministers. The official Saudi position was that Mohammad was quite chastened over the whole thing. Unofficially, Kennedy had heard that Mohammad did not go quietly.

Kennedy watched Ross work his way across the room. Prince Mohammad had decided to eschew the diplomatic receiving line, a major breach in protocol, and something that was sure to be noted by all. He instead went straight for Ross, who was roughly in the middle of the room. They met and clasped hands, Ross with more enthusiasm than the prince. They were roughly the same height; both a little over six feet tall. Ross wore an expensive handmade suit, and Prince Muhammad wore his robes and ornamental headdress. Kennedy looked on with great interest as the prince broke into laughter. His perfect set of white teeth contrasted against his black goatee. Prince Muhammad clasped Ross’s shoulder with his free hand and continued to smile warmly. His gaze wandered and for an instant he looked straight at Kennedy.

“You don’t seem too excited to meet him,” said Gordon.

“Excited.” Kennedy continued to observe the two men talking. “There aren’t many people at CIA who would be excited to meet Prince Muhammad.”

“You don’t trust him?”

What a question,
Kennedy thought to herself. “We’re not in the trust business, Jonathan. We’re in the business of espionage.” She was well aware that whatever she said would be repeated to Ross so she chose her next words carefully. “Prince Muhammad is no ally of ours. He is a man who in his heart supports everything al-Qaeda stands for. Don’t forget that, no matter how pro-America he acts on this trip.” Kennedy looked at Gordon. “If your boss has any future political aspirations, I’d advise him to not get too cozy with Prince Muhammad.”

G
EORGE
W
ASHINGTON
U
NIVERSITY
H
OSPITAL

R
app sat on the edge of the exam table and looked down at the swathe of smooth skin that ran from the middle of his left thigh to the middle of his shin. He was proud of the fact that he’d managed to shave it without cutting himself. He knew they would have done it for him, but he wasn’t all that crazy about people touching him with sharp objects. The reality that he was going to be put under for the procedure gave him enough anxiety as it was. As much as he hated it, though, he knew it had to be done. He’d put it off long enough.

Anna was in the room with him, but as usual she was talking on her cell phone. Sometimes Rapp wondered if the device was surgically attached to her head. He had no doubt, if the roles were reversed, and she was about to go under the knife and he was chatting away on his phone, she’d be shooting him daggers with her eyes. Rapp pointed at the sign on the wall above the small desk. There was a cell phone with a red circle and a line going through it. Anna frowned at him. Rapp pointed at the sign again. She stuck her tongue out and turned her back on him. Rapp laughed to himself.

According to his watch it was three minutes past seven in the morning and he was hungry as all hell. He was under strict orders, though. No food before surgery. They didn’t want him puking on the operating table. Anna got off her phone and turned around.

“That was Phil. He says good luck.”

“Who’s Phil?”

“My boss, Mr. Smart-ass.”

Rapp had never met the man even though his wife had worked with him for nearly a year. “Where’s the love, honey?”

“It’s right here.” Anna rubbed her belly.

Rapp smiled and motioned for her to come closer. She was wearing a dark brown Juicy Couture sweat suit. He placed his hand on her stomach and asked, “How are you feeling?”

“A little constipated, but other than that, fine.”

“Lovely.” He made a face.

“You asked.” She sat down next to him and leaned back. She tugged at the ties on his hospital gown. “I can see your butt crack.”

Rapp shook his head. “Why in the hell do they make people wear these things?”

“You don’t know?” she asked sounding a little surprised.

“No.”

“It strips away the patient’s identity so you’ll be more docile and do what you’re told.”

“Where did you hear this?”

She shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

Rapp thought about it for a moment and said, “I’ll bet you’re right.”

“I know I am. Think about it. What do you guys do when you interrogate a terrorist? You shave their head and beard and you take away all of their clothes.” She tried to straighten the back of the gown, but it wouldn’t cooperate. She let it hang loose and asked, “Seriously, how are you doing?”

“Fine. I just want to get it over with. I hate hospitals.”

“At least you’re not here to get a bullet taken out.”

Rapp looked at her sideways. “Thanks for that happy thought.”

She put her arm around him. “Honey, everything is going to be just fine. The doctor said it’s pretty straightforward. An hour or two at the most in surgery, and then two more hours in recovery. We’ll be home by one at the latest.” She was genuinely worried about him and not for the reasons one would think. Most people going in for surgery feared the recovery and the pain that were to follow. Pain was not a problem for Mitch. She doubted he would take anything stronger than Tylenol Three for more than a day or two. The real issue was not being in charge. Mitch was such a lone wolf, he was so used to being in charge and doing things his own way, that the idea of putting himself in the hands of others was purely unnerving to him.

“I’m starving,” Rapp blurted out.

Her husband was a big eater. She reached out and ran her fingers through his thick black hair. “We’ll have to stop and get something on the way home.”

The door opened and a petite nurse entered. She was wearing blue surgical scrubs and black clogs. She held a clipboard a few inches in front of her face. “Mr. Mitchell Rapp?”

“That’s me.”

She flipped through the chart. “We’ve got you scheduled for a vasectomy this morning.”

Rapp stared back at the woman, speechless. Before he could form a sentence, the woman said, “Just kidding. My name is Deb, and I’m going to get you ready for surgery.”

Anna laughed. Mitch didn’t.

“You must be Mrs. Rapp.” The nurse stuck out her hand.

“Anna. Nice to meet you.”

“Where’d you find a big stud like this? Look at these shoulders.” The nurse stepped back and sized him up like he was a piece of beef.

“It wasn’t easy. I had to go through a lot of guys.”

“I’ll bet.”

Rapp laughed.

“Okay,” the nurse returned her attention to Rapp. “The right knee, right?”

“No.” Rapp looked alarmed. “The left.”

“I know, I know.” She waved her hand at him. “I’m just kidding. Trying to get you to relax, you know? You look so tense. Here, sit all the way up on the table.” She took out a big black marker and wrote
NO
on Rapp’s right knee and
YES
on his left knee.

“Dr. Stone is the best. He did the vice president’s knee last year.”

“I’ve met the vice president. I’m not impressed.”

“Me neither,” she whispered and rolled her eyes. “Kind of an ass if you ask me. Anyway … Dr. Stone handles all the hockey players on the Capitals. Big strong guys like you.” She grabbed him by the shoulders. “Come to think of it … you two look familiar. Are you someone important?”

“I’m nobody,” answered Rapp, “but she’s important.”

The nurse put her hands on her little hips and looked at Anna.

“I’m the White House correspondent for NBC. Anna Rielly.”

“That’s right. My husband loves you.”

“Doesn’t everyone’s,” said Rapp dryly.

Anna delivered a backhand to his chest. “Pay no attention to him. He’s a little crabby.”

“Is he worried?” the nurse asked without looking at Rapp.

“I think so.”

“I’m hungry,” moaned Rapp.

“Well, then, we’d better get things moving. Anna, I’m going to take him into prep, and then he’ll head straight into surgery. You can wait in the lobby and when we’re done, I’ll come get you and bring you to recovery.”

They both stood. Anna grabbed his face and kissed him on the lips. “I love you, honey. Good luck.”

“I love you too.” Rapp turned and limped toward the door.

Anna followed him into the hall and watched the tiny nurse lead him away. She glimpsed his backside through the flapping gown and couldn’t resist giving him a whistle. “Nice butt.”

Rapp lowered his head and shook it at the same time. Anna stifled a laugh and cursed herself for not bringing the camera.

A
NNE
A
RUNDEL
C
OUNTY
, M
ARYLAND

G
ould had found the pickup truck the day before at a small used car lot on the outskirts of Annapolis. It was the type of place that preferred to deal in cash. The truck was black with a gray cloth interior. The asking price was $4,999.99. It had high miles, which he expected, and a few dents here and there, but otherwise it was in decent shape. He got the guy to come down to $4,500 on the price and paid him in hundreds. The only glitch came when the guy asked to see a proof of insurance. “Maryland state law,” he told Gould. It was the one thing he hadn’t thought of. Fortunately, the guy did not want to lose the sale, so he wrote down
Progressive
and told Gould to fax him the information when he had a chance.

Gould left the car lot and found a big auto center a few miles down the road. He dropped another twelve hundred bucks on new tires, belts, filters, an oil change, and a new battery. The car salesman had told him everything was in great shape, but Gould knew better than to trust him. With so much on the line it wasn’t worth leaving the dependability of the vehicle to chance. The next stop was Home Depot, where he picked up an extension ladder, a chain and lock, a set of tools, an extension cord, two high-pressure hoses, five different types of tape, a roll of clear plastic, a utility knife, six five-gallon gas cans, two forty-gallon propane tanks, and a few other odds and ends. The final stop for the night was Radio Shack where he purchased a remote switch. Gould went back to the hotel, locked everything up in the truck, and chained the ladder to the truck bed.

He then went about briefing Claudia on the plan. Any anger he felt toward her over what had happened earlier that day was now mitigated by the news that Mitch Rapp would be going under the knife in the morning. Since Gould had first learned about the knee problem that morning things had only gotten better. Rapp’s wife unwittingly gave Gould a constant stream of updates as she called friends and family and told them in detail that Rapp was going in for arthroscopic knee surgery in the morning. She had given away the entire timetable. When they were supposed to be at the hospital, and what time she expected to get back to the house. Gould had at minimum a seven-hour window to get things ready.

In almost all matters tactical, Claudia deferred to Louie. In this instance she made only one request—that he avoid killing the woman. She was not part of the contract. Gould had expected this, and it was one of the reasons that he had withheld from Claudia the fact that Rapp’s wife was pregnant. He would make an effort to keep the woman out of it, but he would not let it compromise the mission. Rather than argue with her, though, he promised her that Rapp’s wife would be fine.

Gould took the opportunity to lay down the law to Claudia. He didn’t want her leaving the hotel until her new morning ritual was over. He couldn’t have her out in public drawing attention to herself by throwing up every thirty minutes. Claudia agreed. She would stay back at the hotel and monitor the position of Anna’s car and any new audio they might pick up. With the plan solidified they packed everything up. Gould would be leaving the hotel in the pickup truck before sunrise and Claudia would check out around noon as long as Anna’s car stayed put at the hospital.

At 6:00 a.m. Gould left the hotel, and stopped at a gas station midway between the hotel and Rapp’s house. He was wearing a pair of Carhartt blue jeans, brown work boots, a blue and gray flannel shirt, and a Washington Nationals baseball cap. He hadn’t shaved in three days, and was already well on his way to having a full beard. Gould topped off the truck’s tank and then filled all six gas cans. He grabbed a newspaper, paid for everything in cash, and left. At a separate gas station a few blocks away, he pulled in and had them fill the forty-pound propane tanks.

He’d picked out his spot the night before and pulled into the strip mall parking lot at exactly 6:22 in the morning. He checked the tracking device and noted that Rielly’s car had not moved. He looked east and then west down the highway and wondered for the twentieth time what the odds were that they would take Rapp’s car instead of hers. There wasn’t much he could do at this point other than wait and see. Gould turned off the truck, went into the Starbucks and grabbed a black coffee. He came back out a few minutes later and settled in for what he hoped would be a short wait. He started reading the paper and tried to take his mind off what lay ahead. At 6:31 the device beeped, telling him that her car was moving. Gould breathed a sigh of relief. This was going to be much easier if they knew exactly where Rapp and his wife were.

Six minutes later, the blue BMW Series Five came flying past Gould. Rapp was in the passenger seat and his wife was driving. Gould watched with professional detachment. Rather than leave right away, he stayed put. Getting to the house too early might raise some suspicion, so he drank his coffee, read the paper, and kept on eye on the tracking device. At five minutes before seven Rielly’s car stopped near George Washington University Hospital. Gould waited another fifteen minutes and then finished the last of the coffee. He backed out of the spot and headed for Rapp’s house. A mile down the road he dialed Claudia’s mobile phone. She answered on the fourth ring.

“Allô.”

Gould nearly bit his own tongue in an effort to stop himself from screaming at her for answering in French.

“How are you feeling?” he asked in a tense voice.

“Not good,” she answered.

“Go back to sleep. I just wanted to tell you that everything looks good. I’m headed over. I’ll call at ten to give you an update.”

“Okay.”

Gould ended the call and gripped the wheel tightly with both hands. Claudia was not herself. The sooner he got this over with the better. Gould considered how much of it was due to her being pregnant and how much of it was due to burnout. He’d noticed the first sign four months ago. She’d gotten drunk after an operation they’d run in Ukraine and asked him if he thought she would go to hell. A self-professed atheist, he told her there was no such thing as hell. She shook her head and told him he was wrong, and then she began to sob uncontrollably.

Gould looked back on it now and saw it all very clearly. Getting pregnant was her way out, and it was her hold on him. He had little doubt she had stopped taking the Pill. She wanted an excuse to walk away, and better yet, one that would make him walk away with her. Gould shared none of her guilt over what they had done, but he understood it. This one last job was all he wanted. Seven more hours tops was all he needed. Rapp was being handed to him on a silver platter. He’d be disoriented from surgery, his instincts and skills greatly diminished. He could never again hope to have such a chance. Six million dollars if he did it right. A total of eleven million dollars to kill one man. He must have really pissed someone off to get a price tag like that on his head. Gould smiled at the prospect of so much money. They would have true independence. Live wherever they wanted and do so lavishly.
A few more hours,
he told himself.
Keep it together and stay focused.

When he reached the road that Rapp lived on, he put on his Oakley sunglasses and slowed down like he was looking for an address. From the county road turnoff it was 2.4 miles to Rapp’s house. Gould passed an older couple walking their dogs, but that was it. He hoped it stayed this quiet all morning. He continued past Rapp’s house to where the road dead-ended and then turned around and came back. Everything looked good. Rapp’s car wasn’t in the driveway so Gould assumed it was in the one-car garage.

He backed the pickup down the long driveway and came to a stop ten feet short of the garage. Gould hopped out and was putting on a pair of work gloves when a dog came bounding around the corner. For a split second he froze. The dog let out a bark, but it was not the kind of bark Gould was so familiar with, the type a dog gives right before it lunges for your throat. This was more playful. Gould took off one of his work gloves and squatted down. He held his hand out, palm up, and the dog approached tentatively. Once it got a good sniff of him the animal relaxed and Gould scratched its neck.

“Not much of a guard dog, are you?”

The dog, a collie mix of some sort, just wagged its tail and looked at Gould with its big brown eyes. Gould glanced around and wondered if the dog belonged to one of the neighbors. He couldn’t imagine anything this docile was owned by Rapp. There was at least two hundred feet between houses on either side and there was a stand of trees and shrubs that delineated the property line. While the leaves had started to change color, none had yet fallen. Gould checked the dog’s neck for a collar. It wasn’t wearing one.
The important thing is to keep acting normal,
he told himself. If a neighbor came up he was here to do an estimate for new gutters.

Gould stood and unlocked the extension ladder. He lifted it out of the bed and carried it around to the side of the house where he set it on the ground. Six paces from the garage stood a big silver metallic propane tank. It was partially concealed on three sides by pyramidal arborvitae. Gould walked over and read the gauge. It was just over two thirds full. He nodded to himself and got to work. After standing the ladder up against the side of the house he went back to the truck and grabbed the roll of plastic, the knife, and tape. As he climbed onto the roof, the dog sat at the base of the ladder and watched him. Fortunately the fireplace and the two vents were all situated on the water side of the gable. Anyone driving down the road wouldn’t see him on the roof except when he was working on the chimney. That’s where Gould started. He tore off four long strips of duct tape and stuck them to the waist of his jeans. Next he cut out a large section of plastic and laid it over the top of the chimney. After all four sides were secured, he ran a strip of tape around the entire thing to make sure it was sealed. The vents took only a minute or two apiece.

Once off the roof he walked around to the back of the house. He stopped on the back deck for a moment and looked out at the bay. There were a couple of smaller boats not far from shore. He thought they were probably fishermen. Gould leaned over the railing. It was almost a straight drop down to the water. There were two boats tied up: a ski boat and a fishing boat with a deep v-hull. He walked up to the glass French doors and looked inside at the kitchen area. Going inside was a nonstarter. A guy like Rapp would have the place wired with every type of security device known.

Gould completed the circle of the house and ended up where he started. The air-conditioning unit was located between the propane tank and the house. Right next to where the cooling hose entered the house was the fresh air vent for the heating and cooling system. It was a six-by-six-inch galvanized cover that angled out from the house so that there was a three-by-six-inch opening at the bottom. Gould got down on one knee and with a needle-nose pliers removed the screen from the inside of the vent. He went back to the truck and got the extension cord and the remote receiving unit he’d picked up at Radio Shack. He plugged the remote receiving unit into an outdoor outlet, checked to make sure it was in the off position, and then walked to the end of the driveway. The dog followed him. He pointed the handheld remote at the garage, pressed the button once, and walked back. Gould was satisfied to see the remote receiving unit was now in the on position. He flipped it back to the off position and grabbed the extension cord.

The French Foreign Legion had taught him a lot of things, and one of them was how to make improvised explosive devices. Gould cut off the female end of the extension cord and stripped away the insulation. He twisted the two exposed wires together and then fed the cord into the fresh air vent on the side of the house. He figured eight feet was enough and plugged the male end into the remote receiving unit. Now things got a little tricky. Gould uncoiled the two high-pressure hoses, fed them into the vent with the extension cord, and then taped off the opening with plastic. There was only one thing left to do. He took the two forty-pound propane tanks from the truck, hooked them up to the high-pressure hoses, and opened the valves.

The dog came up and dropped a dirty tennis ball at his feet. Gould picked it up and threw it toward the road. The dog came roaring back and Gould gave the ball another good chuck. He checked his watch. It was ten after eight. He figured it would take about five more minutes to empty the tanks. Between throws of the tennis ball, he grabbed all but two of the gas cans and carried them over to the side of the house. Gould dropped down to one knee and listened to see if the propane was drained from the tanks. The hissing noise was gone, so he closed the valves and carefully extracted the high-pressure hoses from the side of the house. Gould quickly sealed the plastic with more duct tape, and then lined up the rectangular gas cans between the house and the large propane tank.

With a rubber-handled crescent wrench, he crawled under the big metallic tank and began to slowly loosen the gas line that ran from the bottom of the tank, underground, and into the house. With every half turn he’d stop and listen. He didn’t want the connection too loose or the neighbors might smell it and call in a gas leak, or possibly Rapp and his wife. He wiggled the line a bit and gave it one more quarter turn. A soft hissing noise came from the connection and Gould caught a slight whiff of liquid propane. He remained there for a few minutes to see if it remained constant. It did, so he crawled out from under the tank and unscrewed the caps on each of the gas cans.