Consent to Kill (61 page)

The man was scheduled to stay in Puerto Golfito for two nights. He had yet to deviate from his itinerary, which made Rapp’s job all that much easier. The plan for this evening was to watch him, but Rapp was beginning to have second thoughts. He looked up at the quarter moon and the approaching clouds. In an hour the conditions would be as good as they would get. The forecast called for clear skies the following evening. A quarter moon on the water provided more light than most people would think, and more light increased the odds that they might be seen.

Rapp glanced back at Rivera. This one was going to be up close and personal. There would be no detachment through distance and the scope of a rifle. Even though the target was no threat physically, this was for many the most difficult kind of kill. The biggest psychological test. Bare hands. No knife. No gun. Just you and the prey wrapped in a death spiral like an anaconda squeezing the last breath from some warm-blooded animal it had plucked from the bank of a stream. She would feel the heat of his body, smell his scent, hear his muffled cries, and quite possibly see the pleading fear in his eyes. No, he decided, it was too big of a test for Rivera.

Silently, he walked over to his bag and pulled out an encrypted Motorola radio. He turned it on and left it across the room on the dresser. With the rest of his gear in tow, he slid out of the bedroom and made his way down the hall to the living room. The large sliding doors were open, covered only by sheer white curtains. Rapp headed for the middle, found the seam in the fabric, and slid out onto the patio. He put on a pair of black swim skins and headed down the path to the water. The house sat on five acres and had its own private beach.

Rapp reached the tree line and checked the expanse of sand. It was empty. He slid a Motorola radio and a collapsible headset under the swim skins and strolled casually across the beach with his fins, snorkel, and dive mask. There was no sense in trying to be sneaky at this point. If someone saw a person in black slinking suspiciously across the beach at this late hour, they were likely to call the police. Rapp waded into the water, getting a fix on the boat. He lined it up with a dip in the tree line at the opposite end of the bay, finished putting on his mask and fins, and began slicing through the water toward the boat and its owner. He was going to squeeze the life out of Stu Garret, and he knew from experience that he wouldn’t feel the slightest bit of compassion.

The half-mile swim out to the boat took just under twelve minutes. Rapp could have done it in less time, but he was more interested in stealth than speed. He circled around to the bow, only his head above water. A dim light glowed from two of the portholes. The others were all dark. Under the cloudy night sky he was nearly impossible to see. Rapp took off his mask, snorkel, and fins. One by one he stuffed them into his swim bag and tied the bag just beneath the water mark to the anchor line. He then swung around the starboard side, close to the vessel, listening for any hint that Garret or his wife might be up and moving about. When he reached the stern he stopped and peered around the corner to check the swim platform. It was large—fifteen feet across and six feet deep, more importantly, its teak deck was empty.

Rapp had spent a lot of time in and around water over the past fifteen years. In terms of clandestine operations it offered many advantages, stealth being chief among them, but there was one big drawback. Noise traveled great distances and with great clarity on a relatively still night like this. Now, as Rapp listened, the only sound he heard was water lapping up against the sides of the boats and the occasional clanging of a line against the mast of one of the sailboats anchored in the harbor.

He slowly pulled himself out of the water until his upper body was resting on the teak platform. The boat was big enough that he didn’t need to worry about rocking it as he climbed on board. His chief concern was that some insomniac stargazer on a nearby boat might catch a glimpse of him. He listened intently for several minutes and kept his eye on a sailboat and cruiser anchored several hundred feet closer to shore. Satisfied that no one was watching, he eased himself entirely onto the platform. Staying on his stomach, he rested his head on his forearms and remained motionless.

Rapp had played this one over and over in his mind’s eye for months. He’d looked at a variety of scenarios where Garret met his death—some more satisfying than others. The efficient practitioner in him wanted to play this one safe. Take no risks. Hit him before he even knew what was happening and get it over with. But there was another part of him that desperately wanted to see the fear in Garret’s eyes. The man was a disgusting narcissist who hadn’t lost a wink of sleep over the innocent people he’d had a hand in killing, and the many more who were physically disfigured and emotionally scarred from the blast. Simply putting him out of his misery would be letting him off too easily.

Everything about this operation had to be analyzed with two main objectives: Garret’s wife could not be harmed and his death needed to look like an accident. With the advancements made in forensic science, these were was no small tasks. Rapp had focused on Garret’s affinity for boating almost from the start. Thousands of people died every year in boating accidents—collision, fire, drowning, electrocution, or simply disappearing were all options.

Each time a new surveillance report arrived from the West Coast Rapp took the time to read it thoroughly and read it in the context of his options. After a while a pattern began to emerge. Wanting to see things for himself, Rapp traveled to San Diego on a private plane. He arrived after dark and left before sunrise. From the balcony of a rented condo he spent an entire evening watching the marina where Garret kept his boat. That one night confirmed the opening that Rapp had detected in the surveillance reports.

For several months now, Rapp had imagined killing Garret more than a dozen ways, but only two stood up under scrutiny. When they found out about the trip he was planning with the new boat, everything fell into place. Even after he told Rivera that she would take point, Rapp continued to play the two scenarios in his mind. He thought of killing Garret so often that it almost felt like a memory.

Virtually every time he closed his eyes he pictured himself exactly where he was right now—on the aft swim platform of Stu Garret’s yacht. His low profile would arouse no suspicion. Under a clear moonlit sky he would look no different than a rolled-up tarp. On a night like tonight he would be nearly invisible. All that was left to do was wait for Garret.

Stu Garret was not known for his patience. In his mind this was the singular trait that had propelled him to such great success. He was a decisive taskmaster who worked people as if they were his serfs. He wanted positive results and nothing less, and compliments to subordinates were almost unheard-of. In the world of political consulting and campaign management he was king. No other living person had successfully managed two separate bids for the Oval Office. His ability to orchestrate a campaign had taken on an almost mythical aura in the media and Democratic circles. His opponents, on the other hand, thought of him as the most underhanded, unethical jerk to ever stalk the wings of American politics.

Garret wore this reputation as a badge of honor. If his opponents were dumb enough to follow the rules, that was their fault. Garret was a practitioner of all the most underhanded techniques. To him politics was guerrilla warfare. Hit-and-run tactics were the marching orders he gave his staffers and operatives. Go on the offensive and never let up, and absolutely never ever admit any wrongdoing to the press or your opponent. Elections were a competition that took place over a relatively compressed period of time. Garret often carried the day by sheer inertia, like slowly moving a rugby scrum toward the goal line. This bullish attitude and uncompromising vision served him well in politics, but was about to fail him in another arena. One with a far more serious endgame.

Garret and his wife were asleep in the master cabin that was tucked up in the bow of his brand-new Baia sixty-three-foot
Azzurra
. Garret rolled over, his left leg dangling off the side of the king-size bed. His eyes opened, blinking several times. Slowly the blue numbers of his bedside digital clock came into focus. It was 2:11 in the morning. He let his eyelids close and rolled onto his back. Occasionally, if he changed positions it would take the pressure off his bladder and he could fall right back asleep.

People all over the world are creatures of habit, and Garret was no different. He liked to start his day with several cups of very strong black coffee and end it with a bottle of Chardonnay—sometimes two. These habits and an enlarged prostate made a certain nightly ritual inevitable. At roughly 3:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. he awoke to alleviate the pressure on his bladder. Simply cutting back on the coffee and wine would have been an easy solution, but Garret didn’t like depriving himself of anything he liked. The way his mind worked, getting up to relieve himself wasn’t the problem. It was falling back asleep. The magic bullet he’d found was sleeping on the water. When on land, Garret found it almost impossible to get a good night’s sleep. On the water, however, he could relieve himself as many times as his swollen prostate required and the motion of the ocean was guaranteed to rock him back to sleep.

The other benefit of boating lay in its solitude. The older Garret got, the more he realized he simply didn’t like people. Most he found to be irritating and obnoxious, but even the endearing ones wore thin over time. He’d made a small fortune getting men and women elected to public office. Professional charmers who could change personas to fit each potential voter. Even these chameleons found a way to get under his skin. After a while their feigned can-do attitude and politically correct speak became intolerable. Garret was at his core an irascible man who believed everyone acted in their own selfish interests.

The evangelist who talked of his love of Christ did so not out of adoration for his savior, but out of a need for others to hold him in high regard. Garret had met one too many Hollywood types who professed their desire to save mother earth, while ensconced in one of their several ten-thousand-square-foot homes of which they were the sole occupant. Did they really believe in global warming or were they simply hypocrites? The town had its fair share of sanctimonious phonies to be sure, but most simply wanted to be accepted and to be thought of as enlightened, intelligent, and compassionate persons. Garrett had no such need. He yearned for the acceptance of others about as much as he wanted a sturdy kick in the groin.

The visual brought a sly grin to Garret’s face. He was very happy with the way his life had turned out. Especially in light of how things were going just a year ago. He’d just finished running his second successful presidential campaign. Having helped orchestrate one of the greatest come-from-behind victories in the history of the country he was flush with a sense of omnipotence. Manufacturing a victory was probably a more accurate definition of what he’d done, but he wasn’t about to go there.

The important thing was that he had done his job. Politics was a rough game, each side willing to do the most unseemly things to win. None of it surprised Garret. History was filled with examples. Over time, untold numbers of siblings had poisoned and been poisoned while jockeying for the throne, civil wars fought over mere ideas had killed millions, there’d been too many assassinations, bloody coups, and revolutions to even count that had upset entire continents. Julius Caesar had been stabbed twenty-three times by a cabal that included some of Rome’s most learned and intellectual senators. Hitler burned the Reichstag to the ground and blamed the Communists. The examples of men lying, cheating, and murdering their way to power was long and illustrious.

For Garret, if there was any lesson to be learned from history it was that power went to whoever was bold enough to take it. Pitted against some of history’s more sensational power grabs, Garret felt that what he had participated in was pretty mild. After all, he would have never joined in the plot if the photos hadn’t been thrown in his face—a clear effort by the other side to play dirty. Garret knew it had been his old nemesis Cap Baker who had sent him the pictures. Garret’s candidates, presidential nominee Josh Alexander and his running mate, Mark Ross, were getting their asses handed to them by the Republicans. Money was drying up and the time left to close the gap was shrinking quickly, but they still had a chance. That was, until the photos arrived.

There were a lot of obstacles Garret could overcome, but the wife of his candidate caught on film having sex with a Secret Service agent was not one of them. Garret showed the photos to Mark Ross, and Ross nearly lost his mind, but after a good thirty minutes of a profanity-laced tirade, he composed himself. He was not prepared to quit so easily. He had fought too hard to see his lifelong ambition destroyed by some little slut. Ross had contacts from his days at the CIA and as director of national intelligence. He went to work on finding a way to neutralize the problem, and in less than a week had reached a deal with a very shady ex-patriot named Cy Green. If taken out of context this solution seemed extremely draconian, but compared to the carnage created by some of history’s greatest leaders, Garret considered it mild.

It had been a little more than sixteen months since the attack on the motorcade that had killed Jillian Rautbort and fifteen others, including the Secret Service agent who had been sleeping with her. Garret had deluded himself into thinking that his role in the entire matter had been that of a bystander. He had neither condoned nor criticized the plans that had been set in motion. He had merely followed orders.

Garret remembered the shock and surprise he’d felt when the bomb attack had worked. The press, the public, even law enforcement bought the entire thing. A splinter terrorist group took credit for the attack on the motorcade and the hunt was on to track them down. The voters rallied behind Alexander and Ross, and several weeks later they rode the tide of sympathy to victory. Everything was going smoothly up until the week before the inauguration. That was when Mitch Rapp, Langley’s top counterterrorism man, had somehow managed to track down the assassin who had detonated the car bomb. In just a few short days, everything they had worked so hard for began to unravel.