Vince Flynn: The Third Option

Clark studied Rudin for a moment and nodded slowly as if the crass old man had just imparted a rare pearl of wisdom. It was so easy to play him. «I've been keeping an eye on Kennedy, and I think she just might self-destruct before the process gets that far.»

Rudin eyed the big man sitting next to him. «What information do you have that I don't?»

Clark let a big old grin crease his face and raised his drink. «If you're good to me, Albert, I just might let you see someday.»

Rudin was mad at himself for asking the question. He knew firsthand that Hank Clark liked to keep tabs on people, friend and foe alike.

The old congressman from Connecticut scratched his nose and asked, «What type of information are we talking about? Is it personal or professional?»

Clark smiled. «I think it would be considered professional.»

Rudin scowled. He hated begging for details. Besides, he had learned a long time ago that Clark would tell him only when he was ready and not a moment before. Sniveling for info would do no good.

«I assume you will let me know when the time is right.»

Clark nodded as he took a drink. «I'll keep you in the loop, Albert.»

Mitch Rapp put the finishing touches on his make-up. A rinse dye had turned his black eyebrows and hair light brown. Special contacts transformed his dark brown eyes to blue, and the makeup made his olive complexion more pale. Rapp looked down at the black suit jacket and long black leather overcoat on the bed and checked his equipment one last time. The leather overcoat contained hidden compartments that were loaded with Rapp's premission laundry list. Near the bottom of the knee-length overcoat were three passports and ten thousand dollars in cash of various European currencies. One passport was American. It had Rapp's real photograph, an alias, and stamps indicating that he had entered the country through Dresden. The second passport was French and contained a photograph of Rapp with a goatee and short hair, and the third passport was Egyptian and contained no photograph. Each passport had a matching credit card. They were his way out of Germany if something went wrong. No one at Langley knew about them. If things fell apart, Rapp wanted to be able to disappear.

Rapp had memorized most of the main roads and railway lines that would get him out of the area, but he carried a tiny GPS unit the size of a deck of cards to make sure he knew his exact location. A matte-black combat knife was concealed in the right sleeve of the jacket, and four extra clips of 9-mm ammunition were stashed away in various places. In the back of the jacket was the newest model in the Motorola Saber line of handheld encrypted radios. To wear a headset in an urban environment was too obvious, so Rapp had developed a system. Threaded through the lining of the jacket were wires that led to a small speaker in the left collar, a microphone in the lapel, and volume and frequency controls in the sleeves. The jacket had a few other goodies that Rapp had ordered, bringing the total weight of the garment to twenty-three pounds.

His current credentials were in the left pocket of the suit coat. For this evening Rapp would be Carl Schnell of the Bundeskriminalant, or BKA. To its counterparts in English-speaking countries the organization was known as the Federal Office of Criminal Investigation. It was Germany 's version of the FBI. The credentials would be his way past security and into the house.

Rapp grabbed his leather shoulder holster and put it on over his white dress shirt. Slung under his right arm was a 9-mm Glock pistol. The serial number had been removed from the weapon. Two extra clips of ammunition were stashed in the holster's pockets under his left arm. Each clip held fifteen rounds, and with four more clips stashed in the leather overcoat, Rapp had enough for a small battle. It was all for backup. He was planning on getting the job done with one shot.

Rapp slid on a pair of well-worn black leather gloves and picked up the long, sleek, silenced Ruger Mk II from the bed. It fired a. 22-caliber cartridge and was almost completely silent. Its only drawback was that it was thirteen inches long. Rapp slid it into the specially designed pocket on the front right side of the overcoat and put on both jackets and a black fedora. When he walked into the other room the Hoffmans were giving the cottage a once-over, wiping any areas where they might have left fingerprints. Rapp had already done the same in his room. When they were finished they grabbed two bulletproof vests and strapped them on before donning their overcoats.

Tom Hoffman looked at Rapp and asked, «Are you wearing any body armor?»

Rapp shook his head, frowning at the question, and said, «Come on, let's saddle up.»

Taking his duffel bag, Rapp walked into the dark night and adjusted the brim of his hat. He stared up at the night sky and hoped this would be the last time. No matter how much he wanted it, though, something told him it wouldn't be. Several moments later the Hoffmans came out of the cottage, and the three of them got into the maroon Audi sedan. All of the electronic surveillance and communications equipment was stowed in the trunk. Tom Hoffman was behind the wheel, and Jane was in the passenger seat. Mitch Rapp was in back. The Audi rolled gently down the rutted dirt road. It was pitch black in the forest, the trees blocking out what little moonlight there was. Rapp looked out the side window. Even with the car's headlights on, he could see no more than twenty feet into the woods.

When they reached the paved road Rapp swallowed hard. The show was on, and they'd be at the front gate within minutes. His reservations about the mission had not gone away. He watched Tom Hoffman bring his right r hand up and press his earpiece. He was plugged into the, gear in the trunk and was monitoring the local police channels. Hoffman was to stay with the car, and Rapp and Jane Hoffman were to enter the house. Rapp needed one of the Hoffmans to come with him. They spoke flawless German, which he did not. His other reason for wanting to bring the wife with him was that a woman would be less threatening to Hagenmiller and his security. This was the one part of his plan that Tom Hoffman had protested. He wanted to be the one to go with Rapp.

Rapp was a little bit thrown by the intensity with which the man had challenged this. He had repeatedly stated that he would be more comfortable if he were the one who entered the house with Rapp. When pressed for a logical reason, Tom Hoffman couldn't come up with one. Again, something didn't seem quite right to Rapp. It was his mission, and he was calling the shots. He told the Hoffmans that he had the authority to pull the plug at any moment, and if they didn't agree with his plan, he would love nothing more than to call it quits. Rapp knew that the Hoffmans wouldn't get the second half of their money until they completed the mission, and he wanted to see just how badly they wanted that cash. He got his answer when they dropped the issue as if it had never meant a thing from the start.

Up ahead, a well-lit stone gatehouse came into view, and the sedan began to slow. Rapp checked his watch. It was nine minutes past eleven. The count would be surprised. Hagenmiller was sure to have gone over the timetables in his head. He wouldn't expect the police to show up in person at the estate this early but, rather, that they would simply call an hour or two after the breakin.

The sedan turned off the road and pulled up to the tall, ornate wrought-iron gate. A large man dressed in a dark suit and carrying a clipboard stepped from the gatehouse to the right side of the car. Rapp had already slid over to the left side to avoid getting his photograph taken from the surveillance camera mounted above the door to the gate-house. He had also pulled the brim of his fedora down, making it difficult for the guard to get a good look at him. He took an immediate inventory of the man and noted the bulge on his right hip. It could be either a radio or a gun. Rapp decided it was probably a gun.