Vince Flynn - Consent To Kill

"You don't need to say anything. As your loving wife I'm going to tell you how we're going to proceed. You are going to open a bottle of wine for us, because I need a drink something fierce. Then we are going to go through the carpet samples, and you are going to help me make a decision, and then we're going to sit down in front of the fireplace and you're going to rub my shoulders."

Rapp put his hands on her shoulders and said with a mischievous look, "And then we're going to have wild sex."

She shook her head. "I am tired…my feet hurt…I feel gross…I have to get up at five, and I'm not so sure I should reward your forgetful behavior."

"I'll make it up to you." He started kissing her neck.

"We'll see. Now go get my glass of wine."

Rapp continued to work on her lovely neck until she pushed him away, laughing. He grabbed a bottle of cabernet from the wine rack and began opening it. As he looked up he saw his wife standing in front of the fireplace holding his legal pad. Her expression was intent as she tried to make sense of his notes. He'd have to start writing in Arabic. That would drive her nuts. He calmly walked back into the living room and yanked the notepad from her hands.

"I was reading that," she said in an indignant voice.

"Really…did you ever think it's none of your business?"

Anna smiled. "But we're married, darling. We're not supposed to keep secrets from each other."

"You are so full of it." Rapp tore off the top sheet and threw it in the fire. "When was the last time you let me look at your notes for a story? You're in the wrong line of work. You should have been a spy."

"Really," she said in a hopeful tone. "There's still time for a career change. I'm young."

Rapp went back into the kitchen and finished pulling the cork from the bottle. He poured two glasses. "You'd hate it. You'd never be able to handle the scrutiny from those jackals in the press."

"They're real bastards, aren't they?"

"The worst." Rapp handed her the glass of wine.

Anna swatted him in the butt, and said, "You're bad. Now go get those carpet samples and get to work."

"Only if it means I get a little love later."

"You're on probation for the evening. Don't push it."

Rapp walked to the closet, dreading the mundane task that lay ahead. His thoughts were already returning to his notes. There were a lot of things to consider. In a perfect world it would have been nice to bounce a few things off Anna, but it just wasn't an option. Especially this stuff. Operations like this were designed to never see the light of day. That's why they were called black ops. The Freedom of Information Act would have no effect on them. No records would be kept, and the men and women who were involved would go to their graves silent to their very last breath.

Erich Abel drove his brand-new silver SL 55 AMG Mercedes up the switchback road with a heavy foot. Abel had been eyeing the car for sometime. It was not that he couldn't afford it, it was just that, financially, he was an exceptionally conservative man. His BMW Series 7 had been only two years old and he had decided to wait another year before trading it in. In his mind, delaying gratification was in many ways the ultimate form of self-discipline. His recent contract with the bereaved Saudi father, though, had changed all that, and after all, he spent a fair amount of time in his car driving back and forth between Zurich and Vienna.

While in Riyadh, Abel had made precisely seven phone calls. Ten million dollars in cash, while it was very appealing to the eye, presented certain problems that Abel did not want to deal with. He instead told Saeed Ahmed Abdullah that he would prefer the funds wired to five separate banks in Switzerland. Abel wrote down the instructions and called his contact at each institution telling them to let him know as soon as the funds were received. Within an hour all five men had confirmed that Abel now had ten million dollars in very liquid assets to add to $1.4 million in cash he had strategically placed at various institutions around the world. There was another two million in real estate and securities, but in Abel's line of work one always needed a stash to draw from in the event one needed to disappear for a while.

The sixth call was made to the Mercedes dealership in Zurich. He did not bother to haggle with them over the $125,000 price tag of the world's top performance sedan. Abel told them he would be in to get the car the next afternoon. The seventh, and last call, was to someone for whom he had great respect. Dimitri Petrov still lived in Moscow and still smoked two packs a day of his stinky Russian cigarettes. The smoking habit was the only thing Abel didn't like about the man. Petrov was a prince among thieves. A true professional who garnered respect from friend and foe alike, and in all likelihood the only fellow professional who Abel would talk to about his new business opportunity.

It was noon in Moscow by the time he called his old KGB friend, and the Russian's voice sounded as if he'd awoken him from a dead sleep. The two exchanged pleasantries for less than thirty seconds, which for them meant they insulted each other. Abel used a more deft approach, while Petrov initiated a full-on assault that eventually ended in a stream of creatively linked obscenities. The brief discussion reminded Abel of how much he missed his old friend. Getting down to business, Abel told Petrov he needed to see him immediately. When Petrov hesitated, Abel assured him he would be plied with fine food, expensive wine, excellent cigars, and $10,000 for his time. Intrigue alone would have more than likely induced him to make the trip, but Abel was hungry to complete his task. There wasn't a day to be wasted. He sweetened the pot by suggesting they meet at his Alpine house near Bludenz, a little over an hour from Zurich just across the Swiss border in Austria. Petrov loved its majestic views and solitude. The Russian mumbled something about his expenses, Abel assured him they would be covered, and told him to catch the first flight out in the morning.

Abel accelerated through another switchback and then pressed the gas pedal to the floor on the straightaway. The 493-hp engine launched the sedan up the mountain road like a rocket. Abel allowed himself a brief smile. The vehicle was a testament to West German engineering. More than a decade later he still drew the line between East and West. The country he had grown up in could never have produced such an exquisitely powerful and utterly dependable machine. And it wasn't just an East German problem. There wasn't a single communist country capable of such greatness. Abel had abandoned his country of birth and tried his best not to return. There were a myriad of complicated reasons. First and foremost he did not like the constant reminder that he had been on the losing side of the twentieth century's great Cold War. Reunification had helped East Germany greatly, but it still had a ways to go before catching up. The scars caused by the neglect of communism ran deep. Years of tarnish had to be removed before the prideful luster and German efficiency could be fully restored.

Abel had lived a lie the first thirty years of his life, and he refused to waste a single day continuing to do so. He was now a Swiss citizen, and like his new country he had adopted a neutral, more businesslike attitude toward the world. Wars came and went, commerce was constant, and when the two collided great opportunity presented itself. Abel was simply a facilitator. A specialist in risk assessment, and sometimes when it was called for, like now, risk removal.

Abel approached the second to the last switchback and slowed quite a bit. This one was sharper than the others. Through a gap in the lush spruce trees he caught a glimpse of the local ski resort. It wasn't set to open for another month. From Abel's Alpine house it was a twenty-minute drive down into the village. The pristine, high mountain air was good for his asthma, and the solitude was good for both his mind and his business.