Vince Flynn - Consent To Kill

"I need some advice, Dimitri."

Petrov snatched a cigar from the box, bit off the end, and lit it. After several heavy puffs, he said, "I was wondering when you would get around to business."

"Always after dinner. You know that."

Petrov pointed his cigar at his German friend. "You should be careful. You're becoming far too predictable."

Abel didn't like the sound of that, and made a mental note to review his habits. He withdrew an envelope from his jacket and handed it to Petrov. "Your fee."

The Russian hesitated while grimacing. "I don't like this. I have done nothing."

"I have confidence in you."

"Ten thousand dollars." He shook his head. "We are friends."

"Yes, we are." Abel slapped the money into his hand. "And I am being compensated very well. Think of it this way…it is not my money…it belongs to the man who hired me. You are a subcontractor."

Petrov placed the envelope in his pocket. "Now that I have been hired, what is it you need?"

"A name."

"What kind of name?"

Abel had already decided under no circumstances would he reveal the identity of his target. "I need someone killed."

Petrov shrugged nonchalantly. "You know plenty of people who specialize in such things."

"Yes, but this job requires someone who is better than your average plumber."

Petrov's brow furrowed in thought. "Can you tell me about the target?"

Abel shook his head.

"You must give me something to work with. Do you need it to look like an accident? Do you care about collateral damage? What theater will they need to operate in? What fee will they be paid?"

"I need the best. I need a real professional. Someone who looks at their craft as a higher form of art."

"Ahhh…" sighed Petrov. "You want one of the crazy ones. The kind that treat the kill like it is a religion. And you want the best?"

It was obvious that Petrov was thinking of some names. "Yes," said Abel, "I want someone who not only thinks they are the best, but someone who is hungry to prove they are the best." Abel had thought of this distinction carefully. There was a good chance that a seasoned contract killer would turn down the job as soon as he learned the identity of the target. He needed someone who was on their way up. Someone who would want to mount Mitch Rapp like that leopard in Abdullah's office.

"Your target must be someone very important."

"I wouldn't say that necessarily."

"Someone who is well guarded?"

"Not necessarily."

Petrov threw back a shot of vodka and puffed on his cigar. "I hope you are not working for those damn Saudis."

"I never reveal my clients, you know that. But out of curiosity, why do you dislike the Saudis so much?"

"As bad as the communists were, they pale in comparison to the Saudis."

Abel laughed. "How so?"

"The Saudis think that God is on their side, and people who think God is on their side are capable of the most inhumane acts."

Abel was intrigued. He'd never heard his friend talk about religion this way. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but the great leaders of Mother Russia-Comrade Lenin and Comrade Stalin-managed to kill twenty million people, and as far as I know, they were atheists."

"That number is greatly exaggerated."

"Cut it in half then. A mere ten million."

"I will not defend Lenin and Stalin. They were awful creatures, but these Saudis and their maniacal brand of Islam will be the end of us all."

Abel did not want to wander too far from the task at hand. If there was time later they could continue their jousting. "I will tell you one thing and one thing only about my client. His motivation is as pure as it is rotten and is as old as man himself."

"Your client is a prostitute?"

Abel smiled. "No."

Petrov reached for the vodka. "Revenge."

"Yes."

After his glass was full Petrov asked, "Revenge for what? Did someone dare gaze upon one of his daughters without her veil on?"

"I never said he was a Saudi."

"Why does he want revenge?"

"Someone killed his son."

"Someone important?"

Abel shook his head. "Someone who is very dangerous."

"Ahhh…I think I see. You need a killer to kill a killer."

"Precisely." Petrov seemed finally satisfied. Abel wondered if his old friend was getting a conscience in his old age.

"And this person is good."

"Yes."

"Anyone I've ever heard of?"

"I am done answering questions. I have already told you too much. Give me my name and then we can get back to talking about the atrocities committed by communism."

Petrov snarled at him like an old dog who had been poked by a stick. "I have a name and a phone number for you. A woman will answer. She is French. I am told she is quite beautiful. She will act as the go-between."

"And the shooter?"

"I know very little about him. I like it that way, and I assume so does he. My source tells me he is relatively young and very well rounded with the various tools of the trade."

"Would you say he's aggressive or cautious?"

"I would say aggressive," laughed Petrov. "He's done three jobs for me in the last seven months and God only knows how many others."

The motorcade turned off the highway and passed the lone, white guard post that had been added in 1993 after several employees were killed on their way into work. The two Suburbans and black armor-plated Cadillac limousine continued onto the narrow tree-lined drive and over a rise without slowing. They appeared to be in a hurry. Once over the rise, an intimidating security checkpoint came into view. All visitor traffic was directed to the right by large, easily readable signs. Other signs warned people that this was their last chance to turn around without risking arrest and prosecution. If they missed the signs, the men in black Nomex jumpsuits carrying submachine guns provided further warning that this place was not part of the local sightseeing tour.

The motorcade stayed to the left and came to an abrupt stop in front of the yellow painted steel barricade. Men with guns were everywhere and there were more of them behind the greenish tinted bulletproof Plexiglas of the blockhouse. Three of the guards who had been talking when the surprise visitors came over the hill immediately spread out. No one had to tell them; it was part of their training. Clusters made for easy targets. This wasn't Hollywood. There was no racking of the slides and flicking of safety switches. When these men were on duty they were hot, which meant they had a round in the chamber, and the only safety was their forefinger.

The motorcade was immediately flanked on one side by four of the black-clad men. Despite the gray overcast morning they were all wearing dark shooting glasses to cover their eyes. Their weapons remained pointing down, but fingers caressed trigger guards while eyes tried to peer beyond the heavily tinted windows of the vehicles. These types of motorcades were commonplace, but they were always expected-on the list and fully vetted. This one was not, and the men and women of the security force did not like surprises.

A captain came out of the blockhouse with a look of slight irritation on his face and approached the passenger side of the lead vehicle. The tinted window came down only to reveal a tinted pair of sunglasses. The captain, an eight-year veteran of the force, asked in a not-so-friendly tone, "May I help you?"

The man pulled out a black leather case and flipped it open to reveal his credentials. "Secret Service." He jerked his thumb back toward the limo and said, "We have Director Ross. He's here on official business."

The captain nodded and folded his hands behind his back. "Did you guys forget your manners?"

"Huh?" the agent asked, not getting the question.