Vince Flynn: Consent To Kill

A door at the far end of the room opened. Abel turned to see an older man dressed in traditional fashion come striding in. There was a look of tension on his face. Abel met him halfway, by the sneering feline.

"I am Saeed Ahmed Abdullah." The right hand was extended.

Abel was not surprised to hear the man speak English. It was the language of business in the Kingdom. "I am Erich Abel." The German took Saeed's hand. "Prince Muhammad asked me to come see you. He tells me the two of you are very dear old friends."

"We have known each other since the age of nine." Saeed gestured for his guest to sit. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Coffee would be fine, please." Abel sat on one of the long couches.

Saeed pressed a button on the nearby phone, rattled off instructions in Arabic, and then sat on a different couch. Almost immediately, a service cart was wheeled into the room by two Indonesian men in crisp white jackets. They served coffee and left small plates of delicious-looking pastries in front of each man, then vanished as silently as they'd entered.

"Prince Muhammad has been a very good friend to me." Saeed took a sip of coffee. "I think he has been treated unfairly by his brother the king."

Abel immediately thought the man a bit reckless for offering such a frank opinion to a stranger. Always cautious he replied, "I have great respect for Prince Muhammad."

Saeed reached for a pastry and then decided against it. "Did he explain to you my tragedy?"

It was obvious to Abel that his host was very anxious. "No, he merely told me that you were a dear friend, and he would consider it a favor if I would see you."

Saeed clasped his hands together and looked up at the painting of the landscape.

Abel took a sip of his coffee and then set it down. "Mr. Abdullah, let me be blunt. I am not a squeamish man. I doubt that you could shock me. Tell me why you seek my services, and I'm sure we'll be able to come to an agreement."

Saeed looked the German in the eyes and said, "I want a man killed."

Abel nodded casually, signaling that the request did not surprise him. "And who is this man that you would like eliminated?" he asked as he reached for his coffee.

"He is an American."

Abel took a sip of the rich coffee as his interest increased. "Continue."

"He works for their government."

The plot thickens, Abel thought to himself. "His name?"

Abel noted sweat on Abdullah's forehead as he waited for the answer.

"Mitch Rapp is his name."

Abel stopped in mid-sip, and carefully placed his cup back on its saucer lest his host notice his hand beginning to shake. "Mitch Rapp," he said coolly.

"Have you heard of him?"

"I'm afraid so. I doubt there is anyone in my line of work who hasn't."

Impatient and nervous, Abdullah gave him no time to think. "So will you take the job?"

Abel could feel the pace of his heart begin to race. He held up a hand. "Slow down, Mr. Abdullah. To kill a man like Mitch Rapp is no small undertaking. There are many things to discuss. Many details to work out, and even then I am not so sure I would be willing to take the job."

"Is it your fee? Tell me what you would demand for such a job. Let us begin to negotiate."

Abel dug his right thumb into his left palm in an attempt at self-acupuncture. A man was a man after all, and with enough preparation anyone could be killed. "It would be very expensive."

Saeed leaned over and pressed the intercom button. He said something quickly in Arabic and a moment later two unusually large Saudis entered the room carrying large black briefcases. The men set four cases on the table facing the German, opened them, and left the room.

"Five million dollars cash upon accepting the job. Five million more when you complete it."

Abel stared at the money, increased the pressure on his palm, and began running all the permutations through his mind. In mere seconds he concluded that it would be difficult, but not impossible. Someone else would of course do the heavy lifting. The details could and would be worked out later, so his mind settled on the fee. He'd been involved in contract killings before, but had never heard of a ten-million-dollar fee. Rapp had done something personal to Abdullah, that was obvious. It was difficult to measure the wealth of these Saudis, but as best he could figure, Abdullah was worth in excess of two billion dollars. Ten million dollars was play money.

He knew there was no turning back from something like this, and as crazy as it sounded he had no desire to. To kill a man like Mitch Rapp would be the ultimate statement of tradecraft. Suddenly almost euphoric with excitement over the prospect of such notoriety, Abel decided he would take the job, but first he would work on the already ample fee.

"Contract kills in America are a very difficult thing these days, and to go after someone like Mitch Rapp presents an entirely unique set of problems."

"Name your fee, Mr. Abel," the Arab said calmly.

"Twenty million dollars. Ten now…ten on completion."

Abdullah stuck out his hand. "Twenty million dollars."

Abel shook the man's hand. "We have a deal."

"How long will it take?"

"I will get to work on it immediately, but I wouldn't expect any results for at least a month."

"As soon as possible, Mr. Abel," the Arab said in a dire voice.

His hatred of Mitch Rapp was palpable. "Do you mind my asking, Mr. Abdullah, what Mr. Rapp has done to cause you such obvious pain?"

"He killed my son."

Of course he did, the German thought. Of course he did.

Rapp called them at the appointed time, and told them he was across the street. This seemed to both unsettle and irritate them, which was just fine with Rapp. The most difficult part had been deciding to sit down with them in the first place, and then there was trying to find a place they could all agree on. They wanted him to come to one of their offices. They were the type of men who were used to getting their way, and on top of that Rapp trusted neither of them, so he flat-out told them no. They wanted the meeting which meant he would set the conditions, and the sooner he got it over with the better. This was a favor to Kennedy and nothing else.

It took little imagination to envision at least one of them trying to record the conversation. People bugging each other was a fact of life in Washington, DC. The problem for Rapp was that he no longer trusted what little tact he had left. He'd grown so callous, he was capable of saying anything. The one man, he was ambivalent about, the other, he despised. With nothing to lose, Rapp knew the odds of things getting heated were better than even. In truth, the thought of getting a few things off his chest was what appealed most to him. That was more of an afterthought, though. The real reason he had agreed to meet these men was Kennedy. He'd called her first thing on Sunday morning and left her a message. The problem was no longer a problem. Nothing more specific than that.

As of Sunday morning there had been no news of Khalil's body. That was Sunday, however, and today was Monday. The story was everywhere now, and Kennedy wasn't happy. There wasn't much she could do though, until he was standing in front of her in her spacious corner office in Langley. Things like this were not discussed on the phone no matter how secure you thought your lines of communication were. So in an effort to forestall that confrontation, and hopefully give her some time to cool down, he had called up the two men she wanted him to meet with, and here he was in a part of town that he rarely visited, getting ready to meet with two men he had no respect for.

There was very little, if anything, that was soft about Rapp. His angular jaw was set in a very determined way and his dark brown eyes could portray a frightening intensity. They were the type of eyes that missed nothing, and revealed, only to those alert enough, that the man behind them was extremely dangerous. His jet black hair was starting to gray a touch at the temples, and his face was lined with a ruggedness that came from spending long hours outdoors exposed to the elements. A thin scar ran down his left cheek and along his jaw, a constant reminder of the dangers of his trade. He stood six feet tall and weighed 185 pounds-almost all of it solid muscle. He possessed the rare combination of strength and quickness that was usually reserved for strong safeties in the NFL, but instead belonged to a cunning and calculating killer.