Vince Flynn - Consent To Kill

"Yes."

Rapp thought he detected a faraway, drugged-out look in Waheed's eyes. "What will happen if you cross the street?"

"I will be shot."

"Good." Several more men came out of the mosque. Rapp felt his pulse begin to quicken. He was carrying his silenced Glock 9mm, two extra clips, forty-nine rounds total, and the knife. Rapp felt Waheed begin to sway and he firmly grabbed hold of his bicep. "Do you need to sit?"

"No. I'm fine." Waheed widened his stance.

There was now a constant stream of men coming out of the mosque. Rapp had only seen pictures of the father before, but even if he'd met him in person he wasn't sure it would have done any good. All the headdresses, white robes, beards, and sunglasses made it difficult to get a good look at anyone. That was also why the security camera gave Rapp little concern. As Rapp had predicted, though, the father traveled with an entourage. Both doors were opened for him and he left the mosque with a man on each side and a procession of people following him. Rapp felt Waheed stiffen. He turned to see if there was recognition in his eyes. There was.

"Stay calm," Rapp told him. "When he's halfway across the street I will leave your side. That will be the signal for your people to release the hostage. If you take a step in any direction other than to greet your father you will be shot."

"What hostage?" Waheed asked, suddenly confused over this new twist.

There was no hostage, but Rapp wanted to keep Waheed's mind occupied. Speaking out of the side of his mouth Rapp said, "You don't think I'd give you back without getting something in return, do you?"

The father spoke briefly with several people and then started across the street with a trail of at least a dozen men. Rapp stood his ground. If the father continued on a straight line, he would pass five feet to Rapp's right. Rapp checked Waheed one last time. "Remember, no sudden moves. Once he's all the way across the street and on the sidewalk you may go to him. Not a moment sooner." The father was halfway across the street. Rapp stepped away from Waheed and said, "Good luck." Under his breath he whispered, "I hope you and your father enjoy hell."

Rapp had noted the slow pace of the father. He moved away from Waheed at a brisk pace, but not anything that would attract attention. Exactly four paces away, Rapp retrieved a remote detonator from his pocket. He glanced down at the remote and pressed the first button on the left. The bars lit up on the small screen, telling him the signal was good. The trickiest part about setting off a remotely detonated bomb was usually arming it. That was why he had waited until the last possible moment.

The plan was straightforward. Waheed and his father would be killed in the favored manner of the terrorists they sponsored. Everything Rapp needed had been waiting for him when he landed in Qatar. A khaki-colored tactical vest, a 1/4-inch sheet of C-4 plastic explosives, ball bearings, primer cord, a blasting cap, and remote detonator. The sheets of C-4 were made with a peel-and-stick side. The tactical vest had Velcro straps on the side and a solid front. There was a large pocket across the chest to hold a chicken plate, or ceramic breast shield designed to protect the heart during combat. Rapp had cut out three squares of C-4; two for the large lower pockets of the tactical vest and one to fit into the pocket where the chicken plate was supposed to go. He peeled off the wax paper backing on the C-4, pressed ball bearings into the dough like explosive sheets, put the sheets into the pockets, and then connected them with primer cord through the lining. Waheed was a walking claymore mine.

Rapp glanced over his shoulder after the tenth pace. The father was just stepping onto the curb. Rapp continued moving away from them. He looked straight ahead for a few seconds and then over his shoulder again. Waheed had his arms extended and his father stood frozen in shock at the sight of a son he thought dead. Waheed rushed forward and the two men embraced. Rapp was almost to the corner of the building; he watched father and son for a split second, the memory of his wife flashed across his mind, and then he turned away. The security camera was just ahead and above him.

Rapp kept his chin down. He glanced at the remote detonator in his right hand and then raised his left hand and extended his middle finger at the camera. Rapp pressed the button, and a thunderous explosion ripped through the warm, dry afternoon air. He never broke stride, never bothered to look back. He was already trying to decide how he would find Erich Abel, and how he would kill him.

MINISTRY OF ISLAMIC AFFAIRS, SAUDI ARABIA

Nawaf Tayyib was not the type of man to obsess about his career. He believed in duty, loyalty, and success, all the things he had learned playing on the elite soccer teams of Saudi Arabia as a youth and then as a young man. These qualities along with his size and speed had carried him out of poverty and into the inner sanctum of one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, the very man he was going to see at this moment. Prince Muhammad bin Rashid was going to be very disappointed.

Tayyib remembered blowing out his knee at the age of twenty-five, and how he had laid there on the field looking at his leg. It was a night game, as most of them were. To play a soccer match in the midday heat would have been suicide. Tayyib played defense, and his size and roaming ability enabled him to cover a lot of ground. The first rule for a defender was to never let an opponent get behind you. There was one exception which involved a good deal of risk. Usually once or twice a game Tayyib would be back on defense and he would perfectly anticipate an opponent's pass. They always underestimated his speed. He would lull them into thinking he was moving one way and then when he saw his opening, he would dart forward and pick the pass perfectly. He would catch the entire opposing team leaning toward his own goal and Tayyib would be off like an Arabian thoroughbred, racing to the other end of the field with everyone chasing him.

On this last night of his career, he had made it practically the entire length of the field, the goalie had come out to cut down the angle, Tayyib made a fake to his right, and then kicked the ball from the right center over to the left center. The goalie was caught completely out of position, and Tayyib had an open net. He let up for just a second; it was the easiest of shots. He planted his right leg to deliver a booming kick with his left foot and then from out of nowhere an opposing player came in high and fast and rather than take him out at the ankle, took Tayyib out at the knee. With all of his weight on his right leg, his knee folded like a cheap umbrella in a gale. Tayyib hit the turf, rolled, and when he lifted his head his thigh was straight, but his foot was off to the side at a right angle. Tayyib knew his soccer career was over before he'd even registered the agonizing pain.

Now, as he walked down the wide, opulent marble hallway to Prince Muhammad's office, he had the same feeling as he had had that day. None of this had been his idea, but that didn't matter. He believed in Prince Muhammad. He trusted the man's vision to expand Islam under the banner of the Wahhabis-the only true followers of the faith. Their religion was under a constant onslaught by the West. To protect Islam they needed to expand and retake the southern shores of Europe as a buffer. He so believed in the cause that he planned on offering his resignation. Tayyib's career was over. He had failed a man who did not accept failure.

After firing the RPG through the front door of the Sheriff's Department on Saturday night, Tayyib had gone back to Alexandria and waited down the street from the car garage. He had $500,000 sitting in the trunk and had never been so eager to give money away. As the clock inched toward 11:00 he expected the three black trucks to come pulling up any second. At 11:15 he started to worry. By 11:30 he was crawling out of his skin. He waited until midnight and dialed the phone he'd given Castillo. After eight rings he got a recording. Tayyib started the car and left. On the way to the embassy, he wiped down the phone, removed the battery, and chucked it out the window.