The Survivor (12 page)

Taj slipped through a gap in the damaged fence, paying no attention to a soldier hidden in a stack of discarded pipes. The army sniper would have been made aware of his arrival.

Taj passed through a rusted door in the side of the building and found himself in a dilapidated office that stunk of the chemicals used on the factory floor. The man sitting behind the only desk wore the
threadbare shirt and tie of a factory manager but was in fact the special forces officer in charge of security. He averted his eyes in well-deserved shame for what had happened and pressed a hidden button near his leg. The lock on the door across the room buzzed and Taj pushed through it.

The shop floor contained little to dispel the illusion of a legitimate factory. Workers manned a variety of industrial machines and massive plastic-wrapped bolts of fabric were stacked around the walls. It would take a well-trained eye to see the irregularities in the concrete floor that hid four of Pakistan’s 117 nuclear warheads.

These in particular were attached to Shaheen 1A ballistic missiles developed with the help of the North Koreans. They were currently Pakistan’s most technologically advanced, with a range of almost two thousand kilometers and the rudimentary ability to evade missile defense systems.

The building’s sloped roof was attached with explosive bolts that, when detonated, would cause the entire assembly to slide away. This would allow the missiles to be raised and launched within minutes of an attack order.

Ironically, much of the money for this structure came from the Americans. They were so fearful that terrorists might gain access to a WMD that they were willing to pump nearly unlimited funds into Pakistan’s nuclear program. All the U.S. politicians asked in return was that the army maintain the illusion of improved security.

The phone in his pocket began to vibrate and he glanced around him before picking up. The workers were taking great pains to ignore his presence.

“Go ahead,” he said, inserting a Bluetooth headset into his ear.

“You requested an update before I got on the plane to Rome,” Kabir Gadai said, his voice barely audible over the noise of the machinery.

He was on his way to convince Isabella Accorso to turn over the computer files her law firm had received from Joseph Rickman.

“Quickly,” Taj said, continuing toward a door on the far side of the expansive building.

“Per
your instructions, Obrecht is running ads in all the major newspapers worldwide as well as the agreed-upon websites and magazines. He’s also left encrypted messages in all the predetermined drop sites. So far no response.”

Disappointing, but in no way surprising. It was certain that the CIA had captured Louis Gould, but no information was available on his fate. Based on the assassin’s history with Mitch Rapp, it was very possible that he was dead.

Kennedy was a clever female, though. She would be desperate to capture Obrecht and the most promising strategy would be to offer Gould his life in return for assistance. That presented an opportunity for getting rid of Rapp.

“We’re prepared to deal with an attack on Obrecht’s property, then?” Taj asked.

“Yes. Though he’s lodged endless complaints about being used as bait.”

Taj was forced to step aside to let a front loader pass. Obrecht was less than nothing. A criminal who fed off the excitement of his debauched lifestyle but only if the risks were laid at the feet of others.

“I assume you’ve offered him money to put his mind at ease.”

“Among other things.”

“And the American and British guards have been replaced?”

“Yes, sir. With men who have no history with the CIA or U.S. military, and no love for America in general. All experienced.”

“If anything should go wrong, it will be time to deal with Obrecht. Under no circumstances is he to fall into Mitch Rapp’s hands.”

“It would be a shame to lose him,” Gadai said. “He’s become very useful. But understood.”

Taj slowed as he approached the door at the back of the shop floor. “I expect another report when you land in Europe.”

“Of course.”

He disconnected the line and put the headset back in his pocket. Gadai was right. Obrecht had indeed been useful. Billions of dollars
in Afghan heroin revenues had been laundered with his assistance. More than half of the profits had already been paid out by Taj to secure the loyalty of the many militant groups operating in Pakistan. Fortunately, Louis Gould was significantly cheaper.

In fact, it would have been amusing to offer him nothing for killing Mitch Rapp. Taj suspected the assassin would have agreed enthusiastically. But this was no time to take unnecessary risks. In the event that Gould saw the ad and managed to succeed, the fifteen million he’d been promised would be money well spent. While it seemed absurd to put this many resources toward killing one man, it would be even more imprudent to underestimate Mitch Rapp’s ability to interfere with his plans. With the CIA man gone, Kennedy’s teeth would be pulled. She and her pathetic country would be blind and defenseless in the face of what was to come.

Taj entered a broad corridor and saw President Chutani speaking with Umar Shirani, the army’s chief of staff. They turned toward him and Chutani raised a hand in greeting.

“Ahmed. Thank you for coming. I trust your journey was a good one?”

“It was,” Taj said, avoiding the man’s gaze. “Thank you for asking, sir.”

Shirani looked on with disdain and then enveloped Taj’s hand in an unusually deferential grip. The general was one of the most influential men in the country and, like so many others, considered Taj weak. Today, though, he found his position diminished. The security at these nuclear sites was his responsibility and this was the second attack on one in as many months. Taken together with Chutani’s growing stature and recent American threats to reduce military aid, the aging four-star’s relevance was beginning to slip.

“What has the ISI learned?” the president asked.

“A great deal,” Taj said. “The attack was perpetrated by a Taliban group based in Bannu. Their leader blew himself up when my men attempted to capture him, and a number of his people are attempting to
make it to the Afghan border. Obviously, we’re trying to take them alive in order to carry out interrogations. Discovering whether further facilities have been targeted is our top priority.”

This was, of course, completely untrue. Taj’s S Wing operatives would put on a worthy show, but the surviving Taliban would die when an IED they were assembling detonated. They’d understood the inevitability of their martyrdom from the moment that Taj had provided them with the location of the nuclear facility.

“Good work, Ahmed. As always, I’m grateful to have you.”

“If identifying these groups is so easy,” Shirani said, “perhaps the director would be so kind as to give me a warning next time one is planning something like this.”

The general’s attempt to deflect blame was desperate and pathetic. Clearly he had become too comfortable hiding behind the power of his office.

“You must accept my apologies for not having this information in time for you to fortify your defenses,” Taj said deferentially. “Rest assured that we are redoubling our efforts to penetrate these radical groups.”

While Shirani and Chutani would assume it was unintentional, the message was clear: It was the army’s job to be in a constant state of readiness. The ISI wasn’t responsible for rousing them from their stupor in time for them to perform their duties.

“It’s possible that there could be secondary attacks,” Taj continued. “I would strongly urge you to make certain your men are on alert.”

“They are always on alert,” Shirani said, a bit too forcefully.

President Chutani frowned noticeably. “All evidence to the contrary, Umar. You should be grateful to Ahmed for his support.”

Shirani’s voice sounded a bit strained when he spoke again. “Of course, I’m grateful for any assistance the ISI can provide. We all have the same goals.”

“Indeed,” Chutani agreed. “We’re all dedicated to keeping these facilities secure. Unfortunately, much of the money earmarked for that task has been spent on other projects.”

“Sir, I must protest,” Shirani said. “You seem to be implying some
kind of impropriety on the part of the army. Terrorists like these are undoubtedly a danger but clearly not the only one—or even the most significant one. Creating the kind of security that would be unbreachable by a small terrorist group would be a simple matter if we weren’t concerned about being discovered by the Indians and Americans. Our primary goal must be protecting ourselves from a first strike by one of those countries.”

“I am not naïve in these matters, Umar, but I wonder if our concern over foreign enemies is devolving into paranoia. If we lose a warhead to one of these groups and it’s used, the Americans’ retaliation would be the end of our country as we know it. No. Pakistan has a chance at greatness but we’re squandering it with these games. America learned its lesson in Iraq and Afghanistan, and India doesn’t need to attack to defeat us. They’re already winning with their progress. They’ve outstripped us in everything from education to economic growth to -diplomacy. That’s the future, Umar. It is from those things that security flows. Not weapons.”

Shirani opened his mouth to object, but Chutani held up a hand, silencing the soldier. “It’s convenient to fan the flames of extremism in the short term but now we’re in danger of being engulfed ourselves. Changes must be made. The country has to modernize and come together. Our future can’t be financed with charity from countries that fear we’re on the verge of collapse. Trust. Respect. Wealth. These are the things that must be cultivated.”

“What are you proposing?” Shirani said suspiciously.

“The expansion of the Khushab reactor will be halted,” Chutani said with a tone that suggested the decision wasn’t up for debate. “As will all production of weapons-grade fissile material. The weapons we have are more than enough to deter an attack.”

Shirani was too stunned to respond, so Chutani continued. “Further, the defense of our nuclear arsenal will be shifted from the army to the ISI, effective immediately.”

Taj feigned surprise, though it was the outcome he’d been working toward for more than two years. “Mr. President, I don’t—”

“It’s done,
Ahmed. You and General Shirani will start coordinating the transition right away.”

“Yes, sir,” Taj said, watching Shirani’s face out of the corner of his eye. It was an incredible insult but the soldier managed to hide his rage. Undoubtedly he was calculating the extent of his own power versus Chutani’s and the feasibility of engineering a coup.

Shirani’s gaze finally shifted to Taj and this time he didn’t bother to hide his contempt. Instead of looking away, as was his custom, Taj met the man’s stare. It was time to allow Umar Shirani a brief, unobstructed glimpse into the heart of his new master.

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Gould pretended to study the enormous scale model but was actually concentrating on the other men in the room. He had to stay calm and professional. The smallest slip was almost guaranteed to end in his death.

Mike Nash, whom he knew very little about, had been called away. That left three men. Stan Hurley wasn’t just old, he was ancient. It was hard to separate legend from fact with regard to his past, but if even half of the information out there was true, Hurley had at one time been very dangerous. Now, though, he was just a bag of bones with a death hack and a perceptible limp. Taking the geriatric bastard seriously would require some effort, but completely dismissing him would be careless.

Coleman was a different matter. He was probably pushing fifty but still looked like he was chiseled out of stone. As a former SEAL, it was a given that he was a top operator. The fact that Rapp chose to work with him suggested he was a standout in a fraternity that only accepted standouts. The difference between qualifying for the Olympics and walking away with gold. If he had any weaknesses, they were psychological. He came off as a bit of a Boy Scout—a man who believed too much in God, country, and the camaraderie of battle.

Finally, there was Mitch Rapp. A man in a category all his own. No discernible physical or mental weaknesses. Uncanny instincts, no hesitation, no remorse. Decades of experience and training. Simply put, one of the most dangerous men who ever lived.

Despite all that combined history, the three killers were hanging on his every word. It would be easy to start thinking of them as idiots. To let his well-earned arrogance kick in and categorize them as typical marks.

He’d tried to kill Rapp twice before and failed even though he’d had the element of surprise both times. It was a fact that Gould was already beginning to rationalize away, and he fought against that tendency. The day he forgot who he was up against was the day he ended up with a bullet in his head.

“I know you’ve been planning this since the day you signed on with Obrecht,” Rapp said. “What have you got?”

What he had was an entire plan from start to finish. Ironically, though, it was entirely inspired by Leo Obrecht—the man Rapp incorrectly believed was the target of this operation.

Work will be done primarily at the owner’s home in Switzerland. We are looking to take the most obvious route to finding a good fit.

Obrecht knew the CIA was after him and assumed that they would have no choice but to mount an assault on the mansion. Clearly he hoped that Gould could convince them to carry out the operation using the most obvious strategy. It would be an easy sell, particularly to Coleman. Soldiers tended to look at battlefields in predictable ways, and the navy man would have a strong bias toward the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid.

Gould used a pool cue to tap a rocky knoll to the west of the property’s iron gate. “This is the highest point in the area and it’s right where you want it. Range to the wall is just over six hundred meters, and the wind tends to get disrupted by the ridgeline to the south. Easy sniper range.”