Oath of Loyalty (Mitch Rapp #21)(31)

“That one’s yours.”

“I hate being predictable,” he said, picking it up. Not tea, as it turned out. A nice French roast.

Rapp dropped into an Adirondack chair and propped his feet on the edge of the fire pit. In front of him, the smoke rose in a perfect column toward a crystalline sky.

“How have you been?” she said after almost a minute of silence. “Anything interesting going on?”

He laughed, but couldn’t bring himself to tackle the subject without a little more caffeine. “Nothing comes to mind. You?”

“Relaxing for the first time in years. Catching up on some reading. That kind of thing.”

“Nice place to do it.”

“Nick’s been very generous.”

“Really? He doesn’t want anything in return?”

“Oh, he’s trying to hire me, of course.”

“And?”

“I’m pretending to be dense and not notice.”

“Is that fooling him?”

“No.”

“Is it something you’re considering?”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find the idea intriguing. He actually might be capable of reshaping the world in a way that governments can’t anymore. After a career spent putting out one fire after another, something like this might be exactly what I need.”

“And it might provide some cover. He’s got more money and political clout than most countries.”

“Maybe. But the opposite could be true, too. Going to work for him isn’t exactly fading away into a think tank or teaching position. It might make the problems between him and the Cooks worse.”

Rapp had known her long enough to know that her last sentence was crafted to nudge him into acknowledging the elephants in the room. Anthony and Catherine Cook.

“There’s a pot on in the kitchen,” she said, giving him an unexpected reprieve. “Why don’t you get a refill?”

He stood and went inside, discovering that it wasn’t a reprieve at all. Next to the coffee maker was a printout of an article from the Cape Times. It included a picture of Claudia’s courtyard taken through her damaged gate. An ambulance was parked out front and two men were loading a sheet-covered body into it. The word bloodbath was used multiple times in the write-up, but details were sketchy. The names of the property owners had been omitted, stating only that they were missing. The number of casualties was listed as “up to twelve,” and an unnamed police department source was quoted as saying none appeared to be local. The last paragraph was dedicated to requesting that anyone with pertinent information step forward.

He filled his cup and returned to his position in front of the fire pit.

“Accurate?” Kennedy said, referring to the article.

“Only ten casualties unless you count the dogs. Definitely not local. I’d swear they were Latino. Maybe mercs, but if so, somebody didn’t get their money’s worth.”

“And who is that somebody?”

“We both know the answer to that.”

“You have a lot of enemies, Mitch. The Cooks are only two of them. And they have the resources to do something more effective and less likely to end up on the front page of the newspaper.”

“Maybe. Or maybe not. They’re not omnipotent. Not yet anyway. They can’t just send Delta. I know too many of those guys and it’d be a little obvious to have an American spec ops team shoot up the South African wine country. Better to find someone more arm’s-length. Someone no one can trace to them.”

“I admit that what you’re saying is plausible, but we need more than a gut feeling to go to war with the president of the United States. It’d be devastating for them, for you, and for the country.”

“This is more than a gut feeling, Irene. You don’t think it’s a little strange that right after you negotiate a truce with that ass-kissing piece of shit Darren Hargrave, an out-of-town hit squad shows up at the house of Mitch Burhan, a retired American Army officer?”

“Again, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but the pieces don’t completely fit for me,” she said. “For instance, why nonlocals? With all the gangs in South Africa, why not pick one of them? It’d be less suspicious, and they’d have more experience operating locally.”

“Maybe.”

“Look, I understand that you’ve been attacked in your home twice in three weeks. And this last time with Claudia and Anna involved. But if you start an open conflict with the Cooks, there’s no going back. Even if you…” Her voice faltered. “I have a hard time even saying this out loud. Even if you manage to assassinate the president of the United States, you’re destined to lose. You’ll never get your life back. Or any life at all, really. You’ll live out whatever years you have left alone and on the run.”

“Your point?”

“It’s safe here and Nick will let you stay as long as you like. It’s going to take some time, but let me try to find out what’s happening. I might not be the director of the CIA anymore, but I still have contacts who can help.”

“And if we find out that the Cooks are behind it?”

She let out a long breath. “Then we’ll retool. But very, very carefully.”