Oath of Loyalty (Mitch Rapp #21)(43)
“Yes, sir, but—”
“There are no buts, Darren. That could have been me. It can be me. For all we know, he’s sitting in rural Maryland right now programming a guided missile to come through my window. What good are your security measures against that? And what good are your excuses going to be to me when there’s nothing left of the White House but a crater?”
“He wouldn’t do that. There’d be too much collateral damage.”
“You have no idea what a man like Mitch Rapp would or wouldn’t do.”
“Yes, sir. Obviously, we’re including this new intelligence to our comprehensive review of your security. Right now, we’re looking at expanding the restricted airspace around you, reducing exceptions for things like traffic and news aircraft, and building a more robust intercept capability. While I still think it’s an unlikely strategy for Rapp to pursue because of the number of innocent lives that would be lost, it is something we have the technology to counter.”
“Eventually.”
“Steady progress is being made, sir, but I’ll admit that Rapp was able to neutralize the Marroqui threat faster than expected. But Claudia Gould has more than one enemy. If the Guatemalans found out about her, I don’t think it would be a stretch to expect other people from her past to have stumbled on the same information.”
“Even if that’s true, Rapp made it pretty clear what happens to people who come after her. People are going to take that into account and reevaluate whether a little revenge is worth losing their life.”
“She has a pretty colorful past, Mr. President. Some of her enemies aren’t easily intimidated.”
“And you could tip another one off.”
Hargrave gave a short nod.
“Do you think it’ll buy us the time we need?”
“It’s impossible to say for certain, sir, but I think so. And even if it doesn’t, it’ll certainly get us closer. Every hour he’s distracted puts us in a stronger position.”
“And once everything’s in place?”
“Then, of course, we’ll start moving toward a more permanent solution to the problem. Mitch Rapp is an extremely experienced operator with a lot of support, but he’s just a man. Difficult to kill? Yes. He’s proved that over and over. But impossible? Hardly.”
CHAPTER 20
NEAR FRANSCHHOEK
SOUTH AFRICA
CYRAH Jafari couldn’t help but admire her surroundings. She’d arrived in South Africa about a week ago and had spent the time familiarizing herself with the Franschhoek area. The entire Western Cape was stunning, but this road was particularly special. It was unpaved but well maintained and bordered on either side by vines. Beyond, a series of verdant hills gradually morphed into majestic, stony peaks. Even with dark sunglasses, she was forced to squint through the sun pouring through the windshield.
The property she was searching for turned out to be accurately represented by the photos she’d seen—a clean white wall that blocked everything from view except the gray thatch roof peeking above. As she got closer, a corrugated metal gate became visible, but it had been made clear that she wasn’t to approach. Instead, she searched to the east for the narrow track that had been described to her.
It appeared after another hundred meters and she eased the car right, making sure not to kick up dust that would be visible from a distance. The path through the vines led to a shed containing agricultural equipment, with just enough space remaining for her to squeeze into.
She stepped out and, after locking the door, used the side mirror to check her appearance. The sunglasses and a knit hat left little more than dimpled cheeks and full lips visible. The coat she’d put on to combat the chilly temperatures was formless in a vaguely stylish way—a description that also fit a pair of loose-fitting jeans.
Her most memorable features—eyes, hair, and athletic figure—were well concealed, but in a far less rigid way than they had been growing up in Iran. At thirty-five, she still possessed what most people would describe as innocent beauty—a relentless cuteness that was difficult to escape with Western styles of dress. There was something about the anonymity of a Muslim upbringing that could in many ways feel comforting. Safe. A lie, of course, but not always an unpleasant one. As long as she was the one in control of it.
Cyrah shouldered a canvas purse and started back up the dirt track on foot. She was in danger of being late.
The damaged gate had originally consisted of open iron bars but they were now sheathed in metal to shield against prying eyes. It had been pulled back just enough to let her pass through, but that fact had been camouflaged by an empty police cruiser pulled up just in front. Based on the information she’d been given, the property was unoccupied and had been since the attack. As had been widely reported by the media, the owners miraculously overcame a ten-man Guatemalan hit squad and escaped to parts still unknown.
When she was only a few meters from the gate, a Caucasian man wearing the uniform of a low-level police official appeared in the gap. His deep-set eyes and thin beard fit the description Cyrah had been given by the woman who’d set up this meeting.
Officer Michael Pistorius made no effort at a greeting, instead eyeing her silently before starting across the courtyard. She followed, but at a pace that allowed her to take in her surroundings. The house was traditional Cape Dutch—white, with a central porch and a row of first-floor windows that had been partially covered with plywood. Four dormers with glass intact hinted at a second story and added interest to the steeply sloping roof. The grounds were a combination of well-tended grass, gravel, and flagstone, with an abundance of flowering plants. To the east was a sizable freestanding building with bay doors firmly closed.