Oath of Loyalty (Mitch Rapp #21)(55)

Rapp descended the stairs and found the English-speaking guard standing in the entry hall.

“What’s your name?”

“Alexandre Fabre.”

Rapp handed him a sticky note with a name and phone number scrawled across it.

“Do you know who that is?”

“Jordi Cardenas? Of course. He is the director of our intelligence services.”

“And an old friend of mine. If you should have any problems that you think might have something to do with me, that should be the first number you call. His assistant will put you right through.”

He was understandably confused but pulled out his wallet and put the piece of paper safely inside.





CHAPTER 25


NORTH OF CAPE TOWN

SOUTH AFRICA

THE trail became steep enough that Cyrah Jafari had to use her hands for balance as she continued upward. The area was a rock-climbing destination that had faded in popularity due to frequent car break-ins and then been abandoned entirely after a deadly mugging.

That was two years ago, but the parking area was still there, well out of sight of the highway. Disused trails were still passable with some effort and the views were spectacular. A solid workout after too many days of inactivity and a perfect location for what she had to do.

The path flattened but also narrowed, tracking a bulging cliff face on one side and a hundred-meter drop-off on the other. Skies were uncharacteristically gray and she found herself looking into them often, calculating the chance of rain. Climbing down was always harder than climbing up and wet surfaces would add a little excitement to what was scheduled to be a tedious day.

Another half hour took her to a summit of sorts—the top of a tall cliff that still had steel climbing anchors glued into it. The views were intermittently obscured by mist, but with that came an enhanced sense of anonymity. The very thing she was there seeking.

Cyrah wasn’t really worried that she was being actively watched, but casual surveillance was an increasing problem in the modern world. Shared networks, Google, security cameras, and a hundred other things constantly conspired against the oppressive secrecy that her operation was built on. That secrecy, combined with a one hundred percent success rate, was what allowed her and her people to operate in a completely new way. One that their competition lacked both the skill and creativity to emulate.

She dropped her light backpack and sat with legs dangling over the cliff. After watching the swirling fog for a few moments, she dug out a phone. It had been purchased on the black market in China and at the moment lacked both a battery and SIM card. Cyrah installed both and waited for it to capture a mobile network. As promised by her out-of-date guidebook, signal strength was excellent.

The proprietary Internet calling app had numerous layers of security but she finally managed to navigate to a waiting area. A chirp sounded when her two colleagues entered and she put in a wired headset.

“Everyone is well?”

The voices that responded had been making her smile for almost fifteen years now. To call them sisters would trivialize their relationship. Sisters shared parents and an upbringing but that was nothing compared to what they’d been through together. What they’d escaped together.

“The weapon used in the Guatemala attack was likely dropped from a plane and was unquestionably military in origin.” Nasrin’s voice was steady as always. A woman of logic and control. “Further, the house in Franschhoek is still being watched by a three-man team. American and very professional. There’s no doubt they saw you.”

“No doubt,” Cyrah responded, unconcerned. The Americans watching Claudia Gould’s house would see exactly what had been presented to them—a low-level policeman making a little extra cash helping a reporter.

“At this point, I think we can be certain that Mitch Burhan is still connected to the US government,” Yasmin chimed in. She was the group’s most empathetic member. A creative who was sometimes hard to keep on track but who understood people and was a fountain of improbable ideas that almost always ended up working.

“Why are we wasting our time on this?” Cyrah asked.

“A reminder that we shouldn’t have taken this job,” Nasrin snapped.

“We only take work that everyone votes for. And that’s what happened.”

“Because we were afraid you’d kill yourself swimming through one of those caves,” Yasmin said.

“Or expose us all by getting arrested driving one of your sports cars at three times the speed limit,” Nasrin added. Her fears were largely unfounded, though. Cyrah was the one who was exposed. The one who pulled the trigger. The other two could disappear in a matter of hours, leaving barely a trace that they’d ever existed.

“Were we able to track Burhan?” Cyrah said, unwilling to rehash this argument.

“No,” Nasrin said. “We have limited resources on the ground in Africa and we weren’t expecting him to leave. By all appearances, he wasn’t expecting it, either.”

“How so?”

“He had a meeting with his architect in two days’ time that’s now been canceled. He also canceled the moving van that was scheduled to move items from the house to a storage unit he rented.”

“The question is whether he’ll return. Has anything been rescheduled? I see him as our best chance of finding Claudia.”