He pushed the wheelbarrow through the haze to the front door. An improvised ramp allowed him to avoid the porch steps and he continued across the grass to a large dumpster near the perimeter wall. Once there, he pulled off his mask and used a shovel to begin transferring the debris.
Finally, he stepped back, shading his eyes against the sun and taking a moment to survey his progress. The gate was unrepaired and still covered with corrugated metal that was pretty effective in deterring press photographers and general curiosity seekers. Of course, they could still use drones, but he hadn’t seen any yet. If that changed, he had a twelve-gauge by the door.
The freezer was cleaned out, as was the damage to the sewage line, which had taken care of the worst of the odors. An electrician had tested as much of the wiring as was practical and cut off any questionable circuits at the breaker box. That had left much of the ground floor without power, but with the creative use of extension cords, he could run the refrigerator, microwave, work lights, and basic power tools. Though not all at the same time.
Most of the furniture and artwork from the first floor had found a new home at the dump. Later that week, a moving van was scheduled to take the rest of their belongings to a secure storage unit outside of Cape Town. Then the place would be ready to hand over to the architect Claudia had coming to meet with him.
After that, he wasn’t sure. Doing a proper job of renovating the house would take at least six months and after that their tentative plan was to return. By then, the press would have moved on, any rumors about Claudia that might have taken hold in criminal circles would have died down, and his truce with the White House would be worn in.
What could possibly go wrong?
The phone in his pocket began to vibrate and he pulled off his work gloves to dig it out.
“Are things still on track?” Claudia said when he picked up.
“More or less. I’m going to have to scramble to get everything ready for the movers, but it’s doable. The boxes and packing supplies are supposed to be delivered today.”
“It’s a lot, Mitch. Are you sure you don’t want me to come and help? Scott’s back and between him and Irene, they can handle Anna.”
“No. I’ve got this. Stop worrying.”
“I’m not worrying. But this is my fault and I’m sitting around the pool while you live in a house with no power and a leaking toilet.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to me,” he said. “How are things going on your end? Have you found us somewhere to live yet?”
“No, but I’ll have some options for you to look at when you get back. Obviously, everything has its pros and cons. Do we get lost in a big city like Paris, London, or Istanbul? Or do we want to disappear into something more rural? There are some nice places in Asia, but I’m leaning more toward Latin America. I’d like Anna to learn a little Spanish, which wouldn’t be hard with her foundation in French. And while I admire her devotion to Afrikaans, I’m not sure it’s going to be that useful in the long run.”
“What about my Alaska idea?”
He’d read that it was possible to just get off a train in the middle of nowhere and claim some acreage. They could build a cabin next to a lake and turn off the world for a while. Hunt. Fish. It’d be good for the kid to get some survival skills under her belt.
“I’m ignoring it.”
Her tone suggested that pressing the issue would be futile, so he changed the subject.
“How’s Anna doing?”
“Better. She can’t get enough of the pool, and Scott’s taking her on a gorilla safari tomorrow. But she misses her friends. I’d like to fly in Ahmale, but we’re not very popular with the other parents right now.”
“Have you talked to her about the fact that we can’t come back for a while?”
“No. I think it’s too soon. She’s resilient, but I want her to bounce back a little more before she has to face that. Also, I think it would be better if you were here when we deliver the news. Not that I’m trying to push any of this off on you, but we need to present a united front. Is that okay?”
His phone began vibrating again and he glanced down at the letters on the screen.
GAz.
They were ones he thought he’d never see again and, more important, they were ones he’d never wanted to see again. Grisha Azarov was a Russian assassin he’d come up against a while back in Saudi Arabia. At the time, the man had been pretty much at the top of the food chain. He’d nearly killed Coleman in Pakistan and when Rapp finally faced off against him, it hadn’t been pretty. Rapp had come out the victor, but that victory involved being blown off an oil rig and having to extinguish his burning hair in a sand dune.