A stunned silence enveloped the table for a few moments before Kennedy broke it. “I understand that there’s a clock ticking, Scott. I can hear it just as clearly as everyone else. But we need to make sure there are no other options.”
“And if there aren’t?”
“Then we can’t make the same mistake they did and miss. We have to have a clear idea of what we’re doing and how we can be absolutely sure they all end up in the wood chipper.”
The former SEAL leaned back in his chair again. “I can live with that.”
“In the meantime,” Kennedy continued, “I think it makes sense to understand who could potentially move against Claudia and neutralize them before they become a threat. Maybe even use them to our advantage.”
The sun crept to the edge of the table and Rapp looked up at the sky. It was hard not to think about the similarities between his situation and that of Gustavo Marroqui. The difference was that his enemies didn’t need to chuck a Soviet surplus bomb out of a narcotics plane. They could fly over in a B-2 and drop something state-of-the-art.
Claudia dug an uncharacteristically crumpled piece of paper from her jeans and unfolded it on the table. She seemed less put out by the situation than the rest of them and Rapp suspected he knew why. This was no longer her fault. That millstone was back around his own neck.
“I’ve made a list of people who might still be motivated to kill me and have the ability to do it.”
“How many?” Rapp said.
“Six.”
Fewer than he’d expected. Her husband had been a sociopathic bastard, but there was no denying the skills. He wasn’t a man to leave a lot of enemies behind.
“Names?”
“Malthe Kierkegaard, Oren Avraham, Earnst Lang, Aat Rueng, Josef Svoboda, and Enzo Ruiz.”
Coleman let out a low whistle. “Not to be negative, but there are some people on there you don’t want coming after you.”
“Could be worse,” Rapp said. “Let’s start at the beginning. Malthe Kierkegaard.”
Coleman shook his head. “There wasn’t any money on offer in that email to Grisha. Kiki wouldn’t step on a cockroach without a guaranteed payday. It costs a hundred grand just to get him to consider taking a job. Don’t ask me how I know.”
“Agreed,” Kennedy said. “But we need to contact him and tell him to let us know if anyone sends him that dossier. Also, we need to make it clear that he should respond by saying that he’s going to do the job. That’ll buy us time and maybe even help us find the person who sent it. Easy work and tell him we’ll pay him whatever he wants.”
“No problem, I’ll handle it.”
“Who was next?” Rapp said.
“Oren Avraham.”
“He’s dead,” Kennedy said.
“Really?” Rapp responded. “I hadn’t heard that. Are you’re sure?”
She nodded. “Bottom of the Indian Ocean.”
“Well, there you go. Next?”
“Earnst Lang.”
“Didn’t you use one of his offshore companies to finance an op a few years ago?” Coleman asked.
“Yes,” Kennedy confirmed. “It was something the CIA couldn’t have a connection to.”
“Can you still get to him?” Rapp asked.
She pulled out her phone and scrolled through the contacts before setting the audio to speaker. It only rang twice before being picked up.
“Is this a joke?” came the German-accented voice.
“No, it’s really me, Earnst.”
“Why?” he said suspiciously. “I haven’t done anything that would cause you problems. And I heard you were fired.”
“It’s not what you’ve done, it’s what you might do. Have you received any interesting anonymous emails lately?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Okay, then. It’s possible that you’re going to get a dossier on a woman you don’t much care for—her name, photo, address, habits—everything you’d need to exact a little revenge.”
“So?”
“So, I’d be disappointed if something happened to her.”
“Why don’t you government people ever speak plainly? What you mean is that if I make a move, you’ll send that psychopath Mitch Rapp to kill me.”
“I’m sorry. Force of habit. Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”