Page 14 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)
R APP stared at Ohlmeyer, waiting for the old man to elaborate.
When he didn’t, Rapp sighed and bit the bullet. “Who?”
The banker slowly nodded. “That is a reasonable question. The question of an assassin preparing to service his next target, but in this case, it’s the wrong question. It is the why rather than the who that must inform our response to this threat.”
Again, the banker paused and again Rapp refused to immediately take the bait. Instead, he took a swallow of coffee and engaged his most fearsome weapon.
His mind.
In keeping with European traditions, the coffee was a latte, since it was now late afternoon.
The brew was both strong and flavorful, but Rapp unexpectedly had a craving for good old-fashioned American drip java.
He’d been living his legend as a Paris-based traveling computer salesman for almost two years.
While the idea of calling one of Europe’s most desirable cities home had seemed great on paper, the reality was different.
He missed America and all her eccentricities.
He’d become somewhat of a soccer fan in order to fit in with the locals, but nothing beat Monday Night Football .
In fact, had it not been for his relationship with Greta, Rapp thought he might have already requested a move back stateside.
Greta.
Ignoring Ohlmeyer’s exasperated expression, Rapp surveyed the room.
The hotel had a distinctively European feeling without the postmodern vibe that seemed to be all the rage.
Rather than monochromatic decorations, hard edges, and uncomfortable furniture, the décor was warm and the plush leather chair could have been fitted for his backside.
A carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice stood glistening next to a bowl of mixed fruit and a plate of meats and cheeses on the low table that separated him from the German banker.
Cut-glass tumblers filled with mineral water completed the entourage.
One of Ohlmeyer’s men hovered in the background, but the remainder of the banker’s security detail was absent.
As was Greta.
After arriving at the hotel under the care of the agitated, but otherwise no worse for wear, security detail, Greta had been warmly embraced by her grandfather and then told in no uncertain terms to wait in an adjoining suite while the family’s patriarch had a private conversation with Mr. Rapp.
Since he had more than a passing familiarity with Greta’s stubborn streak, Rapp had expected fireworks.
Instead the woman he loved had brushed his cheek with a kiss and then done her grandfather’s bidding.
It wasn’t lost on Rapp that the sign of physical affection had been its own form of rebellion, but he was also a little shocked to see his headstrong spitfire behave like a church mouse.
He hadn’t understood then.
He did now.
Greta was not as ignorant of her grandfather’s past as the banker believed.
Or at the very least, she realized that the man who’d secreted her pieces of chocolate as a child was more than just a financial tycoon.
Greta understood Ohlmeyer, which went a long way toward explaining why she understood Rapp.
But perhaps the kiss had a deeper meaning.
Beyond just demonstrating her affection for Rapp, Greta had also communicated the opposite with equal clarity.
She loved Ohlmeyer with the entirety of her heart, which meant that if Rapp truly cared for her, he needed to see the old man in the same light.
Like it or not, the banker’s problem had just become his.
After a final swallow of coffee, Rapp set the ceramic mug neatly on its coaster.
Then he turned his attention back to the man seated across from him.
“How about we dispense with the cloak-and-dagger nonsense?”
“Easier said than done, my young friend. Cloak-and-dagger nonsense is the exact reason why I sent a detail of the best Swiss security specialists money could buy to augment my own personal protection team when they recovered my granddaughter.”
Rapp refrained from pointing out that if these men were the best money could buy, Ohlmeyer might want to ask for a refund.
Or at least a discount.
As security details went, the men had performed adequately, but against an operative of Rapp’s caliber, adequate wasn’t enough.
And while Rapp was good, perhaps very good, he was not an invincible killing machine.
If he had been able to get to Greta, the real person or persons who’d prompted such a response from Ohlmeyer would be able to do the same.
Like it or not, Rapp was in this now.
Biting back another irritation-laced response, Rapp tried a different track. One that he didn’t often employ.
Humility.
“How can I help?”
Ohlmeyer sighed and settled deeper into his seat.
“I am not trying to be obtuse, it’s just that a problem that has been thirty years in the making is not so easily put into words.
To reciprocate the simplicity of your question with an equally simple answer—I need you to visit someone and ask him a series of questions. ”
“You’re a man of considerable resources, Herr Ohlmeyer,” Rapp said. “Why would you need my help to ask someone questions?”
“The person in question is beyond my reach.”
Rapp studied the banker, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
On the far side of the room, the valet fussed with a stainless-steel monstrosity affixed to the far wall. Steam hissed, milk frothed, and espresso gurgled. Two additional mugs sat within easy reach.
Herr Ohlmeyer was expecting company.
“I wasn’t aware that any place on earth was beyond your reach.”
“The man in question resides in Russia. Moscow to be exact.”
Touché.
While Moscow wasn’t the Arctic Circle, it would definitely qualify as out of reach for a man who’d once gone head-to-head with the KGB during the height of the Cold War.
“Let’s say for argument’s sake that I was able to have a conversation with this man. What would you have me do with him once our question-and-answer session was over?”
“Kill him.”
Though he’d half expected that answer, Rapp was still a little unnerved at Ohlmeyer’s sudden frankness.
Moments ago, the conversation had been all subterfuge and innuendo.
Now the man he’d known only as a friend of Stan’s and an enabler of clandestine operations was asking him to interrogate and kill someone.
On the other side of the room, the valet was topping off mugs with frothed milk and arranging them on a platter.
While he was far from an expert on banking, Rapp understood that the management and movement of large amounts of money did not happen in a vacuum.
If something or someone had prompted the Swiss banker to take such extraordinary measures to protect his granddaughter, chances were that the threat did not end at his doorstep.
Ohlmeyer was a banker, which meant that he had customers.
Customers who would need to be reassured that their investments were still safe.
“I am not a killer for hire,” Rapp said.
“That’s good because I don’t intend to pay you. Think of this as a target of opportunity. A chance to right one of the greatest wrongs ever leveraged against your nation.”
In spite of himself, Rapp was intrigued.
Whatever Ohlmeyer might be behind the facade of gentleman financier, he was not a blowhard.
Stan Hurley did not trust his life to unserious men.
That said, what Ohlmeyer was asking of Rapp was not insignificant.
The Iron Curtain might have fallen, but the former Soviet Socialist Republics were not exactly bastions of freedom and democracy.
Until now, Rapp’s talents had been directed toward targets more suitable for his appearance and aptitude for Arabic, but that didn’t mean he was ignorant of the seismic shifts upending governments and alliances all across the European continent.
While many of the Western-based foreign policy intelligentsia were dancing in the streets and proclaiming the end of history, Rapp viewed the Soviet Union’s demise with a more skeptical eye.
Yes, the collapse of communism was undoubtedly a good thing, but he wasn’t convinced that rainbows and unicorns were about to spring from the ash heap.
Based on his own study of history, Rapp didn’t believe in a bias toward good or morality.
The United States was an exceptional nation precisely because the values and ideals on which it had been founded were the global exception rather than the norm.
More often than not, the collapse of an empire birthed chaos, and the forces that filled the ensuing void were not benevolent.
Swirling undercurrents of greed and corruption were already choking Russia’s fledgling attempt at democracy.
“Who are we talking about?” Rapp said.
“Alexander Hughes.”
Despite the fact that he was employed by the agency, Rapp had deliberately limited his exposure to the organization. He was a member of the Orion team. A black program with a singular goal—the elimination of his nation’s enemies.
Rapp was not an intelligence officer.
He was an assassin.
He did not concern himself with agency politics, bureaucracy, or lore.
He had no ambition to one day rule an empire from Langley’s seventh floor or serve as a chief of station for one of the CIA’s coveted overseas postings.
Rapp neither knew nor cared how the CIA ran its clandestine service because as far as he was concerned, he was not part of the agency.
His handler was Irene Kennedy, and his mentor, Stan Hurley, was the senior member of Orion and a fellow contractor.