“Okay, I’m with Beighley on the roof.”
Rapp braked as he came to the turnoff for the dirt road leading to the compound.
While he wanted to continue rocketing down the hardpacked mud, he couldn’t. The van’s suspension and oversize engine were probably up to the challenge, but he was more worried about observers unseen and otherwise. The CIA safehouse team had identified several surveillance cameras on the compound’s exterior, at least two of which had commanding views of the road. Racing hell-bent for leather down a mostly private street was a great way to get attention.
The wrong kind of attention.
“Tell Beighley there are a series of four electric meters mounted on the northeast corner of the compound,” Rapp said. “Let me know when he has them.”
“Stand by.”
Rapp bumped down the road, trying to stay clear of the biggest potholes. He maintained an even twenty kilometers per hour. Slow enough to keep from knocking his head against the ceiling as the van’s tires traveled from one rut to another, but fast enough to project a sense of urgency. A gaggle of kids playing soccer grudgingly made way. Rapp waved as he drove past.
“Beighley has them,” Sullivan said.
Rapp exhaled. This gambit had come together on the fly, and he hadn’t been sure the roof even offered Beighley a line of sight to the electric meters.
Maybe this was going to work after all.
“Ironman, we’re out of time. They’re at the eastern door.”
“Tell Beighley to shoot exactly when I say,” Rapp said, depressing the accelerator. “Exactly. I’m going to give him a three-count and then the execute command. He’s to fire on the word execute. Got it?”
For the first time, Rapp saw the compound in person. The structure gave off a prison vibe. The razor wire glinted in the sun and fissures had already begun to form in the concrete. While it was certainly better living conditions than the caves of Tora Bora, Rapp had expected something different. Something more akin to the opulence of a European castle or the decadence of a Saudi hotel suite.
“Tracking,” Sullivan said, “they’re opening the eastern door.”
Steering the van to the right, Rapp pulled the vehicle up to the compound’s gate and braked. “Three,” Rapp said, slamming the transmission into park, “two, one. Execute, execute, execute.”
Rapp laid on the van’s horn an instant before giving the execute command. The ground branch sniper undoubtedly had a suppressor attached to his rifle’s muzzle, and while this would muffle the report, it would not completely eliminate it. Worse still, the can would do nothing for the distinctive crack a rifle bullet made as it transited the sound barrier. With this in mind, Rapp decided to use an old-school sound-suppression system.
The horn.
“Round complete,” Sullivan said.
Rapp gave the horn one last blast for good measure before hopping out of the van and slamming the door closed behind him. Now it was time to see if the Ground Branch sniper had earned his money. Striding up to the compound’s iron gate, Rapp banged on the metal with a closed fist.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then it opened.
CHAPTER 67
RAPP felt an immediate distaste for the man staring back at him.
This could be because he’d just been dragging a fellow CIA officer across his yard by her hair, or it could have been the less-than-friendly expression on his face. It might also have been because, if the Agency eggheads were correct, this shitbag had helped bin Laden evade justice. Regardless of the reason, the result was the same.
Rapp wanted to kill him.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen just yet, so Rapp suppressed his anger and channeled his annoyance into a suitable facial expression.
“Your meter,” Rapp said, before FLACO could even get a word in. “Something’s wrong with it.”
Whatever the courier had been expecting, this clearly wasn’t it. FLACO’s eyes went from Rapp’s shirt, which had the word HAZECO prominently emblazoned above his left breast, to the van behind him. The van that was stenciled with the words Hazara Electric Supply Company—Abbottabad’s electricity provider.
FLACO replied in heavily accented Urdu.
“I don’t understand you,” Rapp said, speaking in Arabic, “but I need to check the electric line inside. Something’s wrong with your meter.”
Rapp moved to push past FLACO, but the gangly courier stood in his way. Rapp collided with the man and stumbled. He reached for the gate to steady himself and gave it a hearty push as he regained his balance. The barrier swung open, offering Rapp a view of the compound’s interior.
And Noreen.
The case officer was still on her feet. Barely. Her bag full of medical equipment had fallen, spilling syringes and serum vials across the dirty ground. Her hair was askew and GORDO had his hand drawn back, clearly about to administer a slap.
“What is going on?” Rapp said, allowing anger but not rage to color his voice.
With Rapp, there was a difference.
Anger was an inconvenience.
Rage was lethal.
Pakistan was not a Western country, but neither was it Saudi Arabia. If Rapp had a daughter, he wouldn’t want her to grow up here, but Pakistani women weren’t considered subhuman by their male counterparts. The Pakistani military had women members, as did parliament. Unlike Afghanistan during the Taliban’s rule, in present-day Pakistan a woman couldn’t be beaten and dragged about by her hair for no reason. This realization seemed to dawn on FLACO and his fake brother at same time. GORDO released his hold on Noreen, and FLACO began jawing in Arabic about a misunderstanding.
Ignoring them both, Rapp called across the courtyard to Noreen. “Are you okay?”
To her credit, Noreen kept her cool. Perhaps not trusting her voice, the case officer gave a short nod. Then she bent and began scooping up the spilled medical supplies and shoving them back into her bag.
