The train pulled into Zurich a few minutes before noon. His eyeglasses were in his pocket and his handkerchief covered his face as he passed under a tinted security camera pod. Abel walked briskly with his medium-sized wheeled suitcase rolling behind him. He did not go straight for the taxi line. He crossed the street and walked south down Bahnhofstrasse toward the lake. Abel knew the city as well as any in the world. He kept an apartment here that doubled as an office. He wouldn't be going anywhere near the place, though.

After a brisk ten-minute walk he was in the heart of one of the world's most upscale shopping districts. Abel turned east and took one of the low-slung bridges across the Limmat. He found a bench on the east bank and turned on his PDA. While he waited for the color screen to come to life he glanced up at the sky. It was a blanket of gray. No clouds, just flat gray blotting out the warm sun. A cool gust of wind kicked off the river and Abel turned up the collar of his trench coat.

The screen sprang to life and the tiny speaker announced that the device was ready with a few musical notes. Abel's thumbs began working furiously. He found the bank's Web site, entered his account number, and passed through three separate security portals until the account balance appeared on the screen. Abel paused, frowned, and then swore. The amount in the account was one million dollars. Not eleven.

Abel stood, took several laps around the park bench, and then sat back down and typed out the instructions to his banker. He wanted the money moved out of the account before he made his next call. He sent the instructions with all the proper passwords and then logged off. He called Rashid's office. The prince was not in, but he was expecting the call. The assistant gave Abel a number to dial. Abel hung up without thanking the man and turned off his phone. He wondered if this was some kind of a trap. He decided to use a pay phone to make the call.

Half a block away he found one and punched in his calling card number followed by the new number. After a series of whirs and clicks a man answered on the other end.

"Prince Muhammad, now."

"May I ask who is calling?"

"Just put him on the phone," Abel snapped. He looked over both shoulders, up and down the riverbank, and counted the seconds.

"Erich?" the prince asked. "Where are you?"

"I'm in Vienna," he lied. "Where are you?"

"Southern Spain."

Abel shook his head. Rashid loved to talk about Spain and how someday again it would be Muslim. "I just checked the account. You are ten million dollars short."

"I have some bad news for you. The Americans already know that you were working for Saeed."

"You are lying."

"No, I am not."

"Who told you?"

"Their director of National Intelligence…Ross."

"I don't believe you." Abel tried to sound calm even though his head was pounding.

"It is true. In fact I don't think Vienna is a good place for you to be. Fly to Saudi Arabia and I will protect you."

Fly to Saudi Arabia and you'll kill me, Abel thought to himself. "How did the Americans find out about me? Saeed would have told them nothing."

"The assassins you hired have been talking."

"They were caught?" Abel asked in disbelief.

"No. Not that I know of. All I was told was that the CIA has been in contact with the banks that you and Saeed used. Director Kennedy herself flew to Zurich and met with the bankers. Saeed did not take your money. The CIA did."

"I don't care who took my money. Our deal still stands. Eleven million dollars. You owe me ten."

"Yes I do," Rashid said in a reasonable voice, "and you will get it. Every six months I will wire you another million."

"That'll take five years."

"Exactly, and during that time I will sleep well knowing that you have an incentive not to betray me."

"No! We made a deal yesterday."

"Deals get modified. Fly to Granada. I'll send my plane. We can discuss your terms."

Abel took the hard plastic handset and banged it against his forehead several times. He was in no position to negotiate. "Six months from today, I want to see a million dollars deposited in my account or I give the Americans everything on you. Not just this stuff about Rapp, but everything. And just in case you've decided to send that goon Tayyib after me, you'd better know I took out an insurance policy."

"What insurance policy?"

"I put everything on an encrypted disk and gave it to an attorney." Abel was lying. "If I fail to call him by a specific date each month he has instructions to send the disk to the FBI. I want my million dollars every six months, Rashid, and if I see any sign of Tayyib or any of his people I will call Mitch Rapp personally."

Abel slammed the phone into its cradle, and spun around. He grabbed his bag and started off down the street. He hadn't made arrangements with an attorney yet, but he would the first chance he got. Rashid's renegotiated deal was hard to argue with. If he'd been in his shoes, he would have done the same thing. Abel still didn't trust him and that was why he was going to have to proceed with plan B. It was a bit risky, but it was better to do it now than wait another day. The Americans were sure to find out about his mountain retreat at some point. He'd left his new Mercedes in a private garage, before he'd left for Venice. He would pick it up, dash across the border to his Alpine house, and empty out his safe, which had over $500,000 in cash, plus a few weapons, several sets of identification, and some very important files.

77

The two Saudis were on their backs, their ankles and hands bound with white flex cuffs and duct tape stretched tightly over their mouths and eyes. The bigger man's elbow wound had been bandaged, not because they were concerned for his health, but because they didn't want to have to clean up any more blood. It had taken an entire bag of cat litter just to soak up the puddle of blood that had poured out of the third man's head. Milt's team was used to this stuff. Within minutes they were running around town purchasing a vacuum, cleaning solutions, a two-wheeler, cat litter, duct tape, rolls of heavy plastic, and even a fifty-inch projection TV. The TV was left in an alley not far from where it had been purchased, and the box was saved.

Rapp looked on, as the guy he'd shot in the head was wrapped up in plastic, duct-taped, and then placed in the large TV box. None of them were carrying IDs, but Rapp was willing to bet the farm they were Saudis. The big guy with the busted elbow was left on the floor while the other guy was knocked out with a needle full of Xanax to the thigh, and tossed in the box on top of his dead friend. Milt's guys resealed the box with clear packing tape and took it away on the two-wheeler. The dead guy would be chopped up into pieces and dropped into vats of industrial acid. The second guy they weren't sure what they'd do with, but after listening to the woman tell them how she'd been brutally beaten and raped, Rapp was tempted to cut the guy's balls off, shove them down his throat, and let him choke to death.

Coleman and Sarah were in the other room trying to talk to the woman. They'd given her a much smaller dose of Xanax to help calm her down. She was making too much noise. She told them how she had answered her apartment door the previous night and the big man had been standing there. The next thing she remembered was waking up in a basement somewhere and then the beating started. They wanted to know where her boss was. So did Coleman and Sarah, but they didn't push it. After all this woman had been through she was not going to respond well to rough or even assertive behavior. They listened and asked a few gentle questions to help nudge her in the right direction. When was the last time you spoke to your boss? Have you ever seen any of these men before?