Chapter 55
ROME, ITALY
SOMEHOW, Rapp had expected the mosque to look more sinister.
Though the vast majority of attendees were no doubt honest men and women attending the Center to connect with fellow Muslims, establish relationships with other expats, or just enjoy a time of prayer, others were also present.
Jihadis intent on radicalizing the young and disaffected with poisonous ideology and turning them toward a path of violence.
The former Kuwaiti ambassador was exhibit A.
Rapp didn’t intend to give Abu Hassan a chance to create exhibit B.
“You sure about this?”
Rapp turned his attention from the sprawling complex to Hurley. “Why do you keep asking?”
“Because I want to be certain you’re making a decision driven by logic rather than guilt.”
Rapp narrowed his eyes. “That’s pretty rich coming from the guy who was just questioning the size of my balls.”
“That was before the heart-to-heart with your new Italian friend. You told me what she said—Hezbollah is tying up all their operational loose ends, you included. If anybody’s left in that mosque, I don’t think they’re still breathing.
Listen, I’ve sat where you’re sitting. Sometimes the line between audacity and stupidity gets blurry.
You thought through how this is going to play out? ”
“If you’re asking whether I’m prepared to put a bullet between Hassan’s eyes, the answer’s yes.”
“I’m not asking that, and you know it. What’s our number one rule?”
Rapp glanced out the window. “No innocents.”
“Half right. No innocents, no law enforcement, and no women and children. Take a look at the mosque’s entrance and tell me what you see.”
Rapp sighed. The front walk was teeming with families. “You didn’t press me like this when I was set to enter that hotel in Paris.”
“Because you were heading to a specific room and we knew who was in it. Hell, we could hear them talking. This is worlds apart from that. If you find the Hezbollah shitbag in a private room, put a bullet in his head and don’t think twice.
But what if you don’t? What if he’s walking through a hallway or talking to one of those families?
You said he used a child and a young woman as runners—what if they’re in the room with him? Have you planned for that?”
“You want to do this instead?”
“Most certainly,” Hurley said, “but I don’t look the part. This is your show.”
“It sure is,” Rapp said, getting out of the car. “Circle the block or find somewhere to loiter—I don’t care. Be back every fifteen minutes until I come strolling out those doors.”
“Where have I heard that before?”
Rapp slammed the door before he said something he might regret.
Ignoring the raised hairs at the back of his neck, Rapp strode down the cobblestone walkway, angling away from the milling crowds.
On the occasions when men made eye contact or called out greetings, he responded but kept moving.
The notion that Hassan was still here was a long shot that became less likely with each passing minute.
Everything about the operation to kill the Kuwaiti ambassador had been a master class in planning and execution.
The puppet master who’d orchestrated the assassination had probably vanished.
But this wasn’t a foregone conclusion.
By its very nature, the mosque offered a protection of sorts.
The size of the crowds flowing up and down its tiered staircases posed a difficulty for law enforcement operations.
Then there was the political significance of sending armed men and women into a Muslim house of worship.
Though he considered it unlikely, Rapp could make a case for the planners remaining within the mosque’s bubble of safety until the hysteria around the attack abated.
Hassan had instructed Rapp to return after the shooting.
If Rapp was just a patsy, why not tell him to linger somewhere the authorities would find him?
Why allow him to drag law enforcement back to where the crime had been planned?
Even if the Hezbollah commander was long gone, there would be others who remembered his presence.
If the Italian police force interrogated enough people, surely they would find something that would shed light on the attack’s perpetrators.
Why risk this?
Rapp had wrestled with this question for the entire thirty-minute drive from the hotel to the mosque.
His analysis, while not satisfying, had yielded two possible answers—Hassan had used Rapp as a decoy and had expected him to be taken into custody by the police, or the bomb had been a fail-safe in case his attempt to kill the ambassador had been unsuccessful.
If the latter were the case, then the impetus for Rapp’s arrest had come from elsewhere.
As the bruises from his scuffle with the unknown operative in the Verona dig could attest, multiple parties were interested in the scientist.
Perhaps that interest extended to the dead Kuwaiti.
Either way, he still had more questions than answers.
Hopefully, that was about to change.
As before, the section of the Islamic Center in which the individual rooms were located was less populated. Maybe they were classrooms for a school or even living quarters for traveling imams. Whatever the reason, they appeared to be off-limits.
A conclusion reinforced by the large man standing in the walkway’s center.
“Can I help you, brother?”
The question was asked in Arabic, so Rapp replied in kind. “I was here earlier and told to return.”
“By who?”
“Abu Hassan.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Bald, mid-forties, Lebanese.”
The man shook his head. “No one here matches that description.”
“No problem,” Rapp said. “I’ll check for myself.”
The man interposed himself between Rapp and the stairs leading to the rooms. “I’m afraid this section of the mosque is closed.”
His movements, more than his words, had Rapp concerned.
The bruiser hadn’t so much stepped into Rapp’s path as flowed there.
More often than not, big men presented big challenges. A bruiser who moved like a fencer was more than just a challenge. If Rapp’s suspicions were correct, he might have more than just bruises after tangling with this guy.
“Listen,” Rapp said, “I don’t know you, but I need to get to the back section of the mosque where the apartments are located.”
“And I told you—it’s closed. Move along.”
Rapp paused for a moment, considering.
Sometimes, the nearer you were to a big man, the less cause you had to worry.
Sort of like how examining a painting up close allowed you to see the flaws in the brushstrokes, occasionally big men were more bluster than brute.
A person who was naturally physically imposing could often force others to back down and therefore lacked the brawling experience of someone more slightly built.
Not this time.
The more Rapp studied the bruiser, the less he liked what he saw.
The man stood in a boxer’s stance with his hands held chest high, open, and facing Rapp. His nose was flat and a bit crooked, probably the result of being broken multiple times, and his chin was tucked against his chest.
This was a fighter.
Smack.
A soccer ball slammed into the wall.
The bruiser turned toward the sound.
Rapp did not.
Instead, he stepped right, torqued his hips, and fired a shin kick into the bruiser’s knee. A reassuring pop sounded as the joint ruptured. The bruiser turned back toward Rapp and tried to close the distance. He was running on adrenaline and managed a step.
Until the knee buckled.
Rapp darted forward, catching him by the hair with his left hand and firing a murderous elbow into the bruiser’s temple with his right. The man collapsed into a pile of twitching flesh. Rapp stepped over him, scooped up the ball, and tossed it to the staring boy.
“Thanks for the help.”
Then he picked up his pace to a run. He hurdled the stairs and raced around the corner to the row of apartments.
The corridor was clear, so he continued to sprint, counting down the doors as he went.
He skidded to a stop in front of the correct apartment, checked his surroundings again, and tried the handle.
Locked.
He hadn’t remembered seeing a dead bolt when he’d been inside the apartment, but it didn’t really matter.
He didn’t have the time or the tools required to pick the lock.
Stepping back, he picked a spot just to the left of the knob and kicked like he was trying to drive the ball of his foot through the wood.
The door exploded inward.
Rapp followed.