Pursuit of Honor

“No,” the man pleaded. “I am a Saudi. I am a believer. I have contacts . . . very well-placed contacts. I . . .”

Karim raised his pistol and shot the man twice in the heart.

CHAPTER 65

NASSAU, BAHAMAS

GEORGE Butler looked across the table and said, “You could have just paid him the million dollars.”

Rapp smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I suppose.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Dumond said as he pecked away at his laptop. “The guy was a world-class prick.”

Rapp laughed. It wasn’t like Dumond to offer such a harsh opinion. They were sitting in the Chairman’s Club at Graycliff, the eighteenth-century plantation house turned hotel and restaurant. The place was very private and very British. Rapp had suggested it knowing that Butler had a discreet agreement with the manager. A waiter came into the room with a large tray. He set down three plates and refilled the water and iced tea glasses.

When he was gone, Butler said to Rapp, “You almost lost him. Wouldn’t it have been easier to just pay him?”

Rapp shook his head. “Maybe, but I think a guy like that is just as likely to take your money and lie to you. He’s a thug. He gets his way by threatening people with violence.”

Butler set down his iced tea. “So you hit him with the only thing he really understands.”

“I suppose. It worked, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but you do know I would never have let you lay a finger on him. At least not while he was here.”

“I know,” Rapp said with a slight grin. “I would never put you in that position.”

“Yes you would,” Butler said with dry sincerity.

“Well . . . at least not intentionally.”

“That has always been your Achilles’ heel.”

“What?”

“Some people have the Midas touch . . . you, on the other hand . . . have all the grace of one of those American footballers who bashes the quarterback into submission.”

“Thank you,” Rapp said with a smile.

Butler’s phone vibrated. He didn’t bother to pick it up. He simply looked down at the screen, read the message, and said, “We have located our banker.”

“Christian?” Rapp said.

“Yes, his last name is Nelson. He has a flat over in the Grove not far from here.”

“Do your boys have eyes on him?” Rapp asked.

“Not yet. A car is on its way, but we have his mobile, work number, and email account all monitored.”

Rapp smiled. When it came to national security and secrecy the Brits could move five times faster than the Americans. “Do we know if he’s on the island?”

“According to customs . . . yes.”

“I’m in,” Dumond a

“Where?” Butler asked.

“First Caribbean Bank.”

“Impossible.” Butler looked nervously back toward the door. “How did you do that so fast?”

Rapp leaned in and waved off Butler’s question. “If you really want to know, maybe you guys could take a walk on the beach later.”

“But . . .” Butler tried to press the question.

“No,” Rapp said, knowing where it would lead them. Butler was a techie at heart. “You two will start talking about all of your trapdoors and back doors and portals and hashes and injections and my eyes will glaze over and then I’ll get a headache. So you guys can go over all that later. For now,” Rapp said, turning all of his attention back to Dumond, “I want to hear about the financials of Adam Farhat.”

Dumond was the ultimate multitasker and had never stopped typing. “Sweet mother of Jesus!” he a

“What?” Rapp asked.

“He has over thirteen million dollars in this account. Almost ten of it deposited this week alone.”

“That would make sense,” Butler said. “Payments for the drugs.”

“What else?” Rapp asked.

“Looks like he runs some kind of coffee import company.”

“What about payments? Where has he been sending money?”

“Other than this hundred thousand dollar debit, which was probably to General Scumbag, there’s nothing. Only deposits.” Dumond squinted at the screen and pecked at a few keys. “He also has a safety deposit box.”

Butler’s phone started ringing. He glanced at the caller ID and then answered. “Hello.” He listened ten seconds, his eyes growing a touch more alert by the second. “And we have people in place?” He listened again for a few seconds and nodded enthusiastically. “Good. I’ll be back to you shortly.” Butler set the phone down and said, “Apparently Mr. Nelson just got off the phone with his superior at the bank.”

“And?” Rapp asked.

“One of his more important clients would like to access his safety deposit box this afternoon.”

“Is that normal for a Saturday?” Rapp asked.

Butler shrugged as if to say who knows. “These banks all make exceptions for their better clients.”

“Where’s Nelson right now?”

“Leaving his flat. We assume on his way to the bank.”

Rapp looked at Butler for a long moment and then without saying a word both men stood.

Dumond looked up. “Where are you guys going? Our sandwiches just got here.”

“Bring it with,” Rapp said. “You can eat in the car.”

CHAPTER 66

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

THE match was a blowout. McLean was up 14-1 over their hated rivals the Langley Saxons. The difference this year was Rory Nash and everyone knew it. The thirteen-year-old had eight of his team’s points. Nash watched intently as Rory sliced through the Saxons’ defense. Any other game he’d be on the bench at this point, but McLean’s coach wanted retribution for last year’s blowout. Langley had one big defender whom Nash had been watching all game. He had reminded his son before the game to keep an eye out for him. The kid was a head taller than every other player on the field and was known to lay out at least one opponent per game. As Nash looked out on the field Rory was moving from right to left cradling the ball. He sliced between two defenders and it looked as if the big kid from Langley was finally going to get his shot at Rory. At the last second, though, Rory slammed on the brakes and pulled off a perfect roll dodge. The big kid sailed past Rory with an angry grunt as he tried to command his large frame to do the impossible. Rory closed on the goal, moving to his left as he went. He faked once and froze the goalie and then again as he closed the gap. His feet were dancing along the edge of the crease. He faked low to get the goalie to bite and then the stick snapped around the back of his head, the ball arching softly through the air to the opposite side of the crease, where one of his teammates snatched it and snapped it into the open net.

“Sweet!” Jack yelled.

“Yeah,” Nash agreed with some relief. “Your brother shouldn’t even be in there right now.” Nash looked farther down the sideline in search of his wife. She was standing about twenty yards away talking to two of the other mothers. She smiled at her husband and pointed at him. The other two mothers turned and waved at Nash. They were smiling and nodding as Maggie whispered something to them. Nash cringed. He was not used to all this attention. From the moment he had arrived at the field, people had been talking and pointing.

“Dad,” Jack said, as he looked up, “are you famous?”

The comment hit Nash like a slap in the face. He felt himself getting angry, but told himself to take a deep breath. It wasn’t Jack’s fault. He was only ten. “No, Jack, I’m not famous.”

“Well . . . you kind of are. Your photo was on the front page of the paper this morning and you were all over the news last night.”

“Just because you get your picture in the paper doesn’t mean you’re famous.”

“That’s not what my friend Scott said.”