American Assassin

“Thank you.” Stansfield looked to the door, letting Powers know he wanted to get back to his meeting with Ke

As soon as the Near East chief was gone, Ke

Stansfield twirled his glasses in his right hand and asked, “Well?”

Ke

CHAPTER 24

THE handsome young man loosened his tie and nudged his beg toward the Customs desk at John F. Ke

The officer, a fifty-some-year-old gray-haired man, gave him a serious look and then glanced at the passport. He was all business. In a voice devoid of real interest he asked, “Did you have a good trip, Mike?”

The man gave a relaxed shrug and said, “Business.”

“What do you do?”

“Computer software. Workforce management stuff.”

The man asked a few more standard questions before getting back to his second one. “Workforce management … what’s that?”

“Sorry … scheduling software. They tell me workforce management sounds more cutting edge.”

The officer let out a small laugh while he applied the appropriate stamps. He closed the passport, slid it back across the surface, and said, “Have a nice day.”

“Thanks, you, too.” The software salesman headed for the main door and a co

He extracted a thin money clip with just one credit card, a Virginia driver’s license, and eight hundred dollars in cash. After closing the suitcase, he left the men’s room and proceeded directly to the Delta ticket counter, where a very enthusiastic young woman with a southern accent asked how she could be of service.

“I’d like to purchase a ticket on your next flight to Dulles.” He placed his driver’s license on the counter.

The woman was already pecking away at her keyboard. She nodded at her screen and then looked at the license. “Well, Mr. Rapp, we have a flight that leaves in one hour and forty-eight minutes.”

She went on to give Rapp the time of arrival and cost of the ticket plus tax. He simply smiled and slid four hundred-dollar bills across the counter. Three minutes later he was on his way with his change and ticket. He’d spent the last three days traveling across Europe pretending to be someone else. He was relieved to be back on U.S. soil, but was not naive enough to think that his problems were over.

He’d taken a roundabout way back to the flat after he’d executed Sharif, and he’d forced himself to run at a much slower pace than he was used to. A man ru

Rapp took a fast shower and put on his suit. After taking two minutes to walk through the flat and make sure he wasn’t missing anything, he stuffed the two paper bags in his black duffel and attached the duffel to the top of his black, wheeled carry-on suitcase. Forty-one minutes after executing Sharif, Rapp locked the apartment and headed for the tram. The closest stop was three blocks away and Rapp had two major decisions to make.

The first was to find the right place to dispose of the two brown bags and to do it quickly. The second decision involved getting out of the country. Three different plans had been researched. The first was to simply fly out of the country, the second was to take the train, and the third was to rent a car. Rapp did not like the car rental as an option unless it was to be used to drive to Ankara, eight hours away, where he would leave it at the airport and grab a flight. Using the car to cross the border would create a different set of problems that he wanted to avoid. It put a name in a system that the police could trace. It would be a fake name, of course, but even the false identities that they had manufactured were to be protected. Heading straight for Istanbul’s airport would be the faster way out of the country, but it would also involve standing in close proximity to a large number of police, who he didn’t think had a description of him, but he couldn’t be sure.

A half block from the tram stop he ducked into a bakery and purchased a coffee, newspaper, and breakfast roll. He paid in liras and took the coffee black and in a to-go cup. Outside he removed the lid, blew on the hot coffee, and watched a nearby public garbage can. He had enough credits left on his tram card that he didn’t need to worry about buying a new ticket. The digital readout above the stop told him he had two minutes before the right tram arrived. Rapp put the lid back on his coffee and partially opened the black duffel bag. He extracted the more damning of the two paper bags and stuffed it under his left arm.

The hum of the approaching tram caused everyone to look, and that was when Rapp moved. He headed toward the flock of passengers who were waiting to board, pausing for a split second near the garbage can. He released the suitcase, grabbed the bag and stuffed it in the big circular receptacle. The tram stopped, the throng moved forward in unison, and ten seconds later they were all on their way to Sirkeci Station.

When they pulled into the grand old home of the Orient Express, Rapp searched the crowd for police officers who were showing unusual signs of alertness. There were none to be seen, which he took as a good omen. He exited the train and went straight to the nearest kiosk. Rapp had the departure times for Greece and Bulgaria memorized and knew that the express trains for both countries left in the evening. Hanging around the busy transportation hub for the rest of the day just to grab an express train was foolish. It was better to start working his way toward the border. A train was leaving for Alpullu in fifteen minutes. Rapp bought his ticket and made a quick stop at a bank of pay phones. He punched in the long series of numbers and then, in Arabic, left the coded message that would tell Richards and Hurley to not bother coming to Istanbul. Then, threading his way through the busiest part of the terminal, he slid past a trash bin and got rid of the second paper bag that contained his ru