Isa took a position on the floor and dropped his courier bag next to him. His eyes seemed to fix on nothing. Or perhaps that wasn’t entirely true. Maybe he was staring at the future he now didn’t have. The grandchild he’d never see. The endless possibilities of what could have been.

Rapp grabbed a few tools from a drawer and pulled up the carpet near the entrance to the bedroom. A rubber mallet was enough to break through the thin concrete veneer and wouldn’t make enough noise to disturb the neighbors.

With a little work he was able to get the lid off the metal box hidden beneath and peer inside. A piece of notebook paper had been laid over the contents and he pulled it out, scanning Stan Hurley’s familiar scrawl.

I told you the shit would eventually hit the fan, pencil dick.

The next thing that came out was a bottle of scotch that even Nick Ward would approve of. Below that was a Glock, a suppressor, a few mags, and a number of passports. He opened an Irish one and double-checked its expiration date. The meticulous notes he kept on a spreadsheet back home had been right—still two years to go.

The remaining documents belonged to Hurley, tucked in among a few wrapped bundles of cash and a laptop. Rapp pulled out the computer and turned it on. Windows had been replaced by a now eight-year-old operating system that was designed entirely for security. He typed in the password, connected to a hot spot created by his anonymous phone, and started an update. A timer appeared on the screen, estimating an hour for the download. Plenty of time to sample the scotch.

He found a couple of glasses in a drawer and filled each with a generous pour before handing one to Isa.

“Who are you going to contact?” the Saudi asked, accepting the drink and nodding toward the laptop. “Kennedy? I thought you said you don’t work for her anymore. Do you think she’ll help?”

Rapp didn’t answer. In fact, he wasn’t going to contact Kennedy. Better to reach out to Claudia. She could use her criminal contacts to bypass the intelligence community. Less skilled than the operators he typically worked with but generally reliable. They were motivated entirely by money and fear—two things he could generate a lot of.

“Let’s talk, Bashir.”

“About what?”

“Muhammad Singh. Where did he get the information he passed to Gideon Auma?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And speaking of Gideon Auma, shouldn’t you be in Uganda trying to save your employer? I can’t imagine it’s going to do much for your reputation to let a maniac steal the richest man in the world right from under your nose.”

“I do need to get back. But I still have time.”

“For what?”

“To torture you to death.”