Only twenty-one at the time, and awash in a sea of self-pity and despair, he found the idea of retribution powerful. Desperate people need a cause, and this was a cause that spoke to him. The week after graduation he threw himself into the dark world of counterterrorism and clandestine operations. The CIA did not run him through their standard training program at The Farm, outside Williamsburg, VA. They had other plans for Rapp. For a year straight he was shuttled from one location to the next, sometimes spending a week, sometimes a month. The bulk of the training was handled by Special Forces instructors who taught him how to shoot, stab, blow things up, and yes, kill with his bare hands. Endurance was stressed. There were long swims and even longer runs. He'd always been in good shape, but these sadists had turned him into a machine. Between all of the heavy lifting, they worked on his foreign language skills. He had been an international business major at Syracuse and had minored in French. Within a month at the CIA he was fluent, and then it was on to Arabic and Farsi.

They taught him how to operate independently, how to blend into foreign environments, and how to cross international borders without being noticed. But most importantly they taught him how to kill. Rapp remembered a conversation he'd had with one of his Special Forces instructors. The man's name was Mike. Mitch had asked him one time if he'd ever killed a man. Mike grinned and asked him, "What do you think?"

The question had come up while they were having beers at a dive near Fort Bragg. Mike had spent the entire day teaching Rapp how to kill people with everything from a pen to a stick to a knife. Mike had more intimate knowledge of the human anatomy than most doctors, and he knew the body's weakest points. The last move they'd worked on involved grabbing a man from behind and shoving the knife up through the base of the skull at the point where the spinal column connects to the brain. As with everything Rapp did, Mike insisted he master the move with both hands. This particular move was punctuated with a quick twist of the wrist once the knife was all the way in. Mike informed Rapp that most people referred to this move as scrambling the brain, but he called it pulling the plug. He then described in great detail what the victim would be experiencing at this point. Yes, Mike had most definitely killed men before.

Rapp asked Mike if it ever bothered him. If he ever regretted the killing. Mike looked into his beer for a long time and then said, "Listen, we're all wired differently. Some people aren't cut out for this, but I was born for it, and I can tell you were too. Maybe we were warriors in a previous life… I don't know, but there's a general rule out there. Don't kill kids and don't kill women and you'll be fine. Kill a man who wants to kill you, and it's the most healthy primal feeling you'll ever experience."

Rapp asked him, "If you could do it over again would you choose a different line of work?"

Mike laughed and said, "Hell no. This is the best damn job in the world. Your government gives you the consent to go out and kill terrorists. For guys like us, it doesn't get any better than that."

Dinner was lonely. Normally Abel didn't mind eating by himself, but tonight he felt restless. He was staying at Hotel Balzac, a small, luxurious establishment only a short walk from the Arc de Triomphe. He had decided to dine early in the hotel's restaurant and miss the rush. He was given a small but satisfactory table, and he was immersed in the menu when a couple about his age were seated within perfect view. He watched as they held hands and spoke intently. They appeared to be in love. About the time his main course arrived another couple was seated. They were a little younger than Abel, and it was soon obvious that they were also in love. She reminded him of the woman with the large black sunglasses who he had met earlier in the day. She looked roughly the same age and had a similar hairstyle.

Abel was haunted by the mysterious woman from the cafй. She exuded a quiet confidence more powerful than any aphrodisiac he could imagine. She had dealt with him from a position of strength from the moment he'd sat down. She'd known he'd been watching her from across the street. He cringed to remember how smug he had been. She'd even learned his identity in advance and God only knew what else. The entire experience was very unnerving for Abel. He was the one who was used to negotiating from a position of strength. He was supposed to be the unflappable professional who saw all and gave away nothing in return.

Having lost his appetite, he decided to go for a walk. After retrieving his black trench coat and new cashmere scarf from his room he left the hotel and began walking south toward the Seine. There was a chill in the evening air, but Abel didn't mind. It felt good to get out and stretch his legs, and the bite of the air seemed to help clear his mind. Something told him this strange couple Petrov had recommended were the perfect people for the job, but he needed to make sure. Abel had stopped at a pay phone after the meeting and called his old Russian master. Hours later he was still replaying the conversation in his mind.

After some brief banter he had casually asked Petrov, "Did you give this couple my name?"

"They called to make sure we knew each other," Petrov admitted. "I told them we did, and that you were someone who could be trusted."

"Nothing else?" Abel asked.

"Not a thing. What is wrong? You sound troubled."

"They tailed me to the meet," Abel admitted uncomfortably.

"What else?"

"They knew my name."

"I told you they were good." Petrov laughed loudly. "Hire them and be done with it. They will not disappoint you."

Abel got the distinct impression that Petrov was enjoying his discomfort. "They are a bit inflexible in their demands."

"Sounds like a certain German I know."

"Yes, well, I'm the one doing the hiring."

"And they will be the ones risking their hides. I'm telling you…hire them and get out of their way."

Abel considered telling him about the man, and how he'd threatened to sever his spine, and then thought better of it. Petrov would only laugh at him. "What can you tell me about the woman?"

"Did you meet her?"

"Yes."

"Ha," Petrov bellowed. "I have heard she is beautiful. Very mysterious. Do you agree?"

"She is an attractive woman," Abel admitted while trying not to sound too interested. "What do you know about her?"

"Get her out of your mind. I have heard that they are more than just business partners, and trust me…this man is not someone you want to upset."

"I gathered that. Where does he come from?"

"I do not know, and I do not care. I'm telling you for the last time, hire them and be done with it." The Russian hung up on him.

Abel did not like feeling like a fool, but that was exactly the way he felt as he walked the streets of this old city. By the time he reached the river he realized he would probably hire these two, but not yet. Petrov was getting old and the vodka had softened his normally keen intellect. There was too much at stake to simply hire them without having a say in how things would proceed. It was tempting, though. There was another ten million waiting for him as soon as Rapp was dead. Twenty million on the table minus the fee he would have to pay the killers. Abel had a number in his head. There were many variables to consider, but typically the going rate for killing an intelligence officer was in the low-to-mid six figures. This wasn't just any intelligence officer, however, this was Mitch Rapp, a spy's spy, who had the very nasty habit of biting back. They would have to track him. If they got lucky, they might catch him traveling. Getting him off American soil would help greatly. Very few contract killers liked working in America, because of the increased security with facial recognition systems at virtually every port of entry and the finger-printing of certain visitors. The cost of doing business in America would more than likely double the fee.