Act of Treason by Vince Flynn Page B

watch. It was a Saturday night, which in Limassol meant the dance clubs and bars would get hopping soon. He would have to make one stop and then by the time he arrived at the café things would be nice and busy. These men would never know what hit them.

9
    A s darkness fell on the old part of town, things seemed to come to life. Music floated up from the cafés below. People were heading in every direction, darting across the street, dodging the scooters, taxis, and cars. Laughter and lively conversation could be heard as couples and groups lined up at the various establishments to wait for a table. Rapp kept the lights off in his room. The window was actually a skinny French door that opened inward. A black ornamental railing ran from waist height to the floor, providing the illusion of a balcony.
    To help fight boredom and keep himself alert, Rapp dropped to the floor every fifteen minutes and did either push-ups or sit-ups. The alternative was drinking profuse amounts of coffee, but that also meant frequent trips to the bathroom. He still had five pounds to lose from his six-month binge, so he opted for the exercise. His eyes casually swept the scene from one end of the block to the other. Every vehicle and pedestrian was noted. He paid special attention to those heading in to the café across the street, and of course the man sitting in the car near the café. Earlier in the day he spotted the other two men getting off the elevator in the hotel lobby. Until reinforcements arrived, all Rapp could really do was sit and wait. He’d spoken to Coleman twice since he and his men had landed. He was finally in the van with Brooks and on his way here.
    Rapp checked his watch. It was eight minutes past nine. They should be arriving any minute. A car horn sounded at the far end of the street. Rapp shifted from one side of the open window to the other and scanned the scene. A man and a woman were standing in the middle of the one-way street. The man was flipping off the driver of the car and screaming in Greek. From Rapp’s angle, he spotted a lone man enter the picture on the far sidewalk. Something about this guy made Rapp give him a second look. He was dressed in the hip nightclub style of the younger generation, with faded and ripped designer jeans, retro track shoes, a blue warm-up jacket, and a John Deere baseball hat. The baseball hat was pulled down low, the collar on his jacket was turned up, and he had his hands stuffed in the pockets. His head was slowly, almost imperceptibly, sweeping from left to right. Rapp’s mind thought back to those twenty-seven seconds of surveillance footage from the Starbucks in Georgetown. The average person could glean very little from that tape, but for Rapp it was a treasure trove of information—a virtual admission of guilt by the mystery man captured buying an espresso.
    At first glance, the man on the tape seemed very casual. Rapp looked at things a little differently, though. Like a magician watching another magician, Rapp knew what to look for because he had been there before. In a foreign land, on an operation, trying to bide time until the hit took place. He had acted in almost the same manner: baseball hat pulled down low to block surveillance cameras, physical demeanor relaxed, yet alert. Eyes always scanning and on guard.
    “Is that you, Alexander?” Rapp whispered to himself, while he leaned back slightly.
    Without taking his eyes off the man, Rapp brought the camera to his eye and snapped a few photos as the man approached. The moment of truth was fast approaching. Would he turn into the café and go to his office or would he circle the block and check things out? Rapp knew what he would do and was slightly disappointed when the man stopped in front of the café. He started talking to the old man who was standing at the hostess stand. Rapp had a sudden pang of anxiety. He needed this guy alive. With his back to him Rapp could now see the man’s warm-up jacket had a white