The Survivor by Vince Flynn, Kyle Mills Page B

embarrassed about. He still hadn’t been able to crack the banker’s encryption and tie into his security cameras.
    “Voilà,” Coleman said, connecting the last section and crawling out from under it.
    Rapp let his eyes drift from the mansion grounds out to the mountainous forest surrounding it. Every tree and rock, every road and stream, was faithfully represented. While he was normally suspicious of technology, this was an advance he could get used to.
    Hurley set his drink down on a section of open meadow already covered with rings from his glass. “I remember when we’d have planned this op on the back of a napkin.”
    “The world moves forward, Stan,” Coleman said, stepping back to admire the model.
    “You’re wrong,” the old man replied, cigarette smoke rolling from his mouth as he spoke. “The world stands still. All that changes is the window dressing.”
    “That’s why I’ve always liked you, Stan. Your sunny disposition.”
    “What do we know about the place?” Rapp said before Hurley could formulate an expletive-laced response.
    “The estate itself is about a hundred acres, and beyond that is a whole lot of rugged, heavily forested public land,” Coleman said. “I have Wick over there watching the place, and I can tell you that we’d be better off trying to break into Fort Knox.”
    “Does the public use the area for recreation?”
    The former SEAL shook his head. “No trail system. What you see on the model are just game trails or natural features.”
    “The good news,” Hurley said, “is that Obrecht is no different than all the other royalty wannabes. He doesn’t want to mix with the unwashed masses. It’s miles before you get to his first neighbor.”
    Coleman agreed. “There’s just the one road. It’s twenty-one miles long from where it turns off a two-lane rural highway. Obrecht’s at theend. The nearest house is nine miles south, and the owners aren’t using it right now. One caretaker. Guy’s older than Stan and just as deaf.”
    “Fuck you,” Hurley said.
    Rapp returned his attention to the model of the banker’s property. It was a common mistake made by men like Obrecht. The best security was to be packed in with a hundred neighbors who knew the rhythms of the area and would notice any change. Those kinds of densely populated subdivisions also tended to have solid police coverage with short response times.
    “What’s the story with the fence?” Rapp said.
    “It’s more of a wall,” Coleman replied. “A little less than a foot thick, constructed of cinder blocks covered with adobe. We talked to the contractor who built it and he said the whole thing is reinforced with concrete.”
    “Height?”
    “About twelve feet. One main gate about fifteen feet wide and one small delivery door. Both look like they could stop a tank. Add to that floodlights, cameras, hardened positions along the wall, and you’ve got the makings of quite a party.”
    “What about the men?”
    “We’re out of luck. The former special ops people Obrecht originally had in there are all gone. The guys he replaced them with look to be Middle Eastern and Eastern European.”
    The personnel change was bad news. Their best bet had been to get to the Western contractors protecting Obrecht through their military contacts. Most were former special forces and that was a very small and very interconnected fraternity.
    Coleman seemed to read his mind. “So, we can’t get them to hand Obrecht their resignation and open the gate for us, but I knew one of the GSG 9 guys he canned. He gave me good intel on stuff in the house that didn’t make it to the architectural plans. The highlights are that all the glass is bulletproof and Obrecht has a safe room in the basement.”
    “Howmany men does he have now?”
    “Twelve that we can individually identify. It’s possible that there are more inside who never come out, but I doubt it. Also five civilians. A butler, a cook, and three