by Vince Flynn
“This one’s better than that,” Rapp said.
“Like the one where the train crashed?” Bruno McGraw said.
“When are you going to let that go?”
“I almost lost my arms, man.”
Rapp frowned. “Fine. This one involves no risk to anyone but me.”
“In that case, I’m in,” Coleman said.
“What’s that drug Auma’s men like so much?”
“Ajali,” Ward said.
“Ajali. Do we know anything about it?”
The man nodded. “David was interested and got a hold of a sample a while back. Basically, it’s the worst thing you could possibly imagine. An engineered narcotic that has effects similar to what most people would attribute to PCP, but much more powerful and much more destructive. Over time it causes significant damage to the lungs and cardiovascular system, leaving regular users slowly drowning in their own bodily fluids. And the psychotic state it creates seems to persist in a way that makes people increasingly violent and paranoid. We don’t—”
“Since you know what it is, could one of your pharmaceutical companies manufacture it?” Rapp said.
“Sure. Hypothetically.”
“Not hypothetically. In reality.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Okay. Yes. The manufacturing process isn’t that complicated.”
“Could they poison it?”
Ward stood. “Could I have a word with you outside, Mitch?”
Rapp shrugged. “Sure.”
They stepped out onto a broad deck and crossed to the far railing. Beyond, the mountains were a black outline against the stars.
“What are you doing?”
“Is it not clear? I’m trying to figure out who’s after you and how they got the information for that attack on your compound.”
“No. You’re testing me. Trying to see how far I’ll go to get rid of Auma’s people. If I’m willing to risk starting a war. Or murder a bunch of children.”
“What do you want from me, Nick? You said no to the gunships and I’m trying to work with that.”
“By turning me not just into a narcotics manufacturer, but a poison narcotics manufacturer.”
“More surgical, though, isn’t it? I doubt they’d share their ajali with their sex slaves.”
“If it’s such a great idea, then why wasn’t it plan A?”
“Because it forces me to fly Gideon Auma to a camp full of his armed worshippers with nothing but a Glock and a lucky rabbit’s foot in my pocket.”
“So, you were going to kill all those girls because you were concerned with your own personal safety.”
“No. I was going to kill all those girls because I was concerned with our personal safety. I think it would be more realistic if you came along, don’t you? I mean, you being the hostage and all.”
Ward’s face froze somewhere between fear and confusion. Not surprising, but a little disappointing.
“Feels kind of different when it’s your rich ass on the line, doesn’t it, Nick? And it’s not just a bullet in the head, either. You know as well as I do the kinds of things Auma does to people. My best guess would be crucifixion. But when he’s nailing me to that cross, at least I’ll have the comfort of knowing you’re right there with me.”
Ward didn’t seem to have a response, instead just swallowing some excess spit as Rapp broke into a grin. “Relax, Nick. I’m just fucking with you. I’ll go myself. But I would appreciate your people whipping up a batch of ajali for me.”
“It… It seems risky,” Ward stammered. “I’d have to contact someone outside of this compound and then they’d know I hadn’t been kidnapped.”
“But you’re the smartest guy in the world, right? I’m sure you can figure out a way to do it without tipping our hand.”
“But wouldn’t it be safer for you to manufacture it? Not a very big ask for Irene.”
“No. Not a very big ask,” Rapp said noncommittally.
“What reason is there to involve me, then? So you can see me get my hands bloody? Is it just cruelty?”
Again, Rapp smiled. “I’ve spent the last twenty years of my life drowning in cruelty, Nick. It doesn’t hold all that much fascination for me.”
“Then why?”
“Honestly? Because the more I’m around you the more I think you might actually be able to accomplish something. But people don’t accept salvation easily. You have to ram it down their throats. And if you’re not willing to do that—if you’re not willing to help me poison people who go into villages and make kids watch them burn their parents alive—then you’re wasting your time. And worse, you’re wasting mine.”
Ward turned his attention back to the dark horizon. “You win, Mitch. I’ll do it.”
“Okay. Then we’re done. Why don’t you go have a drink and get some sleep. We’ll handle the rest.”
* * *
When Rapp reentered the lodge, Coleman and his men were leaned over the table talking in hushed tones.
“You guys got plan B figured out yet?”
Coleman looked sideways at him. “Pretty much. You fly in there with Auma, get him to tell his people you’re some kind of Arab ally, and pass out a bunch of poisoned ajali. He’ll call it a victory celebration for getting his hands on Ward.”
“Sounds perfect,” Rapp said, settling back in his seat. “What could possibly go wrong?”
“You want the list alphabetically or by order of probability?” Joe Maslick said. “Auma could have some way to signal he’s in trouble that we don’t know about. Or he could just tell his people to kill you in Swahili and you’d never know. Or he could have booby traps and hidden weapons in that cave…”
Coleman nodded in agreement. “Or, hell, those people could just go nuts on the ajali and tear you apart before the poison kicks in.”
“I don’t want to hear about problems,” Rapp said. “I want to hear about solutions.”
“Let’s just blow it like we talked about,” Charlie Wicker said. “Nice and clean. I mean, I feel bad about the girls, but if this turns into a shit show and you get killed, how has that helped anyone? Those assholes will have their messiah back and they’ll scatter into the jungle. How many more kids will end up soldiers or slaves? A hundred? A thousand?”
“He’s right,” Coleman said. “You’re taking a lot of risks just so some rich guy can sleep a little better at night.”
32
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
USA
THE monitor next to the president’s desk was playing the same video that had been looping at Langley since it appeared on the Internet a few hours ago. Still, Irene Kennedy and Mike Nash feigned concentration as a slightly out-of-focus Gideon Auma demanded ten billion dollars in ransom.
A filthy and haggard Nicholas Ward was standing near him, his expression almost catatonic as he stared blankly into the camera. David Chism, partially obscured behind the African, appeared to be in a similar state.
“And to be certain that everyone understands I’m serious…” Auma continued in his oddly elegant accent. Kennedy knew what was coming but still tensed when he turned and fired a round into Chism’s chest. The young man collapsed out of frame as his killer turned his attention back to the camera.
“When I have received payment, I will provide instructions on where you can collect Nicholas Ward.”
Anthony Cook used a remote to pause the video and then swiveled his chair toward his two guests.
“What do we know?” he asked, meeting Nash’s eye and then letting his gaze wander to Kennedy. “Has he provided instructions yet?”
“No, sir,” Kennedy responded. “Under the direction of the FBI, Nick’s assistant has tried to contact his satellite phone, but it appears to be turned off and isn’t currently trackable.”
“So, we have no idea where Auma is or where Ward is being held?”
“Based on the foliage visible in the background, we’re reasonably sure he’s still in Ugand—”
“You’
re telling me you managed to narrow it down to the country where he was kidnapped?” Cook said sarcastically.
“The framing is pretty tight,” Nash interjected. “Auma’s psychotic, but he’s smart and well educated. He hasn’t kept himself and his army hidden for this long by making careless mistakes.”
“Have you gotten people into Ward’s camp to see if there’s anything we can learn?”
“No, sir,” Kennedy said. “We’re working on it, but every time we get someone close, they’re fired on. We have managed to go through the hangar where we believe Ward was taken but didn’t find anything that could lead us to him.”
Cook didn’t seem any happier than she was, but likely for different reasons. She was sitting in the Oval Office spinning a web of lies that she wasn’t sure she could control. Without fully understanding what kind of access their mole had, contacting Rapp was too dangerous. And now he seemed to have gone off script. The plan was for this operation to have been carried out in a much quieter manner. The story fed to the news agencies was to have been that Auma was killed in an attempt to kidnap Nicholas Ward. Rapp would question him, get whatever information he had, and the African would disappear forever. Clean, undisruptive, and completely plausible. A far cry from the story being plastered over every news site in the world and putting Ward’s stock prices into free fall.
It was hard not to consider the possibility that this was real. It was improbable but still feasible that the mole they were chasing had discovered the changes Kennedy made to Ward’s file. If that was the case, it was also feasible that Coleman and his people really had been overrun at the compound and Rapp had been ambushed at the hangar. And that Nicholas Ward was in the hands of a madman.
Fortunately, the deeper she looked, the less likely that scenario seemed. While her analysts hadn’t been able to find anything in the video that seemed outright fake, there were curiosities. The first and most obvious was that it was too succinct. Whenever a camera was pointed at Gideon Auma, he never failed to ramble endlessly about his power, God’s love for him, and whatever other delusions he was having on that particular day. The second—noticed by a young analyst with a particularly sharp eye—was that his sleeves didn’t seem to behave naturally. She’d made a show of laughing off the observation but once pointed out, it became impossible to ignore. No matter how much Auma moved his arms, the cuffs stayed in place. Almost as though they’d been glued there. The obvious hypothesis was that this had been done to hide something. And the only thing she could think of was marks from being bound.
In light of that, the most likely scenario was that Rapp hadn’t been able to get everything he wanted from the terrorist. He needed to extend this drama, probably to use Auma to lead him up the chain somehow.
“Today, Irene. I want people at that compound today.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, knowing full well it would be impossible. She needed to find a team she could trust to report only to her, and they had to be made up of people from outside the CIA. Not just because of the mole, but because what they found there would likely have to be kept from the president. It wasn’t a political risk she wanted to expose any of her people to. If someone was going to be fired and prosecuted for this, it would be her and her alone.
“Can I assume that there’s still no sign of Mitch Rapp and his team?” Cook said.
“That’s correct, sir.”
He nodded, but his face was an empty mask. “Do you think there’s any chance he’s in the jungle? Hiding out like David Chism did?”
“I doubt it, sir. He and his people have satellite phones. They would have contacted me.”
Another nod, another blank expression at what he likely would take as news of Mitch Rapp’s death. “So where do we stand? If Auma hasn’t contacted Ward’s people yet, he will soon. Can I assume that we’ll be ready for that call when it comes?”
Kennedy glanced at Mike Nash, who had been working directly with the Bureau on this.
“This is a complicated situation for Auma,” he said, taking over the briefing. “Obviously, it can’t be done in cash. It’d be multiple transport planes full of it. That means wire transfers. And since Auma isn’t stupid, he’s going to want them laundered through banks we have no penetration into. Places like Syria, Iran, North Kor—”
“All of whom will take a cut,” Cook pointed out.
“Yes, sir.”
“So not only will Ward’s organization be funding one of the most brutal terrorists in Africa, but they’ll also be funneling money into virtually every one of our worst enemies. It seems to me that we need to come up with some way to get him back without actually paying the ransom.”
“Agreed. But that’s easier said than done.”
Cook took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “David Chism is dead, which is probably going to set back the development of his vaccines twenty-five years. And Ward…” His voice faded for a moment. “I consider Nicholas Ward critical to America’s future and the health of our economy. It’s strange to say that about a single man, but he’s probably responsible for sixty percent of the advances going on in tech right now. And those are the industries that are going to keep us on top for the next century.”
“Yes, sir,” Kennedy and Nash said, almost in unison.
“Find something. Find a way to get him back.”
“And if there’s no way to do that without paying?” Kennedy asked.
“Unacceptable.”
“But also potentially unavoidable.”
“I’m confident that you can do better,” Cook said.
They both mumbled their understanding and stood, knowing that the meeting was over. Kennedy nodded respectfully in the man’s direction and started for the door with Nash close behind. The president didn’t bother to stand.
* * *
“I guess that fortune really does favor the bold,” Catherine Cook said, appearing from the door leading to a private space connected to the Oval Office.
“You heard?”
She took the seat Irene Kennedy had abandoned moments ago. “Chism’s dead and one way or another, Nicholas Ward’s done.”
“Not just Ward and Chism, Catherine. Mitch Rapp. That could make us a lot of friends in the Arab world. Friends that no American president has ever had before.”
She nodded. “I have to admit that I’m not unhappy to see him go. I think he could have been a useful tool, but maybe a harder one to control than I initially thought. He wasn’t as blunt an instrument as he appeared.”
“What he was, though, was a big part of Kennedy’s power base. Not only is this going to be a major emotional blow for her—to the degree that bitch has emotions—but it’s going to significantly weaken her political position. Her ability to virtually guarantee the success of her operations is right now lying dead somewhere in the Ugandan jungle.”
33
SOUTHWESTERN UGANDA
THEY were only a few klicks to the north of the supposed landing site, but all Rapp could see was unbroken jungle in the moonlight. He manipulated the chopper’s collective and felt the aircraft obey his command. It wasn’t always the case. On a scale of one to ten, he’d put his piloting abilities somewhere in the four range. Fred Mason had suggested on more than a few occasions that it might be an optimistic estimate.
“There,” Gideon Auma said, pointing through the windscreen to a flicker of firelight ahead. He sounded unusually subdued for God’s representative on earth, but it was understandable. Joe Maslick had spent hours designing, building, and attaching a radio-controlled explosive to the African’s scrotum. Not powerful enough to kill him, but enough to launch his balls a good twenty feet.
The hope was that it would keep him obediently following the plan Rapp had devised. And in return, he would be delivered—alive and well—to The Hague. There, he would be put in a nice clean cell, fed three times a day, and tried for crimes against humanity. All in all, a more attractive fate than watching his testicles careening into the forest or what the Uga
ndan government would do to him if they got the opportunity.
But would he see it that way? Once surrounded by his adoring disciples, would Auma start to feel invincible again? Would he lose his fear and go on the attack? If so, it was going to be an exciting—and likely short—evening.
Rapp circled the clearing, looking down at the tiny campfires that defined its edges. Mason could have easily landed a chopper twice this size in the available space but Rapp preferred LZs that could be measured in acres, not yards.
The winds remained calm as he eased the aircraft downward, watching to make sure he stayed dead center and that his rotors were nowhere near the surrounding trees. In the end, it was a pretty decent landing. A better start than most of his plan Bs enjoyed. No derailed train cars, collapsing buildings, or avalanches.
He began shutting the bird down, keeping an eye on the vague human forms already busy putting out the fires that had acted as primitive runway lights.
“Are you still clear on your role?” he asked.
“Yes,” Auma responded in a lifeless voice. Not really the right tone for what they were about to embark on, but it was unlikely anyone would notice.
“Tell me.”
“The remote control for the explosive is in your pocket and you will have your hand on it at all times. The earpiece in your ear is connected to an open satellite link. There is a Ugandan native on the other side. If I say anything that is not in English, he will translate.”
“And if you say something I don’t like?”
“You will detonate the explosive.”
“Sounds about right,” Rapp said, grabbing a knapsack from behind his seat and stepping out. “Hold it together for a few more hours, Gideon. And then you can live out the rest of your life enjoying a little Dutch hospitality.”
Auma exited the other side and they came together at the front of the helicopter. A fatigue-clad man whose age was difficult to determine in the poor light ran up to them and bowed reverently. As expected, Rapp’s presence was completely ignored. He was nothing. Just another servant to their prophet.