by Vince Flynn
“My first field operation…” he repeated, suddenly losing himself in thought.
“Are we still good here, Scott?”
“One hundred percent. The only people in the outside world who know we’re alive are Claudia, Marcus, Irene, and the woman Nick contacted to get your drugs made. And let me tell you that people seem really broken up about my death. You, not so much. In fact, I’m hearing rumors about parties breaking out all over the Middle East.”
Rapp ignored the jab. “What about the woman Nick called. She’s solid?”
The trillionaire responded immediately, clearly concerned for his employee’s safety. “Erica’s been with me for twenty years and she’s never been anything but completely reliable. You don’t need to worry.”
“I assume we’re worrying?” Rapp said and Coleman nodded.
“We’ve got a seven-man team on her. Electronic surveillance on her house, office, and car, plus all her communications. So far, she seems to know how to keep her mouth shut. If that changes, we’ll snatch her.”
A flash of anger crossed Ward’s face, but he managed to remain silent. Clearly, he cared about his people but knew better than to waste his breath on something that was beyond his control. Both rare traits in powerful people.
“Irene sent an encrypted email to one of our dummy Gmail accounts this morning. Nothing but a number. Sixteen hundred and nine. Mean anything to you?”
It did. Sixteen hundred was a time—4 p.m. his time. The nine was code for a pay phone that still existed outside of Baltimore. He’d memorized the number years ago.
“What time is it?”
Coleman glanced at his watch. “A little after noon.”
“I need to make a phone call at four.”
“Secure?”
“No. To a US pay phone.”
“No problem. We have a box of brand-new satphones registered to a front company in Indonesia. I’m on it. Anything else?”
Rapp shook his head and the former SEAL started jogging up the walkway toward the comms area they’d set up.
Ward watched him go, not speaking again until he was out of sight. “Does this mean we’ll all be coming back to life soon? Do you have what you need to identify your mole?”
“The mole you don’t know anything about?”
“Right. That one.”
“Let’s just say I’m closer than I was yesterday.”
Ward’s expression suggested that it wasn’t the answer he’d been looking for.
* * *
Rapp closed himself up in the metal shed and settled onto a rickety stool. The structure was located at the end of a dirt path, hidden from the well-heeled guests who would normally be staying at the lodge. Cleaning products and landscaping equipment had been shoved to one side and a small satellite dish was now perched on the roof. The box of phones Coleman had mentioned was lying on a desk built from fuel cans and an old door. Rapp selected a handset at random, double-checked the time, and started dialing.
He’d never seen the phone booth he was calling, but imagined Kennedy closed up in the glass enclosure wearing dark sunglasses and turned away from anyone who might be passing by.
It rang only once before she picked up. The first thing he heard was a quiet hum that, hilariously, was likely generated by a battery-operated sex toy. Some enterprising tech in the Agency’s Office of Technical Services had noticed that the vibrating suction cup was capable of shaking glass at a frequency ideal for defeating passive listening devices. And, as a bonus, getting caught with it would be embarrassing but not at all suggestive of espionage. Apparently, there were other benefits, too, but he couldn’t speak to those directly.
“It’s good to connect,” she said, her voice low and slightly distorted by the fact that she would have a hand cupped around her mouth. “Your show was so convincing you actually had me worried.”
“No need,” he responded. Despite all the precautions, they’d be as vague as possible. Further, he was speaking through a mike attached to his phone via a box that changed his voice. And not one of the old distortion boxes that people equated with testimony from old mobsters and DEA agents. This one generated the perfectly natural voice of a young woman.
“Did you like the stuff I sent?”
He was referring to the numbers that had been dialed on the phone Auma used to call the Saudi liaison, as well as the photos taken of him.
“Not so much the numbers.”
No big surprise there. Auma’s contact would use a burner.
“But the pictures were lovely.”
What followed would sound to anyone listening like a discussion of a foreign vacation and a bit of reminiscing on Kennedy’s part. In truth, though, she was referring to people and situations that would lead him to a name.
It took a while, but he finally got it. Muhammad Singh.
“Understood. Does he work for our friends in that country?”
She would know that he was referring to Saudi Arabia’s General Intelligence Directorate.
“Oh, probably. But also for the oil company.”
ARAMCO. A convenient cover for a GID agent or, more likely, a contractor used to put as much distance between the royal family and people like Gideon Auma as possible.
“Did we know him?”
“Not at all. He’s a very private fellow.”
“Not anymore. Seems like someone should go talk to him.”
“My thought exactly. But our travel agents are unreliable right now. Can you handle it yourself?”
“No problem. For the time being at least, I’m flush.”
35
KING KHALID INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA
“DOCUMENTS?”
Rapp handed his Iraqi passport to the control officer while myriad cameras—on the walls, in the ceiling, behind the glass in front of him—studied his features.
The king, whom he knew well, had stepped back and turned the country over to his extraordinarily ruthless son. The prince had immediately consolidated his power, imprisoning critics and rival family members, murdering journalists and bloggers, and inserting people loyal to him in every level of government. Phase two of his takeover had been to spend billions creating an elaborate surveillance system designed to spy on every corner of Saudi society. With virtually unlimited funds he’d already surpassed the Chinese in both the number of cameras per capita and the sophistication of the artificial intelligence running it. The technology wasn’t perfect yet, but gaming it was becoming increasingly difficult.
Rapp was wearing glasses that looked clear to the human eye but caused distortion when filmed. He’d also taken advantage of having Ward’s movie makeup artist at the lodge, but with full acknowledgment of the risks. If he got flagged, there was a good chance they’d uncover the artificial bump in his nose and the surprisingly painful wires flaring out his nostrils.
And then Mitch Rapp, the man everyone thought was dead, really would be.
The control officer flipped through the well-worn pages, occasionally glancing up to examine Rapp’s face. With the alterations, it didn’t exactly match the photo, but the changes would be less obvious to a human than to a computer algorithm. Or at least that was the theory.
The passport was a gift from an Iraqi official whose life Rapp had saved a few years back. He’d kept it in reserve for a situation just like this one. The CIA had no knowledge of it and thus it wouldn’t appear in the database that Kennedy now believed to be compromised.
After less than a minute, the official gave him the stamp he needed and slid the document back across the counter. Rapp nodded respectfully and shoved it in his pocket before joining the crowd flowing toward baggage claim.
If anything, there were even more cameras watching the conveyors than there had been in passport control. Fortunately, he had carried on his luggage and was able to pass through quickly with his head down. Not that it mattered at this point, but old habits died hard.
The rental of his car went smoo
thly, and he slid behind the wheel of what passed for a low-profile vehicle in the Kingdom—a new Porsche Cayenne. He pulled out of the parking garage and used the built-in GPS to navigate to an apartment he’d rented on Airbnb. The Saudi computers would already know where he was staying and what car Enterprise had assigned him, so no point in trying to hide. With precisely zero help from the Agency, his best bet was to just act in as predictable a manner as possible. Of course, the General Intelligence Directorate would figure out who he was eventually. The trick would be to make sure he was long gone before that particular light dawned.
Rapp turned on the radio and listened to a man sing in Arabic about unrequited love. He knew both the artist and the song well. Perfect language skills weren’t enough—he spent an enormous amount of time keeping up with the Middle East’s popular culture. Music, television, politics. It was a mash-up of a hundred different things that made passing as a native possible.
He rolled down the window and let the warm night air flow through his car. The GPS continued to call out turns, allowing him to focus on his rearview mirror and the light traffic surrounding him. Again, though, it was mostly just habit. With the cameras set up along the highway and modern drones, old-school tails were becoming a thing of the past. Roughly the equivalent of exchanging a suitcase full of cash for a suitcase full of documents on a lonely Siberian bridge.
He finally arrived in a neighborhood lined with low-rise apartment buildings—utilitarian white squares with tiny balconies and decent-sized windows. The passcode the landlord had given him worked and he descended into an underground parking area. Cameras were once again ubiquitous, likely installed by the property owner but undoubtedly also uploading to the government.
Rapp passed the numbered space he’d been assigned, driving hesitantly and leaning into the windshield. Airbnb guests getting confused about where to park wouldn’t be all that uncommon and he used that fact to take a full tour of the parking area. The car owned by Muhammad Singh was near the southeast corner and he made note of the location before circling back to his space. One small duffle was all he had with him and he pulled it from the backseat before locking the car and taking an elevator to his apartment.
It wasn’t bad. Faux hardwood floors, heavy curtains, and Oriental rugs lent a stylish utilitarianism that avoided the Saudi tendency toward garishness. He’d chosen it for tactical reasons, but no point in complaining about a decent kitchen and comfortable mattress. Particularly after so many years sleeping in bombed-out buildings and caves.
It was 11 p.m. by the time he unpacked but still he changed into running clothes and headed for the door. It wouldn’t raise any major alarms—the Arabs tended to be night owls in general and avoided exercising in daytime temperatures that were currently exceeding 105 degrees Fahrenheit. He hit the elevator button that corresponded to the parking garage and after a few moments stepped back out into it.
Empty.
Preferable, but not really critical to what he was there to do. Walking by Singh’s parked car, he knelt and made a show of tying his shoe. Nothing he was doing was particularly creative or high tech, but with no Agency support, it was the best he could come up with.
As he stood, he stuck a cell phone to the inside of the vehicle’s fender with the aid of some epoxy putty. It would provide a way to track the man’s movements and hopefully lead to something interesting. But the clock was ticking. Saudi Arabia’s facial recognition software would eventually kick the airport photos of him out for further analysis. And then there was the phone he was using as a tracer. It was in a battery case and the app was designed to maximize battery life, but he wouldn’t get more than a couple of days out of it.
With Gideon Auma’s ransom video out in the wild, though, Rapp had a hunch that two days would be enough. The moment it hit the Internet, Singh would go from critical operative to untidy loose end. And in Rapp’s experience, the Saudis didn’t much care for untidy loose ends. They’d move against the man. Soon.
36
RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA
RAPP adjusted himself into a more comfortable position on the sofa and dug some noodles from the takeout carton balanced on his chest. Not the best he’d ever eaten, but not the worst, either. After a quick shake to dislodge the last few vegetables from the bottom, he set the box on the coffee table and returned to his phone.
Despite the fact that he was using a sophisticated VPN to hide his tracks on the Internet, he kept his surfing generic. Mostly Al Jazeera’s Arabic site with a quick detour to scroll through the headlines on Google News.
Not surprisingly, the cycle was consumed with the kidnapping of Nicholas Ward and the death of David Chism. There wasn’t a whole lot to say, though—mostly general background on them and Gideon Auma, as well as speculation as to what this would mean for Ward’s business empire. So far, “sources” said that no demands had been made to secure his release and “experts” assumed this was Auma’s ploy to soften up his opponents in the upcoming negotiation.
Rapp found a headline different from the rest and couldn’t resist clicking on it. The article contained a sketchy description of the attack on Ward’s compound and actually went so far as to acknowledge other people—ones without a trillion dollars—had died in it. Scott Coleman and his organization were mentioned by name.
Of course, there was nothing at all on Rapp. He’d set up his life to be as anonymous as possible and it seemed to have worked. Having said that, it was kind of strange to find that his passing was a blank page. After saving the president of the United States from an attack on the White House, stopping a nuclear bomb from exploding in DC, and preventing a bioterror attack that could have wiped out half the world’s population, his legacy would be… nothing.
Not that it bothered him. It just felt odd. At home in Virginia, he imagined that Maggie Nash would be taking charge like she always did. Decorating the barn, lining up speakers and mourners, ordering food and flowers. He had nothing but confidence that the wake for him, Coleman, and the guys was going to be an eminently tasteful affair.
Claudia would play along from Africa, isolating Anna and telling everyone that she hadn’t yet had the heart to break the news. If things dragged on long enough, she’d be forced to fly back, turn on the waterworks, and thank everyone for what they’d done. It wouldn’t be a problem. She was a former professional liar.
And then everyone would just move on, doing everything they could to forget. To not think about the fact that next time it could be them being eulogized. It could be their spouses standing in stunned silence as people offered meaningless condolences. Their kids trying to understand why their mother or father was never coming home.
Man, he could use a beer. But that wouldn’t be particularly good for his cover. An Iraqi seeking booze in a Muslim country was just another way to push himself onto the GID’s radar. Instead, he shut down the news app and launched one connected to the tracker on Muhammad Singh’s car. Despite having been in place for more than twenty-four hours, it still had a seventy percent charge. Not that there was much reason for it to be drained. It only ran when in motion and Singh led what appeared to be a pretty quiet life. Other than going to his cover job at ARAMCO, and a quick trip to the grocery store, he spent his time holed up in his apartment two floors above. Had the GID gotten soft on loose ends? Was Singh a more critical player than they thought and thus immune to being disappeared? At some point, Rapp was just going to have to jump in the elevator and pay his target a visit.
But that came with significant risks. While everyone in Saudi Arabia was being watched to some extent, a man like Singh would be absolutely lousy with surveillance. Rapp doubted it would be possible to swing a dead cat around the man’s apartment without hitting a hidden listening device or camera. And the tracker he’d put on Singh’s car was probably only one of many much more sophisticated ones put in place by his handlers. And then there was the fact that he almost certainly had significant training in resisting interrogation.
At half
past midnight, Rapp finally rolled off the sofa, tossed the remnants of his dinner in the garbage, and headed for bed.
* * *
Rapp’s eyes opened to a rendition of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son” emanating from his phone. That particular song meant only one thing: Singh’s car was on the move.
He glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table, squinting at the reddish glow of the numbers. Just after two thirty in the morning.
Was Singh making a quick run to his favorite twenty-four-hour falafel shop? Based on his habits so far, probably not. It would take something more pressing to pry him out of his apartment at this hour.
Rapp flipped on the light and grabbed his jeans off the floor. Maybe the GID wasn’t getting soft after all.
37
RAPP was already hanging back far enough that he couldn’t see Singh’s vehicle. Still, he exited the highway when the navigation program on his phone made the suggestion.
It was a slick CIA app overlaying Google Maps. The purpose was to allow a single operator to perform a pretty functional tail of someone with an enabled tracker on their car. Not only could Rapp stay well behind, but the program suggested opportunities to disengage and then re-intercept later. Admittedly risky, but the traffic was light at this time of night and Singh was a pro. At the first sign of a tail, he’d either bolt or head back home.
Rapp accelerated until his cell’s screen flashed green—a confirmation that he’d achieved the speed necessary to rejoin the highway in the same relative position to his target. Now all he had to do was hope that there were no overzealous cops around looking to pass out tickets to speeding Porsches.
Another half an hour and a couple more complicated detours led him to an industrial area at the edge of town. The dot on his phone stopped and almost immediately went dark as the unit attached to Singh’s bumper switched into battery saver mode. Rapp turned up a side street three blocks to the north and parked out of range of security lights bolted to the buildings around him.