by Vince Flynn
“You’re good. He’s still fifty yards out. Bruno’s coming up behind him.”
“Roger that.” Maslick turned right and was immediately dazzled by the glare of headlights in his rearview mirror.
With the new reality on the ground, there was no way they were going to be able to quietly box in their target. Instead, Maslick was going to have to slam on his brakes and let the Mercedes ram him from behind. It wouldn’t be enough to injure anyone inside, but the airbag deployment would slow down any reaction and Wick had ammunition that would penetrate the windshield. That would leave the man in back undefended, but accessing him was still going to be a noisy and potentially time-consuming trick.
So, while they could still achieve their objective of getting the courier—though apparently the wrong one—they were going to leave two smashed cars and two dead men instead of the brief disturbance he’d planned on. Not ideal, but also not enough to call it off. It wasn’t like Rapp hadn’t broken a few dishes on these kinds of ops in the past.
“Mas, do you copy?” Wick again.
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
“We got a hit on that picture I sent to Langley. Seventy-nine percent probability that the guy in the back of that car is His Royal Shithead, Prince Talal bin Musaid of Saudi Arabia.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nope.”
Maslick started to sweat again despite the cool air flowing through the window. The target was only twenty yards behind him now, approaching fast. Time was running out. In less than an eighth of a mile, the constricted corridor would open up and the powerful Mercedes would go by him like he was stopped in the road.
So now they weren’t just talking about a messy snatch-and-grab, they were talking about a messy snatch-and-grab of a Saudi royal. Bad, but still not a disaster. There were about a thousand of these anonymous princes roaming the world, so he wasn’t going to get his panties too bunched up about it. His job was to deliver the ISIS moneyman. What Rapp and Irene Kennedy did with him was their business.
They were right on his tail now and he could see the outline of the two men in the front seat of the Mercedes. Maslick suddenly realized that it was possible—probable, really—that they were just guards employed by the Saudi embassy to cart around visiting VIPs. Not terrorists. Not criminals. Just a couple former soldiers making a living.
“Mas, we’ve got some more intel coming in. Bin Musaid’s thirty-nine. Wife and two kids who live in Riyadh, but he seems to get around—the U.S., Canada, Europe. He’s worked for the Saudi government in the past, but not for a few years. No known job right now.”
Mas was feeling increasingly uncertain. “That seems like a lot of detail for us to have on some random prince.”
“That’s probably because he’s not some random prince. He’s King Faisal’s nephew.”
“What? Repeat that.”
“I said the Agency probably has all this intel because he’s King Faisal’s nephew. His dead sister’s son, it looks like.”
Fuck!
In his rearview mirror, he could see Bruno McGraw taking up a position thirty feet behind the Mercedes. Maslick was having trouble focusing on the image, though. It was being pushed from his mind by the thought that he was about to kill two innocent embassy workers and grab the nephew of the king of one of America’s primary allies in the Middle East. This had just gone from dealing with some bitching from the Moroccans to a major international incident with two counts of murder thrown in for good measure. Then, of course, there would be the official protests to the UN. The American politicians making grandstanding speeches about the out-of-control CIA. The calls for Irene Kennedy’s resignation. And him standing right in the middle of all of it.
“Mas,” Bruno McGraw said over his earpiece. “What are we doing? You’re coming up to the end of the road.”
Maslick reached for the phone on his dashboard, but there was no time to get authorization. His foot hovered over the brake for a moment then shoved down on the accelerator instead.
“Abort. I repeat, abort. Wick, go get the money from that apartment. Bruno, peel off east. We’ll rendezvous at the airstrip in two.”
CHAPTER 7
Outside of Washington, D.C.
U.S.A.
THE CIA’s Gulfstream G550 was on its final approach, heading into the setting sun as it descended toward the treetops. Rapp was stretched out on the sofa with his phone pressed to his ear.
“When you say ‘ready,’ Mitch, what exactly do you mean?”
“I mean that my car is parked next to the fucking airstrip like you promised.”
This landing site was Rapp’s go-to when flying into the D.C. area. Quiet and out of the way, but still less than an hour from his house.
“Yeah . . . about that,” Craig Bailer responded nervously. “Gunter isn’t done with the subwoofer.”
“Who’s Gunter?”
“The Swiss dude making your sub. Look, Mitch. The guy’s an artist and you can’t rush artists. Trust me, man. It’s gonna to be worth the wait. Not only are you finally going to have a kick-ass stereo, but I’ve also knocked forty kilos off the Kevlar without any effect on integrity. Plus, you’re going to have built-in encrypted phone and Internet.”
“How’s that going to help me on my forty-mile walk home?”
“I told Claudia it wouldn’t be done. Are you two—”
Rapp disconnected the call.
His efforts to get his life together had been just successful enough to remind him that having a life was a monumental pain in the ass. After his wife had been killed he’d jettisoned almost everything—family, friends, possessions. And while the existence that remained had been admittedly empty, it had also been wonderfully simple. A sparse one-bedroom apartment, a flawless backup team, and work. The lack of extraneous moving parts kept everything rolling along with a satisfying precision.
Rapp sat up and looked out the window. The deserted airfield was a powerful reminder of the fact that the simplicity he’d become so comfortably numb to was gone. Cheerfully and thoroughly shredded by Claudia Gould.
Her husband had been one of the top private contractors in the world until Stan Hurley ripped his throat out. Rapp had set Claudia and her daughter up with clean identities and a new life in South Africa, but it hadn’t lasted. The Russians tracked them down and forced him to pull them out. In return for helping finish the construction of his new house, he’d let the two of them move in. It was a temporary accommodation that was turning out to be not so temporary.
So now he and Claudia had settled into an uncomfortably platonic cohabitation that was starting to feel like a low-grade Cold War. He was always able to find an excuse not to send them back to Cape Town, but couldn’t seem to dig up the courage to commit. Even after so many years, the death of his wife was a raw, bleeding wound. The years had proved that there wasn’t much that could kill him. Living through another loss like that, though, might.
Which brought him back to the empty airfield. Was Claudia making some kind of statement by not being there? Was she telling him that he needed to either make a move or walk away? It would be a fair point, though out of character. Her style was to have it out face-to-face. And why not? She was a deadly opponent in those kinds of confrontations.
The wheels touched down and Rapp went forward, grabbing his duffle and opening the door. He jumped out and immediately turned away from the cockpit. The pilots hadn’t seen his face and he preferred to keep it that way.
The Gulfstream immediately took to the air again, leaving him standing among the lengthening shadows. His cell was in his pocket but he didn’t want to use it. Had he completely missed the fact that his relationship with Claudia had deteriorated to the point that she’d leave him there? Or was she just forcing him to sit and think about his situation for a while? Either way, she was justified. He was blowing it.
; A vehicle appeared in the distance, but it wasn’t Claudia’s Audi Q5. Rapp’s hand moved closer to the Glock beneath his jacket but then fell to his side when he recognized the SUV belonging to Scott Coleman. It rolled to a stop and Rapp tossed his duffel inside before slipping into the passenger seat.
“How’d it go?” Coleman asked.
“Everyone got out.”
“Did you pass along my job offer to Gaffar?”
Rapp shook his head. “Turns out he was an artist before he was a soldier. He wants to learn English and go to work for an advertising agency.”
“No shit . . .”
Rapp watched the deliberate movement of Coleman’s arm as he put the vehicle in gear. The injuries the former SEAL had suffered in Pakistan were far worse than Rapp’s own. It was a minor miracle that he was alive and a major one that he could walk. He was working on his rehab full-time, but the slow progress had left yet another glitch in Rapp’s well-oiled machine. Coleman’s outfit, SEAL Demolition and Salvage, had been his primary backup for years. With its founder out of commission, they had been forced to put a reluctant Joe Maslick in charge. And while Mas was a hell of an operator, he was no Scott Coleman.
“Where’s Claudia?” Rapp said. There was no point in hiding from the subject.
“Apparently there’s a sleepover at your house tonight and she has her hands full.”
He was surprised at the relief he felt. She hadn’t been expecting to have to pick him up and it was entirely plausible that Anna had friends over. Maybe this wasn’t her drawing a line in the sand.
“So why are you here?”
“Somebody had to come and get your ass.”
That story sounded a bit thin. Sitting for extended periods of time was hard for him and he had people he could have sent. There was more to this and it wasn’t hard to guess what it was.
“What happened in Rabat?” Rapp said.
Coleman didn’t immediately answer, instead accelerating up the road. “There was a problem.”
“Are any of our guys hurt?”
“Nah. They’re all fine.”
“And the Egyptian?”
“There was no Egyptian, Mitch. Our intel was bad. The courier was a Saudi prince.”
“Do we have him?”
“So, the thing is—”
“Do we have him?”
“No.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“He was traveling in an armored vehicle and there were two guards with—”
“You’re telling me that Mas, Bruno, and Wick can’t handle two guards and a little armor?”
“What I’m telling you is that the prince in question is Faisal’s nephew.”
“I don’t give a shit who he is. I told—”
“Mitch, please! Let me finish. We threw Mas headlong into this and told him it was a nobody ISIS courier. He didn’t feel like he had the authority to make the call and there wasn’t time to get to Irene.”
“So he just walked away?”
“In a nutshell, yeah.”
Rapp tried to control his anger. The Saudis had gotten pass after pass. They were an antidemocratic monarchy, the world’s largest supporter of terrorist organizations, and funded the countless madrassas that churned out an endless stream of radicals to replace the ones he killed. And now King Faisal’s worthless nephew was rolling around Morocco with a briefcase full of cash earmarked for ISIS?
“Do we have proof?”
“That it was bin Musaid? Not ironclad, but we have a pretty decent photo taken through Wick’s scope.”
“Where is he now?”
“He hasn’t popped back up on our radar yet. We’re watching—”
“I mean Maslick.”
“Oh . . . Somewhere in Europe. He’s afraid to come back. He doesn’t want to face you.”
They drove in silence for a good five minutes before Coleman spoke again. “You keep avoiding the subject, but we can’t anymore. We’ve got to talk about finding a replacement for me until I can get my shit together. You need reliable backup and I guarantee if you put Mas in charge of anything again, he’s going to quit. I don’t want it to be my fault if another op goes south or if you get shot up. I’d never hear the end of it from Irene.”
He was right, Rapp knew. The hope had been that Coleman would bounce back in a few months, but that wasn’t happening. It could easily be another year. Or, as much as no one wanted to face the possibility, it could be never.
“It’s your organization, Scott. Not mine. You can do what you want.”
Coleman seemed to relax a little. “But it’s your ass out there. I need you to be comfortable with who I pick.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“Mike Nash and I have been doing some spitballing. We’ve turned up a few names and he’s digging a little deeper for me. We’ve also been talking about splitting the job in two. Maybe having a separate field commander and logistics person.”
“So you’d handle logistics, then?”
The former SEAL shook his head. “I’ve got more on my plate than I can deal with right now.”
Rapp felt increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. The more they talked about a replacement, the more it felt like Coleman wasn’t coming back. They’d been together for years. In many ways they’d grown up together in the business. Beyond the friendship they’d forged, there was a level of trust that he didn’t see being able to rebuild with someone new.
Coleman seemed to read his mind—another facet of their relationship that was going to be hard to replace. “It’s just for a little while, Mitch. I need this, okay? I’m stressing out that you or one of my guys is going to get killed. I don’t need that right now.”
“When’s Mike going to have some recommendations?”
“Next day or two. He’s working on the ops side. I’m dealing with logistics.”
“And?”
Again Coleman didn’t immediately answer, instead focusing on getting around a truck creeping along the rural highway. He seemed to be building up to something, but Rapp had no idea what it could be.
“It’s hard not to think about Claudia,” the former SEAL said finally.
For the second time since he’d gotten in the car, Rapp found himself having to control his anger. Normally he wouldn’t bother, but Coleman was struggling. He’d gone from being one of the best operators in the world to barely being able to roll out of bed in the morning. He felt like he’d abandoned his comrades and was terrified that he might live the rest of his life getting winded buying groceries.
“No,” Rapp said. “She’s already risking enough just being near me.”
“To be clear here, Mitch, I didn’t approach her. She approached me. And we both know that a big part of Louis Gould’s success was her doing most of the thinking for him.”
“We’re done with this subject, Scott.”
Coleman shrugged. “All right. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a dead issue. But I’m not sure Claudia’s going to feel the same way.”
CHAPTER 8
Rabat
Morocco
PRINCE Talal bin Musaid stepped into the Learjet 75’s cool interior and frowned at the pilot bowing to him from the cockpit door. He’d never seen the man before, but it mattered little. The pilots he’d been provided in the past had been adequate and he had no reason to believe that this one would be any different.
“Welcome, Your Highness. All is ready for your return to Riyadh.”
“Make me a drink,” bin Musaid said, and then went to the back, taking a seat.
He watched disinterestedly as the pilot closed the door and then rushed to pour a single malt for his only passenger.
“Do I have your permission to lift off?” he said, handing bin Musaid the drink with another bow.
The prince nodded and too
k a sip from the crystal glass. Not his preferred brand but it would do for the relatively short flight. He savored the dark liquor without guilt as he did women, drugs, and gambling. Why not? He had been shut out of his rightful place by old men fearful of his youth and vitality. Certainly Allah would understand him taking solace in these meaningless vices until the order of things changed. Until the storm that was brewing in the Middle East finally destroyed the Western appeasers who infested the region.
As the engines spooled up, he wondered idly what had happened to the money he’d provided ISIS. Was it being passed along their elaborate network on its way to America? Had it been laundered and deposited in a legitimate financial institution? Was it already in the hands of the devout men who would use it for a glorious attack?
What would the target be? An American sports stadium? One of the country’s decadent commercial centers? The Capitol building during a meeting of its congress?
Freedom made the Americans weak. How could a society protect itself unless the greater men took charge of every aspect? How could a society be truly exceptional when it was at the mercy of the whims of the mob?
His own country was slowly succumbing to a similar fate, he knew. King Faisal and the leaders who had come before him had turned their backs on Allah. The old man had retreated behind the walls of his depraved palace, emerging occasionally to falsely proclaim his devotion to subjects who were beginning to see through his lies. He had abandoned the almighty power of God long ago, replacing it with the power of America.
Like all bargains with the devil, though, this one was beginning to unravel. The vast network of conservative madrassas financed by the House of Saud were no longer blinding the people to its excesses, but instead showing them the truth. The king was now faced with an impossible situation. His strategy of publicly condemning the U.S. while privately supporting its battle against fundamentalist Islamic forces was beginning to fail. And the Americans were finally waking up to the fact that the billions they spent on Saudi oil was being used to create terrorists whom they then had to spend billions fighting.