Enemy of the State

by Vince Flynn

  This increasing dysfunction had culminated in the recent action ISIS had taken against his own country. They had acquired radioactive material from Pakistan and attempted to use it to irradiate Saudi Arabia’s oil-producing region. In the ensuing economic chaos, Faisal and his lackeys would have fled to the West, leaving the forces of true Islam to take control of not only Saudi Arabia but the trillions of dollars’ worth of sophisticated weapons the Americans had sold its military.

  It was a magnificent plan, but one that had never come to pass. The murderer Mitch Rapp had thwarted the attack. Now King Faisal was bowing and scraping even more to the Americans—begging men like Rapp to provide enough stability to protect him in the last few years of his life. After that, Faisal cared little about what happened to his country and the religion that should have been under his protection.

  The plane accelerated a bit abruptly up the runway and bin Musaid struggled to keep his drink from spilling. He was about to shout an insult in the direction of the cockpit but then reconsidered. He would soon rise to a position from which he would lead the Arab people. A king of kings acting as God’s representative on earth. Personally interacting with this man was beneath him. A brief mention to one of his people when they landed would ensure the pilot never worked again.

  Bin Musaid’s phone rang and he glanced down to see the recently appointed Saudi intelligence chief Aali Nassar’s name on the screen. He ignored it.

  Nassar was undoubtedly strong and had proven intelligent enough to identify bin Musaid as an ally, but he was also a commoner. It was a fact that he seemed to be forgetting as his power grew. While his machinations were unquestionably impressive, they were entirely for the benefit of the next generation of Saudi aristocrats. When bin Musaid took his rightful seat as the head of the House of Saud, he would of course reward Nassar’s efforts lavishly. But he would also forcefully remind the man that he was a servant. A valuable one, to be sure, but a servant nonetheless.

  The plane leveled out and the pilot immediately made his way back to him.

  “Your Highness, Aali Nassar is trying to contact you. He wonders if perhaps your phone is not functioning properly?”

  Bin Musaid stared up at the man. “My phone is functioning perfectly.”

  “I don’t understand, Your Highness. You—”

  “I’m not interested in what you do or do not understand!”

  Knowing that he’d been dismissed, the pilot retreated back to the cockpit. Before bin Musaid could take another sip of his drink, though, he had returned. This time with a phone in his hand.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m told it’s urgent.”

  Bin Musaid let out a frustrated breath and snatched the phone.

  “What?”

  “You went personally? You were to leave the money for the Egyptian and let him make the exchange!”

  “You’d do well to watch your tone when you speak to me, Aali. It was my money and I wanted to meet the man taking it.”

  “Watch my tone? Idiot!”

  “You know nothing of this!” bin Musaid shouted. “You sit in your office in Riyadh using other people’s funds and labor to advance your plans. You would be able to do nothing—you would be nothing—­without the support of my family.”

  “It never occurred to you that you could be seen? That your involvement might be discovered?”

  “Impossible.”

  “You drove there in a car provided by the embassy! Do you have any idea what your thoughtless arrogance has put at risk? Have you—”

  Bin Musaid disconnected the call and threw the phone against the bulkhead. Who was Aali Nassar to speak to him like that? He was a pauper. One of the thousands of meaningless bureaucrats who infested Saudi Arabia’s government payroll. The fact that he had temporarily gained the favor of the useless old woman who was their king had caused him to become drunk with self-importance.

  The pilot apparently had a second phone, because it began ringing almost immediately. Surely he would not be stupid enough to bring it back again. Bin Musaid swallowed what was left of his drink and went to the galley to pour himself a second. A third and fourth would probably also be necessary to soften both the memory of that conversation and the fact that he was being forced to return to Riyadh.

  He’d spend only the number of days required to keep up appearances. The moment his familial obligations were fulfilled, he would leave again. Perhaps for New York. He had an interesting woman there and a sudden yearning to walk among the godless inhabitants of that country. To revel in their ignorance of what was to come.

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  The sudden shout from the pilot was followed by the nose of the plane dipping violently and the fuselage beginning to vibrate. Bin Musaid lurched for the cockpit but the angle of descent continued to steepen. A moment later he was weightless, feeling panic grip him as the aircraft dropped below the clouds and revealed the earth rushing toward them.

  He screamed but it came out as more of a whimper, swallowed up by the sound of rushing air and the deafening whine of the engines. The sensation of weight returned suddenly and he hit the floor, rolling through the food, dishes, and liquor bottles strewn across it before slamming into a table.

  Gravity continued to increase until bin Musaid’s body felt as though it was being pressed to the floor by the hand of God. The breath went out of him and urine ran down his leg as his universe contracted until it consisted only of blinding sunlight, the deafening roar in his ears, and the unbearable force of gravity.

  Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over.

  The pressure subsided and the scream of the engines returned to the reassuring hum he had spent so much of his life surrounded by. Blue, unwavering sky glowed beyond the windows and he fixated on it, gulping air as he tried unsuccessfully to stand. The pilot appeared, hovering over him for a moment before dropping a phone onto his chest. Bin Musaid took it in a shaking hand and put it to his ear. A moment later Aali Nassar’s voice came on.

  “Do we understand each other, Your Highness?”

  CHAPTER 9

  East of Manassas

  Virginia

  U.S.A.

  LET’S see if they finally added me to this thing,” Coleman said, sticking his arm through the open window and pressing his thumb against the scanner. After a brief delay, the gate in front of them began to open.

  Rapp’s subdivision was situated in a rural area outside of Washington, D.C., and had originally consisted of ten large home sites to be sold off at market price. His obscenely rich brother had swooped in and bought the other nine, leaving Rapp with a hundred acres on the top of a butte surrounded by farmland. It was a nice gesture but had the effect of making his house too remote. The 9th Armored Division could roll up to his gate and go unnoticed for a week.

  Ever the idea man, Steven had sold off the luxury lots to Rapp’s friends and colleagues for a dollar apiece. A retired Secret Service man had already broken ground on one to the north and Mike Nash’s wife had finally decided on one to the east.

  “That’s mine,” Coleman said, pointing through the windshield at a wooded knoll next to the barn that Anna was preparing for the pony she was certain would be arriving for her birthday. “I’m thinking Western contemporary. Something that’ll give me a little class, you know?”

  Rapp nodded silently. It wasn’t a solution that he’d have come up with on his own, but it was the kind of out-of-the-box thinking that had his brother edging up on billionaire status. Within two years Rapp would be surrounded by shooters completely loyal to him, as well as a few kids around Anna’s age. A perfect scenario for everyone involved. All he had to do now was not screw it up.

  They came over a small rise and the spotlit wall surrounding his house came into view. The copper gate swung back as they approached and Rapp frowned. Claudia had undoubtedly activated it based on the security camera displays. With th
e glare of the headlights, though, it would be impossible for her to see through the windshield to confirm their identities. He’d have to talk to her about that.

  The modern, single-level house had been designed mostly by his late wife. His only demand was that it have no exterior windows. She and her architect had done an incredible job of camouflaging the thick walls, reinforced roof, and defensive positions.

  Coleman swung the vehicle in a circle and came to a stop next to a spectacularly ugly sculpture that Claudia loved.

  “Looks like a Skycrane lost its grip on a Hyundai and it landed in your yard,” the former SEAL said.

  Rapp ignored the comment and stepped out into the cool night. He slammed the door and leaned through the open window. “You coming in?”

  Coleman shook his head. “I hear you’ve got twelve little girls in there. That’s an opposing force I’d prefer to avoid.”

  Instead of turning away, Rapp continued to grip the edge of the car door. “Things are going good?”

  “Better every day. They say I might be able to jog a quarter mile on the track next month. Anything to get me out of that lap pool, you know?”

  Rapp started to pull back but then stopped when Coleman leaned painfully across the seat toward him. “I have one more thing to say about Claudia.”

  “You’re pushing it, Scott.”

  “What are you going to do? Hit a man who walks with a cane?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You need to put yourself in her shoes for a minute, Mitch. If your wife had lived and you’d had a kid, would you have given everything up? The rush? The satisfaction of doing something you’re good at? Would you have just turned yourself into a stay-at-home father? Because that’s what you’re asking her to do.”

  “Good night, Scott.”

  Rapp watched him pull through the gate and then started for the front door. The normally spotless entryway was strewn with shoes, tiny backpacks, and a trail of colorful Legos that for some reason led into the powder room.

  Much of the house consisted of floor-to-ceiling glass that looked into an elaborately landscaped courtyard. He crossed it and used a sliding door to access the industrial kitchen his architect had convinced him he needed. The dark-haired woman inside wedged one last pan in the dishwasher and spun toward him. Her hair was a bit unkempt and she had a smear of something that might have been mustard on one cheek, but she was still stunning.

  Rapp indicated to the dishes stacked everywhere. “I take it the rumors of a sleepover are true.”

  “You may want to go back to Iraq where it’s safe,” she said, striding across the stone floor and throwing her arms around him.

  He returned the embrace hesitantly. Whenever they touched, he felt the same confusing combination of adrenaline and peace. The fact that he was becoming increasingly dependent on that sensation worried him. Those kinds of addictions never worked out well.

  She pulled away and went back to cleaning. “Have you eaten? I’m sorry. I haven’t had a minute to make you anything.”

  He took a seat at the large island and searched the dishes piled on it, finally selecting a hot dog with a tiny nibble out of one end. “I’m fine. Looks like you’ve had your hands full.”

  “You have no idea,” she said, switching to the French she preferred. “Your operation went well? All of your friends are safe?”

  “More improvisation than I would have liked,” he responded, taking a bite of the cold hot dog. “But everyone’s in one piece.”

  “And Joe? Things went well with his first command?”

  It felt strange talking about these kinds of things with her. He’d done everything possible to keep his work hidden from his wife. But Claudia had been part of a similar world for years. She understood what he was dealing with. What was at stake.

  “Could’ve been better.”

  She stopped loading dishes into the sink and turned toward him. “Everyone’s okay, though, right?”

  He reached for a bag of potato chips. “Yeah, but it was a bust.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  He examined her as she leaned against the sink. It was an odd question. While they were in the habit of discussing his work in general terms, he never went into specifics and she knew better than to ask. What had changed?

  One of the pillars of effective interrogation was knowing more than your opponent thought you did. He had a feeling that he was on the wrong side of that now. Had Coleman given her details about Maslick’s failed operation in the hope that he could recruit her? No way. The former SEAL was famously tight-lipped. And that left only one possibility.

  Irene.

  “Just some bad luck,” Rapp said.

  She fixed her almond-shaped eyes on him in a way that suggested she knew that she’d overplayed her hand. “Nothing could have been done?”

  “Act of God,” Rapp said, going out of his way to be as vague as possible. He recognized that the conversation was inevitable, but at least he could make her work for it.

  She finally admitted defeat. “Did Scott talk to you about me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a very infuriating man to have a conversation with.”

  He finished the hot dog. “Really?”

  “I’m thinking about buying another sculpture for the front,” she said. “This one’s much larger.”

  He fought back a grin. “Okay. Truce. Scott and I talked, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s dangerous enough just being around me without getting involved in my business. And because Anna needs you here.”

  “It’s not operations, Mitch. You know that. And you also know that you’re putting too much pressure on Joe and Marcus. You’re going to break them.”

  “Claudia—”

  “I’m not finished.”

  “Fine. Continue.”

  “You have a life. A purpose. Challenges. I love being with Anna. But I can’t just do that. What happens in a few years when she doesn’t want her mother hovering over her every minute? You say Joe’s operation didn’t go well. Let me ask you something. And I want an honest answer. Would it have been different if I’d been involved?”

  The answer was a solid Probably. She was talented and incredibly exacting. It was possible that she could have IDed the prince well before things got critical and almost certain that she’d have been maintaining a reliable link to Langley.

  “I don’t know,” Rapp said.

  “But maybe.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “I can help keep you and Scott’s people safe. From his office. Not from the field.”

  “I just have a bad feeling about this, Claudia. I understand what you’re saying, but there are a lot of jobs out there that don’t involve so many fireworks. Why not get one of those?”

  “You can’t tell me who I can and cannot work for, Mitch.”

  That was true. She was essentially his roommate—a fact that was very much not lost on her. Why was it always the strong, defiant women he was attracted to? A doormat would make his life so much easier.

  “Can we continue this conversation later?” he asked.

  “Is that a delaying tactic or are we really going to continue later?”

  Between her and Coleman, it was like stereo bitching.

  “Just let me just take a shower and sleep on it, okay? We’ll pick it up again when we’ve taken back control of the house.”

  The fact that she returned to the dishes suggested she was satisfied, so he grabbed the bag of chips and started toward the master suite. On the way, though, he stopped in Anna’s open doorway. The girls were all dead asleep—on the bed, on the floor, sprawled across stuffed animals. A powerful reminder that, outside of his world, everyday life kept marching on. In a way, this was what he fought for. Sleep
overs.

  CHAPTER 10

  Near Riyadh

  Saudi Arabia

  SOLDIERS scurried from Aali Nassar’s path, focusing on erecting temporary living quarters, servicing vehicles, and preparing weapons. They were mounting a counterterrorism operation against a top ISIS leader across the border in Iraq. It was likely that Nassar’s assistant had called ahead to warn the base commander of his mood and that it would be best to give the Saudi intelligence chief a wide berth.

  Nassar was still in a rage about what had happened in Rabat. Talal bin Musaid had been tasked with the simplest of endeavors, but he hadn’t been able to do even that. Instead, this meaningless pup had jeopardized everything Nassar had accomplished over the past six months.

  He could feel the men’s gaze on him as he walked along the dirt road, their eyes shining with admiration and desert sun. The fact that he had been chosen to replace Prince Khaled bin Abdullah as the head of the General Intelligence Directorate was all but unheard-of and gave each of these soldiers the hope that they, too, could rise above their common births. Prior to Nassar’s promotion, high government positions had typically been held by royals. The exception was the energy ministry, which the king quietly acknowledged was too important to trust to one of the half-wits that made up the House of Saud.

  Now, though, the forces of radical Islam were massing at the gates, threatening not only the common man but the monarchs who lorded over them. With his family no longer immune to the danger posed by the jihadists they’d created, King Faisal had decided that a certain level of competence would be required to maintain order.

  An improbably young man in a colonel’s uniform appeared from a tent and, instead of attempting to avoid Nassar, rushed to meet him. Maheer Bazzi had recently been promoted to lead Saudi Arabia’s special forces. While insufferably eager and loyal, he was wholly unqualified for the position. King Faisal had felt obligated to reward the man for his role in saving Saudi Arabia’s oil fields from an attack orchestrated by ISIS. The fact that Bazzi was likely complicit in the murder of his predecessor by Mitch Rapp was something the king was apparently willing to overlook.