Enemy of the State

by Vince Flynn

  Bazzi swept his scope right and spotted a man creeping up on the empty space where a gate had once been. Four additional armed men were angling in from the north and two more, invisible from his current position, would be coming in from the east. None were from his teams, though. They all belonged to Aali Nassar.

  Bazzi had protested to the king, but it had been pointless. Faisal had become a man of compromise in his twilight years. While Bazzi remained in command of the assault, Nassar’s elite ops team would carry it out.

  It was true that Nassar treated him with respect, but Bazzi was fully aware that it was only a pretense created to please the king. Nassar dismissed him as inexperienced and hated him for his history of cooperation with the Americans. Further, Nassar believed that he had witnessed and covered up Mitch Rapp’s killing of Saudi Arabia’s former special operations commander.

  These suspicions, far from suggesting that Nassar was paranoid, were just another example of his competence. All were in fact true. While the American government was hopeless, Mitch Rapp had an encyclopedic knowledge of the Middle East and what had to be done to tame it.

  There was evidence that finally, with so many failures behind them, the politicians were starting to listen to him. As Bazzi saw it, this was the only hope for his country. Left to the backstabbing machinations of Faisal’s successors, the kingdom would descend into an endless civil war that would wipe it from the map.

  Nassar, while unquestionably a force of nature, was a fundamentally twisted man. A man of all-consuming ambition and an almost sociopathic lack of patriotism. While he had managed to convince the king of his fealty, it was clear that he cared nothing for the man, the kingdom he ruled, or his thirty million subjects.

  And so Bazzi found himself adopting the uncharacteristic strategy of leading from behind. As little as he trusted Aali Nassar, he trusted Nassar’s men even less.

  The team was finally in position and Bazzi was about to authorize the assault, but it turned out to be unnecessary. They began without his order. He watched them flood into the compound, losing sight of most as they fanned out behind the wall. The muffled crack of suppressed assault rifles was joined by the undisciplined growl of fully automatic weapons as General al-Omari’s men tried to resist the incursion.

  Bazzi started down the loose slope, forcing himself to keep an unconscionably slow pace. His normal practice was to run toward battle, but he suspected that his survival depended on reining in that instinct. In fact, he would have preferred to be relieved of his duties with regard to this operation, but such a request would have been an insult to the king.

  The gunfire fell silent when he was still fifty meters from the wall and he activated his throat mike. “Has the courtyard been secured?”

  There was no response.

  “I repeat. Has the—”

  “It’s secure,” came the curt response.

  Bazzi moved through the gap in the wall cautiously, scanning the moonlit courtyard. Nassar’s men were in evidence on all sides, having taken control of every strategic position. The bodies of three armed men were facedown in the dirt.

  “Any injuries?”

  “None.”

  The sound of machine-gun fire erupted to Bazzi’s right and he dove headlong to the ground, rolling into a position that allowed him to swing his Heckler & Koch G36 toward muzzle flashes coming from a stand of trees fifteen meters away. He depressed the trigger and felt the buck of his weapon as he returned fire. A shadowy figure burst from cover, using the eruptions of dust created by his bullets to refine his aim. The impacts made it to within five centimeters of Bazzi before he managed to hit the man in the chest and spin him into an ancient well.

  The silence descended again and he searched the darkness, seeing no one but Nassar’s men looking down at him. None had fired a single shot.

  It was clear that his continued existence depended on learning a whole new set of survival skills. He was no longer a simple special forces captain. He was a favorite of the king and, as such, a reluctant player in the power struggle that was to come.

  Bazzi moved toward the men gathering at the front door of the massive house. Again he hung back, waiting for them to enter before he followed. They needed to move quickly. There would be more security men inside and all would be running for defensible positions. Nassar’s team couldn’t afford to get bogged down. They needed to get General al-Omari on a chopper before ISIS reinforcements arrived.

  He kept Nassar’s men in front of him but doubted they would do anything overt. Allowing one of General al-Omari’s men to kill him was very different than doing the job themselves. One day it might come to that as Nassar continued to push against the limitations of his low birth, but for now it was unlikely that he was prepared to murder the head of Saudi Arabia’s special forces.

  They continued down the hallway, coming to a set of stairs that demanded a split in their forces. It was obvious that he wasn’t really in command, so he didn’t bother to give orders. He wished that he could just retreat back outside of the wall, but King Faisal would want a detailed description of the operation. His duty was clear and he carried it out, choosing to follow the men who continued along the ground floor and letting the other team take the steps.

  A sudden flash to their right was followed by the earsplitting shock wave of a grenade. The two lead men crumpled as the two behind them began trading fire with an assailant or assailants in a room ahead. Bazzi instinctively sprinted up behind them, sliding on his hip toward the downed men. One had been hit in the neck by shrapnel and was trying unsuccessfully to speak through blood-spattered lips. Despite his relative youth, Bazzi had seen men in a similar condition before. He wouldn’t live. The other man was still down, but his flak jacket had taken most of the shrapnel. Bazzi dragged him to an empty room, keeping watch behind him more for Nassar’s men than al-Omari’s. It was a situation where friendly-fire casualties could be easily explained away.

  There was a second door in the room and he shoved it open, checking the hallway before slipping into it alone. The sound of gunfire continued, increasingly muffled as he cleared the rooms lining the passage. Most consisted of nothing but four stone walls, but the last two were arranged with opulent bedroom furniture. Finally, he arrived at a locked door near the back. Nassar’s men were still pinned down behind him and he fired at the latch, deciding he’d rather go in alone than with backup handpicked by Saudi Arabia’s intelligence chief.

  Bazzi stood to the side and gave the door a gentle push. A moment later three shots sounded, passing harmlessly by and hitting the wall on the other side of the hallway. He risked a quick glance inside and was able to make out detail from the moonlight coming through an unshuttered window. The furniture was even more grandiose than in the prior rooms and the space was much more expansive—­probably ten meters square. The shooter had taken cover behind a bed and seemed to be armed with a handgun. Almost certainly the general making a last attempt to protect himself and his family.

  “Surrender, General! If you do, I promise your wife and children will not be harmed.”

  Two more shots came through the open doorway and Bazzi slipped his weapon around the jamb, firing a short burst into the bed’s dense wood frame.

  “Come in here where I can see you, Saudi coward!”

  Bazzi pulled back. “Be reasonable, General.”

  “You think I’ll let you take me?”

  “If you force me to kill you, your family will be interrogated in your place. What kind of man would allow this to happen?”

  Bazzi slipped his weapon around the doorjamb again, this time sighting over it. Al-Omari held his fire. Muffled whispers were audible behind the bed and he finally tossed the gun onto the mattress and stood with his hands in the air.

  “I have him,” Bazzi said into his radio.

  The shooting at the other end of the hall had stopped and he could hear the sound of b
ooted feet running toward him. A moment later Nassar’s men had surrounded al-Omari and his family.

  “Bind them and bring them into the courtyard,” Bazzi said. “I’ll call in the helicopter.”

  * * *

  “Understood,” Aali Nassar said. “ETA less than one minute.”

  The operation had gone reasonably well. Al-Omari and his family had been secured without injury and at the cost of only one of his men. Bazzi had survived, which was suboptimal, but having him die during the assault was less critical than it would have been convenient. The young military commander would just have to be dealt with more directly.

  The pilot switched on a spotlight and Nassar could see al-Omari’s compound below. The only place flat enough to land was the courtyard, and the pilot set down inside the walls, kicking up a dense cloud of dust that enveloped the young colonel running crouched toward the aircraft.

  He stopped short when he saw Nassar jump out, his gaze flicking from the intelligence director’s face to the suitcase in his hand.

  “Director Nassar. What are you doing here? I was told that we were to bring al-Omari to Medina.”

  “There’s been a change of plans,” Nassar said. “We’ll begin our interrogation here.”

  “Sir, this location isn’t secure. By now the locals will be aware of our presence.”

  “But that’s precisely the problem, isn’t it, Colonel? News that we’ve captured al-Omari will travel quickly, and any intelligence he provides us will become useless at the same rate. If we have any hope of finding the whereabouts of Mullah Halabi quickly enough to take him, it will have to happen here.” He paused. “If you’re frightened, I can arrange for my helicopter to take you to a safer location.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Bazzi said, leaving off the requisite “sir” as an act of pointless defiance. “May I carry your case?”

  Nassar gave it to him, smiling imperceptibly as the man moved off with what he undoubtedly assumed were the implements necessary to extract information from their captive.

  Nassar followed the young officer through the building and into a back bedroom where General al-Omari was secured to a chair. His wife and children were huddled in a corner.

  “Take his family outside,” Nassar ordered.

  Two of his men ushered them out and another two remained, keeping their guns trained on the helpless Iraqi.

  “Aali Nassar,” the man said, and then spat on the floor. “What brings you this far from your comfortable home? And who will lick King Faisal’s ass while you’re gone?”

  “Your reputation for bravado is well-earned, I see.”

  “As is your reputation for drama.”

  Nassar drew his firearm and aimed it at al-Omari’s head. The general stared back defiantly while the increasingly nervous Colonel Bazzi looked on.

  “Sir, I need clarification. I was told that we were to get this man and his family back to Saudi Arabia. I understand that time is of the essence, but we’re in danger here, and if we’re attacked, we risk not getting any intelligence at all.”

  Nassar nodded silently and then adjusted his aim, firing a single round into Bazzi’s forehead. The man collapsed onto the stone floor, a dark pool of blood fanning out around his head. Nassar fired a second shot, hitting the dead man in the thigh and then another in the neck. It would make the precision of the kill shot easier to explain away.

  “Cut the general loose and leave us,” Nassar said, holstering his weapon. One of his men severed the flex-cuffs holding al-Omari and then he and his comrade disappeared down the hallway.

  “What is this?” the general said, too confused even to stand.

  Nassar gazed down at the man who could legitimately be described as his ISIS counterpart. Al-Omari was hardly a brilliant man, but he didn’t need to be. That was Mullah Halabi’s role, and it was one he filled well. Al-Omari needed only to be competent enough to carry out the mullah’s orders, and indeed he had proved to be more than up to the task. The combination of the two men was extraordinarily dangerous. More so than even the vaunted Irene Kennedy understood.

  “We both know that the Saudi royalty won’t survive the death of King Faisal, General. He’s refused to groom a successor and the government will collapse under the weight of the power struggle. The Americans know that the royals in line are cretins and it’s unlikely that they’ll support any of the candidates.”

  “That’s why you’re here? To tell me things I already know?”

  “I’m here because the rise of a caliphate that spans the Middle East is inevitable. And I believe that ISIS has an excellent chance of being the organization that ushers in that era. The mullah’s plans display great wisdom and vision.”

  “Really?” al-Omari said, his voice gaining strength. “And what are those plans, Aali?”

  “ISIS will eventually succeed in a massive attack on the U.S. and you will use that to turn the American population against its Muslim countrymen. As they’re increasingly marginalized, ghettoized, and persecuted, they will rise up. This will continue the trend of America turning inward. Combined with their increased energy production, they will come to the realization that they have no compelling strategic interest in the Middle East anymore. They’ll withdraw and Mullah Halabi will be free to take control of the entire Islamic world.”

  “Very clever,” al-Omari said. “But enough with speeches. You want something.”

  “Of course,” Nassar responded. “Your recent attack on Saudi Arabia would have destroyed the country’s oil supply and with it the country itself. This was unwise. We have unparalleled military, intelligence, and financial resources. In fact, I think you recently enjoyed the fruits of the latter through the efforts of Prince bin Musaid.”

  “You were behind that?”

  “Did you really think that an idiot like bin Musaid could have initiated something like that on his own? I have an extensive network of royals and wealthy private citizens sympathetic to your cause. And I’m willing to coordinate their efforts to help you.”

  “The king will discover what you’re doing and execute you.”

  “The king will do nothing but die.”

  “You’ll kill him?”

  Nassar shook his head. “The years are doing it for me.”

  “And what do you want in return?”

  “That’s something for me and Mullah Halabi to discuss face-to-face.”

  Nassar opened the suitcase, enjoying the general’s expression when he saw the euros stacked inside. “I’d like you to deliver my request for a meeting along with this gift.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  On the surface it seemed like an odd question from a man in his position, but it was expected. He would reasonably see Nassar as a threat—as a man with far greater training, intellect, and resources than he himself had. And while taking the general’s place might become necessary in the future, it made sense to allay al-Omari’s fears for the time being.

  “I believe that you and I can work very effectively together, General. Me from Saudi Arabia and you at Mullah Halabi’s side.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Langley

  Virginia

  U.S.A.

  RAPP pulled into the underground parking lot at CIA headquarters and briefly slammed the Charger’s accelerator to the floor. The engine was powerful enough to shove him back into the racing seat but incapable of drowning out Radiohead’s new album. He would never admit it to Craig Bailer, but the car actually had been worth the wait. The sound system was as good as any he’d ever heard, the armor’s reduction in weight was immediately noticeable, and the annoying turbo lag was gone. Finding something to complain about was going to be a challenge.

  He blasted by a few startled men in business suits before slamming on the stellar brakes and turning onto a ramp that led deeper into the garage. As was his custom, he passed by his a
ssigned space and selected one at random. State-of-the-art armor or no, there was no way in hell he was going to park in a space with his name stenciled on it.

  He jogged across the asphalt and slipped into a private elevator, leaning against the back wall as it ferried him to the seventh floor. Normally he avoided Langley like the plague, but Mike Nash was pretty much glued to his office these days. He’d become Irene Kennedy’s go-to for dealing with Congress and the press, making it difficult for him to stray far from the Beltway for more than a few hours at a time. Besides, if Rapp had stayed home, he would have gotten roped into talking to Claudia about Coleman’s job.

  * * *

  “I hear the Iraq op went off without too many problems,” the former Marine said when Rapp entered his office.

  Rapp dropped into a chair and put his feet up on Nash’s desk. “But not so much Rabat.”

  “Yeah. Mas is back stateside, but he’s lying low. Scott and I both told him you’re over it, but he won’t listen. He needs to hear it from you.”

  Nash was forever playing the diplomat. In this case, though, he was probably right.

  “I’ll call him on my way home.”

  That seemed to satisfy him and he pulled a folder from his drawer. The purpose of this meeting wasn’t to talk about Joe Maslick but to find a temporary replacement for Coleman on the ops side. Rapp wasn’t particularly optimistic, but it was something he was going to have to face. Sitting around and hoping for Coleman to miraculously heal wasn’t working out.

  “I think we’ve put together some solid candidates,” Nash said. The hint of nervousness in his voice suggested that he wasn’t sure Rapp would agree.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Let’s kick it off with Gary Fielder.”

  “The guy with brain damage?”

  “It’s not brain damage, Mitch. He has a congenital neurological condition that makes it impossible for him to feel fear. It’s a thing. People have written papers about it.”