Enemy of the State

by Vince Flynn

  “Then tell me he’s wrong, Irene. Tell me that I’m wrong. I’ve always listened to you.”

  She just kept looking out the window. Finally, Rapp saw Claudia’s Q5 parallel parked at the edge of the street. The driver stopped beside it and, in an unusual gesture, Kennedy held out a hand to Rapp. “Whatever you decide, Mitch, good luck with it.”

  * * *

  By the time Rapp pulled up in front of his house, the sun had cleared the horizon. He hadn’t driven directly home, taking the long way to give himself time to think. What conclusions he’d come to, though, he wasn’t sure.

  Anna met him in the entry, still wearing her pajamas and rubbing at her eyes. “Did you get me my oatmeal?”

  He held up a grocery bag. “Go get ready for school. I’ll make it for you.”

  “No,” she protested. “Let Mom do it.”

  “Fine. But put it in gear. You’re going to be late.”

  She disappeared up the hallway, and he crossed through the interior courtyard to the kitchen. Claudia was standing by the refrigerator, carefully extracting coffee from a machine that looked like it had been designed by NASA.

  “How was your meeting?” she asked.

  “What meeting? I just went to the store.”

  “Ah,” she said, sliding a cup of Peruvian dark roast toward him. As always, it was spectacular.

  “There are some things I need to deal with,” he said as she began the elaborate process of filling her own cup.

  “The problems you learned about at the Food Lion?”

  “Yeah. Those.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  He wasn’t sure how to answer. This job was unlike anything he’d ever taken on. He worked at the extreme edges of the U.S. intelligence apparatus but he was still part of it. Disregarding orders was very different from not having any orders.

  “Awhile.”

  She slid onto a stool and stared at him, picking up on his unusual reticence. “Off the books?”

  “Worse.”

  “Completely black?”

  He took a sip of his coffee. Fuck. He couldn’t believe he was about to do this.

  “Keep going.”

  She clapped her hands together excitedly. “A rogue operation?”

  He gave a hesitant nod.

  “So, a criminal enterprise,” she said, not bothering to hide her glee. “And only one of the people at this table knows how to be a criminal.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Nouakchott

  Mauritania

  AALI Nassar glanced at his watch. Four in the morning.

  Through the window he could see the refueling truck as it approached his jet and the glow of the airport beyond. Individual lights were ringed with a distinct haze, and he blinked his eyes in an effort to clear them. It was no use. Sleep had been impossible since his meeting with the American president, and fatigue was starting to take its toll.

  There was little question that his performance in the Oval Office had been stupid and careless. He’d allowed his hatred for Joshua Alexander and the country he represented to overpower his reason. What should have been a careful political denial had become a battle of wills between him and the man purported to be the most powerful in the world. The temptation to demonstrate his disdain and to watch the man sputter like an impotent fool had been too strong.

  He told himself that there was nothing the president could do—that the economic and geopolitical ramifications of acting against Saudi Arabia would be too great. Kennedy would undoubtedly counsel her country’s leader that the meeting was an unimportant example of a bureaucrat untrained in the complexities of politics. And he would likely listen. But what about the more violent and volatile elements of the American government? Those led by Mitch Rapp?

  Nassar had significantly increased Prince bin Musaid’s security, but Musaid was still an obvious target for the CIA and, as such, a potential liability. Would they be that bold? While bin Musaid was an idiot, he was the only living connection King Faisal had with the sister he’d favored above all others.

  A man in overalls appeared in the jet’s open doorway and spoke briefly to one of Nassar’s security detail before disappearing again.

  “Sir, the refueling hose has become jammed and they’re concerned it could cause a fire. We’re being asked to deplane until they can get the problem resolved.”

  “How long?”

  “It should be no more than a few minutes, but they’re unwilling to start the process of freeing the hose until the plane is empty.”

  Nassar let out a frustrated breath but then started for the door. Getting delayed in West Africa wasn’t an option. He might still have time to take advantage of Alexander’s paralysis and get to Faisal before he was informed about what had happened. It wouldn’t be hard to soften the impact. The old fool trusted him.

  Nassar followed his two security men across the tarmac to a small building along its edge. They were well away from the main terminal, and the darkness increased as they distanced themselves from the plane. It took a few seconds for his man to find the light switch, but once it was on he ushered Nassar inside.

  It was little more than a shed full of rusting equipment and Nassar stopped just beyond the threshold. “This is unacceptable. Find me another place to wait. Clear out a gate in the—”

  He fell silent when he saw a shadow move near the back. A moment later three men stepped into the harsh light of the overhead bulb. Nassar’s reaction time, honed by years in the Saudi special forces, had been dulled only slightly by age. In this instance, though, his confusion caused him to hesitate. It was clear that none of the men were local. Two were wearing desert fatigues and scarves wrapped around their faces, but he didn’t focus on them. It was the man in the center who captured his attention. He was Nassar’s height and weight, with the same neat hair and tight beard. Moreover, he was wearing a suit and a pair of aviator sunglasses that were identical to ones that Nassar had left in the plane.

  The Saudi spun toward the still open door and was nearly through when one of his guards grabbed him from behind. Instead of protecting him, he slammed Nassar facedown on the greasy floorboards.

  A blinding flash at the main terminal was followed by the rumble of an explosion and a burst of machine-gun fire. Again he found himself in the unusual position of being unable to decipher what was happening. Had his guard anticipated the blast and shoved him down to protect him? Or had he been betrayed?

  The answer came a moment later when two of the men he’d seen at the back of the shed dropped on top of him. Outside, a vehicle with a mounted gun was coming their way, firing random bursts at aircraft as it passed. The man dressed like Nassar joined Nassar’s guards and started for the door.

  “You’re working for the CIA!” he shouted after them. “Stop this now or your families will pay the price! I will—”

  One of the men grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back, silencing him with a piece of tape. Flex-cuffs were looped around his wrists as he watched his guards run across the tarmac with his doppelgänger, firing their handguns at the approaching truck. Another explosion rocked the terminal as they leapt into his jet and closed the door. The fuel hose had been detached and the plane immediately began taxiing with the truck in pursuit. It was an obvious diversion—the gunner was going wide with every shot. By the time the plane finally took to the air, Nassar was struggling to breathe. It wasn’t the tape over his mouth, though. It was the realization of what was to come.

  He had only himself to blame. He’d been blinded by his own arrogance and the intensity of his hatred for the Americans. He’d believed them to be too weak to move against him like this. And now that miscalculation would cost him a slow death at the hands of Mitch Rapp.

  CHAPTER 18

  Baltimore

  Maryland

  U.S.A.

 
ARE you sure this is it?” Claudia leaned into the dashboard and examined the decaying buildings closing in on them from both sides. Around the turn of the century, the brick and stone structures had been used to build locomotives, but now most were abandoned.

  “I’m sure,” Rapp said.

  He turned and drove alongside the blackened shell of a building, picking his way along a cobblestone street that was more mud than stone. The Charger’s recently upgraded suspension handled it all without breaking a sweat.

  “Kind of a depressing neighborhood,” Claudia said, returning to the computer in her lap.

  “Where do we stand?” Rapp asked.

  “In a good place, I think. That was a very thorough list of Prince bin Musaid’s bank accounts and passwords. Did Marcus give it to you?”

  “Let’s just say that it happened to be sitting on his desk when I walked by.”

  “A wonderful stroke of luck,” she said, tapping a few keys. “I’ve been able to confirm that they’re all active and use them as a starting point to track down a few more of the prince’s assets.”

  “Really? Things Marcus missed?”

  She nodded. “Offshore accounts and shell corporations, mostly. The money from them was laundered through financial institutions not friendly to the U.S. Mostly Iran, Syria, and North Korea.”

  “Not a problem for you, though.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve used the same networks in the past.”

  “So you’re confident you have all of it?”

  “Unless he has significant amounts of cash hidden somewhere, but I doubt that’s the case. In my experience, men like him trust financial institutions. They have no reason not to.”

  “Yet,” Rapp added.

  “Yet,” she agreed.

  “Do you have a secure connection?”

  “Via 4G.”

  “Then transfer the money.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  She smiled broadly and typed in a few more commands, finally hitting the ENTER key with a flourish.

  “Well?”

  “Don’t be impatient. These things take time . . . Yes. There.”

  She held up the laptop so he could see the screen. Their newly formed company, Orion Consulting, now had bank balances that totaled just over seventy million dollars.

  “That should keep you in ammunition and unfashionable leather jackets for a while.”

  “So we’ve completely emptied bin Musaid’s accounts?”

  “Down to the equivalent of twenty-eight thousand U.S. dollars.”

  “Why did you leave him twenty-eight grand?”

  “So the banks don’t close the accounts and notify him.”

  “Does he have overdraft protection on any of them?”

  “Yes. Two.”

  “Okay, max out his overdrafts and get me that last twenty-eight grand.”

  She worked for a few seconds more. “Done. I think you Americans would say that Prince Talal bin Musaid is officially fucked. He has multiple large mortgages and other loans, salaried staff, and various taxes coming due—none of which he’ll be capable of paying. He has whatever cash he keeps on hand. After that’s gone, he won’t even be able to buy groceries.”

  “And you’re still confident that you can keep tabs on him?”

  “My guess is he’ll run to Europe. He has a successful brother there who’s distanced himself from Saudi Arabia and the monarchy. When the prince discovers his accounts have been drained, I suspect he’ll go to him for money, advice, and protection.”

  With a little luck, that’s exactly what would happen. It was impossible to know if Nassar and Faisal would tell the little prince that the CIA was onto him, but bin Musaid would be smart enough to realize that this wasn’t just some random hack. And when he made that connection, he’d start wondering if a foreign government was behind draining his accounts. More important, he’d start wondering what his life was worth in Saudi Arabia. How far would the king stick his neck out to protect one of his dumbass nephews? It wasn’t like he had a shortage of them.

  “Once bin Musaid’s outside of Saudi Arabia, he’ll be isolated and easier to deal with. We just need to—”

  Claudia’s phone started to ring and she held up a finger before picking up.

  “Bonjour, chérie!”

  Anna. Rapp frowned, reminding himself that these kinds of interruptions were part of his life now. That didn’t mean they weren’t going to take some getting used to, though.

  “Yes, of course you can. It sounds like fun. How high? Well, you should be very careful, yes? Remember what happened last time.”

  She was staying with Irene and being largely cared for by her son, with whom she’d developed an immediate rapport. It turned out that Tommy had always wanted a little sister and was being a startlingly good sport about the new demands on his time and teenage dignity.

  “Yes, of course. Soon. Don’t run if it’s wet.”

  She hung up and Rapp glanced over. “How’s she doing?”

  “Oh, fine. Her life has always been chaotic. She’s used to it. Sometimes I wonder if she’d get bored if she was ever forced into a routine.”

  “And you?”

  “Me?”

  “How’s your new routine working out?”

  “Wonderfully so far.”

  “You can back out anytime.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “I can think of about a hundred reasons. I never want you to feel like you’re trapped in this, Claudia. If it starts looking hairier than you’re comfortable with, or even if you just want to get back to Anna, you can walk anytime. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Stop worrying, Mitch. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this kind of work.”

  They pulled up next to a group of parked cars that included Scott Coleman’s SUV and got out, walking toward an unadorned steel door. There was a single button above a brass plate printed with “SD&S, Inc.”—previously “SEAL Demolition and Salvage.” When Coleman moved his offices, he’d decided to use the acronym. It was as vague as he could go and still get his deliveries.

  Rapp hit the bell and the door buzzed, letting them through. The interior was better appointed than anyone would guess from outside. Freshly painted walls, exposed brick, and carefully preserved industrial hardware further obscured the organization’s real purpose in the veneer of a San Francisco tech firm.

  “We’re in the conference room!” Coleman shouted from the back.

  Rapp and Claudia started down a hallway lined with offices that ranged from the OCD neatness of the one occupied by Charlie Wicker to the disaster of take-out food trays and partially disassembled weapons that belonged to Bruno McGraw.

  The conference room was completely nondescript other than the people surrounding the table. Most were former spec ops—Coleman, McGraw, Joe Maslick, and Wick. The exception was Bebe McCade, whose grandmotherly look hid the fact that she was probably the planet’s top surveillance operative.

  Claudia gave Rapp a subtle nudge and he singled out Maslick for a nodded greeting. It was the first time he’d seen the man since before the Morocco op, and the former Delta operator was apparently still on edge. As usual, Claudia was right and he relaxed visibly in response to the gesture.

  Rapp stood at the head of the table, aware that everyone probably assumed that he was going to announce his decision to allow Claudia to take over Coleman’s logistics role. What he was actually there to do would be a hell of a lot harder.

  “Earlier this morning, I gave Irene my letter of resignation,” he said.

  The expected stunned silence ensued. Finally, Coleman managed to speak. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the fact that the injuries I got on our last op are worse than the docs told me and I’ve had to admit that I
can’t do the job the way it needs to be done. I want to be clear, though. You guys aren’t out. Cary Donahue is going to replace me and he wants you as his primary backup. All of you know him, and I know that all of you have the same respect for him that I do.”

  “Can I have Claudia for logistics?” Coleman said with a calmness that seemed a little ominous.

  “No,” she responded. “Mitch and I are going to be doing some traveling.”

  “Really? Traveling? Let me guess. Bird-watching in New Zealand? Maybe a little boogie boarding in Hawaii?”

  “I don’t—”

  “This is bullshit!” Coleman said, flinging the pad in front of him against the wall. “Mitch Rapp is quitting the CIA because he got a few bruises in Pakistan? What the fuck are you even talking about?” He grabbed the cane next to his chair and held it up. “Look at me.”

  “I’ve got some things I need to work out,” Rapp said.

  “Yeah? Like what?” Coleman used the cane to point to the people around the table. “We’ve all bled for you, Mitch. And now you come in here and tell us some bullshit story about walking off into the sunset?”

  A few of Coleman’s men actually scooted back a bit, but he just kept staring Rapp in the eye. He obviously believed that, after everything they’d been through together, he deserved better. And he was right.

  “I need to go somewhere you and your boys can’t follow, Scott.”

  “When have we ever complained?”

  “Couldn’t be worse than the shit that went down in Nigeria,” Bruno McGraw said, and everyone nodded in agreement.

  “What are we talking about here?” Wicker asked. “Beyond black? What’s the worst that could happen? I end up dead? Or on the run from the FBI? Fuck it. I’m in.” That drew more nods.

  “You’re the best in the world at what you do and it’s been my privilege to serve with you,” Rapp said. “But now you need to show Cary the same loyalty you showed me.”

  He gestured toward the door and Claudia started for the hallway, looking a bit choked up. He felt the same way, but refused to show it. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. And good luck.”