by Vince Flynn
Azarov looked past him at the clouds building on the horizon. “How long?”
“A few weeks. Certainly no longer than a month.”
“Details?”
“There’s someone I want to talk to.”
“Can I assume that he doesn’t want to talk to you?”
“Safe assumption.”
“But your government doesn’t agree about the importance of you meeting with this person.”
“Fair to say.”
“Not a personal vendetta, though. That would be something you’d handle yourself.”
“I’m looking forward to the conversation,” Rapp said honestly. “But the goal here isn’t personal satisfaction.”
“I’m intrigued. Payment?”
Rapp shrugged. “I can offer you a lot of money, but the most expensive thing you bought in the last six months was a new board.”
Azarov’s brow furrowed, considering the issue. “U.S. citizenship?”
“Sure. But it’d be easier to just make Cara an honest woman and get it that way. Besides, you live in Costa Rica. Why pay the taxes?”
“True, but I think we would agree that someone with my skill set shouldn’t be expected to work for free.”
Rapp pulled out his wallet, extracted a single dollar, and laid it on the table. The Russian stared at it for a few seconds, finally reaching out and stuffing it in his pocket. “But you’re picking up the dinner bill.”
CHAPTER 21
Riyadh
Saudi Arabia
THE phone on Aali Nassar’s desk buzzed and he snatched it up. “Yes?”
“Aali, how are you?” King Faisal said. “Are you all right?”
Nassar let out a relieved breath. Perhaps premature, but at least the waiting was over. He’d called the palace multiple times since his return to Riyadh only to be told that the king was indisposed. Generally these periodic breaks in communication were the result of the man’s failing health, but that had now become a dangerous assumption. Had Faisal been avoiding calls because he’d heard about the disastrous meeting with President Alexander? Had he been made aware of the Americans’ suspicions regarding Talal bin Musaid?
“I’m well, Your Majesty. And you?”
“Me? Let’s not speak of me. I’m told that you suffered serious injuries defending yourself against those cowards in Mauritania.”
“I assure you that the reports have been wildly exaggerated.”
In fact, they had been entirely fabricated. The story was that Nassar had been drawn personally into a desperate fight with the terrorists. Accounts of his heroics were beginning to cross the line into the improbable, but no one had any reason to question them.
“Exaggerated? Modesty doesn’t suit you, Aali. The terrorists themselves are corroborating accounts of your actions.”
Mullah Halabi’s doing, of course. The fact that the ISIS leader was already using his influence to increase Nassar’s stature in Saudi Arabia was an encouraging sign.
“I did only what was necessary, Your Highness.”
The king laughed. “Well, Aali, if this is too trivial a matter for you to discuss, why don’t you tell me about your meeting with the president?”
Nassar actually smiled at that. The old man hadn’t heard. Perhaps Nassar’s initial analysis had been correct. President Alexander was indeed too spineless to pursue the matter.
“It turned out to be much more difficult even than the attack, Majesty.”
“What? How so?”
Nassar allowed for an appropriately dramatic pause, given the news he was about to deliver. “The Americans believe that Talal bin Musaid recently went to Morocco to make a payment to ISIS.”
“What are you talking about? That’s outrageous!” the king said, before descending into a coughing fit. It was violent enough that Nassar wondered if the old fool was finally going to drop dead.
Unfortunately, Faisal managed to regain his breath. “Is there any truth to this, Aali?”
“In my opinion, there is not, Majesty. The accusation relies entirely on the account of a single mercenary and a laughably poor photograph. While it’s true that the prince was in Morocco at the time, I’ve spoken to his security people and embassy personnel, all of whom are willing to testify that he was nowhere near the site of the alleged exchange.”
“Have you spoken to him? Have you spoken directly to Talal?”
“I haven’t, Majesty. We—”
“I’ll summon him to the palace immediately.”
It was the expected reaction, but a potentially disastrous one. What were the chances that the idiot prince wouldn’t let something slip under questioning?
“Sir, I’d strongly recommend against that. Given some time, I believe I can prove his innocence to the Americans. And if that’s the case, the entire matter will go away without anyone ever knowing about it.
“I’m not convinced, Aali. President Alexander wouldn’t make this kind of an accusation lightly.”
“I agree, Majesty. He’s an impressive and thoughtful man. But not infallible. If I’m wrong and my investigation doesn’t clear the prince beyond a shadow of a doubt, then he should be called upon to explain himself. But why humiliate him with an accusation that I’m convinced is false?”
Faisal didn’t immediately respond, but Nassar could hear his ragged breathing on the other end of the line. “You’ve never failed me before, Aali. And your heroism in Mauritania has once again demonstrated that you were the right man to oversee our intelligence efforts. I’ll do as you advise. I’ll wait for your report.”
“Thank you, Majesty.”
Faisal disconnected the call and Nassar leaned back in his chair. The conversation had gone as well as could be hoped. He had time to carefully consider the problem that bin Musaid posed and how to best solve it. Further, at this point, it was unlikely that the Americans would contact the king to protest the tone of Nassar’s meeting with the president. But if they did, he could always excuse his performance by citing the shock he’d felt at a royal being the target of such an accusation.
There was a knock on his office door and a moment later the bearded face of Mahja Zaman peeked around the jamb. “I hear you’re off the line with the king. Do you have a moment to speak with a common peasant like myself?”
Nassar’s parents had been servants in the Zaman household, and because he and Mahja were the same age, the two of them had struck up a friendship. They’d attended the same madrassa in their youth, and it was Mahja’s father who had recommended Nassar for the university scholarship program created by the king. Mahja and Nassar continued their lifelong friendship, rooming together at Oxford and exploring Europe during school breaks. Upon their return to Saudi Arabia, Nassar had joined the military—the best way for the son of a working-class father to move up in society—and Zaman had taken over his family’s wildly profitable construction company. Despite their divergent paths, the friendship endured.
“You look healthier than I expected,” Zaman said as Nassar came around his desk to embrace the man.
“It was nothing.”
“Nothing? I read that you were forced to jump onto an armored vehicle and kill those dogs yourself! Praise Allah that you escaped with your life.”
Nassar indicated for his friend to sit and then took the chair next to him. The office door was closed, but still he scooted close so that they could speak in whispers.
“Once again, I must ask for your help, Mahja.”
Zaman’s expression turned conspiratorial. “You know that I am always at your service and at the service of God.”
The lessons of the madrassa had influenced Zaman even more than they had Nassar. He had remained devout, but his life of privilege had left him yearning for something more meaningful than the acquisition of more and more wealth. Like Prince bin Musaid, this nagging emptiness made him
useful, but the analogy ended there. Whereas the prince was a spoiled boy in the throes of a tantrum, Zaman was strong, devoted, and clever. Those qualities made him an effective soldier, but also made it necessary for Nassar to tell him more than he would have liked. Zaman was not a man who would tolerate being a simple pawn, and his intelligence allowed only the most careful lies.
“Fortunately, while critical, it’s not a complicated matter.”
Zaman nodded. “What, then?”
“We need to make another cash payment.”
“Where?”
“Brussels. You’ll take the money in your private plane, transfer it to a car, and then drive to a designated location in the Molenbeek neighborhood.”
“And after that?”
“Nothing. That’s the end of your involvement. Take the keys and leave. The car will be driven away a few hours later. No face-to-face contact will be necessary.”
“Cameras?”
“No coverage where you’ll leave the vehicle.”
“How much?”
“Five million euros.”
Zaman was surprised by the amount. “Five million? Does this mean that you’ve made contact with Mullah Halabi?”
“I have,” Nassar admitted.
“Excellent! And do you think your new relationship will bear fruit?”
“Perhaps.”
In fact, it already had. Beyond the ISIS-generated story about his superhuman actions during the Mauritania attack, there had already been a quantifiable reduction in antimonarchy sentiment on social media. After the five million euros was transferred, Nassar expected the rate of that reduction to accelerate. It was a strategy that worked on two levels. His fabricated heroics played well with the general population, and the attenuation of antiroyal Internet bile played well with the king.
“Will it be used in an attack against the Americans?”
“I can’t be certain, but that would be my assumption.”
Zaman grinned. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see you as caliph one day. The leader of lands that stretch from Mali to Tajikistan.”
“If Allah calls on me to fill that role, I will of course do His will.”
Zaman slapped him on the shoulder. “Always so smooth, Aali. Those English girls at school never had a chance.”
CHAPTER 22
Outside of Chicago
U.S.A.
DONATELLA Rahn moved through the alleyway, carefully avoiding puddles swollen from the rain. Her long, dark hair was piled under a hat and she wore sunglasses that obscured a face that had at one time made her a great deal of money.
She maneuvered around a cascade of water coming from a broken gutter and took an opportunity to glance behind her. While the rain had done a good job of clearing the streets of pedestrians, there was no reason to be exposed any longer than absolutely necessary. Savoring the moment—while tempting—was a mistake made only by amateurs.
She slipped into a shallow alcove and pressed her back against the dirty bricks. The rain was coming harder now, obscuring her field of view more than she’d anticipated. On the positive side, it worked both ways. In the unlikely event that someone saw her, they would only register a vague human outline taking refuge from the storm.
At the center of the alley she could see her victim huddled next to a dumpster. The man with him flicked a lighter to life, and its flame glinted off a spoon used to prepare the drugs they had scored that afternoon. Having spent much of her youth doing similar things behind similar dumpsters, she knew how long it would take, the procedure, and the necessary paraphernalia. Not that it mattered. The drugs weren’t what she was there for.
And that begged the question: Why was she here?
For so many years she’d led a charmed life. Italian runway model, Mossad assassin, private contractor. She’d killed terrorists, well-trained enemy soldiers, and captains of industry. She’d been respected, sought after, and feared—by peers, by governments, and by the world’s billionaire aristocracy. Now she was getting drenched stalking a filthy and meaningless little creature named Jimmy Gatton.
He was a drug addict, small-time dealer, and hustler—none of which was of any concern to her. It was his work as a petty thief that had attracted her attention. Three weeks ago she had returned to the home that had been forced on her and found it torn apart. Her stereo, television, and laptop were gone. The contents of every cabinet and drawer was strewn across the floor, as was the contents of her refrigerator.
Donatella’s anger had flared, but only briefly. None of it was really hers. None of it meant anything. Besides, it wasn’t like she hadn’t been involved in similar jobs to feed a similar habit when she was young.
She’d begun walking from room to room, picking up the necessities that made existence possible—pans, a toothbrush, a thermostat ripped from the wall—and leaving the rest. As she continued, she began to feel an increasing queasiness in the pit of her stomach. The job was sloppy and unnecessarily destructive, but there was also a strange thoroughness. She made her way into the master bedroom, feeling her stomach tighten further. As expected, her closet door was open and its contents shoveled onto the carpet. Not expected, though, was the open door to a hidden storage room at the back. The latch had been hacked away with a meat cleaver that was now stuck in the drywall.
Donatella had frozen, her mouth suddenly going dry. When she finally managed to begin inching forward again, her horror grew with every step. The magnificent designer clothes and shoes, most made specifically for her in her previous life, weren’t just discarded like the other things in the house but utterly destroyed. The thief, after working so hard to get inside the secret room, had undoubtedly expected far greater treasure. Jewels. Weapons. Art. Perhaps even drugs. Instead he found decade-old Valentino, Gucci, and Louis Vuitton.
In his rage, he’d torn them apart and, judging by the smell, urinated on them. She’d stared down at all that was left of who she once was and, for the first time since her homeless teenage years, felt like she was fading away. How much more of this could she endure before she disappeared altogether?
Donatella remembered looking up at the cleaver, suddenly mesmerized by its polished surface. She kept it razor-sharp, as she had always done with her blades. Was that the answer?
She didn’t know how long she’d pondered that question, but, like so many times before, her rage had saved her. It wouldn’t end like this. Not after everything she’d been through in her life.
She’d survived Mitch Rapp abandoning her to the FBI’s witness protection program. She’d survived being imprisoned in bland suburban hellhole after bland suburban hellhole. She’d even survived a few brief experiments with honest work. Hell if she’d let a petty thief break her.
After another quick scan of her operating environment, Donatella stepped from the alcove and started through the rain toward the center of the alley. It wouldn’t be long before the drugs being prepared would go from spoon to vein, and she wanted to make sure that Gatton experienced what was to come with perfect clarity.
The two men glanced up as she appeared from the mist, confused at first and then intrigued. Gatton was the first to stand, moving to block her path. His hair was matted but his features were immediately recognizable from his mug shot.
The police had been largely uninterested in the break-in and she certainly couldn’t go to her FBI handlers. They would be furious to discover that she’d been clinging to mementos from a past that they’d worked so hard to eradicate. So Donatella resorted to the power she’d always had over men to get a local detective to admit that he knew who had done the job. Over drinks in an intimate little restaurant, he’d been eminently understanding—sympathizing with her sense of violation but explaining that he didn’t have evidence that would stand up in court. In the end, his advice was to take the insurance payout and move on.
“You’re a pretty lady,” Gatto
n said. The rain swallowed the sound to the point that no one outside of the alley would hear him even if he shouted. Even if he screamed.
She angled to get around him but he sidestepped and once again blocked her path. His companion was still crouched behind the dumpster, paying only partial attention. The drugs were what he cared about.
“What have you got in your hand?” he said, pointing to the eight-inch cylinder clutched between perfectly manicured nails. “Maybe something I want?”
Gatton had obviously made the same calculation that she had. What happened in this alley would stay in this alley.
He took a step toward her. “I bet you got a lot of things I want.”
Donatella pressed the button on the spring-loaded baton, extending it to its full length. Gatton didn’t even flinch. People were typically slow to process things that were utterly unexpected, and he was slower than most. She swung the weapon, slamming it into his ribs instead of going for the more obvious head shot. His grunt was audible through the roar of the rain, as was the satisfying snap of collapsing bone.
He staggered right and she spun, swinging the baton hard enough into the back of his legs to take his feet out from under him. His face twisted in pain when he hit the wet asphalt, but he couldn’t take in enough air to make a sound.
In her peripheral vision she saw Gatton’s companion pull a knife from his pocket. She turned and met his wide-eyed gaze with a dead one of her own. His confusion was even deeper than Gatton’s had been. The fact that she had a weapon and had used it to defend herself would be comprehensible, but her refusal to run for the safety of the street would be completely unfamiliar.
“Do we have business together?” she said, just loud enough for him to hear.
Apparently, they didn’t because he just gathered up his drug paraphernalia and fled.
* * *
Donatella shook off her umbrella and entered the parking garage. Her heart rate was still slightly elevated, but that was all that remained of what had happened. Her hair was still perfectly arranged, her makeup was unblemished, and her clothes were free of both wrinkles and blood.