by Vince Flynn
Until now.
Kariem was the most psychotic of the rebel leaders he dealt with—a guy who would set a man on fire for putting too much cream in his coffee. If human history taught any consistent lesson, though, it was that the biggest psycho usually came out on top. So while their relationship had a lot of potential upside, it was also extremely precarious. Which was why Black always had one of his lackeys make the physical deliveries.
Again, until now. Yesterday, Kariem had requested that Black be personally involved in their transaction—a shipment of surplus AKs and a few RPGs that were as likely to blow up the person using them as the people they were aimed at.
The question was why. To reward him for his service to the cause? Probably not. To cut him up with a chain saw? A better bet. It wouldn’t be the first time one of the rebel leader’s suppliers ended up in pieces.
A line of military vehicles—all supplied at a tidy profit by him—appeared on the horizon. He accelerated to a more confident pace, finally skidding to a stop in front of the rebel contingent and throwing open the door.
“General!” he said, using the title the man had given himself. “It’s great to see you! How’s the war going?”
Kariem was a disconcertingly large man with deep-black skin setting off eyes that had turned a bit yellow. One tracked reasonably well while the other wandered a bit. The result of a childhood head injury, apparently.
“Have you brought the weapons?”
“Of course.”
“They’re good?”
“They’re okay.”
Kariem nodded. He’d never been all that concerned with a few guns failing or exploding in his soldiers’ faces. Men were cheap. Weapons were expensive.
Black scanned the faces of the rebels surrounding him with an easy smile. Some were sitting on the burning hot hoods of their vehicles, while others milled around eyeing him. There were around twenty in all. Probably a third were either drunk or on something. All were armed.
If things went south, he was definitely going to be killed by a bullet that he’d overcharged these assholes for. Before that happened, though, he’d punch a few holes in General Douchebag’s head. While close-contact fighting wasn’t Black’s specialty, it didn’t have to be. All he had to do was draw and pull the trigger before one of Kariem’s inebriated minions could figure out how to get his rifle off his shoulder.
“It’s my understanding that you’re selling weapons to my enemies,” Kariem said. His face was a lifeless mask—like one of those Old West bandits propped up in his coffin. It was fucking unnerving.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Black lied. “Who told you that?”
“One of my men. He used to fight for Abdo and he says you are providing him with equipment.”
“Wait a minute, now. You and Abdo are allies,” Black said.
It had been true up until about a month ago, but that alliance had fallen apart over something even his troops didn’t fully have a handle on. No one could blame an American new to the area for not being able to keep up with the ever-shifting landscape of African rebellion. At least, that’s what Black hoped.
Kariem stared at him for a few seconds and then began reaching for his waistband. Black swatted at an imaginary fly in order to get his hand next to the Beretta he had stuffed in his waistband. It turned out to be unnecessary. The African just pulled out a small leather pouch containing a diamond nearly the size of a golf ball.
Two minutes later Black was standing in a cloud of dust with that stone safely in his pocket. He leaned against the jeep he’d been left, watching the truck full of weapons struggle to keep up with the general’s motorcade. The cold sweat of fear turned into the hot sweat of being stuck in the desert with nothing but a piece-of-shit jeep and a pair of flip-flops for transportation.
Fucking Mitch Rapp.
* * *
The rebel jeep was still holding together as Black crossed the White Nile and headed into Juba. After hours of nothing but dust and rock, the landscape turned green, with majestic trees and tended fields dotting the landscape. Not that any of those things were easy to make out. The on-again, off-again civil war had done a job on the city’s power infrastructure, leaving it in a permanent gloom.
He had to rely on his one working headlight to navigate the roads, weaving through pedestrians, bicycles, and the occasional farm animal. Finally he turned onto a quiet street that dead-ended into an old church. Its faded yellow walls were still structurally sound, as was most of the roof, but that was about it. The windows were boarded up, the steeple was listing badly, and the cross that had once topped the bell tower was lying broken by the perimeter wall.
It wasn’t much, but it was home.
He pushed a button on the remote in his pocket and the heavy doors that once welcomed the city’s Christians opened enough to allow him to drive inside. He parked the jeep amidst the overturned pews and headed for his living quarters at the back. The crates that he normally would have had to navigate were conspicuously absent. The sale to Kariem had wiped him out of merchandise and he’d need to sell the diamond to his fence in New York before he could bring in any more. On the bright side, his demonstrable lack of inventory would give him time to figure out what he was going to do about his client list. The under-the-table sales to the government still seemed safe, but the situation with Abdo was tricky. The problem was that while Abdo was far stupider than Kariem, he was just as vicious. He wasn’t going to just sit quietly by while his weapons supply dried up.
Best to consider the problem with the assistance of a few of the beers he kept stashed in the fridge behind his desk. Hopefully, the power had been on all afternoon. There was nothing worse than getting back from nearly being dismembered only to find a fridge full of warm brew.
He pushed through the door but then froze when he saw a man sitting at his desk. He had a dark complexion beneath shaggy hair and a slightly more presentable beard. It didn’t take long for recognition to kick in.
Black spun and sprinted back into the nave, leaping what was left of the altar before spotting the shadow of someone in his path. He tried to get around it, but without being quite sure how it happened, his feet were taken out from under him and he found himself rolling uncontrollably across the rubble-strewn floor. He was about to get up and start running again when a woman slipped a blade under his chin.
Where the hell had she come from? The bitch was wearing white pants and a blouse that was completely free of dust and sweat stains. How was that even possible?
She stared down at him with her dark hair hanging down on either side of his face. Black usually went for girls who were young and easy to impress, but this woman was gorgeous. Her age was impossible to determine—the athletic shape looked late twenties but the face had a few subtle lines that suggested early forties.
He heard footsteps and tried to spot the approaching man without causing the blade to cut into his throat. Finally he came into view, looking down at Black with an expression of vague disappointment.
“Mitch! Come on, man. Don’t let me get killed by a chick. Especially one this hot.”
The woman eased the pressure of the blade against his skin and looked up at Rapp. “I like him.”
* * *
“This is the best you could do? Arms dealing to both sides in a civil war?” Rapp dropped behind Black’s desk again and fished a beer from the refrigerator.
“Come on, man. You said to stay out of your way. How much more out of your way can I get? I’m off the edge of the fucking earth.”
It was hard to argue. The kid could follow instructions.
“Have a seat, Kent.”
He did as he was told, looking a little hopeful at Rapp’s rare use of his alias.
His real name was Steve Thompson. The Kent Black bullshit was an effort to make him sound more like the jet-set private contractor he
’d always wanted to be. In truth, he was a poor Montana kid who had grown up with fewer creature comforts than he had here in Africa. His father had been a crazy survivalist who’d spent half his time preparing for the end of the world and the other half beating on his son. That was, until he’d disappeared. There hadn’t been so much as a hint of foul play and no body was ever recovered, so the younger Thompson—now Black—had been cleared and shuffled off to a foster home.
He’d eventually become an Army Ranger and top-notch sniper. The problem was that he’d seen his father in every commander he’d ever had and eventually was booted out of the military for insubordination.
Rapp had actually considered taking Black on when he hit the street, but it wasn’t an idea that lasted long. The kid was gifted, but also unpredictable and in possession of a seriously broken moral compass. So, while perhaps not CIA material, he was just the man for the shit detail the president had handed out.
“Seriously, Mitch. You don’t want me in South Sudan? I’ll disappear. How about Borneo? Or Siberia. I could—”
“Shut up.”
He fell silent, fidgeting in his chair like a schoolkid called in front of the principal.
“Do you want a job?”
The young man didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Was I not clear?”
“Word on the street is that you left the Agency.”
“That’s right.”
“So you’ve gone private?”
“Something like that.”
“And you want to work with . . . me?”
“I did, but now I’m starting to change my mind.”
“Don’t do that!” Black said, leaping from his seat. “I’m in.”
“Do you want to know what the job is?”
“Not really.”
That was starting to become a theme. “How about the pay?”
“I’m not worried. You always take care of your guys.”
He took a few steps in no particular direction, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Fuckin’ A. I’m working with Mitch Rapp.”
CHAPTER 25
The Principality of Monaco
PRINCE Talal bin Musaid stepped from his brother’s jet and walked unsteadily down the steps. He didn’t even bother to berate the men handling his expensive leather luggage, instead focusing on getting to the tarmac safely. His arrival in Monaco and numerous glasses of Hennessy had failed to calm him.
He’d been forced to lie about his plane being in for repairs to prompt his brother to send his own. In fact, it was in perfect working condition, but bin Musaid had no way to fuel it or pay landing fees. His bank accounts—even the hidden ones—had been completely drained. His credit cards had been canceled due to fraudulent activity. His lines of credit had been maxed out and most of his significant assets had liens against them—either from the loans he’d used to buy them or for taxes he couldn’t be bothered to pay. If his brother had refused to fetch him, it was unlikely he could have put his hands on enough cash to buy a ticket on a commercial carrier.
A black Mercedes pulled up in front of him, but instead of his brother appearing from the back, his brother’s wife stepped out from the driver’s seat.
“Your Highness,” she said with a polite smile. “It’s so good to see you.”
He hadn’t laid eyes on her in more than a year and that was very much by design. When his brother had begun seeing this Spanish commoner, bin Musaid had understood. She was young, stunningly beautiful, and, he assumed, good in bed. But then he’d married the bitch. She was his only wife and, as far as anyone knew, he didn’t even keep a mistress.
Bin Musaid watched in silence as she oversaw the loading of his luggage and then indicated to the passenger seat. Instead he got in the back. His brother had been disinherited for his relationship with her, but he cared little. He’d made an enormous amount of money in European real estate and had no need of the family’s support.
“I’m sorry that Hossein couldn’t pick you up personally,” she said, starting the car and pulling away. “He’s stuck at the office.”
Her Arabic was still barely intelligible, and listening to it made his anger grow. He had no choice but to swallow it, though. His brother had been largely estranged from the family for more than a decade, and in that time it had become clear where his loyalties lay. With this infidel and their three Westernized children.
“What brings you to Monaco?” she asked. It was likely that his brother was aware that he came there often but never contacted them. He’d undoubtedly put the woman up to finding out what had changed. Bin Musaid didn’t bother to respond.
Aali Nassar had done a skillful job of sowing doubt about bin Musaid’s involvement in the Rabat affair, but the king was not entirely convinced. That doubt put the prince in a very dangerous position and made his brother’s independent life in Europe a gift from Allah. Bin Musaid was unwilling to tell either the king or Nassar about what had happened to his fortune out of fear of what a criminal investigation might find. His brother’s lawyers and accountants would be in a position to make discreet inquiries, and bin Musaid could use what they learned to plan what came next. If this was a simple matter of hackers, the king could exert considerable pressure on the relevant financial institutions to return the money lost through their incompetent security measures. If it was something more, then other arrangements would have to be made.
“Will you be staying long?” his sister-in-law probed.
“Be still, woman!”
He immediately saw the error of his outburst and softened his tone. “I’m sorry. It was a long flight. No. Not long.”
It was likely a lie. The more he considered it, the more improbable it seemed that this was the work of hackers. Not only was the attack too thorough, but some of it seemed designed solely to anger and humiliate him. Most of his money had just disappeared so completely that it seemed to have never existed. The exception was the three million or so dollars that had been donated in his name to Jewish charities and girls’ schools.
No, the answer would likely be much more dangerous and needed to be hidden from his brother for as long as possible. He wouldn’t tolerate any risk to his wife and children in order to hide a brother he barely spoke to.
Bin Musaid gazed out the window at the opulent cityscape that he knew so well. What would his brother’s people discover? The CIA was the most obvious perpetrator, but Aali Nassar seemed convinced that the pathetic American president would never authorize a move against a prominent Saudi royal. The Jews? The Iranians? Or was he being naïve? Nassar had been angered by his personal involvement in the Rabat operation but had become enraged when he discovered that the CIA had been tracking the exchange. Was it possible that this was his doing? A punishment for Rabat? And, if so, had it been authorized by the king?
While it was hard to imagine, it was even feasible that he was actually in physical danger. This was another reason his brother was a gift from God. He maintained a security detail and the presence of his wife and children at the house would discourage at least the Americans from making a move. Unfortunately, it also meant that bin Musaid would not only have to tolerate their presence but court it.
He forced himself to lean forward between the seats. “How have you been, Carmen?”
“Me? Uh, fine,” she sputtered, understandably surprised by the question.
“And the children? I’m very much looking forward to spending time with them while I’m here.”
CHAPTER 26
Juba
South Sudan
RAPP opened the door to the office at the back of Kent Black’s church and felt a blast of cold air. Still interested in testing Claudia’s abilities, he’d put her in charge and she continued to impress. Not only did she have a projector hanging from a bloom of wires in the ceiling, she’d managed to fix the AC.
/> Chairs were lined up along the wall and contained the rogues’ gallery that had replaced Scott Coleman’s flawless and unwaveringly loyal team. The desk had been cleared of Black’s junk and now held a bucket filled with ice and beer. Where she’d found ice in a city that couldn’t even keep the lights on was beyond him, but why look a gift horse in the mouth? Rapp grabbed a bottle and took a seat at the rear. He still wasn’t comfortable having these people behind him.
Claudia nodded in his direction, looking a little nervous. He didn’t react other than to twist the top off his brew. At that moment she wasn’t the woman he was sleeping with. She was his logistics coordinator. Time to get this briefing rolling.
She dimmed the lights and used a remote to turn to the projector’s first image. “This is a three-month-old shot of Prince Talal bin Musaid. He’s the nephew of King Faisal—the son of his favorite sister. She and bin Musaid’s father are both dead, and he was left with access to a considerable fortune. Sadly for him, that fortune disappeared a few days ago and is now in accounts controlled by Mitch.”
“No shit?” Black said. “How much are we talking about?”
Rapp was about to tell him to shut the fuck up but then decided to see if Claudia would let him sidetrack her meeting.
“Let’s stay focused, okay, Kent?”
She switched to an image of an impressive mansion built into a steep hillside. It was surrounded by a wall and had an imposing gate, but both were more architectural statements than security measures.
“We’ve gotten lucky. Bin Musaid left Saudi Arabia recently and is staying here with his brother in Monaco. It appears that he’s told his brother what happened, because he’s assembled a team of investigators to try to trace the missing money.”
“Will they be successful?” Azarov asked.
“No.”
“What do we know about the brother and the house?” Donatella said.
“By all reports, Hossein bin Musaid is a successful and honest businessman. Relatively secular, married to a Christian, three children of early school age. He gives a lot of money to charities, none of which are political or religious in any way. As far as the house goes, there are two security guards and another man who seems to function primarily as a driver. None are former military or particularly well trained. Basically, what you’d expect from a wealthy, well-liked man involved in legal enterprises.”