by Vince Flynn
“I think we’re reaching the end of our time,” the psychologist said.
The man’s words pulled Azarov back to the present and he stood, extending a hand. “Thank you, Doctor. I’m finding these sessions to be very helpful.”
“Same time tomorrow, then?”
“I look forward to it.”
He strode from the office and exited into a light London rain. The narrow side street was choked with parked cars but otherwise empty as he started along the sidewalk. When he came up behind a black limousine, the rear window opened.
“Mr. Azarov? May I have a moment of your time?”
“Who are you?” he said, displaying the expected confusion.
“My name is Aali Nassar. I’m the director of Saudi intelligence.”
Claudia had emailed about this. Prince bin Musaid had been killed, but apparently not before naming Nassar as the man behind the financing of ISIS. She’d been concerned that he might try to make contact while he was in London, and it seemed that her concerns were well-founded.
Azarov let recognition slowly register in his expression. “Of course. I work with your colleague the energy minister.”
“I’m aware of that,” he said, opening the door. “Would you like to get out of the rain for a moment?”
Azarov shrugged and slid into the vehicle’s luxurious interior.
“First,” Nassar said, “how are you? Praise Allah that you survived your ordeal in Monaco. Still, it must have been a very difficult experience for you.”
His tone suggested that he wasn’t entirely convinced by the explanations of Azarov’s success against a group of heavily armed terrorists.
“Thank you for your concern. But I’ll be fine.”
“Good . . .That’s good.” Nassar paused for a moment “Your performance was quite impressive. I imagine that the Russians will be quite disappointed that you went into consulting and not the military.”
A leading comment that couldn’t be ignored.
“Because I do much of my work in unstable countries, my company has spent a great deal of money teaching me to defend myself. And I was an athlete in my youth. A heart condition kept me from turning professional, but I still train recreationally. It proved quite helpful.”
“And the weapon you used? My analysts were intrigued.”
“It was made for me by a gunsmith recommended by my shooting instructor.”
“Do you have it with you? I’d love to see it.”
Azarov shook his head. “I have a special permit to carry it in Monaco. Getting a similar permit in England is next to impossible. However, I can give you the name of the woman who made it if you’d like. Her work is second to none.”
Nassar fell silent and Azarov met the man’s intense stare with a softer one of his own. The intelligence director was trying to let the silence become uncomfortable enough for Azarov to offer more, but he wasn’t going to play that game. The less he said, the better.
Finally, Nassar pulled out a tablet and held it up. The photo was of Donatella standing at the bar, speaking with Prince bin Musaid.
“Do you recognize either of these people?”
“I remember the woman. It would be difficult not to. Did she survive?”
“Yes.”
“And the man?”
“Prince Talal bin Musaid. I’m afraid he did not.”
“I don’t recognize the name. Please give my condolences to his family.”
Nassar flipped to another photo and Azarov allowed a hint of fear to register. It depicted Rapp dragging bin Musaid toward the door. The photo was blurred from movement, and Rapp was doing everything possible to keep his face out of the camera.
“I have trouble sleeping,” Azarov said. “When I wake up, it’s this man and not the terrorists I see. He aimed right at me and fired. I thought I was dead, but he missed.” Azarov looked away for a moment as though he was struggling to get his throat to produce sound. “Do you . . . do you know who he is?”
“We have suspicions. If I were to bring you a better photo, do think you could identify him?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
Nassar tapped the glass next to him. “It appears to have stopped raining. I appreciate your time, Mr. Azarov. And your heroism.”
* * *
Nassar watched the Russian go, studying his athletic gait as he hurried along the sidewalk.
It seemed extraordinary that he could have done what he had in Monaco, but everything he said checked out. He was indeed the semiretired CEO of a highly respected energy consulting firm and a personal friend of Saudi Arabia’s oil minister. He had spent a significant amount of time at combat shooting school, and his athletic prowess as a youth was well-documented. Add a little luck and it wasn’t impossible. It was, however, improbable.
He looked down at the tablet just as the photo of Mitch Rapp went black. They now had incontrovertible evidence that bin Musaid was alive when he left the bar. And that forced Nassar to assume that Rapp knew of his involvement. What would the CIA man do? Was he indeed rogue or did he have the clandestine support of the Agency? Would he dare attempt to assassinate the director of Saudi Arabian intelligence?
It was possible but unlikely that even Rapp would be that rash. It seemed more likely that he’d first look for proof. And with bin Musaid dead, that meant moving against Nassar’s closest associates.
He reached for a button between the seats and lowered the glass separating him from his driver. “Are our people in place in Brussels?”
“They’re still making preparations, sir. But I’ve been assured that all will be ready when you arrive.”
CHAPTER 34
Brussels
Belgium
THE rain in Brussels was coming down much harder than it had been in London. Heavy droplets fell on the windshield, threatening to overwhelm the nondescript Citroën’s wipers. An ideal environment for the tragic but necessary event to come.
Having completed the money transfer to ISIS, Mahja Zaman was staying in a hotel a few kilometers to the north. Nassar’s staff had created a plan to bring him back to Saudi Arabia, where he could be protected, but that strategy required a careless arrogance that was not one of Nassar’s failings. How many times had Mitch Rapp’s targets been put behind impenetrable security only to end up missing or dead? As difficult as the decision had been to make, Zaman had to be moved permanently beyond Rapp’s reach.
His driver dialed a phone with one hand and spoke quietly. “One minute out.”
When the call was disconnected, he glanced over at Nassar in the passenger seat. “With due respect, sir, there’s no reason for you to be personally involved in this. My people can deal with it quickly and quietly without putting you in danger.”
“Noted.”
They pulled into an alley that ran behind the hotel and Nassar stepped out. The service door immediately opened and he entered a utilitarian corridor. To his right, one of his men was closing a door leading to the security guard charged with monitoring the hotel’s myriad security cameras. The recording function had been disabled and the man was lying facedown at his desk with a bullet hole in his head.
They entered a service elevator and Nassar tried to maintain his calm façade as it rose. He was allowing his personal feelings to force an obvious error. His people should have been handling this while he made his way back to Saudi Arabia. Zaman would have felt nothing as he was sent on his journey to paradise. And when he arrived, he would understand that his death was necessary in the battle against the enemies of God.
The doors slid open and Nassar’s man checked the hallway before motioning him forward. Fortunately, the entrance to Zaman’s suite wasn’t far and, as in the alley, the door opened just before Nassar arrived.
“Aali,” Zaman said, embracing him. “I’m happy to see you so soon after our last meeting.”
“It was a simple matter,” he said, ushering Nassar and his man into the room.
“In affairs like these, Mahja, I’m afraid nothing is simple.”
The man’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but we have reason to believe that the CIA is aware of your involvement.”
“The CIA! How? I followed your instructions to the letter!”
“It had nothing to do with a failure on your part. Just the fortunes of war.”
“Are you here to take me back to Saudi Arabia?” he said, starting to sound a bit panicked. “The CIA kidnaps people from Europe! We must—”
“Mahja! Be calm. We’ve had a long and close friendship. More than that, you’ve been of great service to me and to God. I would never allow you to fall into the hands of the Americans.”
Nassar gave a subtle nod to the man who had taken a position three meters to Zaman’s left. When he pulled a silenced Glock from his jacket, Zaman registered the movement in his peripheral vision. Fortunately, there was hardly even enough time for surprise to register on his face before a round hit him in the temple.
Nassar stood motionless as his man lifted Zaman’s corpse into a chair and began securing it there with a roll of tape.
“Sir,” he said. “There’s no reason for you to be part of this. You should go.”
Nassar nodded and turned toward the door. The war against Mitch Rapp had begun. The former CIA agent was aging and suffering from a lifetime of injuries that would have killed a normal human being. More important, he appeared to be isolated—not only from Scott Coleman and his team, but also from the brilliant strategist Irene Kennedy.
Would it be enough? Would Aali Nassar be remembered by history as the man who finally defeated the American? Or would he just be another entry on the list of his victims?
* * *
Claudia parallel parked the car at the mouth of the alley and turned off the ignition. The rain immediately filled the windshield, and she left the headlights on to dazzle anyone who might glance in their direction.
“My people have been through the hotel’s service area a number of times. The corridor you’ll be walking through isn’t well traveled, but even if you do pass someone it shouldn’t be a problem. The hotel has over a hundred employees, with a fair amount of turnover—no one will give you a second look. Four security guards in total, none with any combat or law enforcement background. Three of them will be on the move and one will be watching the monitors. He’ll be in a room to your right as you walk in.”
She handed Rapp a key card. “This will open every door in the building.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I’ve done this before, you know.”
He did know, and so far she performed flawlessly. But that and his feelings for her didn’t obscure the fact that it took only one mistake. How many of his friends and enemies were dead because of a jammed gun, faulty radio, or wrong turn?
“What about Zaman’s security?”
“Just the one driver, and he’s on the other side of town buying gifts for Zaman’s family. I have a man tailing him, so we’re getting real-time updates on his location. If he starts coming in our direction, I’ll let you know. Now, let’s test your phone link.”
She dialed and he picked up on the Bluetooth headset in his ear. It was one of the benefits of the modern world. Tactical communication devices had become common in the civilian population.
“Can you hear me?” she asked.
“Yeah, you’re good. How’s the signal inside?”
“Four bars in the area you’re entering and the service stairs. Five everywhere else.”
“Then we’re ready.” He reached for the door, but she grabbed his arm.
“Mitch, I think this is a mistake.”
She was probably right, but they didn’t have a lot of options. Nassar already knew enough to have paid Azarov a visit, and that made it almost certain that he had enough intel to know that bin Musaid wasn’t dead when Rapp carried him out of Terry’s. The Saudi intelligence director would err on the side of caution and assume the prince had given him up. That meant he was either going to get rid of Zaman or put him under lockdown in Saudi Arabia. Their window of opportunity was closing fast.
“It’ll be fine. Just keep your eye on Zaman’s driver.
* * *
Rapp pressed the key card against the reader and, as promised, the lock slid back. He pulled the rain-soaked fedora a little farther down his forehead and went inside.
The passage was as described, but the level of activity wasn’t. Instead of being empty, with an overweight rent-a-cop sequestered in a monitor-lined room, there were two men on their knees, trying to get the security office door unlocked. They were speaking Dutch, but it was clear that they were concerned that they couldn’t raise the man inside. If this had been a CIA op, he’d have aborted, but he wasn’t working under Agency protocols anymore. He was a criminal. And a desperate one at that.
“Entering the stairwell,” he said quietly. “I just passed two men trying to get access to the security office.”
“Trying to get access?” Claudia responded immediately. “The door was closed and locked? Get out of there, Mitch. Now, while there’s still time.”
“Negative. I’m proceeding up.”
The possibility that the malfunctioning door was a coincidence was a thousand to one, but you never knew when you were going to get lucky. All he needed was a few minutes alone with Zaman. He might be a fanatical ally of Aali Nassar, but at his core he was a rich piece of shit who had probably never spent a night on unmonogrammed sheets. It was unlikely that it would take more than a few slaps to give him diarrhea of the mouth.
Rapp arrived at the door leading to the top floor hallway and paused for a moment. “Exiting the stairwell.”
Claudia acknowledged but didn’t say anything further. He knew she was scared, but she was dealing with it. Another check in her plus column.
There was a single man coming down the hallway toward him. Middle Eastern, dark suit, athletic build. The bad signs just kept piling up.
He didn’t seem to want to make eye contact, so Rapp went with it, reaching up to shake some water off his hat in a way that obscured his face further. There was a window at the end of the hall and Rapp followed the man’s reflection in it. He disappeared around the corner without ever showing any interest.
The presidential suite was on the left and entry went smoothly with Claudia’s key card. When the door was only half-open, Rapp spotted Zaman’s body lashed to a chair. He considered chasing the man he’d just passed, but he was probably already in the elevator. There might still be time to catch him with a sprint down the stairs, but then what? A shootout in the lobby with no backup or political cover?
Rapp opened his mouth to tell Claudia to follow the man but then closed it again. If Nassar was behind this, there was no telling what kind of resources he had and how much he knew. She wasn’t Scott. She could get hurt.
“Are you in?” came Claudia’s voice over his earpiece.
Rapp stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Zaman’s dead.”
“You’re getting out, then, right? Tell me you’re on your way back to the stairs.”
“That’s an affirmative.”
“Don’t lie to me, Mitch. I’m the only person you’ve got right now. I need to know where you are.”
“Two minutes and then I’m out.”
Zaman had been tied and killed with a single shot to the head. That was only the tip of the iceberg, though. Another bullet had shattered his kneecap and three of his fingers were lying on the floor. Had someone really been forced to work this hard to get information from a wealthy middle-aged real estate dev
eloper? The likely answer was no. And that meant serious trouble for him.
“Get in touch with the man you’ve got setting up surveillance on el-Hashem in Paris,” Rapp said. “Tell him to watch his ass. If Nassar’s willing to take out his best friend, he’ll go after the others.”
“I’m going to call him off, Mitch. He’s a thief, not a shooter.”
“Your asset. Do what you think is right.”
A quick search of the suite turned up nothing and he was already exiting back into the hallway when Claudia told him his two minutes were up. He’d made it about halfway to the stairs when two security men appeared around the corner.
“Sir?” one said in English as they closed in. “May we have a word with you?”
“Pardon?” Rapp said in native French. The man he’d passed earlier had called security on him. Clever little bastard.
The guards stopped in his path and the one on the right repeated the request in French.
“Is there a problem?” Rapp said, smiling easily.
“Are you a guest of this hotel?”
“Yes. Why?”
“May we see your key?”
Rapp fished around in his pocket and held it out. He despised dealing with men like this. Killing was quick and easy, but incapacitating was complicated and time-consuming.
“What room are you—”
Rapp grabbed him by the front of the shirt and pulled him into a half-speed elbow strike. He crumpled to the floor as his partner looked on wide-eyed. Instead of attacking, he turned and tried to run. Rapp kicked his back foot and followed him down. A careful blow to the back of his neck had the desired effect and a moment later Rapp was running down the hall.
“Mitch,” Claudia said over his earpiece, “are you all right?”
“Yeah. But I’m going out through the lobby. Security’s onto me, and I’ll be better off mixing with the crowd.”
“Understood. I’m on my way to pick you up.”
He dropped the coat and hat that he assumed security had a description of and hoped to hell that Nassar’s people had done a thorough job of sabotaging the hotel’s cameras.