Enemy of the State

by Vince Flynn

  He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. It stopped halfway down and a couple in their seventies got in. He asked them if they were familiar with any good restaurants in the area, starting a conversation that continued after the doors were open. Security would be looking for a lone man in a coat and hat, not a man in a gray sweater who was part of a group of three.

  He thanked them for the advice when they exited into a covered driveway and walked to the curb as Claudia pulled up. The attendant opened the door and Rapp slipped him five euros before getting in the car. An average tip for a hotel of that quality—nothing he’d remember one way or another. Claudia gave him the expected kisses on both cheeks and then eased the car back onto the street.

  CHAPTER 35

  Paris

  France

  THE leafy street was empty of traffic this time of night, and Julien Moreau walked casually along it. Streetlights were widely spaced, and because the mansions that lined the avenue were set back behind walls, the environment was pleasantly shadowed. Normally that would have put him in danger of stepping in one of the piles of dog shit so common throughout the city, but the wealthy residents kept their avenues spotless. In truth, it probably wasn’t that arduous a task. Arabs were about the only people who could afford to live in this neighborhood, and they didn’t much care for dogs. A cultural quirk that made his job so much easier.

  An ancient stone wall appeared to his right and he ran his hand along it, counting steps. It was well maintained but had been left rustic, with the jagged edges and receding mortar lines that thieves like him deeply appreciated. Cameras were also conspicuously absent except for over a gate more than fifty meters away. The obsession people had with looking at people arriving at their entrances never ceased to amaze him. If someone pulls up to your fucking gate and rings your buzzer, there’s a good chance they’re not coming to steal your daughters.

  When Moreau counted his thirteenth stride, he turned and grabbed a protruding stone in the wall. The shoes he was wearing were favored by climbing guides—tight and sticky enough to scale cliffs but not so uncomfortable as to make it difficult to run. He moved quickly up handholds he’d memorized from a laser scan done the day before. In less than five seconds, he was at the top and looking for a way down.

  The inside had been stuccoed in order to complement the modern house beyond, but it wasn’t a problem. The landscaper had placed trees in ideal positions for anyone trying to gain access. Moreau slithered down one and crouched behind its trunk, taking in his surroundings.

  The house was basically a big glass box—one of those homes that looked very prestigious in architectural drawings but that no one in their right mind would want to live in. The lights were on, providing a view right through it. The kitchen was empty, with a similarly uninhabited pool area glowing behind. Ahmed el-Hashem, Saudi Arabia’s assistant ambassador to France, was sitting at a desk on the upper floor, writing in longhand. Apparently he could afford to live in this neighborhood but couldn’t afford a laptop.

  Or a decent security system, as it turned out.

  According to Moreau’s source—namely, the man who did the ­install—it was all off-the-shelf crap. Even better, the owner had insisted that it not be obtrusive, which wasn’t easy in a fishbowl where everything was visible. So, basically, nothing that would come even close to challenging a man of Moreau’s talents. In fact, it was unlikely he would have even taken a mind-numbing job like this one if it hadn’t been for two irresistible factors. One, it had finally given him an excuse to use the 3-D laser scanner he’d stolen from the university. And two?

  Claudia Gould.

  What words were sufficient to describe the woman? Sublime? Brilliant? Stunning? Mysterious? He could go on all night and never even scratch the surface. Those eyes. That body. And, okay, the kid. But that’s what boarding schools were for.

  Moreau had done a fair amount of work for her in the past but figured he’d never hear from her again after her husband died. Then, out of nowhere, the phone rang and the voice so indelibly imprinted on his heart flowed into his ear. A new job, a new relationship, and new possibilities.

  He had no idea what she’d seen in Louis Gould. Sure, he’d been good-looking. Then there were the rippling muscles and wealth. He’d also had that whole international super spy thing going on. Some chicks were into that, Moreau supposed. But if you took all those things away, he was just a violent dick. Maybe she was ready for a change? Perhaps something with a cultured, intellectual thief? A man who could enjoy art and food and wine? Someone who could show her the world through a lens not smeared with blood?

  He let out a quiet breath. But before he started planning his future with her, he needed to get this job done. He didn’t get to steal ­anything—his instructions were just to set up some surveillance. Video was simple—the stupid glass house again—but audio would be a bit more interesting. He’d have to get in close enough to do some hand drilling, and as easy as it was to see into the building, it would be almost equally easy to see out.

  Moreau crept forward a few meters and then stopped again for another quick scan of his surroundings. The landscaping was spread out and tasteful. Unlike most of his countrymen, el-Hashem had resisted installing gilt statues of cherubs peeing into fountains.

  Moreau avoided increasingly bright splashes of light as he closed in on the structure. El-Hashem was still writing away and one of his guards was in the living room—a fit-looking man of the type who wore sunglasses at night. Where was the other? Likely somewhere in the house, but making an assumption like that would be an amateurish mistake. Could he be patrolling the exterior? Had he seen Moreau go over the wall, and was he now creeping up from behind?

  Unlikely, but still his absence added a little spice to the drudgery of this gig.

  The Frenchman followed a deep shadow to a tree he’d found with a drone flyover. It was one of four surveillance angles he’d need, and the branches looked sturdy enough to support his sixty-five kilos. Six or seven meters would be high enough to make the camera invisible from the ground and to keep the solar panel in the light.

  He began fishing a unit out of his backpack but then stopped when he saw the security man inside head toward the stairs. A changing of the guard? Would he finally discover the location of the other man? Confirmation that he was inside would allow Moreau to move much more quickly and remove all danger of being late for his dinner reservation.

  The guard went up the steps, walking with a level of caution that seemed a bit odd. Maybe el-Hashem was one of those rich assholes who didn’t like to see or hear his staff. Moreau himself had once worked in a similar environment. He’d left that job with his employer’s Bentley and the contents of his safe.

  The guard stopped in the doorway of the room occupied by el-Hashem, raised his gun, and fired a single round. It hit the Arab in the head and pitched him forward onto his desk.

  Moreau froze. Had that really just happened? Was he having a flashback from the drugs he’d been so enamored with at university? Were flashbacks really even a thing?

  The guard walked calmly over and yanked what was left of the dead man’s head back. It was enough to break Moreau from his trance and he panicked. Scooping up his pack, he began sprinting toward the perimeter wall. Coming around the thick stump of an ancient tree, he suddenly found himself skidding face-first through the dirt. When he glanced back to see what had tripped him, he vomited into the dry leaves. The guard he’d been looking for was lying on his back, staring up at the sky with part of his head missing.

  Moreau forced himself to his feet and stumbled to the tree he’d used to access the compound. He shot up it, pausing reluctantly on top of the wall to ensure that the street was still empty. A moment later he was walking with an awkward, hurried gait toward his vehicle. It was the longest six minutes and twelve seconds he’d ever spent, but finally he slid behind the wheel and pulled out.
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  His breath was coming too fast, making him light-headed. But not so much that he couldn’t dial Claudia. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Julien! Where—”

  “They killed him!” he screamed. “You screwed me! You didn’t say anything about anyone getting murdered.”

  Her voice carried its normal sensual calm. “Do you ever check your messages?”

  He glanced at the phone’s screen. Three from her.

  “Fuck!” he said, unable to come up with anything more relevant.

  “I need you to calm down, Julien. Tell me what happened.”

  “Are you deaf? They killed him!”

  “Who killed whom?”

  “One of the guards. He killed el-Hashem. I saw it. He did it right in front of me. In that fucking glass house. It was like watching a movie.”

  “I understand. But you—”

  “The other guard’s dead, too! Part of his head was gone. I tripped over him.”

  Moreau suddenly bolted straight up in his seat. “Oh my God. His blood. I think I have his blood on me!”

  “Julien, stop talking and breathe, okay? I need you to go through with me exactly what happened.”

  “Have you not been listening? Don’t ever call me again.” He disconnected and pulled onto a more heavily traveled street. For some reason the cars moving around him brought back a little of his calm. He glanced at the phone in the passenger seat but resisted reaching for it. After another minute he caved. How could he stay mad at such a magnificent woman?

  Not surprisingly, it didn’t take her long to answer. “Are you all right, Julien? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In the car. Headed back to the city center.”

  “Okay. Good. Now tell me this. Were both men shot in the head?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you see the kind of gun?”

  “What the hell do I know about guns? I’ve never shot one in my life!”

  “Because you know about everything,” came the soothing answer.

  Flattery? Really? Did she think he was that easy? Shit. Of course she did. And she was right.

  “I was pretty far away. It had a silencer for sure. If I had to guess, I’d say a Glock.”

  “Did you leave anything behind? Were the cameras installed?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Good. I’ve tripled your fee. You’ll find the money in the account we discussed. I’d suggest you get out of France for a while. And that you forget you ever heard of me or Ahmed el-Hashem.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Over Algeria

  RAPP fished around in the tiny refrigerator, finally finding a beer at the back. His plan had been to ease up on the drinking until he managed to pull his life together. But since things seemed to be rocketing in the other direction, fuck it.

  The door to the cockpit was closed, but he glanced in that direction anyway. The man inside was another one of Claudia’s—a drug runner out of Colombia. Not Scott Coleman by a long shot, but a solid pilot with a set of torture scars that suggested he knew how to keep his mouth shut.

  “Everyone’s back in Juba, but there seem to be some problems,” Claudia said as he sat down in a facing seat.

  “What kind of problems?”

  “The man you killed. Apparently, the rebel leader he works for wasn’t happy. He has people watching the church. According to Kent, it would be suicide to go back. They’ve rented an empty safari hotel outside of town and are holing up there until we arrive.”

  “Fine.”

  She leaned forward in her seat with a concerned expression. “We need to talk about what happened in Brussels and Paris.”

  It wasn’t a subject that was going to improve his mood, but there was no getting around it. Aali Nassar was making his play, and it was a good one. A decision had to be made about what to do. The president had asked him to find the highly placed Saudis allied with ISIS and kill them. Rapp intended to carry out that request, but the question now was how. Did he try to get clever and save himself, or did he just move forward with the hammer?

  “Zaman was killed with a single shot from a nine-millimeter. To authorities, it will also look like he was first tortured for information. El-Hashem died the same way, and unless I miss my guess, he’ll be found tied to a chair with the same kind of injuries. Sound like anyone you know?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “And there are witnesses, Mitch. The security men you put down in the hotel as well as the people you talked to in the elevator. I’m also guessing that the bodyguard who took out el-Hashem is giving the police your description and telling them about how he barely escaped with his life.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. There are still the cameras in Monaco as well as all the eyewitnesses who survived the attack.” She leaned back. “That’s all.”

  “It’s hard to complain about Nassar doing my job for me. At this rate, he’ll have his entire network wiped out by next week.”

  “He’s framing you, Mitch! If someone showed me all this, even I’d think you were killing wealthy Saudis and shooting up nightclubs. We need to shift our focus to clearing you. We can easily argue that you discovered the threat to Terry’s at the last second and were trying to stop the terrorists and save the prince. It’s not airtight, but it will play. I can probably patch together some reasonably convincing evidence that you weren’t in Paris at the time el-Hashem was killed. That just leaves Brussels. It’s a harder problem, but if we can demonstrate a pattern of—”

  “That’s all fine and good, Claudia, but what about Nassar?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s partnering with ISIS. In all likelihood he’s going to use their power in the region to help him take over when King Faisal dies. Then Mullah Halabi won’t be flailing around with assault rifles and suicide vests—he’ll be backed by Saudi Arabia’s military and intelligence capability. He could conceivably use that to march straight across the Middle East.”

  “How is any of that your problem, Mitch? Tell Irene what you’ve discovered and let the Americans handle it.”

  “I think you’re missing the fact that I am the Americans. I’m not your husband. I’m not a contract killer. My job is to stop millions of people from being murdered by a bunch of fundamentalist psychos.”

  “No, it isn’t. You don’t work for the CIA anymore. We’ve talked about this, Mitch. Everyone’s going to walk away from you. All the people you’ve kept from harm, all the politicians you’ve made look good, all the operatives you’ve bled with. By this time next week I wouldn’t be surprised if Scott’s men are chasing us around the world.”

  “It’s not just my job, Claudia. It’s what I believe in. It’s who I am.”

  “Well, stop believing in it and be someone else!” she said, her voice filling the tiny plane. “You’ve given enough of yourself to these people.”

  “Maybe it’s time for you to move on.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and tried to stare him down. “I’ve been in worse situations.”

  “Really?”

  “No. I was just trying to sound positive.”

  “I appreciate the effort.”

  “Mitch . . .” she started, choosing her words carefully. “I think this might be harder for you than you expect. I know the physical danger matters very little to you. But are you ready for your country to turn on you?”

  “I don’t suppose I have much of a choice.”

  “But the others do. Their motivations are different than yours. You asked them to help you capture a Saudi prince. Donatella would seduce him, he’d be drugged, and they’d be paid. Now you’re about to ask them to go after the Saudi intelligence chief while being opposed by America and all its resources. I know peopl
e like this, Mitch. They’re not going to hold together much longer.”

  “Then we’ll have to move fast.”

  “Fast . . .” she repeated under her breath. “Would you at least do one thing for me? Open a channel to Irene? Tell her what you’ve found and ask her what her plans are?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going to get her involved in killing the intelligence director of an ally, Claudia. If it ever came out that she even knew about it, she’d end up in jail and our partnerships all across the Middle East would collapse. If she wants to talk, she has my number.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Riyadh

  Saudi Arabia

  AALI Nassar stood next to King Faisal on the tarmac, waiting for a set of stairs to be pushed up to his private Airbus A380.

  The plane had been in a holding pattern for over two hours to allow the sun to set. The aging monarch could no longer tolerate the afternoon heat. It was an ironic weakness for a man who ruled a desert kingdom and yet another indication that the order of things would soon be changing.

  A group of formally dressed men appeared in the doorway, carrying a coffin draped in a Saudi flag. They descended with a level of care and solemnity that bordered on the comic. Beyond having been born to the king’s favorite sister, Prince Talal bin Musaid had lived his life as a spoiled, useless child.

  It was odd that a man whose life had been so inconsequential could be so dangerous in death. The actions against Zaman and el-Hashem had been forced by bin Musaid, as was the continued dismantling of the network Nassar had so carefully built. The Saudi intelligence apparatus was in turmoil as the royals shrank in horror at one of their own being targeted by the radical forces they themselves had created. The vulnerability the nobles suddenly felt had put a strain on his relationship with the king, instantly reversing the gains he’d made by convincing ISIS to attenuate its public criticism of him.