Enemy of the State

by Vince Flynn

  “You’re under arrest,” the FBI man said in a voice that was completely devoid of conviction. He didn’t seem to be able to think of anything else to say.

  The injured man managed to find the strength to swear in Arabic as Rapp lifted him into the trunk. It was a tight fit and he had to slam the lid a few times to get it to latch.

  “You have a shooter moving toward you from the rear courtyard,” Azarov said over his earpiece. “He appears to be one of Abdo’s men.”

  “Can you handle it?”

  “I should have a shot in a few seconds.”

  “Mitch,” Wilson said, once again aiming his service pistol. “Did you hear me? You’re under—”

  Azarov’s rifle sounded and Wilson dropped to the ground. “Shit! Someone’s shooting at us!”

  Rapp slid into the vehicle’s driver’s seat, leaned out the window, and looked down at the man lying in the dirt. “Get in the car, Joel.”

  Wilson thought about it for less than a second before jumping to his feet and scrambling for the passenger door.

  CHAPTER 50

  Riyadh

  Saudi Arabia

  MALIK! Respond!”

  But there was only silence where moments before desperate shouts and gunfire had reigned.

  Aali Nassar removed his headset and stared blankly across his desk. He’d considered the possibility that this was a trap and for that reason had not accompanied Wilson to South Sudan. Even in his own mind, though, his return to Riyadh had been cautious to the point of paranoia. The idea that someone like Rapp would be capable of backdating emails and mining them with a series of innocuous clues that, in their entirety, were just barely enough for Wilson to find that ­warehouse . . . It was unthinkable.

  Despite the air-conditioning, Nassar could feel the sweat beginning to run down his forehead. One thing was certain. Four of his most loyal men were dead. Worse, so were the men supplied by Sayid Halabi. Men like Malik. Could they be identified and traced to him? What about the Africans the mullah had provided? Finally, what if they weren’t in fact all dead? What if some were in a condition that would allow interrogation?

  His hand hesitated for a moment over his phone and then he picked it up, dialing his assistant.

  “Yes, Director. What can I do for you?”

  “I need you to contact Jean-Paul Jayyusi.”

  “Sir? Are you—”

  “Just do it!” Nassar said. “Have him call me on this line.”

  His man’s reluctance wasn’t surprising. Jayyusi was the head of the loosely defined South Sudanese intelligence apparatus and a man who was best avoided at all costs. Until the recent formation of his country, he had been nothing more than a sadistic criminal with a gift for gathering and brokering sensitive information. Since then, little had changed. He had loyalty to no one and nothing beyond feeding his own insatiable desire for wealth, power, and women.

  Nassar waited for almost half an hour in unbearable silence before his phone rang. Jayyusi couldn’t be trusted and there was no question that the details of their conversation would be up for sale before it had even ended. But what choice did he have? If he accepted that a thug like Mitch Rapp couldn’t have planned a trap this clever, then he had to consider the possibility that Irene Kennedy was involved. And if that was the case, the game he was playing was far more dangerous than he could have ever dreamed. He couldn’t afford to leave any information on the table, even if it meant hinting at the true nature of his involvement.

  “General Jayyusi,” he said, putting the phone to his ear. “I appreciate you getting back to me so quickly.”

  “It’s not every day that I receive a call from someone of your stature and your . . .”—his voice faded for a moment as he searched for the right word—“resources.”

  Normally political pleasantries would be exchanged, but Nassar had no interest in speaking to this man any longer than necessary. They both understood their roles in this transaction and there was no point in pretending otherwise.

  “I’m interested in a gun battle that occurred in Juba today.”

  “There were many such incidents,” the man probed. “Can you be more specific?”

  “It just ended and was centered around a church.”

  “Ah, the well-armed foreigners. Your people, Aali?”

  “I had men attached to the detail, as did the Americans. We were trying to locate a terrorist who has recently murdered a number of prominent Saudi citizens. Information came to light that he might be hiding in South Sudan.”

  “And you’re just calling me now? If you told me sooner, I could have helped you.”

  More likely the man would have played both sides, charging an outrageous sum to support Nassar’s men while selling information of their arrival to anyone interested.

  “We had to move quickly,” Nassar said. “My apologies.”

  There was a lengthy silence before Jayyusi spoke again. “Neither of us has any interest in wasting valuable time, so let me be direct. I have information and you have money. Am I mistaken, or is an exchange desirable?”

  “It is.”

  “One million U.S. dollars.”

  “We both know that’s an unconscionable sum.”

  “Indeed. And my information isn’t even that good. But you brought a team into my country and created a deadly confrontation in the middle of my capital city. Under the circumstances, and considering the obscene wealth that your country holds, I see this as a fair price.”

  “Do you have account information for the wire?”

  “Those details can be handled by our people at a later time. I have no reason to believe that you’re not a man of your word.”

  “Then we have an agreement. What do you know about what happened in Juba?”

  “The church was the headquarters of an American arms dealer.”

  “Name?”

  “Jason Blaze. Obviously an alias.”

  “And do you know his actual identity?”

  “No. It was never something that interested me.”

  Undoubtedly because Blaze was paying him to look the other way. “Please continue.”

  “Recently a group of white people joined his business. Two men and two women.”

  “Do you have descriptions?”

  The tapping of computer keys was audible over the marginal connection. “The women are both quite attractive and dark-haired. One midthirties, the other perhaps ten years older. The younger of the two appears to be a native French speaker. The men are both athletic in build and around six feet. One is blond and tanned, but probably naturally fair-skinned. Likely Eastern European. The other has nearly black hair, long, with a beard and dark complexion. He speaks English with an American accent and, we think, fluent Arabic. He did something that no one else has been able to—he killed a local rebel leader named NaNomi. Apparently by driving a knife through his skull.”

  Nassar nodded to himself. Mitch Rapp. And it could be assumed with reasonable confidence that the young Frenchwoman was Claudia Dufort. But who were the others?

  “After that incident, they were forced to run,” Jayyusi continued. “The rebel group sent scouts to watch the church in case they returned.”

  Nassar felt some of the tension in his shoulders easing. Jayyusi’s information was proving to be worth its exorbitant price. The Rapp it portrayed was the one that Nassar was familiar with. A violent man who had been unable to control himself when confronted with a meaningless African guerrilla, thus forcing his team to flee an ideal base of operations.

  “So my men—” Nassar began, but Jayyusi anticipated his question.

  “Walked into an ambush meant for Blaze and his associates.”

  Nassar turned the man’s words over in his head for a few moments. “Were there any survivors?”

  “One of the cars your men arrived in was seen leavin
g the scene, but we have no information as to who was inside.”

  A rebel fleeing the battle? One of Nassar’s own men? None had contacted him yet, but it was possible that they just hadn’t had the opportunity.

  “Was there a white man among the dead, General? An FBI agent named Wilson was in command.”

  “I don’t have those kinds of details yet. My people are just now moving in.”

  “And you’ll provide me with that information as soon as you have it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I have only one last question for you, General. Do you know where Blaze and his people went?”

  “I’m afraid that I don’t have the ability to share that information with you, Aali.”

  It was a strangely constructed response. “Is that because you don’t know or because our financial transaction isn’t satisfactory?”

  “Neither. It’s because of what Blaze’s new associate did to NaNomi. I see no profit in making an enemy of him.”

  CHAPTER 51

  South Sudan

  THE city of Juba was thirty miles in the rearview mirror, and Joel Wilson still hadn’t spoken. Rapp glanced over and saw him staring through the windshield in a state that bordered on catatonia. Was it feasible that he was reevaluating the things he’d done? Could he actually be facing the fact that, after being duped by the Pakistanis, he’d just fallen into an identical trap set by the Saudis?

  Rapp was still fifty-fifty on leaving the man’s body in the desert, but his enthusiasm for the idea was waning. The risks of counting on Wilson to pull his head out of his ass were astronomical, but the benefits might be, too. This kind of complex plotting was Irene Kennedy’s sphere of influence and he’d never seen any reason to get involved. With her out of the picture, though, a hammer couldn’t be the only tool in his box.

  There was a poorly defined dirt track to his right and he took it, climbing a steep slope out of the scrub and into the trees. The change in scenery broke Wilson from his trance.

  “Where . . . where are you taking me?”

  “Relax, Joel. I need to talk to the asshole in the trunk before he bleeds out. Is there anything you can tell me about him?”

  Wilson nodded. “His name is Malik. One of Nassar’s men.”

  The road petered out in a small clearing surrounded by dense vegetation. Rapp stopped in the middle, stepping out and going around to the trunk. Any concerns he had that the man was dead from blood loss or heatstroke were put to rest before the trunk lid was even fully open. Malik swung a car jack at him with a piercing shout, missing by at least a foot.

  Rapp didn’t bother to disarm the man, instead grabbing him by the hair and dragging him out into the dirt. The terrorist took another swing, but it passed harmlessly in front of Rapp’s shins.

  “Get a photo.”

  Wilson retrieved his phone and snapped a shot of the man’s face.

  “Can you record audio on that thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then do it,” Rapp said, turning his attention to the man trying unsuccessfully to push himself to his feet. He’d been bleeding for a good forty-five minutes now and wouldn’t last much longer.

  “Who are you?”

  Malik spit a mouthful of blood in Rapp’s direction, answering in Arabic. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “Interesting accent,” Rapp replied. “Not Saudi Arabia. Iraq?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Rapp looked over at Wilson. “You try.”

  “I don’t think he’s going—”

  “Don’t make me tell you again, Joel.”

  The FBI man took a hesitant step back in the face of Rapp’s sudden anger, but complied.

  “Where are you from? Are you Iraqi?”

  The man spit another crimson glob but didn’t otherwise respond. Out of the corner of his eye, Rapp spotted movement at the edge of the clearing and brought his hand closer to his Glock.

  “We want to get you medical attention,” Wilson said. “But in return we need information.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Rapp continued scanning the tree line but, rather than spotting the camouflage of a local rebel, he saw flashes of reddish-brown and black fur. Not as bad as a contingent of Abdo’s men, but better to move things along. The scent of the dying man’s blood was obviously carrying on the wind.

  Rapp shoved Wilson out of the way and stepped down on the bullet hole in Malik’s stomach. The man screamed in pain and grabbed Rapp’s ankle, trying futilely to escape.

  “You have to answer!” Rapp shouted down at him. “You work for him.”

  “I work only for the glory of Allah.”

  “I saw you!” Rapp said, grinding his heel into the wound. “You betrayed your god. Why are you working for this man? Why are you working for the FBI? Are you a Christian?”

  His expression of agony was replaced by one of horror at the suggestion.

  “Or was it just money? Did you sell out your god for a few American dollars? That’s it, isn’t it? You’re just a whore.”

  Now the Arab was backed into a theological corner. He knew that his time on this earth could be measured in minutes. Would he meet Allah having not defended his faith?

  “My allegiance is to Mullah Halabi! God’s representative on earth!”

  Wilson stared down at him, stunned by the revelation.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Rapp said, rewarding the man’s response with a slight reduction in the pressure on his stomach. “Nassar hates ISIS. It’s a threat to the Saudi royalty.”

  “You’re a fool. The royalty have become tools of the West. They aren’t true followers of Islam.”

  “That may be true, but they are Nassar’s power base,” Rapp said, easing his foot back a bit more. “And that son of a bitch loves his power.”

  “The weaker we look in Saudi Arabia, the more complacent Faisal becomes. The old fool thinks we’ve stopped our propaganda campaign because of the Intelligence Directorate.”

  Rapp loved these ISIS pricks. It was a serious pain in the ass to get the al Qaeda guys to talk, but their dumber, crazier cousins would run their mouths all day if you let them.

  Nassar, on the other hand, was neither dumb nor crazy. Teaming up with Halabi to tamp down ISIS propaganda in Saudi Arabia was a cunning move. The fact that Faisal had one foot in the grave made him willing to delegate to anyone who looked like they could hold the kingdom together. As he became weaker, Nassar became stronger. With the help of Halabi and his millions of Saudi sympathizers, the king’s death could set the stage for a coup. The royal family would be chased into exile, leaving their massive financial and military resources in the hands of radicals.

  Wilson licked nervously at his lips, the realization that he’d been working for ISIS finally starting to sink in. The decision not to leave him for the scavengers might work out after all.

  Rapp stepped over Malik and slid back into the car. Movement at the edge of the clearing was becoming less hesitant, and a few dark-ringed eyes were starting to appear.

  Not sure what was happening, Wilson ran around the other side only to find the door locked. He dove through the window when Rapp began pulling away, getting stuck halfway in. “Stop! You can’t leave m—”

  Rapp grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed his face into the console between the seats. The padding made the act a bit unsatisfying, so he repeated it a few more times before shoving Wilson back through the window. The FBI man fell into the dirt, dazed and bleeding badly from his nose.

  “There aren’t a lot of second chances in life,” Rapp said, leaning across the passenger seat. “Do the right thing, Joel. Or I’ll be coming for you.”

  He turned the car and was about to floor the accelerator, but instead paused to point toward Malik and the pack of wild dogs he was desperately trying to crawl away from. �
��And you might want to consider running.”

  CHAPTER 52

  I THINK you’re completely insane.”

  “I know,” Rapp said.

  Claudia was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing exactly the expression he’d expected. She hadn’t really been a citizen of any particular country since she was a child. Her life had been about moving around the world in search of jobs or to stay ahead of whoever was chasing.

  His history was different. Sure, he’d originally joined the CIA out of anger and hate, but those emotions had been replaced over the years by a sense of duty. At the end of the day he believed in what he did. He believed in America and the idea that everyone had a right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Where Jefferson had gone wrong was in thinking that those rights were inalienable. In truth, they had to be fought for every hour of every day.

  Claudia motioned with her head in the general direction of the door. “As your logistics person, I feel like I have to point out that when the team you built is gone, your only ally other than me is Joel Wilson. A man who spends his nights dreaming about how to destroy you.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, leaning back against the wall.

  “I can make us disappear, Mitch. We can get Anna and fade away. The only person who would have a chance at finding us would be Irene, and she wouldn’t be looking. Even if some other intelligence agency got lucky, what would they do? Any of the people they’d send probably owe you their lives. And the three or so private contractors good enough to take the job are also smart enough not to.”

  “What about what’s happening in Saudi Arabia?”

  “What about it?” she said in an exasperated tone. “They brought this on themselves. If Nassar and ISIS want it, let them have it.”

  He wasn’t surprised that she’d see it that way, but the truth was far more complicated. While it was a fact that this was a wound the royalty had inflicted on themselves, it was the average person who would suffer. What would happen to them when ISIS rolled across the Middle East? He didn’t have to ask because he’d seen it with his own eyes. And what about America’s soldiers who would be sent when the U.S. could no longer stand by and watch the horrors that would be created by a Saudi-ISIS alliance? How many of them would bleed out in the sand?