by Vince Flynn
Faisal sat and let a good thirty seconds pass before he responded. “No.”
“You’ve been playing a dangerous game—blinding your people with religion and hoping that you could control them. But now you’ve lost that control and you’re too old and weak to get it back. Is this the legacy you want to leave? Do you want to be remembered as the last king of Saudi Arabia?”
Faisal seemed to lose the strength to sit fully erect in his throne. “So, instead of the radicals, I should turn my kingdom over to the Americans? To the Christians? Why? Because you believe I’ve been betrayed but offer no real proof?”
“We have a great deal more than what you just saw,” Kennedy said, returning to Rapp’s side. “We have a tape of one of Nassar’s men pledging allegiance to ISIS. We have photos of a number of his people that we’ve been able to associate with Mullah Halabi. We have information putting Director Nassar in Brussels when Mahja Zaman was killed. But I suspect none of this will be enough for you. And in light of that, I believe that you should give Director Nassar an opportunity to prove his own innocence.”
“How?”
“By doing nothing. Mitch and I would like you to walk us to our car behaving in a friendly and grateful manner. After that, we’d like you to have your people pick up Nassar’s assistant, Hamid Safar, and hold him in solitary confinement.”
“Then you’re asking me to interrogate an intelligence official with no evidence against him?”
“Not at all, Your Highness. If you like, invite him here as your guest. Just make sure it’s impossible for him to communicate for a few days.”
“And you expect this to prove something?”
She nodded. “We’ve diverted significant human and electronic surveillance resources to track Director Nassar, who’s currently in a safe house outside of Bisha. If he’s innocent, I’d expect him to contact you and demand to know where his man is and why you were meeting with Mitch. If he’s guilty, then he may present us with an interesting opportunity.”
CHAPTER 56
Bisha
Saudi Arabia
AALI Nassar went through the photos again, putting them in chronological order and expanding them to fill the computer monitor. Taken in their entirety, they told a story that couldn’t be denied.
The first depicted Mitch Rapp and Claudia Dufort deplaning outside of Riyadh and then entering a Gulfstream G550. He deplaned again shortly thereafter, this time with Irene Kennedy and a man who was unmistakably Joel Wilson. He stared at the blurry image of the FBI agent’s face for a long time, trying to calculate what it meant. Had he been working with Kennedy the entire time? Impossible. His career had been destroyed by her and Rapp. His hatred for them was both well-documented and well-founded.
The only answer was that the attack in South Sudan had indeed been a trap set by Mitch Rapp. Was it he and Wilson who had escaped in the car seen leaving the scene? Had they taken a prisoner for questioning? Was that why the bodies had been burned?
He scrolled forward, pausing at the photos of the three Americans entering Erga Palace, but then moving on to the much more telling images of them leaving. Rapp and Wilson showed no signs of animosity and King Faisal not only shook the CIA assassin’s hand but then walked him to a waiting limousine. None of Nassar’s people had been close enough to overhear their conversation, but the gratitude in the old man’s body language was impossible to miss.
What did the Americans know? It seemed almost certain that they had identified some of the ISIS men sent to Juba. Had they found evidence of his involvement in the death of Mahja Zaman? Of his involvement in financing terrorism and undermining the Saudi government?
The king wasn’t aware of his location, but he did have Nassar’s phone number. Yet he hadn’t used it to summon him for an audience. Why? Was the evidence the Americans possessed so damning that he wouldn’t even be afforded the opportunity to defend himself?
Questions were infinite but answers were nonexistent.
He dialed his assistant for the fifth time since receiving the photos and for the fifth time got no answer. It was beyond unusual. With perhaps three exceptions over the years they’d been working together, Safar had picked up his calls within a few rings. Now there was nothing but silence.
Nassar could feel his time running out, and as it did, his rage intensified. He refused to accept that he had been outmaneuvered by a thug like Mitch Rapp. This had to have been a concerted effort by Irene Kennedy and multiple foreign agencies. Perhaps even the king.
He reached for his phone again, this time dialing the number of his assistant’s wife. Unlike her husband, she picked up immediately.
“I’ve been trying to contact Hamid,” Nassar said. “Is he with you?”
“No. He was taken away hours ago. What’s happening, Director? I—”
“Be quiet! Who took him away?”
“King Faisal’s men. They—”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t tell me anything. I’ve been trying to call him, but he won’t answer. I’m—”
Nassar disconnected the line and closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing. If Faisal had taken his man, there could be no more confusion about his own situation. Safar was strong and dedicated to the cause, but no man could hold out forever. If he was being interrogated by Faisal’s men, he would break after three or four days. If he was being questioned by Rapp, the time would be significantly shorter.
Nassar dialed a number he’d been given and listened to it ring. The time seemed to stretch into infinity as he waited. Finally a now familiar voice came on.
“What can I do for you, Aali?”
Mullah Halabi gave nothing away, but it seemed likely that he had received similar photos of Rapp’s visit to the palace.
“It appears that the Americans have discovered our relationship and informed King Faisal.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
Nassar waited for him to say more, but the man remained silent.
“If I fall into Mitch Rapp’s hands, I’ll be questioned.”
“I’m quite sure you will be. But what will you tell him? That I’m determined to destroy the Saudi royalty by any means necessary and claim their land for the caliphate? I hardly think this would come as a surprise.”
“I can do a great deal for you.”
“This was true when you were Saudi Arabia’s intelligence chief. But now you’re just a man on the run. I have many men on the run at my disposal. Every one of them loyal zealots who want nothing more than to die for me.”
“Martyrs are of little strategic value,” Nassar said, trying to keep his voice even. He knew that the outcome of this conversation would determine whether he lived or died. “I have intimate knowledge of military operations and intelligence methods that will be impossible to alter quickly. I also still control significant financial resources. Bring me in and allow me to make my case. If you’re not convinced, you can kill me.”
He heard muffled voices—Halabi speaking to someone else in the room.
“You’ll be sent an address,” the mullah said finally. “I suggest you begin your preparations to leave.”
The line went dead and Nassar swept a hand across his desk, knocking most of its contents to the floor. A glass mug shattered loudly on the tiles, prompting one of his men to burst through the door to his left.
“Is everything all right, Director?”
“Bring my car around. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
“Where are we—”
“Don’t question me!” Nassar shouted. “Just carry out my orders!”
The man disappeared as Nassar slid a USB drive into one of his computer’s ports. The worm it contained would download thousands of critical files before covering the theft by wreaking havoc on the General Intelligence Directorate’s computer system. Most important, though, it would drain
a number of government accounts and deposit the money into anonymous ones he controlled.
It was a protocol he’d set up years ago when he took his first hesitant steps toward undermining the Saudi royalty. He’d never expected to have to use it or to have to flee the country he believed he was destined to rule. Again the rage washed over him. Rapp was back safe in the arms of his country. And he was laughing.
* * *
Nassar looked past his two security men at the lights of Mecca shining through the windshield. The journey there had taken almost five hours, but he still found it impossible to collect his thoughts. All he could feel was an increasing sense of disorientation.
It was all gone. His position and prestige. His opulent home and private aircraft. His sons and the powerful friends he had so carefully cultivated. He would spend the rest of his life in squalor, surrounded by fanatics and at the pleasure of a religious fanatic who believed that Allah spoke through him and him only.
Nassar tried to clear his mind and focus on the immediate steps that needed to be taken. The only thing that mattered now was convincing Halabi of his value.
Soon, though, he found his thoughts drifting to the future. The former Iraqi officers whom Halabi had surrounded himself with presented an opportunity. While they were far more competent than the rank-and-file ISIS fighter, they were also far less fanatical. They continued to be concerned with such worldly trappings as power, survival, and money. Subverting their loyalties would be no small task but, if done carefully and over time, it might be possible. With their support and the convenient martyrdom of the mullah, the fanatics could be brought into line.
Patience would be the most difficult part, straining even his iron discipline. The thirst for revenge—on Rapp, on the king—was burning inside him with an intensity that would have to be temporarily quenched. He had the knowledge and contacts to use ISIS to its maximum potential now, but with every hour that passed, those advantages would fade. Intelligence was a commodity with a very short shelf life. He would have to resist letting his passions overpower his reason. Mullah Halabi would be watching for any hint of disloyalty and would deal with it quickly and permanently.
“Director,” his driver said. “The address you gave us is just ahead.”
Nassar squinted at a garage door lit by a single security lamp. As he was searching for signs of life, the door began to open.
“Pull in.”
“Do you want us to clear—”
“Just pull in.”
The interior was poorly illuminated, but Nassar was able to make out a lone man standing at the back of the building. It looked like some kind of shipping depot, and there were a number of trucks lined up in the space. It would be sufficient to hide a significant force, although there was no sign of that kind of activity.
Another decision point had been reached. Did he exit the car with his men in case this was an ambush? Or did he use this as an opportunity to display his fealty and submission?
There was little choice. His immediate survival and eventual success depended entirely on the mullah’s trust.
“Do you see that man, Director? Should we get out?”
“Let’s wait a moment,” he said, pulling a Browning pistol from its holster. The two men in the front seats had been with him for years and had fulfilled their duties impeccably. It was a shame that their service had to come to an end.
He lifted the weapon and fired in quick succession, putting a single round into each man’s head. They slumped forward and he stepped from the vehicle, leaving his gun on the seat.
CHAPTER 57
Northern Iraq
HE’S still on course toward your position. One klick out.”
Rapp remained motionless, lying partially buried by the sand in an elevated position over a roadbed. The steady voice of Marcus Dumond in Langley inspired even more confidence than he remembered.
Not that Claudia and the group of misfits he’d put together had been bad, but there was something to be said for a team of professional, motivated, and patriotic government agents armed with cutting-edge technology. The less drama the better, as far as he was concerned.
“They should be right on top of you, Mitch. I’m using thermal on the surveillance drone, so I’m not sure if they’re running headlights.”
“Copy.”
They weren’t. The hum of an engine was the first thing to reach him. It was a moonless night but a sky full of stars was just enough for Rapp to make out an SUV emerging from the blackness. He followed it with his eyes as it passed and continued north. According to the Agency’s maps, there was nowhere for it to get off until a small village about ten klicks farther on.
The hope was that it was their final destination, but hope had never been worth much in Iraq. Just as likely, they would pass through the village and climb into a mountain range pockmarked with caves that no one knew anything about. If that was the case, this was going to turn into another of the clusterfucks that he’d spent his career dealing with.
Rapp gave them a two-minute lead and then stood, picking up the dirt bike Scott Coleman had lent him. It was an all-electric model made by Zero and, as advertised, it didn’t make a sound when he started it. Slipping on a pair of prototype night-vision goggles, he twisted the throttle and was treated to a disorientating combination of acceleration and silence.
“Are you getting the overhead feed, Mitch?”
All he could see was the hazy green terrain in front of him. “I’ve got nothing.”
“Shit. Hold on.”
He heard something that sounded like Dumond banging on his extremely expensive electronic equipment and was rewarded with an overhead map in his peripheral vision. It displayed speed and direction for both him and his target, as well as their relative positions.
“Five by five.”
“Told you it would work.”
Unfortunately it was one of a thousand things that had to. Tracking Aali Nassar to Mecca had been easy, but after that things had gotten complicated. Sayid Halabi might be a psychopath, but he was a thorough one. He’d run Nassar through tunnels and markets, transported him on foot, on trains, and in cars. There had been more than a few moments of panic—most notably when the Agency had been temporarily fooled by a double in Sakaka—but they’d always managed to reacquire him.
The cost, though, was unprecedented. Satellites had been retasked, allies’ arms had been twisted, and resources had been diverted from a very pissed-off military. Rapp had even been forced to bribe a Taliban group that would undoubtedly use the money for guns they’d eventually shoot at him with.
In light of that, coming up empty wasn’t an option. Nassar had been allowed to drain off an enormous amount of data and money from the Saudis, and letting him walk with it was a huge risk.
“Your speed looks good, Mitch. You’re paralleling them at about five hundred yards.”
“Copy. What’s that ahead, Marcus? Before the village. The infrared’s picking up something I can’t ID.”
“It’s a newly constructed bridge. Went up over the last few days.”
Rapp maneuvered the bike around a deep sand drift and then throttled across what looked like an ancient lake bed. The light amplification wasn’t ideal for picking up ruts in the dried mud, and he was forced to keep his speed below twenty miles an hour.
“It looks perpendicular to the road Nassar’s vehicle is on. Are they going to cross it or go under it?”
“The road leading to the village passes under it. Actually, there is no road that connects to the bridge. It’s just there. Our guys think the builders put it in first and that they haven’t started grading in the road yet.”
“Where would it go?” Rapp said, starting to get suspicious.
“They don’t know. Not much out there. Kind of weird, actually.”
He cut left and goosed the bike up to twenty-five, hearin
g only the dull chatter of the tires as they hammered against the cracked earth.
“You’re drifting off course, Mitch. Look at your overhead display.”
“Are they still headed for that bridge?” Rapp said, ignoring Dumond’s warning.
“Yeah. Probably a minute out. And you’re going to intersect the road in about thirty seconds if you don’t correct.”
“Will I come out far enough behind them to stay out of sight?”
“With no lights? Yeah. Easy.”
Rapp lifted the front wheel as he dropped three feet onto the poorly maintained dirt track.
“Where are they now?”
“Ten seconds from the bridge.”
“Have they slowed down?”
“I have their speed at twenty-two miles an hour.”
About the maximum the rutted road surface would handle, Rapp calculated.
“They’re through and out the other side,” Dumond said.
“Any chance someone got out?”
“No way in hell. The bridge is only about fifteen feet wide and they held their speed. Still heading for the village. Maybe five minutes out.”
“Copy.”
The road cut started to deepen, causing steep banks to grow up on either side of him. He didn’t want to get funneled into the low ground like this, but there was something about that bridge that didn’t feel right. Over the last three days Halabi had proved to be even more cunning than they’d given him credit for—nearly defeating the surveillance capabilities of the entire Western world with nothing more high-tech than a pickup truck. Was this another one of his tricks?
Rapp ditched the bike and continued on foot. The bridge was visible ahead, a hazy horizontal line against the glow of stars. He pulled his Glock from his jacket and screwed on the silencer as he continued. The darkness beneath the bridge was deep enough to significantly reduce the effectiveness of his goggles, forcing him to slow and drop to a crawl.
“Are you all right, Mitch? Why did you leave Scott’s bike?”
He didn’t respond, instead inching through the blackness beneath the structure. He could make out vague outlines but none took on a human form. What he could see, though, were a number of mattresses laid out on the ground with a vertical cargo net set up at one end. Rapp slid over them, finding a hole in the rock face on the other side. It measured probably three feet wide by five feet high and was filled with darkness that completely defeated his equipment.