by Vince Flynn
It wasn’t quite like disappearing into thin air, but maybe the next best thing in the current technological era.
“Okay,” Isa said, adjusting the seat into a more comfortable position. “Where to?”
39
THE palm trees and stylish fences of Bashir Isa’s neighborhood were gone, replaced with utilitarian four-story concrete buildings on both sides of the street. They’d been constructed on a site that had once been a chaotic slum—one of the government’s many halting efforts to provide affordable housing for immigrant labor.
His old mentor Stan Hurley had purchased a top-floor unit shortly after completion and it had become one of many similar dwellings that he and Rapp shared around the world. Only the two of them knew these safe houses existed and now Hurley was gone. He’d undoubtedly appreciate the operational compartmentalization his demise had created. One of his favorite quotes had been from Ben Franklin: Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.
Rapp pointed through the windshield at one of the anonymous buildings and Isa eased the massive SUV into the parking garage beneath it. There were a few people inside, but none paid any attention to the unusually opulent vehicle. People in this strata of Saudi society tended to mind their own business. The government wasn’t particularly bashful about how it treated foreign workers, and the local criminal gangs were even less so.
“So, this is it?” Isa said, pulling into an empty parking space. He sounded as resigned as he had when he’d been tied to the chair.
“Fourth floor,” Rapp said, stepping out and pointing to a metal door about twenty feet away. He stayed behind the Saudi as they crossed the garage and entered a dimly lit stairwell. Isa’s labored breathing echoed around them as they climbed and finally exited into a narrow hallway. The numbering system on the individual apartments wasn’t terribly straightforward, forcing Rapp to abandon his normally purposeful stride.
“Is something wrong?” Isa said quietly.
“Never been here.”
Rapp finally found the door he was looking for and used the key Hurley had given him so many years ago. The lock was predictably stiff, but finally surrendered with a sickly click and the loud creak of hinges. Once they were inside, Rapp closed the door and felt along the wall for a light switch. Miraculously, it worked. Hurley didn’t like utility bills, so he relied on electrical modifications that siphoned power from the neighbors. A little risky, but not excessively so. This was probably only the second time the lights had been on in the tiny flat, and it would definitely be the last.
“Nice,” Isa said, looking around at the space.
The main room had a minuscule kitchenette with a few drawers, a toaster oven, and an empty space where the refrigerator should have been. The indoor-outdoor carpeting would have been a bit gaudy if it hadn’t been covered in a thick layer of dust. Walls were bare concrete and there was no furniture. Rapp peeked through an open door into the only bedroom—about the size of a modest walk-in closet. The bathroom was similarly utilitarian and tight.
Isa took a position on the floor and dropped his courier bag next to him. His eyes seemed to fix on nothing. Or perhaps that wasn’t entirely true. Maybe he was staring at the future he now didn’t have. The grandchild he’d never see. The endless possibilities of what could have been.
Rapp grabbed a few tools from a drawer and pulled up the carpet near the entrance to the bedroom. A rubber mallet was enough to break through the thin concrete veneer and wouldn’t make enough noise to disturb the neighbors.
With a little work he was able to get the lid off the metal box hidden beneath and peer inside. A piece of notebook paper had been laid over the contents and he pulled it out, scanning Stan Hurley’s familiar scrawl.
I told you the shit would eventually hit the fan, pencil dick.
The next thing that came out was a bottle of scotch that even Nick Ward would approve of. Below that was a Glock, a suppressor, a few mags, and a number of passports. He opened an Irish one and double-checked its expiration date. The meticulous notes he kept on a spreadsheet back home had been right—still two years to go.
The remaining documents belonged to Hurley, tucked in among a few wrapped bundles of cash and a laptop. Rapp pulled out the computer and turned it on. Windows had been replaced by a now eight-year-old operating system that was designed entirely for security. He typed in the password, connected to a hot spot created by his anonymous phone, and started an update. A timer appeared on the screen, estimating an hour for the download. Plenty of time to sample the scotch.
He found a couple of glasses in a drawer and filled each with a generous pour before handing one to Isa.
“Who are you going to contact?” the Saudi asked, accepting the drink and nodding toward the laptop. “Kennedy? I thought you said you don’t work for her anymore. Do you think she’ll help?”
Rapp didn’t answer. In fact, he wasn’t going to contact Kennedy. Better to reach out to Claudia. She could use her criminal contacts to bypass the intelligence community. Less skilled than the operators he typically worked with but generally reliable. They were motivated entirely by money and fear—two things he could generate a lot of.
“Let’s talk, Bashir.”
“About what?”
“Muhammad Singh. Where did he get the information he passed to Gideon Auma?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And speaking of Gideon Auma, shouldn’t you be in Uganda trying to save your employer? I can’t imagine it’s going to do much for your reputation to let a maniac steal the richest man in the world right from under your nose.”
“I do need to get back. But I still have time.”
“For what?”
“To torture you to death.”
Isa let out a short laugh and finished his drink in one gulp. Rapp handed him the bottle and he gave himself an even more generous refill.
“Do you ever get tired of the games, Mitch?”
“More tired every day.”
“I used to believe in God. And even the royalty. Now I see the first as delusional and the second as naïve. All that pomp and circumstance is just a weapon the strong use against the weak. And a strangely effective one. Have you ever thought about how these men gain power? We give it willingly to precisely the ones who shouldn’t have it. There’s something that attracts us to their insatiable hunger. Their ruthless, single-minded drive. We toil and die for them expecting nothing in return. Dreaming that one day they’ll bless us with a word or a casual wave of the hand. Knowing that eventually we’ll be discarded without a thought.”
“I’m not here for a philosophical discussion, Bashir. You know what I want.”
“For me to betray the country I’ve spent my life serving and tell you where I got my information on Ward.”
“To betray the men who are discarding you without a thought. The ones you’ve given power to but who shouldn’t have it.”
The Saudi just smiled and took a sip of his drink.
“This can go easy or hard, Bashir. I’m not the kid you worked with all those years ago. You know what I’ve become. And what I’m capable of.”
“A fitting end for a professional liar and backstabber like myself. I just escape being murdered by my friends and am now in danger of being murdered by one of my old allies. What a business we’ve chosen for ourselves, eh, Mitch? There must be something very wrong with us.”
“Who gave you the information?” Rapp prompted with uncharacteristic patience. Like the men at Isa’s house, he had no desire for this to turn ugly.
“The director.”
“And where did he get it?”
“I don’t know for certain, but I suspect directly from the prince.”
Rapp let out a long breath. Not an easy man to get to. And not a man who would divulge the identity of his CIA contact to anyone who didn’t need to know—including the GID director. Rapp altered his line of questioning.
“Then tell me why. Why risk so much to go after Ward?”
“I assume you were behind that, too?”
Isa nodded. “It wasn’t hard to goad Gideon Auma into going after him. A little outside his normal operating area, but the potential rewards were astronomical.”
“But it didn’t work. So instead of backing off, the prince decided to double down.”
Again, the Saudi nodded.
“Then I’m asking you again, Bashir. Why?”
“About that I can only guess.”
“Then guess.”
“The royal family sees the writing on the wall, Mitch. In the coming decades, their oil will become worthless and Ward’s technologies are leading that change. In an effort to get their money out, they’re betting heavily on health care and pharmaceuticals.”
“So, Ward’s not just destroying their business model—”
“He’s deflating the parachute that they were counting on to give them a soft landing. When my country descends into chaos and bloodshed, its rulers—my masters—want to be comfortably installed in London, New York, and Paris. Nicholas Ward and David Chism are complicating that plan.”
Rapp considered what he’d heard for a moment. “But the kind of penetration I’m talking about… I’m having a hard time believing Saudi Arabia could pull it off.”
In truth, he was having a hard time believing anyone could. There were only a handful of people with that kind of access and they were watched constantly. Things like payments deposited in anonymous bank accounts, communications with foreign agents, and the introduction of malware onto Agency systems were extremely hard to get by Irene Kennedy.
“The Saudi royalty aren’t the only people threatened by Ward, Mitch. The wealthy and powerful all over the world have one thing in common. They’re very good at negotiating the existing playing field. And just as it was tilting more and more in their favor, Ward wants to reverse that trend.”
“So, you don’t think the move against Ward originated here?”
Isa shook his head. “I think my government was just an efficient and willing intermediary. We had the contacts in Uganda and someone else had the information. A match made in heaven, no?”
“But who?”
“I have no idea. Ward has a lot of very powerful and very capable enemies.”
Rapp took a pull on his drink and then set it back down on the filthy carpet. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Investigations weren’t his thing and even if they were, performing one at this level would take a lot more than one man with a Glock, a few wads of cash, and an out-of-date laptop.
“Do you know your weakness, Mitch?”
“No. Why don’t you tell me?”
“It’s your unwavering belief in America. In the glory of it. In its uniqueness. I realized it was all lies a long time ago and now I fear it’s your turn. Soon the curtain will be pulled back and you’ll see that your country is no different than any other. Democracy is an interesting idea but if you look at history, it’s an idea that burns bright but short. With the widening divisions in your country and the man you just elected to lead you, that flame is beginning to flicker. And soon you will find yourself in the dark.”
* * *
The computer update had finally finished, and Isa was huddled in a corner sleeping off Hurley’s scotch. Understandable. In his position, who wouldn’t have crawled into that bottle?
Rapp launched an encrypted texting program and sent a brief message to an account that had never been used before. In South Africa, Claudia would get a notification and immediately understand that Hurley’s prediction had come true. The shit had hit the fan.
He adjusted the laptop’s screen so he could keep an eye on it and leaned back against the kitchen cabinets. Blackout shades were closed, along with a second layer of heavy curtains just to be sure. All his and Hurley’s safe houses were set up exactly the same way. It made sense to stick with what worked and to keep protocols consistent.
He’d expected a quick response to his text but after ten minutes, Claudia was still a no-show. The tension in his back and shoulders was getting worse with every tick of the second hand. She was never without her phone. Even when she took a shower, it sat on the counter close enough that she could hear notifications. Had someone gotten to her?
He shook his head violently, trying to clear it. Caution was good, but there was a fine line between it and paranoia. While he, Kennedy, and Coleman were staying off comms to the greatest degree possible, they knew how to contact him. If something had happened to her or Anna, he’d have heard about it.
Ten more minutes passed, and he started to feel the apartment’s darkness sinking into him. Maybe no one needed to get to her. Maybe she’d decided on her own that it was time to bail.
Claudia’s genius for logistics hadn’t been honed at FedEx or General Motors. She’d been the organizational force behind one of the most successful private assassins in modern history. She hadn’t stayed alive this long by being stupid. And she had a daughter to think about. It didn’t take someone with her mental horsepower to figure out that people who got close to him tended to end up dead.
At the thirty-minute mark, Rapp was forced to start reassessing his situation. He had a little cash, a couple of pistols, a stolen SUV, a few fake passports, and a drunk Saudi bureaucrat. Also, the apartment. Hurley had selected it because it allowed access to the roof where it was possible to jump from building to building and eventually disappear down between them. But that plan had been formulated years ago. With modern surveillance cameras and drones, the advantage pretty much disappeared. If the Saudis found out who he was and where he was, things weren’t going to go well.
He was about to stand when the light in the room wavered subtly. Glancing over at the laptop, he saw hesitant writing appearing on-screen.
SORRY FOR DELAY. KID CAUGHT WHAT’S GOING AROUND. SOOOOOO SICK. WHAT DO YOU NEED?
The relief he felt was mixed with a touch of shame. Why had his mind gone so quickly to betrayal? Claudia was the woman he slept next to. The woman he finally might have a future with. It was still hazy, but he could almost make out the day he walked Anna down the aisle. Him limping through the rows of guests, gray haired, beat to hell, and clad in an overpriced tuxedo. Claudia nearby, rounded out with another twenty pounds, laugh lines marking her once flawless skin.
Was that the source of his suspicion? Was that fuzzy image more terrifying to him than dragging Bashir Isa across the roof with a Saudi spec ops team a few steps behind?
AN EXIT, he typed.
INJURIES?
NONE.
FROM WHERE?
CAN YOU FIND ME FROM THIS CONNECTION?
IMPOSSIBLE.
He hated the idea of sending his location over the Internet, but with no other choice, he typed it in.
GOT IT. SAFE PLACE?
FOR NOW. BUT A LOT OF CAMERAS AND THE CLOCK IS TICKING.
40
IT had been seven hours since Rapp’s last contact with Claudia but that wasn’t unexpected. Arranging an exit from Saudi Arabia without the help or knowledge of the Agency was no small task. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like too much to expect.
On the positive side, the sun was overhead and from his position at the window he couldn’t see any activity that might hint at an operation mounting against him. Not exactly conclusive, but better than watching a bunch of black-clad men swarming the building.
Isa was still lying on the floor with his eyes closed, but Rapp doubted he was sleeping. More likely waiting. For what, neither of them yet knew.
The laptop finally pinged, and he knelt in front of it.
A GREEN RANGE ROVER WILL BE OUT FRONT AT 17:43. DRIVER SAYS THAT TIME JUST AFTER SUNSET IS WORST FOR THE CAMERAS.
TRUSTWORTHY?
THE FIRST MAN YOU MEET HAS ALWAYS BEEN RELIABLE BUT IS DANGEROUS. IF YOU GET A BAD FEELING FROM HIM, KILL HIM IMMEDIATELY. I DON’T TH
INK YOU WILL, THOUGH. I’M PAYING TEN TIMES THE GOING RATE AND TOLD HIM THE MAN HE’S TRANSPORTING MAKES MY LATE HUSBAND SEEM EASYGOING. HE UNDERSTANDS HIS POSITION. THE SECOND MAN IS EQUALLY COMPETENT AND VERY TRUSTWORTHY. PLEASE DO NOT KILL HIM UNLESS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY.
NO LINKS TO LOCAL INTELLIGENCE?
NONE. DRUGS. SMUGGLING, EXTORTION, KIDNAPPING, MURDER FOR HIRE, ETC. NO FRIEND OF THE GOVERNMENT.
THANK YOU.
BE CAREFUL.
Rapp gave Isa a kick and he opened his eyes.
“Forty-three minutes after five. There’ll be a car out front.”
“Then what?”
“And then we get out of the country.”
The Saudi’s eyes wandered around the dim room. “Your new president isn’t going to help me or my family. America has always sided with the royalty no matter what they do.”
“But I don’t work for him, remember? I work for Nick Ward.”
“You mean the man who is in the possession of Gideon Auma because of me?”
“If we get him back, I’ll put in a good word.”
Isa laughed. “One last adventure. Why not? I deserve at least that.”
* * *
The Range Rover was exactly on time. Rapp let Isa lead, watching the man feign interest in his phone to keep his face obscured from surveillance cameras. The street was quiet, still waiting for the working-class locals to begin arriving home.
They slipped in the back and the driver pulled away at an unhurried pace. Only one man, but unquestionably a rough customer. He likely slotted into the kidnapping or murder-for-hire part of Claudia’s list. She was a woman with friends in low places, thank God.
“We will drive through the city and then into the desert,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “The police have cameras on poles along the route, but there is a place where the topography has created a weakness in their coverage. We can block their field of view and make a transfer. But they will only be blind for a few seconds.” He thumbed toward the floorboard behind his seat. “Everything you need is in the bag.”
