by Vince Flynn
“A security guard for one of the men inside?”
“We’re not sure.”
The video switched to an interior view, displaying the chaos in a steady flow of changing angles. “Six terrorists entered. One is already dead at this point, but it’s unclear who fired the shot. Watch the left side of the screen.”
A man ran at incredible speed across the frame, one hand over his head and the other holding a pistol. He aimed awkwardly and fired, surprisingly taking out a terrorist firing at a booth full of young people.
“Have we identified that man?”
“Yes, sir. His name is Grisha Azarov. A well-regarded energy consultant from Russia. Have you heard of him?”
“The name is vaguely familiar. His company has done work for Aramco, no?”
“That’s correct.”
The man who had crossed the parking lot came into the frame, sliding on the floor toward an injured terrorist and calmly pressing a Glock to the back of his head before pulling the trigger.
The camera angle changed and finally Prince bin Musaid came into view. He was wrestling with a woman whose purse appeared to be on fire.
“Who is she?”
“We don’t know. Most likely one of the whores who frequent the establishment.”
A moment later the man from the parking lot appeared and began pulling the prince toward the door.
“Here,” Safar said, slowing down the video. “This is where bin Musaid is hit.”
The impact was obvious, but it was difficult to tell exactly where the bullet had penetrated. The man from the lot threw bin Musaid over his shoulder and ran, eventually getting picked up by the exterior camera before disappearing into the parking lot.
“So the wound the prince suffered was fatal?”
“We can’t be certain, sir. He was driven away and later found riddled with bullets in the middle of the road.”
“Was the man who took him from his security detail?”
“No, sir. They were both killed in the parking lot.”
Safar’s nervousness seemed to be growing and Nassar’s agitation grew with it. Mullah Halabi had said he would deal with bin Musaid but had made no allusion to the fact that it would be done in the context of a terrorist attack targeting some of the wealthiest men in the world. And to make matters worse, his lackeys hadn’t killed the prince cleanly. It was possible that he had survived for some time with his rescuer.
“If he wasn’t part of bin Musaid’s detail, then who was he? Even with limited footage, it’s obvious that he’s highly trained and has significant combat experience. A man like him would be known to the world’s intelligence community.”
Safar minimized the video and brought up another. Instead of being designed to give an overview of the attack, this one had been spliced together to focus on that one shooter. The additional footage confirmed Nassar’s initial analysis. Even in his years in the special forces, he’d never seen anyone who could match the man’s speed, accuracy, and flawless instincts. He didn’t hesitate, he appeared to be immune to the confusion of battle, and he never missed. Unfortunately, he also seemed to have a gift for keeping his face from lining up directly with the establishment’s cameras.
Safar switched to an unrelated video that appeared to depict an American military operation in an unidentifiable Middle Eastern village. The shaky footage—probably from a helmet-mounted camera—detailed an ambush and the desperate battle that ensued. All the soldiers fought well, but there was a man who stood well above the others. Despite the poor quality of the image, it was clear that he was the same size and build as the man in Monaco and that he wore his hair and beard the same way. More importantly, he had the same icy calm and the same graceful, economical way of moving.
“What you’re watching now,” Safar said, “is a rare and highly classified video of Mitch Rapp in combat.”
Nassar felt his mouth go dry. “How long was bin Musaid in the car with him? Tell me!”
Safar fumbled with the computer, pulling up Google Maps and making the calculations based on where they’d found the Saudi prince’s body. “No more than four or five minutes.”
Nassar pressed his palms against his temples, feeling them begin to throb. If bin Musaid had been conscious, he would have been confused, terrified, and in pain—an easily exploited situation. Rapp would have told the prince that he’d been sent there to protect him but that he couldn’t do so unless he knew who was behind the attack. How much could bin Musaid have revealed over the course of five minutes?
“We need more than speculation,” Nassar said, trying to keep his voice even. “I’ll be at the office in one hour and I want facts, names, and options. Further, we’re going to have to calculate how to present this to the king. Obviously there will be no mention of Rapp’s potential involvement. Eventually the other agencies will identify him, but for now we have some time.”
Safar was already packing up his computer. “I’ll see to it immediately. Is there anything else?”
“Find Azarov and use our contacts at the CIA to get a location on Rapp.”
Safar disappeared through the door as Nassar eased himself unsteadily into the chair behind his desk. By all reports, Rapp had resigned from the Agency. Was it possible that he’d gone rogue? That he had been following the prince of his own volition and thus had been present for the attack by Halabi’s men? Or was it something far more dangerous? Was his retirement just disinformation created by a CIA that was supporting this operation?
His phone rang and he immediately recognized the number. His decision to pick up, though, took another few seconds.
“Yes.”
Mullah Halabi’s voice sounded uncharacteristically upbeat. “I understand that you’ve been briefed on recent events in Monaco.”
The fact that the man knew this so quickly added to Nassar’s anxiety. Did he have people watching the house? Was it possible that Nassar’s personal guards—perhaps even his trusted assistant—were among the man’s many disciples?
“I have,” was all Nassar could get out.
“A magnificent operation, wouldn’t you say, Aali? Not only is your prince dead but all those infidels as well.”
“Bin Musaid wasn’t killed.”
“You’re misinformed, Director. When my men left him in the road, he was little more than a piece of meat.”
“But he wasn’t killed immediately,” Nassar said angrily. “The man who got him out . . .”
“Yes?”
“We believe it was Mitch Rapp.”
“Indeed?” the mullah said, sounding even more gleeful. “Wonderful! Can you feel him, Aali? Can you feel Satan’s breath on your neck? I can. Every second of every hour. The day that you lose your sensitivity to that searing wind is the day that God no longer sees you.”
CHAPTER 32
West of Carbonia
Sardinia
WHAT happened to the BMW?” Claudia said as she walked into the yacht’s galley.
“Bottom of the sea,” Rapp responded, sliding a cup of coffee toward her.
“That was my job.”
“You were dead asleep. I also called your pilot. He’ll have the jet waiting for us in Malta.”
She pulled her robe up around her neck and pointed to the potato he was chopping. “And you’re making breakfast? I feel like I’m not earning my money.”
“I’m not paying you.”
“In that case, I’ll have an omelet.”
He walked to the refrigerator and began digging around for some eggs. She’d been up half the night putting together everything she could on Aali Nassar, although they hadn’t yet discussed what she’d found. Rapp had considered telling her about the deal that was struck with the Saudis after 9/11 but quickly abandoned the idea. It was one of the ugliest skeletons in America’s closet, and she didn’t really need to know.
> “Maybe I should do that,” she said, watching him pile ingredients on the counter.
“Have a little faith.”
“I’m skeptical by nature.”
“Did you find anything interesting on Nassar?”
She took a sip of her coffee while he looked for a pan. “I did, but then I considered throwing it all into the sea.”
“Why?”
“Because this wasn’t the mission, Mitch. You were going to coerce bin Musaid into pointing a finger at high-level Saudis involved with ISIS and—”
“He did that.”
“But it isn’t a group of minor royals or wealthy businessmen. It’s the director of Saudi intelligence. That’s a fundamental shift in the mission.”
“It’s not a shift. Just a change in scale.”
“Mitch, we—”
“Do you want out?” he asked. It would be impossible to hold it against her. While she’d worked some fairly high-profile targets in the past, none were anything like Nassar.
She stared at him for a few beats before speaking again without directly answering the question. Whether that was because she wasn’t sure or because she was insulted by the question, he didn’t know. Probably best to let it go for now.
“I wasn’t focused on Nassar’s personal history because I assume you’re already aware of it—his modest upbringing, his education in the madrassas and then Oxford. His time in the Saudi special forces . . .”
“Yeah. The Agency’s been keeping an eye on him since he was a young officer. He was always going places, though I don’t think any of us would have guessed that he’d replace a royal as head of the Intelligence Directorate. I assume you looked into his associates?”
She nodded.
“And?”
“I’ve come up with a good list, I think. The most important name on it is Mahja Zaman.”
“Who’s he?”
“A childhood friend and his roommate at university. They continue to maintain a close friendship, and Zaman is both extremely wealthy and extremely religious. By all reports, he’s also quite intelligent.”
“So a completely different animal than bin Musaid,” Rapp said, cracking a couple eggs into the pan he found.
“Absolutely. While Nassar would have tolerated the prince to access his money, his relationship with Zaman would be very different. He’d have to treat the man as an equal.”
“So Zaman might actually know something about Nassar’s network and methods.”
“If anyone does, it would be him.”
“Any other front-runners?”
“A few. But one is of particular interest. Ahmed el-Hashem, the number two man at the Saudi embassy in Paris. He’s rich, well-connected, and seems to have an unusually close relationship with Nassar. He’s also heavily connected to the bin Laden family and was a close friend of Osama when they were young. Just the kind of man I would recruit if I were Aali Nassar.”
Rapp lowered the heat on the stove. “In order to move against someone like Nassar, I need more than bin Musaid’s deathbed confession. At this point we have to assume that the CIA and MI6 have IDed me from the Monte Carlo security camera footage. If that’s the case, it won’t take long for that information to filter to Nassar. And when it does, we need to be paying attention. If he’s guilty, he’s going to start getting rid of anyone who can finger him.”
“They’re not the only people he’s going to try to get rid of, Mitch. We’re on his radar now.”
Rapp tossed some grated cheese in the pan and shook it to release the egg from the surface. “Do we know where Zaman and el-Hashem are?”
“Zaman’s in Brussels, staying in an upper-floor hotel suite. He doesn’t have a checkout date, so I can’t tell you when he’s planning on leaving or where he’s going when he does. El-Hashem is at his house in Paris and working his regular job at the embassy. He has two full-time security men living on the premises, both of whom also act as drivers. There’s a wall around the property as well as cameras and alarms—about what you’d expect. Nothing special.”
“What about Nassar?”
“On his way to London.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Rapp slid the omelet onto a plate and put it in front of her. She examined it for a few seconds before digging in.
“Not bad,” she said, sounding a bit subdued. Given the situation, it was understandable.
“I’m a man of many talents.”
“I suppose so. Now tell me what you want to do about the things that don’t involve breakfast.”
“First, get in touch with Grisha and tell him he might have a run-in with Nassar in London. After that, we’re going to prioritize Zaman. I want to get face-to-face with him before Nassar can get rid of him or pull him back to Saudi Arabia. ”
“And el-Hashem?”
Rapp would have liked to move simultaneously against the man but, without access to the Agency’s manpower, it wasn’t going to happen.
“He’s going to have to wait. Can you get surveillance on him? Maybe try to get his personal phone and email?”
He hated relying on her people, but there was no other option. His contacts were more reliable, but they were also connected to intelligence agencies across the globe. A lot of them owed him their lives and would be willing to repay that debt, but he wasn’t looking to call in those markers.
“I have someone good in Paris,” Claudia said through a full mouth. “What about the others on my list?”
“Do what you can, but keep it low-key. We don’t need to spook anyone. Not yet.”
The muffled sound of a phone ringing interrupted him and he waited for her to dig it out of her robe. After a quick look at the screen, she picked up.
“Bonjour, chérie! Comment ça va?”
Unquestionably Anna. Claudia insisted that they communicate with her only in French in an effort to ensure her continued fluency.
“Why can’t you sleep? No . . . I find that hard to believe. Irene has a great deal of security and her people would sweep for closet monsters every afternoon. It’s standard procedure. Yes, but— Have you brought this up with Tommy? Oh, he does. I see. I don’t— Yes, he is, but— Sweetie, you— Okay. Fine.”
Claudia held out the phone. “She wants to talk to you. She says you know how to handle these kinds of things.”
CHAPTER 33
London
England
AND now I’m told I shot an innocent man,” Grisha Azarov said, leaning forward and putting his face in his hands.
The psychologist sitting across from him wore a perfectly calibrated expression of sympathy. As he should at the prices he was charging.
“But, Grisha, that man is going to survive and the terrorist holding him was gravely injured by the same bullet. The authorities have given me access to the files describing what happened in Monte Carlo, and your actions were nothing short of heroic. Your cool head saved lives. You need to focus on that.”
Azarov didn’t bother to look up, having already examined every detail in the bland office. What else was there to do during these mind-numbing meetings?
“Grisha?”
He tried to come up with something convincing to say. These sessions were critical to the fiction he’d created in Monaco and there was no guarantee that a foreign intelligence agency wouldn’t get hold of the notes from them. He’d done everything possible to look like an amateur—awkward sprints, suboptimal shots, and terrified expressions.
There was no telling if it would be enough, though, so now he was here dealing with nonexistent feelings of fear, guilt, and lingering panic. It was really quite laughable. His ability to conjure these emotions was so limited that he’d been forced to spend hours watching footage of people with PTSD and practicing in the mirror. Cara would have been quite impressed with his perfo
rmance, he imagined. She was always trying to get him to share feelings that existed only in her imagination.
“It’s not just the hostage,” Grisha said finally. He would have liked to get some tears flowing, but the only thing that had the power to do that was onions. “It’s the terrorists.”
“Please go on.”
“I know they’re evil. I’ve spent my career in the Middle East. But they’re also human beings. How can I understand where they came from? What they’ve been taught from the time they were children? I don’t even know if they fully understand their actions. And I killed them.”
“Taking a human life is one of the most traumatic things a person of conscience can do. But you have to acknowledge that those men had no intention of ever leaving that place. They . . .”
Azarov tuned the man out and glanced at the clock. Ten more minutes until the session was finished. He’d soon leave London, arguing that he needed a change of scenery and to avoid the potential spotlight. The authorities had agreed to keep his identity confidential, but there was always the concern that cell phone footage would surface.
Kent and Donatella were already taking a circuitous route back to Africa. Mitch and Claudia would soon follow.
The question was: Would he do the same? He still wasn’t sure the benefits of his involvement outweighed the risks. Unquestionably, Mitch Rapp’s gratitude might prove valuable one day. But there was more. On some level he missed the excitement. No, “excitement” wasn’t the right word. The challenge. The thrill of being able to do things that only three or four men on the planet would even attempt.
But maybe it was time to consider going home. Rapp wouldn’t be pleased, but he was a man of honor. They would shake hands and part ways amicably.
He pondered the issue while his therapist continued to drone on, finally deciding to stand with Rapp and his people. After the operation was done, he would return to his life with Cara. He’d surf and work on his house. He’d make normal friends and tour all the places he’d been to but never really seen. He’d let her give away a significant portion of his hard-earned fortune to the poor. And he’d forget everything he’d once been.
