by Vince Flynn
“I can’t just let this go, Claudia.”
“Then I’m going to ask you again to call Irene.”
He shook his head. “I can’t drag her into this. She has to make that decision on her own. We’ll wait and see what Joel does.”
She snatched up a throw pillow and threw it at him, missing his right ear by less than an inch. “Joel Wilson is probably in Aali Nassar’s office right now, plotting how to find you! Or he’s in Washington telling Senator Ferris that you murdered his entire team!”
“Maybe.”
“Stop being so calm!” When she reached for the alarm clock he moved in. She had a pretty good arm, and the heavy plastic looked like it could do some damage.
She resisted for a moment when he wrapped his arms around her but then rested her head on his chest. “I haven’t had much of a life, Mitch. Except for Anna, I wish I could forget everything that happened before I met you. But now . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “You’re the best at what you do. But even you can’t survive with the whole world against you.”
* * *
Rapp stepped out onto the safari camp’s terrace to find the rest of his team waiting. Donatella had retreated to the shade of a flowering arbor and Kent Black was tanning in a lounge chair next to a pyramid of empty beer cans. Predictably, Azarov was sitting with his back to the building, sipping sparkling water.
“All of you have lived up to your reputations,” he began as Claudia took a seat. “And I want to thank you for everything you’ve done.”
“What’s next?” Black asked, slurring a bit.
“There is no next. You’ve already stayed on a hell of a lot longer than I had a right to expect.”
“What about that towelhead who’s trying to frame you, Mitch? I thought we were going to pop him.”
“It’d be better for all of you if I handled that myself.”
“So you’re releasing us?” Donatella said.
“Yeah. And that brings us to the subject of payment. After expenses, Orion Consulting still has bank balances of . . .” He looked over at Claudia.
“Just over fifty million U.S. dollars.”
“Okay. Fifty million. Grisha, I know you got your cash up front, but do you want a cut?”
The Russian shook his head.
“Then Claudia and I are going to keep ten to finish what we have to do. That leaves forty. Split between Kent and Donatella, that’s twenty each.”
Black’s head rolled forward off his lounge chair. “What? Did you just say that you’re going to transfer twenty million dollars into my account?”
“Yeah. And you’re free to start contracting again. Or you can sit on a beach for the rest of your life. Just stay out of my way.”
“Not a problem,” he said, getting up and making rounds, shaking everyone’s hand. When he got to Rapp, he just backed away cautiously. “It’s been real, man.”
Rapp waited for him to disappear around the corner before he spoke again. “Donatella. I don’t have a lot of pull at the CIA right now, but it doesn’t matter. Claudia’s as good as anyone at this. It’ll take a couple of months, but she’ll put a clean identity together for you and get you set up in New York. Obviously you’re going to have to get some work done to your face.”
“I have someone in Buenos Aires.”
“No contracts, no fashion industry, and no Italy,” Rapp reminded her.
She nodded. “I assume we won’t meet again in this lifetime?”
“Not unless something goes very wrong.”
She glided up to him and gave him a lingering kiss on the mouth. “If you ever need someone to watch your ass again, don’t hesitate to call.”
Stepping back, she looked at the others. “It’s been a pleasure working with all of you. Claudia, I’ll send you my contact information when I get to Argentina.”
“I’ll look forward to it. And while you’re there, ask them if there’s something they can do about your nose.”
Rapp tensed but, to his surprise, Donatella grinned and the two women hugged before she wandered off.
The sound of Kent Black’s motorcycle speeding away reached Rapp just as he turned to the last man left on the terrace. “I assume you want something more than the dollar I paid you in Costa Rica.”
Azarov set down his drink and stood. “It’ll probably turn out to be nothing.”
“But?”
“Should any of the enemies I made in Russia ever decide to come back into my life, I might need help.”
“I’ll be there.”
He nodded respectfully and then walked over to Claudia. She looked a little nervous when he kissed her hand, but the naked fear that was so obvious at their first meeting had faded.
When Azarov was gone, she turned toward Rapp. “Just the two of us.”
He popped the top off one of the unopened beers Black had left. “Yeah. Just the two of us.”
CHAPTER 53
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
U.S.A.
IRENE Kennedy glanced over her reading glasses as her office door opened and her executive assistant slipped through.
“I know you asked not to be disturbed . . .”
“Is everything all right, Jamie?”
“I’m honestly not sure how to answer that question. Joel Wilson is here to see you again.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say Joel Wilson?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The FBI agent had been last seen in Juba, where he and his team were ambushed. Intelligence was still piecemeal, but the best information circulating was that it was a case of mistaken identity. A local rebel leader thought Wilson and his people were a group of arms dealers led by someone called Jason Blaze.
She, however, knew a bit more. Blaze was really a former Army Ranger who answered to the name Kent Black. Further, she had a description of his associates that bore an uncanny resemblance to Mitch Rapp, Claudia Dufort, Donatella Rahn, and Grisha Azarov.
In all likelihood, Rapp and Claudia had led Wilson into a trap—the goal of which was to kill Aali Nassar without their direct involvement. Unfortunately, Nassar wasn’t there. A tragedy, really. Not only was he a man who very much needed killing, but she hated to see such a beautifully conceived plan go wrong.
“Irene? Should I send him in?”
“Absolutely,” Kennedy said. She’d been working under the assumption that Wilson was dead. And in her experience conversations with dead men tended to be extremely illuminating.
She stood but didn’t immediately come out from behind her desk when Wilson appeared in the doorway. He was normally put together with a sterile meticulousness that very much embodied who he was. The hesitant gait, filthy clothing, and blackened eyes of the man entering her office were completely unfamiliar.
“Dr. Kennedy. Thank you for meeting with me without an appointment.” He offered his hand but then seemed to realize how grimy it was and withdrew it.
“Are you all right, Joel? Should I call a medical team?”
He shook his head and she pointed him to a seating area at the corner of her office. He sat and she handed him a bottle of water before taking a position across from him.
“My understanding is that you and Director Nassar’s men were attacked in South Sudan. Could you tell me what happened?”
“We tracked Rapp there through some emails he sent to Claudia Dufort. I don’t know who attacked us. But it wasn’t him.”
She was intrigued. Historically, Wilson blamed Mitch for everything bad that happened to him. “How do you know that?”
“Because he saved my life. One of Nassar’s men—who wasn’t really one of his men—tried to kill Mitch. When I yelled at him to cease fire, he turned on me. If Mitch hadn’t shot him, I’d be dead.”
“Joel, I want you to slow down. What do yo
u mean it wasn’t one of Nassar’s men?”
“We questioned him. I think he was ISIS. But I don’t know if that means he infiltrated Saudi intelligence or if Nassar knew the whole time.”
He pulled a phone from his pocket and almost dropped it trying to place it on the coffee table between them. She’d seen this before in her career. The man was broken. He’d spent his entire life as a narcissist who believed that he was always right—always on the side of the virtuous. Now reality had imploded that self-image. Most people in his condition never recovered from the cognitive dissonance. A rare few managed to absorb their new position in the universe and adapt. Which category did Joel Wilson fall into?
“There are pictures on there of all of Nassar’s men and a recording of our interrogation of the one who survived.”
She picked up the phone and began flipping through the photos as he continued.
“Nassar was playing me. The more I think about it, the clearer it becomes. He was counting on my hatred of Mitch to blind me to everything else that was happening. And he was right.”
Kennedy set the phone down and appraised the man. His head was hanging loosely on his shoulders with a blank stare focused on the carpet.
“In this business, it happens to us all eventually, Joel. The question is what you do about it.”
“I want to help,” he said without hesitation. “I want to find out if Nassar is connected with ISIS. And if he is, I want to take him down.”
It was an interesting offer. Even more interesting, though, was whether it was an offer that Mitch Rapp had anticipated. Had he consciously forgone killing Wilson at the risk of allowing the FBI man to continue his vendetta? It was a level of restraint and strategic thinking that she wouldn’t have necessarily attributed to her old friend.
There was no question that Wilson was a gifted investigator. In some ways it was his weakness. His ability to see the big picture was compromised by his obsession with fine detail. In this case, though, it was those fine details that needed attention. The big picture was her job.
“Is that a sincere offer, Joel?”
He finally met her gaze. “Of course it is.”
“Does anyone know you’re here?”
“What? Why?”
“Answer the question.”
She could see the wheels of his mind turning. He was wondering if she was involved with Rapp and desperate to hide that involvement. More to the point, he was wondering if answering in the negative would end with him buried in Langley’s basement.
Finally his body sagged. “No one knows. I came here first. I haven’t talked to anyone.”
She pressed a button on a phone sitting next to her and her assistant reappeared.
“Jamie, I need to make sure that there’s no record of Agent Wilson leaving Juba or arriving in the U.S. Also, call General Jayyusi in South Sudan. Ask him if he’s spoken with Aali Nassar. If so, ask him if it’s not too late to have him confirm Agent Wilson’s death and to destroy the bodies that were left behind.”
Wilson didn’t even react to what she was saying. Apparently he’d decided that he deserved whatever fate she had planned for him.
“That’s not going to be cheap,” Jamie said. “Is there any limit to what I can pay him?”
“No. But I want you to be clear that we’re buying an exclusive. If I hear that he’s sold any of this information again, I’ll be . . .” Her voice faded for a moment as she chose her next words. “Inconsolably disappointed.”
“I think he’ll understand your meaning. Anything else?”
“That’ll do for now.”
She disappeared and Wilson watched the door close as though he were in a gas chamber.
“What about Mitch?” she said. “Do you know where he is?”
Wilson shook his head. “He left me a long way outside of Juba. Last time I saw him, he was driving back toward the city.”
It seemed clear that Rapp had seen the same thing in Joel Wilson that she did. He could have killed the man with little fear of repercussion. Instead, he’d left him with a phone full of intelligence and the freedom to use it as he pleased.
“What are you going to do with me?” Wilson said, becoming uncomfortable with the silence drawing out between them.
“For now, I think it’s in our best interest to let the world think you’re dead. Of course, we’ll call Director Miller and tell him that’s not the case. If it’s acceptable to you, I’d also like to ask him to let me use you to lead the effort to identify the men on your phone and their connection to Aali Nassar. I have good intelligence analysts, but what we need here is an investigator.”
He just stared at her, stunned.
“You were expecting something else?”
“Yes . . . no. I mean, I’d love to be involved in getting Nassar.”
“Then why don’t you have one of my assistants send for some clothes for you and show you where the showers are. In the meantime I’ll assemble your team.”
CHAPTER 54
Riyadh
Saudi Arabia
THE basement had been lined with cubicles, and the overhead fixtures were dimmed, causing each workstation to glow with the light of its computer monitor. Ironically the secret to effective intelligence analysis was the sharing of ideas, but in this case that kind of an exchange was impossible. Aali Nassar’s goal was neither truth nor accuracy. What he needed now was to conjure an alternate reality so convincing that it persuaded even the analysts who had created it.
As he walked across the room, the people who noticed him stood, some even attempting an awkward salute. He ignored them. They weren’t soldiers or the disciplined operatives he’d surrounded himself with since graduating from university. They were the young technology experts who now reigned supreme in the intelligence-gathering field.
Nassar was wary of them, not only because he lacked any real understanding of how they did what they did, but because their talent was always inversely proportional to their faith. For these men, God, country, and authority were meaningless when compared to what they saw in those screens.
The most gifted—and thus least devoted—of the analysts assigned to this detail had been placed along the back wall. He swiveled in his chair when Nassar stopped in the open door of his cubicle but didn’t stand as the others had.
“What have you discovered?” Nassar said, ignoring the lack of respect.
“We haven’t been able to get confirmation, but our suspicion is that all our men are dead.”
“Why no confirmation?”
“The only thing we have to go on is interviews of people who witnessed the battle, and most seem unreliable. Either they were trying to get away from the fighting or they’re so war-weary that they didn’t pay much attention. We’ve matched up the different accounts to create the most probable chain of events, but I still can’t guarantee accuracy.”
“What have you put together?”
“After Abdo’s men attacked, it quickly turned into a melee. It was impossible to tell who was shooting at whom and most of the fighting was done inside the church. One car left the scene with an unknown number of passengers, but we don’t know where it went and we haven’t heard from any of our people. Most likely it was one or more of Abdo’s men escaping the fighting and now they’re on the run. He has a reputation for punishing cowardice pretty harshly.”
“And the bodies of my men?”
“They were burned along with the church.”
“The rebels did this?”
“No, sir. It appears to have been done by government troops. We’re not certain why. The chain of command in Juba is hard to follow. It might have just been a decision by low-level police.”
Nassar nodded. While the fire made it impossible to confirm that all his men were dead, it also made identifying the corpses difficult. In that way, the fire had been a gift. If
photos of the men he’d sent had been taken and given to a foreign intelligence agency, they would be quickly identified as not working for the Saudi General Intelligence Directorate. And after that, it was possible that they could be associated with ISIS.
“Do we know if the FBI man Joel Wilson was among the dead?”
“It appears that he was. The local police said that one of the men was white and they took his wallet before the fire started.” The young man used his mouse to pull up a photo of Joel Wilson’s North Dakota driver’s license.
In his peripheral vision Nassar saw his assistant appear and motion him to a conference room along the wall.
“Carry on. I want to be updated immediately with any new information.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
“We’ve finally made direct contact with Abdo,” Hamid Safar said as Nassar entered and closed the door.
“And?”
“He confirmed that it was his men who attacked and that they did so because they believed our men were associates of Jason Blaze. He’s also agreed to have his people swear that an American fitting Mitch Rapp’s description killed Wilson, though he wants a significant amount of money to do so.”
“Pay him what he asks,” Nassar said.
While the story wasn’t without flaws, no one would expect concrete evidence in that part of the world. All he needed to do was generate enough suspicion to motivate the Americans. Now the murdered man in question wasn’t a Saudi national with potential ties to terrorism. It was an American FBI agent doing the president’s bidding.
The Americans would have no choice but to dedicate a significant amount of resources to this manhunt. It would also have the effect of frightening any U.S. operatives involved. A Mitch Rapp willing to kill American agents would create a great number of nervous trigger fingers and would likely muffle any criticism if attempts to take him alive failed.
