CHAPTER 19
Location Unknown
AALI Nassar regained consciousness slowly, becoming aware of the hum of a car engine and crunch of tires on a dirt road. He was blindfolded and his hands were secured behind his back, but they hadn’t yet arrived at what he assumed would be his final destination. The lingering rage at the betrayal of his men had turned cold with fear. Was there an opportunity for escape? It had been many years since he’d been in combat, but the training was still part of him. How many men were in the car? No one spoke, but he could smell their sweat. The heat was a clue. The windows were closed. Did it mean they were on a busy road? There was no sound filtering in from outside, but that didn’t mean the landscape they were traveling was empty.
He had no idea of their speed, but he did have a good sense of what awaited him at the end of this journey. Could he reach the lock without alerting anyone that he was conscious? The handle? If he was able to throw himself through the door, would he survive? Did it matter?
A quick death from trauma would undoubtedly be preferable to what Mitch Rapp had planned for him.
Nassar began to turn, keeping his movements agonizingly slow and straining his ears for any reaction. He’d made it less than a centimeter when the vehicle slowed and came to a stop. The door he was leaning against was yanked open and he was pulled violently through.
“We know you’re awake, Director,” a disembodied voice said. “Walk or I’ll saw your legs off myself.”
Nassar got his numb feet beneath him and began stumbling forward with men holding him on either side. The sound of a door opening was followed by him tripping over the threshold and nearly falling face-first to the floor.
The blindfold was removed and he squinted against the light. The concrete cell he had been expecting wasn’t in evidence. Instead he was in a large room with exposed wood walls and utilitarian architecture that gave no hints as to his location. The man looking down on him, though, was easily recognized.
He was sitting on a raised platform haphazardly draped with colorful rugs. His clothing was traditional and all black, with a headdress that covered his hair but left his bearded face exposed. Not Mitch Rapp. Instead, Nassar found himself in the presence of Mullah Sayid Halabi. The leader of ISIS.
“Good evening, Director. It’s my understanding that you wanted to see me.”
Nassar met the pale blue eyes of the mullah with the required deference. In his peripheral vision he could see men lined up on either side of him. General al-Omari was to Halabi’s right, but the others were only intermittently identifiable. Largely former Iraqi officers and advisors to Saddam Hussein.
“Yes,” he said, the residual effects of the drug he’d been given making it difficult to form words. Thank Allah that his mind was clear.
“To what purpose?”
“To negotiate an alliance between ISIS and Saudi Arabia.”
“You speak for the king, then?” Halabi said, though it was obvious that he knew the answer.
“No. The king and the royalty have turned their backs on Islam.”
“I see. Then you speak for yourself. For your own ambitions.”
“My ambition is only that the caliphate succeed. And that Saudi Arabia act in service to that goal.”
The mullah remained silent, making it clear that he expected a more complete response. And that the content of that response would determine whether Nassar lived or died.
“ISIS’s attack on Saudi Arabia’s oil fields and the fact that it was thwarted by Mitch Rapp has strengthened King Faisal’s allegiance to America.”
The mullah’s eyes narrowed but it was impossible to know if it was the result of his hatred for the CIA man or the mention of his plan’s failure. The question was how plainly to speak in the man’s presence. He had surrounded himself with competent advisors, but did he listen to them?
“That action, if it had succeeded, would have created chaos in the region that you could have brought order to. But it was a plan with drawbacks. It would have left ISIS in control, but of what? A fractured and violent land with thousands of factions being supported by Americans, Russians, Europeans, and even Asians. Consolidating that into a cohesive Islamic state with the ability to effectively administer its internal affairs and defend itself from outside forces would have been difficult if not impossible.”
“But you can solve these problems,” Halabi said.
“Solve them? No. But right now you have Saudi Arabia, a country with one of the most powerful militaries in the region, increasingly dedicated to your destruction. Faisal has refused to name a successor, but I can tell you that every man in line is weak and corrupt. The question is: Who will pull the new king’s strings? You or the Americans?”
Halabi scanned the faces of his advisors before answering. “Then you want my help in increasing your influence in Saudi Arabia so that in turn you can influence who succeeds Faisal. Or perhaps your ambitions are grander? Perhaps you see the end of the Saudi monarchy and yourself as the leader of that country.”
Nassar lowered his head submissively. “Whatever would serve you most effectively.”
Halabi’s unblinking eyes were suddenly filled with amusement. As though they had examined Nassar’s soul and found it laughably trivial.
“State your case plainly, Director. I have to return you to your home as quickly as possible. My men won’t be able to hide your absence for much longer.”
Nassar felt some of the tension drain from him at the acknowledgment that he wouldn’t die in this place. A significant amount of that tension remained, though, at the realization that the Saudi guards he’d thought were loyal to him were in fact servants of Halabi. How far did the mullah’s tentacles reach into the Saudi government?
“I request that you table any plans for terrorist acts on Saudi soil and that you provide me with the tools to shut down the majority of social media attacks on the royalty. I have the ear of the king, but I’m forced to share it with America’s CIA. I need to show him that they’re unnecessary—indeed, that they’re counterproductive. He has to be confident that I, and I alone, have power to defend his dynasty.”
“And what would I receive in return? Surely not just the promise of your loyalty at some future date.”
“I understand that it’s your plan to hit the Americans hard inside their borders. To cause them to lash out at their Muslim citizens in a way that makes them susceptible to recruitment and that turns America’s allies against it. My agency is one of the primary sources of intelligence on Muslim immigrants and refugees entering America. It would be a simple matter to alter that intelligence in a way that would allow your agents to infiltrate the country. Further, we have knowledge of poorly defended targets that have the potential to cause significant disruptions—power transfer stations, dams, commercial and retail centers, to name only a few. And finally, we are informed of the vast majority of CIA operations. We can tell you almost immediately about—”
“And you have money,” Halabi interjected.
The Americans had become quite skilled at tracking wire transfers and confiscating bank accounts. Combined with the crackdown on ISIS oil sales, they were squeezing the organization. Fighters had taken pay cuts, equipment was failing, and the web of graft that kept local leaders docile was breaking down.
“Of course. Many of the Saudis who have supported your efforts have done so at my bidding. Prince bin Musaid, for instance.”
“Not a successful exchange.”
“How so? It’s my understanding that the prince delivered the money to your man. Did you not receive it?”
Halabi didn’t answer and his silence was intriguing. According to Irene Kennedy, the ISIS contact hadn’t been captured. Had he been turned? Was it he who had informed the CIA about the exchange? It seemed likely, but Nassar decided it would be unwise to point that out in his present situation.
When t
he mullah spoke again, he changed the subject. “This insight into the CIA’s operations that you speak of. I question how much the Americans really share with you. I think you’re overestimating your usefulness. Give me an example of something you know that I don’t.”
Nassar smiled. It was a question he was well prepared for. “Of course. General al-Omari’s home isn’t the only one that’s been discovered.” He indicated with his head toward Fares Wazir, a man who had spent years as an executive in Saddam Hussein’s secret police. “The Mossad has located General Wazir’s base of operations, and the U.S. is planning a raid to capture him in two days’ time.”
“Impossible!” Wazir said. “I—”
“You and your family have taken over the top floor of a building in Tal Afar,” Nassar said in a calculatedly bored tone. “A few blocks north of the city center, as I recall.”
That shut the man up. More important, the information seemed to please Mullah Halabi. He had passed the man’s first test.
“I’ve enjoyed our conversation, Director Nassar. But, as I’ve said, it’s important that you return home. I’ll expect a payment of five million euros by later this week. We’ll contact you with the exchange site.”
“Five million?” Nassar said. “With all due respect, there are certain complexi—”
A cloth bag was pulled over his head, and a moment later he was being dragged from the building.
CHAPTER 20
Near Dominical
Costa Rica
HERE’S your chardonnay and a sparkling water,” the waitress said.
Claudia reached for the wineglass with a visibly shaking hand.
The otherwise empty deck looked out over flowering trees and a field of boulders jutting from the sea. Rapp could hear the waves crashing against stone, but the spectacular view was at his back. Normally, he preferred to have a wall behind him, but the ones that made up this mostly outdoor restaurant were just flimsy partitions. Nothing that would stop a bullet.
Not that he was expecting any gunfire on that particular day, but it wasn’t out of the question. Grisha Azarov, the man they were there to see, was unquestionably the most dangerous opponent he’d ever faced. After nearly killing Scott Coleman, he’d faced down Rapp in a battle that had been far more desperate than the CIA man would have liked. While Rapp had won, a win on that particular day had involved getting thrown from an oil rig with his hair literally on fire. He wouldn’t survive many more victories like that one.
“Where is he?” Claudia said before draining half her glass in one gulp. “We’ve been in Costa Rica for two days and this is our second afternoon eating at this restaurant. Is it possible that he doesn’t know we’re here?”
“He knows.”
Claudia’s late husband had been one of the world’s top contract killers and he’d been terrified of Azarov. It was a fear that he’d left deeply imprinted on her and one that Rapp couldn’t resist using as a test. So far, she was passing with a solid B plus.
“That dress looks great on you,” he said, trying to ease the tension a bit.
She polished off the rest of her wine. “It’s my favorite. The one I’d like to be buried in. Seemed appropriate.”
Rapp caught the waitress’s attention, pointed to Claudia’s empty glass, and held up two fingers.
“Where is he?” Claudia repeated. “He’s probably watching us. Waiting. Making us sweat.”
“I think that’s just the humidity.”
“So now you get a sense of humor?”
The waitress arrived and set a full glass down in front of Claudia. She was about to give Rapp the other but he indicated that they were both for her.
“Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“Well, stop.”
He smiled reassuringly while he watched Grisha Azarov get out of his truck and start walking up behind her. The fact that he wasn’t alone was a good sign. He and Cara Hansen had been virtually inseparable since he’d resigned from the service of Russia’s president. She was a thirty-year-old American surf instructor with the expected athletic figure, unkempt blond hair, and perpetual half sunburn. Her barely perceptible smile looked both permanent and entirely sincere. By all reports, she was adored by everyone who knew her and it wasn’t hard to see why.
“¡Hola, Isabella!” she said as they stepped onto the deck. “¿Podemos sentarnos al lado de las flores?”
Rapp understood enough to know that Azarov wasn’t dictating where they sat and that the table near the flowers, while a great spot for an early dinner, was a tactical death trap.
Claudia stiffened but managed not to look back. “Is that them?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to spill your drink on your funeral dress.”
“You’re so funny. Maybe comedy was your calling, no?”
He just smiled, ignoring Cara and Azarov as they ordered drinks. After a convincing interval, the Russian looked directly at him and whispered something in his companion’s ear. A moment later they were up and walking in Rapp’s direction. Claudia seemed to think it was a good time to finish her second glass of wine and get a firm grip on her third.
“Mitch?”
“Grisha?” Rapp said, feigning surprise as he stood and shook the man’s hand. “What are you doing here?”
“I live only a few kilometers away.”
“Really? I had no idea.”
Azarov turned toward Cara. “I’d like you to meet Mitch. We know each other from Saudi Arabia.”
“Hi,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Cara. So you’re in the oil business, too?”
“I am.”
They had actually met once before. It had been dark, though, and he’d had a silencer pressed to her boyfriend’s head. It’d be interesting to know how Azarov had explained that one away.
“And this is Claudia,” the Russian said.
She twitched visibly at the fact that he knew who she was, but managed to look reasonably relaxed as they exchanged greetings. Her B-plus grade moved to a tentative A minus.
“Have you been on the trail behind the restaurant yet?” Azarov asked. His accent had softened noticeably, taking on a bit of the Spanish that surrounded him.
“I haven’t,” Claudia responded.
“Why don’t you take her on a tour, Cara?”
“Sure. The toucans are usually out this time of the afternoon. Grab your wine. It’s easy walking.”
Rapp watched the two women descend from the deck and disappear into the jungle.
“May I join you?” Azarov asked.
“Please.”
They sat and Rapp took the opportunity to examine the man. The cuts from the glass that had shattered in his face were long healed and whatever scars remained were obscured by his tan. He’d put on a few pounds, taking the edge off the gaunt, professional endurance athlete look he’d had before. Rounding out his new softer image was a blond head of hair about the same shade as Scott Coleman’s.
Most of the change, though, wasn’t physical. The man was extraordinarily talented and well trained, but had lived most of his adult life as little more than a slave to Maxim Krupin. Now he looked . . . happy. In fact, he looked happy enough to make Rapp wonder if he’d made a mistake coming there.
“Vacation?” Azarov said, sipping an ice water. “Or have you managed to bring in a team that I missed?”
“No team. Just us.”
“Why? You’ve had two opportunities to kill me and you’ve taken neither. I assume your people are watching me, and if that’s the case, you know I’m no longer in contact with the Russian government.”
It was true as far as anyone had been able to tell. Azarov’s first order of business after divesting of most of the foreign property that he no longer needed was learning to surf. The fact that he’
d been an Olympic-level biathlete and was sleeping with a full-time instructor hadn’t hurt. With the exception of a run-in with three territorial Hawaiian locals—one of whom was still relearning how to walk—his pursuit of the sport had gone spectacularly.
Recently, though, he’d reconnected with the successful consulting company he’d used as a cover operation, appointing a new CEO and taking over as chairman of the board. It wasn’t a particularly demanding position but it also wasn’t one he in any way needed. As far as the Agency could tell, he had a net worth of more than one hundred million dollars and spent less than two thousand of it every month.
Rapp’s silence caused the Russian to become wary. “I trust your friend Scott Coleman is still doing well?”
“Yeah. Should be back in a year or so. That’s not why I’m here.”
“What, then?”
“How’s the quiet life?” Rapp asked, not yet ready to answer the man’s question.
“I enjoy it. I enjoy my time with Cara. The freedom. And how about you? I have to admit that, based on your history together, a relationship with Claudia Gould is surprising.”
“Sometimes you have to let things go.”
“An enlightened attitude, but not one I would have ascribed to Mitch Rapp. How is her daughter? Anna, isn’t it? After your late wife. She must be what? Six?”
“Seven.”
“Ah,” he said noncommittally, and then took another sip of his drink.
“So,” Rapp said, glancing behind him to make sure Cara hadn’t reappeared. “You wouldn’t be interested in a small side job.”
Azarov’s initial surprise was obvious but then he gave an understanding nod. “I took out the head of your backup team. You need a replacement and you feel I owe you.”
“No. I’ve gotten tangled up in something Scott and his boys can’t be involved in.”
“I see. And if I say no?”
“Then we’ll have dinner and I doubt we’ll ever see each other again.”