There were only three shooters left, and they seemed to recognize that the momentum of the battle had reversed. Instead of continuing to fire at every viable target, they were shouting at each other to spread out. This wasn’t a random terrorist attack. They were looking for someone.
Rapp ran toward the bar, grabbing an injured girl as he passed and shoving her beneath a table. He finally spotted Donatella and bin Musaid in the southeast corner of the building. She was screaming her head off while the prince cowered behind. Her right hand was in her purse, undoubtedly wrapped around the Beretta Nano inside, but for the time being she seemed content to play the damsel in distress.
A barrage of automatic fire began pounding the polished wood trim near her and Rapp dove to the floor as she fired, hitting the tango in the leg. Rapp didn’t bother to check his momentum, instead sliding toward the terrorist, zeroing in on bin Musaid, who was so focused on his target that he didn’t even notice Rapp coming to a stop only inches away. The CIA man was actually able to press the barrel of his weapon against the back of the tango’s head before pulling the trigger.
In his peripheral vision, Rapp saw another terrorist using a young man as a human shield while he tried to get a bead on a fast-moving Grisha Azarov. The Russian had a clear head shot but didn’t take it, instead firing through the hostage’s stomach and into the shooter’s left hip. Not ideal but understandable. The hostage would survive and Azarov’s cover as an energy consultant wouldn’t be jeopardized by a one-in-a-thousand combat shot.
With no similar concerns about anonymity, Rapp hit the tango in the back of the head as he was falling away from his hostage. That left one alive by his count. He was out of view, though, so that meant he was Azarov’s problem.
Rapp sprinted to where bin Musaid was now trying to wrestle the gun from Donatella’s hand. He grabbed the Saudi by his silk collar and shouted at him in Arabic. “Forget the whore, Your Highness. We have to get you out of here!”
“Who . . . who are you?”
“The king charged me with your safety, Highness. Now get up. We have to go!”
Rapp pulled the man to his feet and they started running toward the front door. Bin Musaid was terrified and unaccustomed to moving fast, causing him to stumble with nearly every other step. They were only a few feet from escaping when a shot sounded—not the undisciplined automatic fire that had been echoing off the walls since he’d entered, but a single, carefully aimed round. Bin Musaid’s feet went out from under him, and Rapp was forced to drag the man across the polished floor.
He was still conscious, but the wound in his lower back was bad enough that he wasn’t going to be able to continue under his own power. Rapp lifted him into a fireman’s carry and headed for the door, talking into the microphone hidden in his shirt cuff.
“Kent, I’m coming out carrying the prince.”
“Roger that. You’re clear to the car. Don’t try to get out of the parking lot the way you came in, though. It’s a complete clusterfuck. Back straight up and go through the bushes. If you don’t hit any trees, it’s about twenty yards to the road.
“Copy.”
Very few people had managed to escape the building, but most of the ones who had were forgoing their vehicles and running for the edges of the property. That left Rapp a clear path to his car and a welcome amount of privacy as he shoved the wounded Saudi through the passenger-side door. A few moments later Rapp had the engine started and was reversing through Terry’s expensive landscaping. When the BMW finally jumped the curb into the street, he drifted it 180 degrees and slammed it in Drive.
“Mitch, you’ve got a vehicle coming hard at you from the southwest corner of the lot. Might just be someone looking to tag along on your escape route, but I wouldn’t bet on—”
Black’s voice was drowned out by the sound of automatic fire and the ring of impacts against the BMW’s rear end.
“Can you do anything about them?” Rapp said.
“No angle. You’re on your own, man.”
Rapp pressed his foot to the floor and was shoved back in the seat as the vehicle accelerated down a sweeping hill.
The stench in the car suggested that one of bin Musaid’s intestines had been punctured, and Rapp glanced over at him. The pallor was obvious even in the dim glow of the instrument lights, as was the amount of blood that was soaking into the upholstery. More concerning, though, was the Volvo in his rearview mirror. There was a man standing up through the sunroof, and Rapp could see the gleam of his weapon. So far they were out of range, but the driver was taking insane chances, nearly rolling over the steep embankment to the right every time he cornered.
“Did you hear those men speak, Your Highness?” Rapp said. “They sounded Iraqi. And there’s no question that they were after you personally.”
“Hospital,” he responded weakly. “Hospital . . .”
Rapp had seen enough people in similar shape to know that he wasn’t going to make it. This would be a short interrogation and he needed to focus the man. To that end, he eased up on the accelerator and let the Volvo get close enough for the shooter to shatter their rear window.
Bin Musaid’s feeble scream mixed with the roar of the M5’s engine as Rapp accelerated again.
“Your wound doesn’t look serious,” he lied. “And I think I can lose the men chasing us, but it’ll be hard to hide you from them—they know that I have to take you to a hospital. Who are they? Do you know anything I can use? The king has made it clear that you’re to be kept safe at all costs.”
Bin Musaid started to cry. “I . . . I betrayed him.”
“Who? Who did you betray?”
“I gave money to ISIS. I supported their effort . . .” His voice faded. For a moment Rapp thought he was dead, but a volley from behind jerked him back to consciousness.
“Nassar! It has to be.”
“Nassar? Do you mean Aali Nassar?”
Bin Musaid nodded and then coughed violently, spraying the steering wheel and Rapp’s right hand with blood. “He drained my bank account, knowing that I’d seek my brother’s help. He knew it would be easier to kill me in Europe than at home.”
“That makes no sense, Highness. If he suspects that you are involved with ISIS, why wouldn’t he go to the king? Why wouldn’t he just arrest you?”
“You don’t understand,” bin Musaid responded, weakening quickly. “I was just the messenger. He’s afraid that if the CIA takes me, I’ll reveal that he was behind all of it.”
“Behind all of it,” Rapp repeated. “Are you telling me that Aali Nassar is coordinating support for ISIS?”
Bin Musaid nodded.
“Who else is involved?”
The prince didn’t respond.
“Answer me!” Rapp shouted. “The king will take care of Nassar, but if I don’t know who the others are, I can’t stop them from killing you.”
“I don’t know,” bin Musaid sobbed.
“He must have said something. Wealthy businessmen? Other royals? Government employees?”
“The hospital,” bin Musaid said in a voice that was barely audible. “You have to get me to the hospital.”
He didn’t have much more time, and it was likely he was telling the truth about not knowing more. Why would Aali Nassar tell this useless piece of shit anything?
Rapp tightened his hands on the wheel and focused on putting a little distance between him and the chasing vehicle. He wasn’t going to be able to shake them completely, though. The Volvo was a surprisingly capable car, and the man behind the wheel was either going to stay on their tail or die trying. This situation was unusual in a fundamental way, though. For once, they weren’t after him.
He hammered his foot onto the brake pedal, slamming bin Musaid against the dashboard. Rapp kept his eyes on the headlights growing in his rearview mirror as he reached for the passenger-door handle.
“What are you doing?” bin Musaid managed to say before Rapp threw open the door and shoved him out.
“Stop! What—”
Rapp accelerated away, turning on the stereo and leaving bin Musaid lying in the road. In his rearview mirror, he saw the Volvo come to a stop in front of the prince, illuminating him in its headlights as the man in the sunroof emptied a full clip into him. After that, they hooked a U and disappeared back up the road.
With his immediate problems solved, Rapp dialed Claudia.
“Mitch! Are you all right? I’m not getting a GPS signal from you.”
“I’m fine. The transmitter probably got shot.”
“Where are you?”
“About seven miles south of Terry’s, getting ready to head back.”
“No, don’t. All the terrorists are down and Grisha and Donatella are out.”
“Do they need a pickup?”
“They’re fine on foot.”
“What about Kent?”
“He’s okay, but he had to get out of the apartment fast. There’s just no way to make that rifle quiet. I heard you have the prince. Is that true?”
“I lost him.”
“What do you mean, ‘lost him’? He’s not a set of keys! How could you have lost him?”
Rapp slowed to the speed limit and opened a window to try and clear the smell of bin Musaid’s damaged bowel. “Long story.”
CHAPTER 30
RAPP eased the BMW to the edge of the dock and looked both ways. It was empty of pedestrian traffic at this hour, and most of the yachts moored near his were dark. The inevitable exception was the one inhabited by the tireless rich kids. They were on another tear, but it wouldn’t be a problem for him. Even if they noticed the BMW and managed to make out the small-arms damage, they’d never remember it in the morning.
He turned left, trying to keep his engine noise down. Claudia was standing on the yacht’s stern and the gangways were in place.
He was barely on board before she started retracting them and closing the stern railing. Living up to his reputation for efficiency, their Congolese captain immediately began motoring out to sea.
Claudia opened the car’s passenger door and backed away at the sight of the blood. “Did you do this?”
“He got hit in the bar,” Rapp said, stepping out and talking quietly over the top of the vehicle. “They were chasing me because of him, so I tossed his body out.”
Not entirely the truth, but close enough.
“But you’re all right? And by that I mean completely uninjured.”
He nodded. “What about the others?”
“Same. Kent is on his way to France on a motorcycle. Donatella is on a train to Italy, and Grisha’s company is sending a jet for him. He’ll take it to his house in London. Then, after things calm down, they’ll all make their way back to Africa.”
“And us?”
“We’ll detour over some deep water to get rid of the car and rendezvous with them next week.”
* * *
It took some effort, but he finally managed to get bin Musaid’s blood off him and down the drain. Leaning into the hot water, he let it pound on the back of his head, forcing Claudia to raise her voice to be heard. She was sitting on the granite counter with a portable computer on her lap.
“It’s on pretty much every television channel in the world, Mitch. There’s some shaky cell phone footage from the parking lot, but nothing of you yet. That’s not going to be true of the interior security cameras. I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to shut them down.”
It was another drawback to having left the government. Kennedy could have seriously limited access to that security video. Now it was likely that the local police were already watching it, and by dawn Interpol, the FBI, CIA, MI6, and Saudi intelligence would have copies. It wasn’t going to be long before he was identified.
“Sixteen dead,” she continued. “More than that wounded. The authorities are holding back the names, but an unofficial list is starting to circulate. There are some very wealthy and powerful men on here, Mitch. This is going to get a lot of attention. Do you know who the shooters were?”
“Iraqis.”
“Not a coincidence, I assume.”
“No. The fireworks were just for show. They were after bin Musaid.”
“Who sent them?”
His initial reaction was to lie. Not because he thought she didn’t know how to keep her mouth shut, but because he wanted to protect her. Unfortunately, it was a little late for that now.
“Aali Nassar.”
“The Saudi intelligence chief?”
Rapp turned off the water and grabbed a towel. “He’s behind the Saudi financing of ISIS. Bin Musaid was just one of his delivery boys.”
“Why?”
“Bin Musaid died before he could say. My guess is that, with all of Saudi Arabia’s internal problems, Nassar thinks ISIS is going to come out on top. He wants to be on the winning side.”
“Did the prince live long enough to give you the names of anyone else involved?”
“No. And he wouldn’t have known anyway. Nassar would play that pretty close to his chest.”
“What about King Faisal?”
“I doubt he’d be part of this. I’ve known him for years and he’s just looking to run out the clock. But wealthy businessmen who want to cut deals, royals who want Faisal’s throne, government officials looking to move up the ladder? The list of Saudis who have reasons to sympathize with ISIS isn’t exactly short.”
“All right. I’ll start working on Nassar’s history, known associates, and financial condition. Any chance you’d consider contacting Irene? I’m good, but I don’t have her resources.”
He shook his head and pulled on the clothes she’d laid out for him. “The only evidence I have against Nassar is the word of a little pissant who’s getting scraped off the road right now. I agreed to get myself into this. But she didn’t agree to come along.”
“Okay. I’ll handle it.”
“Carefully, though, right, Claudia? Nassar might be a terrorist son of a bitch, but he’s a smart one with an army.”
CHAPTER 31
Riyadh
Saudi Arabia
THE knock on Aali Nassar’s bedroom door was hesitant but insistent. Not his wife. Even in an emergency, she would go to the staff before disturbing him. The clock read 3 a.m.
He rolled from bed and put on a robe before striding through the darkness to the door. As expected, the head of his security detail was standing on the other side.
“What is it?”
“Your assistant just arrived, Director. He says it’s critical that you speak.
Nassar nodded. “Show him to my study. I’ll be there in a moment.”
“Right away, sir.”
Nassar pulled on a pair of slacks and a collared shirt before starting for the office he kept at the back of his home. Enough lights had been turned on to allow him to navigate, but not so many that the activity in the house would be obvious. These kinds of surprise meetings were kept as quiet as possible.
What was so important that it couldn’t wait another three hours until he arrived at the office? A successful terrorist attack on the homeland? An action by the president of the United States? The death of the king?
When Nassar entered the office, he found Hamid Safar pacing its length.
“Sir, we have reports that Prince bin Musaid has been killed.”
Nassar felt a profound sense of relief but didn’t show it. “How?”
“A terrorist attack at a private club in Monaco.”
“A terrorist attack? Do we have details?”
“There appear to have been ten men in total, all armed with assault rifles. They took out the security people and forced their way in, then proceeded to kill or wound a significant portion of the c
lientele before being killed themselves.”
“By authorities?”
“No, sir.”
“Then whom?”
“That’s a difficult question to answer,” he said, placing his laptop on Nassar’s desk and opening it. “We just received raw footage from the security cameras. Can I go through it with you?”
“Of course.”
It started with an outdoor feed depicting the terrorists getting out of their cars and beginning the assault. All was proceeding as expected until one of them was thrown violently back into one of the vehicles.
“What happened there?”
“Three of the men were killed by fifty-caliber rounds fired from the upper floor of an apartment building five hundred meters to the east. European authorities have identified the apartment and found the weapon, but they don’t think they will be able to trace it. We have some poor security camera footage of a man leaving the building, but it would be impossible to use it for identification purposes.”
“Why would there be an unknown, highly skilled sniper set up to fire down on a terrorist attack that no intelligence agency was aware was going to take place?”
“The authorities are working under the theory that the shooter was a member of one of the patrons’ security details.”
“It seems like a rather extraordinary measure for someone going to a nightclub.”
“Agreed. Further, we have a list of the members who were there that night, and none of them would have security that elaborate.”
Safar started the video again, depicting a terrorist being hit in the side and spun around.
“That wasn’t a high-caliber round,” Nassar commented.
“No, sir. There are two effective shooters. The sniper and one of the drivers in the parking lot.”
Nassar watched the gunfight play out. When all the terrorists outside had been killed, a man appeared and ran for the doors. Safar paused the video. “We assume that this is the other successful shooter.”