“My people put the likelihood at ninety-five percent.”
She herself put it at a hundred, but there was no reason to say that. Alexander was unaware that she knew about his early morning meeting with Mitch Rapp. And while Rapp had said nothing about what had been discussed, he also had done nothing to prevent her from coming to the obvious conclusion.
“What was he doing there, Irene? I was told he left the CIA. Is that not the case? Is he working for you?”
She found this charade a bit insulting and considered telling the president that she was perfectly aware that it was he who had set Rapp on this path. As satisfying as that would be, though, it would also be extraordinarily unwise. As usual, she had no choice but to swallow her anger and play the games that politics required.
“Mitch gave me his resignation and I have not been in contact with him since. To the best of my knowledge, no one at the Agency has.”
“So you don’t know where he is?”
“I have no idea,” she responded honestly.
“Well, that piece of shit Aali Nassar is going to be here in less than two minutes, and he’s not going to be happy with that answer.”
“Mitch Rapp is no longer my concern nor the concern of the Central Intelligence Agency. He’s a private citizen who happened to be in a European establishment when it was attacked by terrorists. I saw nothing in that video to suggest that Mitch—if that’s indeed who it was—did anything criminal. If Director Nassar wants to talk to him, then he’s free to find him and request a meeting.”
“You’re not going to seriously sit there and tell me it was just a coincidence that Mitch was there when those terrorists attacked,” Alexander said.
She just took a sip of her tea.
The enhanced video from Monaco had been three of the most interesting minutes of film she’d ever watched. Kennedy was extremely surprised by the presence of Grisha Azarov, whom everyone had dismissed as the luckiest extraction consultant in history. Seeing him work was quite extraordinary and went a long way to explaining how he had managed to injure Scott Coleman so badly.
Even more shocking had been the presence of Donatella Rahn. She still hadn’t been identified and even the CIA’s analysts were speculating that she was nothing more than an Eastern European prostitute.
And that left the unknown sniper who had been ensconced on the top floor of an apartment to the west. All they had of him was poor security camera footage depicting a man of average height and build wearing a bulky coat, a hat, and large eyeglasses opaque to surveillance equipment. She’d quietly looked into a number of men whom she thought Rapp might have recruited but, to her old friend’s credit, had come up empty. Was it possible that he’d solicited the help of Kent Black? She knew that the former Ranger was selling arms in Africa, but there had never been any reason to keep tabs on him.
“You seem even more guarded than usual, Irene. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Mr. President?”
She regretted the words the moment they came out of her mouth. The unwavering control that had served her so well in her career was beginning to fail. One of the most courageous, patriotic, and effective American operatives ever born had been put in a position that was likely fatal, and there was very little she could do to change that.
Alexander refused to acknowledge it, but there was only one course this meeting could take. Mitch Rapp, the man who was like a brother to her and who had sacrificed everything for his country, was going to be thrown to the wolves.
“What are you trying to say, Irene?”
She was saved from having to answer by the president’s assistant poking her head in. “Sir? Director Nassar has arrived.”
Alexander stood behind his desk. “Show him in.”
Nassar looked a bit less smug and significantly more tired than the last time they’d met. He shook hands with Alexander but decided to dispense with that pleasantry when turning to face Kennedy. “King Faisal wants to know what your involvement with Mitch Rapp is and what is being done about him.”
“Could you be more specific, Director?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. His involvement with the terrorist attack in Monaco and the kidnapping—perhaps even murder—of Prince Talal bin Musaid.”
She allowed an intentionally unconvincing expression of shock to cross her face. “You’re suggesting the man in that nightclub was Mitch Rapp?”
“There’s videotape!”
“Really? And is that videotape conclusive?” she said, quoting Nassar’s own words when he’d been faced with the existence of photographic evidence that bin Musaid was financing terrorists in Morocco.
“We believe it is,” Nassar said, a brief flash in his eyes registering the insult. “We—”
“Director, why don’t we sit for a moment?” the president interrupted.
He led them to a seating area and they all settled in. Alexander should have been enjoying turning the tables on the Saudi. Instead he was calculating every possible way Rapp’s actions could blow back on him. It wasn’t lost on Kennedy that it would be far better for him if the former CIA agent disappeared forever. As Stan Hurley had been fond of saying, dead men tell no tales.
“I demand that we dispense with these games immediately,” Nassar said. “Everyone in this room knows that the man in that video is Rapp.”
“I know no such thing,” Kennedy retorted. “And even if it is, the man in that video is killing the terrorists and appears to be trying to save the prince.”
“Save him? He threw His Highness into the street, where he was gunned down like an animal!”
“Gunned down by the men in the pursuing car. Perhaps the prince was already dead. I think it’s fair to say that it would be quite disturbing to have a dead body in one’s passenger seat.”
“Disturbing? Don’t be absurd! A man like the one in that video wouldn’t be bothered by the presence of a dead body in his car.”
She just shrugged.
Nassar pulled two photos from the portfolio he was carrying and handed them to her.
“Since you’re not satisfied by the quality of the pictures captured from that video, Director Kennedy, perhaps you’ll find these more convincing.”
Each depicted a bloody corpse secured to a chair. She tapped the top one. “Ahmed el-Hashem.”
“We were very sorry to hear about your assistant ambassador’s death,” the President interjected.
“I’m sure you were,” Nassar remarked in an openly disrespectful tone. “He was tortured—likely for information—and then executed with a single shot to the head from what my people are saying was probably a Glock. The second man, Mahja Zaman, suffered the same fate.”
“Mahja Zaman?” Kennedy said. “Who is he?”
“A Saudi businessman.”
She pulled out her phone and Googled the name as he continued. It was just for show, though. She was extremely familiar with Mr. Zaman.
“He was killed at a Brussels hotel, as was one of the hotel’s security people. Further, the murderer—who fits Mitch Rapp’s description—incapacitated two more security guards on his way out of the building before being driven away by a Caucasian woman.”
“Do you have photographic evidence?” Kennedy asked.
“Rapp disabled the cameras when he killed the security guard.”
“So, a six-foot, bearded, dark-complected male in his forties. That narrows it down to about a quarter of a billion people.”
“Don’t be a fool! You know as well as I do that this is Mitch Rapp’s doing! He believed that Prince bin Musaid was involved with ISIS, and he’s interrogating and murdering men he perceives to be connected.”
“And why would he perceive these men to be connected?”
He didn’t reply, and Kennedy continued to scroll
through her phone. “This is interesting. It says that Zaman is about your age and went to Oxford. Did you know him?”
“We were roommates.”
“Really,” she said, looking up and affecting an expression of sympathy. “Then I’m very sorry for the loss of your friend.”
“This is all irrelevant,” the Saudi said, trying to regain control of the conversation. “Whether this is or is not the work of Mitch Rapp is a matter that’s easily resolved. All we need to do is speak with him.”
“Then I’d encourage you to do that,” Kennedy said.
“Where would I find him?”
“I’m not in the habit of keeping track of my former employees.”
Nassar finally turned his attention to the president, who, for obvious reasons, was content to let his CIA chief take the lead. “Sir. You know as well as I do that Mitch Rapp is involved in this. The man was always unstable and violent, and now he’s gone rogue. King Faisal demands that he be found before he can kill any more of our citizens. If we discover that he wasn’t involved, of course we’ll provide both you and him a formal apology. Until then, though, I think we can make the assumption that he’ll keep killing until he’s stopped. Because of the king’s deep respect for you and his acknowledgment of Mr. Rapp’s past contributions to our security, we’re willing to keep this quiet. If you refuse to help, however, we’ll be forced to make this information public and seek the help of the world’s law enforcement agencies.”
Even Alexander couldn’t hide his increased apprehension at the word “public.” He turned to Kennedy.
“Irene, can you get in touch with him? Ask him to come in for an interview?”
“Probably not,” she said, vaguely.
Nassar’s jaw clenched. “Mr. President, I am formally asking for your government’s help in finding Mr. Rapp. If he’s innocent, he’ll have an opportunity to clear his name. If he’s not, his capture will prevent any further bloodshed.”
Checkmate, Kennedy knew. Refusing the perfectly reasonable request would be a political disaster and would force Alexander to manufacture a rationale for that refusal that would be too far-fetched to play on the world stage. It’s what she had feared since the day the president sent Rapp on this fool’s errand.
“What is it you need?” Alexander said.
“For you to provide my task force with a man who can assist and who can act as a liaison between my people and yours.”
Alexander looked at Kennedy. “Irene? Could you provide someone?”
“Of course. Perhaps—”
“With all due respect, sir, I already have someone in mind.”
“Who?”
“Special agent Joel Wilson of the FBI.”
Kennedy’s heart sank at the name. Wilson was the former acting deputy director of counterintelligence, a twisted little man who hated Rapp with the same intensity as many of his terrorist enemies. Worse, he was an extremely competent and obsessive investigator. Nassar had once again proved his cunning. Wilson would abandon all common sense, all perspective, and all national loyalty for an opportunity to exact revenge on Rapp.
“I don’t know him,” the president said, standing. “But if that’s who you want, fine.”
Nassar stood as well, shaking the man’s hand and giving a curt nod to Kennedy before heading for the door. When it closed behind him, Alexander turned to her. “Joel Wilson? Who the fuck is that?”
“You remember him, sir. He worked with Senator Ferris against us when—”
“That little prick? The idiot who the Pakistanis used to try to take out the CIA’s clandestine services?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I still can’t understand why you didn’t put that bastard in jail and throw away the key.”
“It was less complicated not to. We didn’t want to give the FBI a black eye, and tensions with Pakistan were already bad enough. We demoted him and agreed to let him keep his pension. To the best of my knowledge, he’s working at one of the FBI’s resident agencies. Montana, maybe? Or it could be Alaska.”
Alexander dropped back into the couch. “What do you know about all this, Irene? I’m not buying that you came up with Zaman and Nassar going to school together from your phone.”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
“Give me your best guess on this, Irene. What’s Mitch’s involvement?”
She smiled easily, hiding her anger at Alexander for having the audacity to so calmly ask her that question. “It seems self-evident that Mitch was at that nightclub, watching bin Musaid. Based on our analysis of the video, what happened there wasn’t a random terrorist attack. They were there to get bin Musaid. Rapp saw it happening during his surveillance and intervened.”
“So what about el-Hashem and Zaman? Is it possible that bin Musaid fingered them when he was in the car with Mitch and that Mitch decided to deal with them on his own? We both know how opposed he was to the arrangement that was made after 9/11.”
“It’s possible but unlikely. Leaving aside el-Hashem for the moment, Zaman’s death in Brussels implies that Mitch murdered a security guard. There’s nothing in his history to suggest he’d do something like that.”
“But then he’s never gone rogue before, either.”
She let that go, but her anger notched higher.
“If you don’t think it’s too immoral for Mitch, sir, then I’d argue that it’s simply too sloppy. Once that guard was killed, the clock would be ticking on his body being discovered. There would be no time to carry out an effective interrogation.”
“So what, then?”
“A much more likely scenario is that whoever was behind Prince bin Musaid’s actions in Morocco is getting rid of everyone who knows his identity and framing Mitch for it.”
“Are you sure you’re not letting your friendship with him cloud your judgment?”
“Let me ask you something, sir. How many times have I told you I was certain of something?”
“Never. You’re the master of the hedge.”
“Well, I’m certain Mitch is not responsible for the death of that hotel security guard. And if he didn’t do it, someone else did.”
“Okay. Who?”
“If I had to guess? Aali Nassar.”
“Is that a joke?”
“Not at all. Nassar is an ambitious man. He’ll want to be on the winning side when Faisal dies, and he might see ISIS as a critical backer. Frankly, he might be right.”
“Can you contact Mitch in a way that no one can track?”
“I don’t know if Mitch would take my call, and there’s no such thing as completely secure communications—particularly if Nassar knows more than he’s telling us.”
“Then don’t. You can’t be seen as having any involvement in this.” He sank a little deeper into the cushions and let out a long breath. “I can’t believe that Mitch would do something like this without authorization, Irene.”
She stared directly at him when she answered. “Neither can I.”
For the first time in their relationship, the most powerful man in the world wouldn’t meet her eye.
CHAPTER 40
Bismarck
North Dakota
U.S.A.
AALI Nassar stayed in the car, looking past his driver at distant snowcapped mountains. He had sent his security detail back to Saudi Arabia and replaced them with a team of Secret Service men provided by the president. All were too young to have much experience, but also too young to have a relationship with Mitch Rapp. The fact that the CIA man had appeared at Zaman’s hotel virtually guaranteed that he was aware of Nassar’s role in the financing of ISIS. And if that was true, he would be coming.
Nassar was now engaged in mortal combat with a man who had never lost such a confrontation. It had been proved over and over again that brute force would fail against Rapp. The only hope was to outman
euver him, and the Secret Service men were an effort to do just that. Rapp would be reluctant to use deadly force against the American security detail, while they would have no such misgivings where he was concerned. It was far from being an assurance, but it was the most logical course of action while he was on U.S. soil.
The Secret Service agents had spread out on the street and were scanning the light traffic with practiced eyes. Finally, two of them disappeared into a coffee shop to the north.
Nassar had wasted no time getting to Bismarck, going directly to his plane from his meeting at the Oval Office. Despite this, it was certain that Irene Kennedy knew of his whereabouts. Was that duplicitous bitch involved? Had she quietly sent Rapp Nassar’s flight plan? Was the CIA assassin out there, clean-shaven and blending in with the slack-jawed farmers?
Nassar’s phone rang, and he looked at the secure number, initially moving to dismiss it but then thinking better. He needed a distraction and would have to speak to the man soon anyway. Nassar slid down in his seat a few more inches and picked up.
“Hello, Qadir.”
“Zaman and el-Hashem are dead and you haven’t been returning my calls!” came the panicked response. “Rumors are that Mitch Rapp was involved. Is there any truth to this?”
“I’m afraid there is.”
“What action are you taking?” he screeched. “I demand that—”
“Qadir! Be calm!”
“Calm? How can you even say this to me? I’m told that you’re in America with heavy security. I’m at my home with my wife and children. He could walk in here at any moment and—”
“You think I’m safer in America?” Nassar cut in angrily. “In his home country? Quit acting like an old woman. Are you afraid to meet God after having done His work? Is there some reason for you to fear His judgment?”