The man didn’t respond and Nassar softened his tone. He needed Qadir to hold together for just a bit longer.
“I already have a security team watching you, your house, and your family. But because this situation is escalating, it’s going to be necessary to move you. A safe house is being set up for you near al-Ghat. You’ll be collected tonight and moved there until I can deal with the Rapp situation.”
“‘Deal with the Rapp situation’? How many people have said that in the past, Aali? Just how do you intend to ‘deal with the Rapp situation’?”
Qadir Sultan was the last man who knew of Nassar’s direct involvement with ISIS and, as such, was currently the second greatest threat to him. While it was true that two Saudi intelligence officers would retrieve him that night, neither they nor Sultan would ever arrive at the safe house. Instead, their bodies would be discovered by the side of the road, each with a single bullet wound to the head. “I said I’m dealing with it, Qadir. How is not your concern.”
One of the Secret Service men exited the coffee shop and signaled that it was secure, prompting Nassar to disconnect the call. He got out of the car, fighting the urge to crouch as he walked. The sense of relief he felt when he stepped off the exposed street and into the building was palpable.
The tiny restaurant was only about half full and Joel Wilson was eating a sandwich near its center. Nassar approached and leaned down in order to speak to him at a level that would be inaudible to the other patrons.
“Special Agent Wilson? I wonder if I might have a word with you.”
He looked up from the tablet he was reading and spoke with a full mouth. “I’m having lunch. What do you want?”
“I’m Aali Nassar.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“I don’t guess it would. I’m the chief of Saudi Arabia’s General Intelligence Directorate.”
That captured the man’s attention, but he remained understandably skeptical. “Just out touring the Dakotas, are you?”
“I assure you that I am who I say I am, Joel. May I call you Joel?”
“Whatever works for you.”
“Could we move to a booth and speak for a moment?”
“What’s wrong with right here?”
Nassar leaned in a little closer. “I’d like our conversation to be private, and because I’d feel more comfortable with my back to the wall.”
“Why?”
“Because Mitch Rapp is trying to assassinate me.”
Skepticism was replaced by fear at the mention of the CIA man’s name.
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Please,” Nassar said, pointing toward the back.
It was the first test. Wilson was not a stupid man, and after everything he’d been through, he had every reason to decline the invitation. But would he be able to? He had become obsessed with Rapp during an investigation into the accusation that the CIA man had been misappropriating government funds. It had turned into a self-righteous crusade that had collapsed on him when it became clear that those accusations had been disinformation from Pakistan’s ISI.
Men like Wilson, though, could never admit they were wrong. He believed with religious certainty that he had been undermined by corrupt forces inside the U.S. government. That he had been made a scapegoat in an effort to save the Washington elite from embarrassment. The question was whether that righteous indignation had been beaten out of him or whether every demotion, insult, and threat had instead fanned its flames.
Wilson passed the test when he picked up his things and walked to the back of the building. Nassar took a position to the right of him and nodded toward the man’s tablet. “I assume that’s connected to the Internet. May I first suggest you confirm my identity?”
He was impressed by the man’s thoroughness. Wilson pulled up multiple websites containing photos of Nassar, then repeated the search using a British proxy server. Undoubtedly he was concerned that this was a sting operation designed to see if he’d left his Mitch Rapp obsession behind him.
“Okay. You’re who you say you are,” he said finally.
In response, Nassar pulled out a photograph of Rapp and slid it across the table. “Do you recognize this man?”
“Not a very good photo.”
“It was stitched together from a number of different stills to create as clear an image as possible. We believe it to be Rapp.”
“If you say so.”
“Obviously, all this is highly confidential, but he took Prince Talal bin Musaid out of the Monaco nightclub that was just attacked and may have murdered him. We also believe that he’s responsible for the deaths of at least two more Saudi citizens.”
Wilson’s face went blank again, and he slid the photo back to Nassar. “Then I’m guessing Irene Kennedy wanted them dead. You should be talking to her.”
“Is it possible that you’re not aware of Mr. Rapp’s resignation from the CIA?”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s hardly a secret. Perhaps information like that takes time to filter to this part of the country?”
The man took the photo back and stared down at it for a long time. “What’s this have to do with me?”
“I’m forming a task force to track him down before he can do any more damage. I need a man with outstanding investigative abilities, courage, and unimpeachable integrity. You came to mind.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’ve been down this road before. It’s why I’m sitting in a North Dakota coffee shop. Mitch Rapp has a lot of enemies, but he’s also got a lot of heavy political cover. I think I’ll just stay here and keep my pension, if you don’t mind.”
Nassar took the photo back and put it in the breast pocket of his jacket. “I think your understanding of Mr. Rapp’s position is a bit dated, Joel. He’s left the CIA and begun murdering civilians, one of whom was King Faisal’s nephew. Your government has authorized you to join my task force as my second-in-command.”
Wilson actually laughed at that. “You want me to believe that you got Director Miller to agree to that?”
“What Director Miller wants or doesn’t want is irrelevant. I’m working directly with President Alexander.”
“The president?” Wilson said, his demeanor suddenly changing. It was an easily predicted transformation. Wilson would find the idea of going over the head of the man who had banished him irresistible.
“I assume you’ll want to confirm that,” Nassar said. “Just call the White House and tell them who you are. They’ll put you through.”
“To who?”
“To the president, of course.”
Wilson chewed his lower lip, his eyes turning distant. It was almost possible to see the grandiose scenarios playing out behind them. Him being honored at the White House. Him refusing to inform Director Miller of the Rapp investigation’s progress. And, finally, him putting Mitch Rapp behind bars while the people who had halted his prior investigation were accused of a cover-up. At long last, the nation would recognize Joel Wilson for the hero he was.
“What about Kennedy?”
“It’s been her inability to control Rapp over the years that created this disaster. She has no say in this matter whatsoever.”
“Yeah? Well, in my experience she has a way of deciding herself what she does and doesn’t have a say in.”
Nassar nodded. “You’re right to be afraid of her, Joel. You live in a lovely city, have a safe job, and you’ll soon be eligible for retirement. I can’t be blamed for trying, though.”
He started to stand but Wilson grabbed his arm.
“Sit down. I didn’t say no.”
“Then you’re considering it?”
“What exactly are you offering?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“If I help
you, I want my career back.”
It would have been expedient to simply make that promise, but Wilson wasn’t stupid. The delicate balance of believability and fantasy had to be maintained.
“I’m a Saudi bureaucrat, Joel. I can’t guarantee something like that. But I can tell you that the president is anxious to have this matter dealt with before it can cause an international incident. It’s hard to imagine how having his gratitude could hurt your career.”
Wilson stared out the windows at the front of the building, watching widely spaced snowflakes fall in the street. “Bringing him in is going to be a hell of a trick. He’s not going to surrender. And even if he did, can you imagine the shit he has locked up in his head? What are they going to do? Put him on trial? Just let him sit there and spill everything he knows all over the courtroom floor?”
“I agree. Mr. Rapp will strongly resist being taken alive.”
The implication was clear, but, instead of recoiling, Wilson smiled.
“So, are you interested, Joel?”
“Hell yes, I’m interested.”
Men like him were so easily manipulated. So easily blinded. Mitch Rapp and his people were among the few things standing between the survival of the Western world and chaos. Wilson’s indignation was made possible by the freedom that Rapp risked his life to protect.
“Then tell me what our first move should be, Joel.”
“I hear that he built a fancy house outside of D.C. I say we tear it apart and see what turns up.”
“Getting a warrant will be difficult,” Nassar said. “What I’ve told you is all true but probably wouldn’t meet the standards of evidence required by your legal system.”
The FBI man smiled cruelly. “Remember how I said Rapp has enemies? Well, some of them are judges.”
CHAPTER 41
East of Manassas
Virginia
ALL progress had now officially ceased.
It was a situation that normally would have irritated the hell out of Joel Wilson, but tonight it didn’t bother him a bit. The weather was clear and still, with a sky full of stars hovering over the house—compound, really—in front of him.
The gate was a modern copper construction new enough that the green patina was still subtle. The walls were white stucco, rising a little taller than aesthetics demanded. And all of it was perched on the top of a low summit that looked out over the surrounding countryside.
He and his team had passed a barn on the way in, as well as a few home sites in the beginning phases of construction. They were nothing but a distraction, though. This hilltop had one purpose and one purpose only—to provide a location for Mitch Rapp’s castle.
A young FBI agent was standing at the keypad that opened the gate, working with a screwdriver and alligator clips to gain access. He’d been there for more than ten minutes—significantly longer than Wilson ordinarily would have tolerated without intervening. But not tonight. Tonight he’d just savor the moment.
Earlier that day he’d spoken directly to Joshua Alexander. The president had confirmed Aali Nassar’s story and made it clear that Wilson would be provided whatever resources were necessary. If he called the FBI, the local cops, the CIA, the NSA, or Jesus Christ himself, and they didn’t jump, he was to use Alexander’s private number immediately.
The turnabout from exile to having the president’s personal contact information had happened at disorienting speed. His official reprimands, his demotion and transfer to North Dakota, his wife leaving him—even his brief flirtation with suicide—were already fading from memory.
What he hadn’t shared with the president was how far he intended to take this investigation and how bad it was going to get. This was about more than Mitch Rapp going off the reservation—something a complete moron could have seen coming a mile away. It was about Kennedy’s protection of him. It was about Senator Ferris abandoning Wilson and becoming one of Kennedy’s most ardent supporters. The only things that could have brought about that betrayal were the threat of public disgrace or treason charges. How many other politicians were in her pocket? How many other government officials had she allowed to keep their pensions in the hope that it would prevent them from blowing the whistle?
His phone rang and the screen displayed a number that was still immediately recognizable. It had been a long time since Director Miller had called him, and he wondered whether he should even bother picking up. He didn’t answer to Miller anymore. If anything, Miller answered to him.
In the end he couldn’t resist.
“Hello?”
“I understand you’re at Mitch Rapp’s house with some of my people.”
“I thought it’d been made clear that they’re my people, Director.”
“Joel . . .” the man said in an exasperated tone Wilson remembered well. It was like hearing his father all over again. But Miller wasn’t his father. He was one of the men who had been subverted by Irene Kennedy. One of the men who would be exposed before all this was over.
“I know you want revenge against Rapp and Kennedy,” Miller continued. “And that you want to take us all down for corruption and God knows what else. But you need to put your personal feelings aside and think about what you’re doing.”
“Are you afraid I’m going to dig too deep? That I’m going to find out what’s really been going on? Because that’s the job the president gave me.”
“It’s the job the Saudis gave you, Joel. We don’t work for the Saudis. The enemy of your enemy isn’t your friend. Aali Nassar is a treacherous, fundamentalist son of a bitch who would slit his own mother’s throat for . . . hell, for damn near anything. You’ve been in this exact same position before with the Pakistanis. Here’s what I can guarantee you, Joel—”
“Are you about to threaten me, Director? Because I should warn you that I’m recording this call.”
“Shut up for once in your life and listen. Nassar and the Saudis have a hidden agenda here. What it is, I don’t know. But don’t trust them, Joel. Stay neutral, stay professional, and you might get out of this with your skin.”
“Then you are threatening me.”
“Damn it, Joel!” Miller said, raising his voice for one of the few times in their relationship. “If Rapp really has gone rogue, then this isn’t about you losing your pension or getting transferred. He’s going to kill you. Can you get that through your thick skull?”
“Can I quote you on that?”
The line went dead and Wilson smiled. It had been a good try, but Miller’s call reeked of desperation. He wondered how many more like it he’d receive before all this was over.
The man working on Rapp’s keypad suddenly turned and began walking in Wilson’s direction. The gate was still closed.
“What? Why aren’t we in?”
“I’m not getting through that, sir.”
“So when the Bureau told me you were competent, that wasn’t true? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Sir, I’ve never seen a unit like that. It doesn’t have any brand markings or a model number. I couldn’t even tell you what country it was made in.”
“Then go home.”
“Sir, I—”
“If you can’t do your job, then you’re just in the way, aren’t you? Now, get the hell out of here.”
Wilson turned his attention to an FBI SWAT team standing behind a massive vehicle fitted with a battering ram. “We can’t get through the electronics, so we’re going to have to tear the gate down.”
The team leader looked at him and then at the gate. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir.”
“What do you mean, not a good idea?”
“That’s Mitch Rapp’s gate.”
“I’m aware of whose gate it is.”
“Maybe we could call the Agency. They might have a way to get in.”
Wilson just stared at him. ??
?Are you afraid of damaging Rapp’s gate?”
The men all looked at each other. A few actually nodded.
“Sir,” the team leader started again. “Do you see those cameras up on the wall? They’re still filming.” He thumbed behind him. “And have you noticed that?”
Wilson squinted through the darkness toward the barn. It took a moment, but he finally made out a lone human figure leaning on a cane. “Who is he?”
“That’s Rapp’s closest friend, Scott Coleman. He once jumped out of a second-story window onto a suicide bomber and beat the guy to death with a car jack. A fucking car jack, sir. And he’s known as one of the more easygoing people Rapp works with.”
Wilson knew exactly who Coleman was. He was the man who had set up the listening devices that had recorded Wilson’s meeting with Senator Ferris. He was the man who had provided the audio that had destroyed his life.
“Get in the vehicle and take down the gate. That’s an order.”
“With all due respect, sir. Fuck you. Keys are in it.”
Wilson was stunned by the man’s insubordination, but now wasn’t the time to deal with it. They needed to gain access, and if he had to do it himself, so be it. He climbed in and, after a minute of examining the controls, figured out how to get it started. Depressing the accelerator, he aimed the ram at the center of the gate. The cameras on the wall watched silently and he found himself hoping they could see through the windshield. That Rapp would know exactly who had done this.
He hit hard, expecting the enormous vehicle to sail through, but instead the gate flexed, absorbing the impact. He was thrown against the seat belt, his head snapping forward with enough force to momentarily daze him. When he regained his equilibrium, he let out a lengthy string of expletives, reversed fifty yards, and floored it. This time the gate gave way spectacularly and he slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop in front of a modern structure completely devoid of windows.
He had to wait for the men to come up cautiously behind him, but when they finally did, he leaned out the window. “Take down the front door!”
“Sir, I—”
“Shut up! You’re either taking down the door or I’m taking down the whole wall.”