Enemy of the State

  “Contact your counterpart at the FBI, Hamid. Tell them about Rapp’s involvement in Wilson’s murder and put them in touch with Abdo.”

  “Understood.”

  “Has there been any progress in finding Rapp and his people?”

  “None. But the Americans trained him and are familiar with his associates, methods, and finances. With improved cooperation from them, he won’t stay invisible for long.”

  Nassar sat at the small conference table and dismissed his assistant with a wave of the hand.

  How much had Rapp learned, and did it matter? Everyone who knew of Nassar’s involvement was dead—all in a way that would strongly implicate the CIA assassin.

  Now Rapp had fled his base in Juba and was on the run. More important, the entire Western world would soon be hunting him. He knew far too much about their clandestine wars to ever be allowed to defend himself in a hearing. Even Irene Kennedy, his stalwart supporter for decades, would be forced to abandon him. She was loyal, but not stupid enough to commit political suicide and potentially end up in prison.

  Despite all this, it would be a mistake to underestimate the man. Wounded animals could be extraordinarily dangerous, and Mitch Rapp was no exception. Nassar had already doubled his personal security detail, but now it seemed wise to move to an undisclosed location. Rapp was the most talented assassin of his generation, but he couldn’t kill what he couldn’t find.

  Nassar’s phone rang with an immediately recognizable number. As always, he considered rejecting it, but the conference room was soundproof and swept for listening devices daily. There was no better place to have this unavoidable conversation.

  “Yes,” he said, picking up.

  “Is Rapp dead?” Mullah Halabi’s tone suggested he already knew the answer to the question.

  “No. I—”

  “It’s my understanding that my men are.”

  “As are mine,” Nassar shot back. He hadn’t asked for Halabi’s men, and their constant presence was becoming a significant problem. Reminding the mullah of this, though, would be counterproductive. He was a dangerous man and it was clear that he had infiltrated all levels of Saudi Arabia’s government.

  “Joel Wilson’s investigation led him to South Sudan. Rapp was already gone and he was attacked by a local rebel group. The area is in the midst of a civil war, which is undoubtedly why Rapp chose it.”

  “And yet you survived.”

  “I was called back to Riyadh.”

  “Allah must have great plans for you.”

  “I am his servant.”

  “Indeed,” the ISIS leader said with an obvious lack of conviction.

  “This may turn out to be an ideal situation,” Nassar started. “We’ve begun a disinformation campaign that will cause the Americans to believe that Rapp was there and that he killed Wilson. We know—”

  “Perhaps death isn’t Rapp’s immediate destiny, Aali. If he’s taken back to America in chains, what havoc might he wreak? Certainly the political enemies of the CIA would line up against him. Would there be public hearings? If so, Rapp might reveal secrets that would shake his godless country to its core.”

  “Yes, but in that kind of a hearing, my relationship with you would be uncovered.”

  “And then the king would put you to death. It is a man’s greatest hope to have the privilege of being martyred.”

  The line went dead, and Nassar slammed his phone against the table. It was easy for that cave-dwelling goatherd to speak of the glory of martyrdom. Nassar, however, had no intention of dying or ending up in one of Faisal’s dungeons. He had a great many things left to do in this life, and Mitch Rapp was the last great obstacle to accomplishing them.

  CHAPTER 55

  East of Riyadh

  Saudi Arabia

  REMEMBER when I told you I thought you were insane?” Claudia said, looking through the jet’s window at a private airstrip cut into the desert. “Now I’m sure of it.”

  Rapp was dozing on a sofa near the back of the plane. “It’s going to be fine.”

  “How is it going to be fine?” she said. “Aali Nassar is desperate to see you dead, and now we’re flying into his backyard. Do you think King Faisal’s going to save you? It doesn’t matter what you’ve done for him and his country in the past, Mitch. He’s an old man and Nassar will have poisoned him against you. He’s probably personally sharpening the sword they’re going to use to behead you.”

  “Faisal never does anything himself,” Rapp said, adjusting into a more comfortable position. “He’s probably just overseeing the sharpening.”

  “Stop trying to deflect.”

  “Stop worrying so much.”

  “I’m your logistics coordinator. It’s my job.”

  “And you’re good at it.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Mitch. Just don’t.”

  Rapp had hoped his relationship with Claudia would achieve the balance and ease he’d been searching for. She was pragmatic and adaptable, lacking both his late wife’s naïveté and Donatella’s violent unpredictability. Unfortunately, it seemed that anyone he got close to was eventually sucked into the chaos and darkness that swirled around him.

  And it was time to admit that he was making it worse. He just couldn’t stop testing her. From the standpoint of logistics, she was virtually flawless—one of the best he’d ever worked with. But he was still concerned with how she dealt with the stress of life-and-death situations and how their relationship would affect her judgment.

  Or was that just a copout? Maybe he was testing himself. Hell, maybe he was trying to drive her away. The idea of losing someone again constantly lurked at the back of his mind. Thoughts of his own death didn’t concern him all that much, but the idea of another funeral and the emptiness and rage that followed was the one thing that had the power to scare him. On the other hand, one day he’d be forced to look back and assess his life. Was “numbness” the word he’d wanted to use to summarize it?

  “Mitch?” she prompted. “You better not have fallen asleep during this conversation.”

  Once again he was reminded of how much he missed Scott Coleman. The former SEAL would be sitting silently at the front of the plane, cleaning his weapon and waiting for orders.

  “I’m awake.”

  “This is too much of a risk for not enough reward. If you want to convince someone of your innocence, it should be the Americans. And even then you should let me set up a neutral meeting place. Somewhere with a back door if things go—”

  The wheels hit the ground and the engines reversed, causing her to fall silent. Too late.

  Rapp rose to his feet and walked toward the cockpit. The pilot was scanning an empty building to the north as he brought the aircraft to a stop. His hand was white-knuckled on the throttle, waiting to slam it forward again if necessary.

  “Take a left after that hangar,” Rapp said, pointing through the windscreen.

  “It says that’s a restricted area.”

  “Just do it, Paco.”

  As he eased the aircraft forward, a military contingent appeared. The pilot began to slow, but Rapp took a seat next to him and pushed the throttle forward again.

  “I think they’re serious,” Paco said, pointing at four machine gunners tracking them from the top armored vehicles. “Are you sure about this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  While there had never been any formal introductions, it was likely he’d figured out who Rapp was by now. And in light of that, he’d decided it was better not to question orders.

  “Stop by that building up there,” Rapp said, slipping out of the seat and heading toward the back. He pointed at Claudia. “We’re up.”

  “What? What’s that mean?”

  The plane came to a stop and he opened the door before lowering the steps. She followed him into the heat and glare of the sun, loo
king around nervously at the soldiers watching them.

  Normally, Rapp would have been wearing a hat and sunglasses in an effort to thwart the cameras that had become so ubiquitous in modern society. Today, though, he walked slowly, scanning the airstrip with his face completely exposed.

  Claudia put a hand in his back and pushed him forward. “What the hell are you doing? I don’t know where you think you’re going, but could we at least get there?”

  He adjusted his trajectory toward a Gulfstream G550. David Graves, wearing a dark suit and seemingly unaffected by the heat, was standing at the base of the steps leading onto the aircraft. He watched them carefully, moving his hand toward the weapon holstered beneath his left arm.

  His reaction drove home for Rapp the seriousness of his situation. They’d known each other for years and still got together at the range every month or so, usually grabbing a beer afterward.

  By the time they made it to within ten feet, his hand was wrapped around the grip of the SIG P226 that Rapp himself had shot many times. It wasn’t surprising. Word was going around the intelligence community that Joel Wilson was dead and that Rapp was responsible.

  “What are you doing here, Mitch?”

  “I’m not here, Dave.”

  “There are about fifty Saudis behind you who might disagree.”

  Graves glanced at Claudia but then pressed a finger to his earpiece, suggesting that he was receiving a transmission.

  “Are you sure?” he responded into the microphone on his wrist. “Do you want me to come in? I think you should have at least some—Yes. Understood.”

  He stepped aside and Rapp followed Claudia as she moved toward the steps. When they entered the aircraft, she stopped short.

  Irene Kennedy rose from her chair and approached, giving Claudia a short embrace as Rapp chose a seat near a section of fuselage with no windows.

  “I’m so glad to see you, Claudia,” Kennedy said. “I’ve been worried. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but what are you doing here? Mitch kept refusing to call you.”

  “I called him,” she said, indicating toward the chair next to Rapp’s and taking a facing seat. “And I’m looking forward to hearing about what you’ve been doing over the past month. Grisha Azarov, Donatella Rahn, and Kent Black . . .” She shook her head. “Desperate times . . .”

  “Word is Joel Wilson’s dead,” Rapp said. “Last time I saw him, he looked okay. You didn’t—”

  “No, of course not.” She twisted in her seat. “Joel! Could you come out here, please?”

  The FBI man appeared from the secure communications space at the back, looking a bit sheepish.

  “Joel’s been working to identify the men who were killed in Juba and helping to clear you in the deaths of the Saudi nationals you’re accused of killing.”

  “Are you making any progress?” Rapp asked.

  “It’s hard to get anything concrete,” Wilson replied. “But we’re building a pretty decent circumstantial case for your innocence.”

  Rapp pulled out the fake passport he’d been using and tossed it to the man. “It’s not exactly ironclad, but you might be able to get some mileage out of it.”

  Wilson flipped through the pages, looking at the entry and exit stamps. “Every little bit helps. Let me go back and get some scans.”

  Rapp returned his attention to Kennedy. “Is our meeting with the king still on?”

  “Yes,” she responded, glancing at her watch. “In fact, we’re running late. Claudia, why don’t you wait here for us?”

  “I think I should come,” she protested. “I have all the details of what we’ve done—times, dates, places, transportation. I could help fill in anything that Joel hasn’t been able to figure out.”

  “I understand, and we’ll need you to coordinate with him later, but for now I’d like to keep you out of this as much as possible. And besides, it will give you a chance to give Anna a call. She and Tommy are having a wonderful time together, but she misses her mother.”

  * * *

  The lights of the Erga Palace’s fountain had come on, bathing the pillared entrance in a warm glow. Guards were plentiful, all carrying assault rifles and all very interested in the limousine gliding past them.

  “Stop here,” Rapp said in Arabic to the driver.

  “What?” he responded. “Why? I’ve been told to take you to the entrance where the king’s assistant is waiting.”

  “Stop here,” Rapp repeated. The man had no choice but to do so. Rapp was the king’s guest and, as such, his wishes were to be carried out to the letter.

  “You don’t mind a little walk, do you, Irene?”

  “An excellent idea,” she said, following him out into the quickly cooling evening.

  “What are we doing?” Wilson said, looking around at the guards before leaving the relative safety of the limo.

  “Relax,” Rapp said, putting a friendly hand in his back and ushering him toward the palace entrance. “I just needed a little air.”

  In truth Rapp wanted to make sure this little visit was as public as possible. He needed the guards—many of whom would be loyal to Aali Nassar—to see not only him and Irene Kennedy walking freely into a meeting with the king but also the late Joel Wilson strolling along with them.

  They met Faisal’s assistant on the palace steps and, after some strained pleasantries, were led to a marble-and-gilt audience room near the back of the palace. As expected, the king wasn’t there. He liked to make an entrance and they were forced to wait. The only seat was a gold-and-red-velvet throne on an elevated platform, so they had to stand.

  After five minutes Faisal appeared and struggled into his seat. The platform had been getting progressively shorter as he aged, and Rapp noted that it might be about time for another adjustment.

  “I have agreed to this meeting and excluded Director Nassar at your request, Dr. Kennedy. I do this out of respect for you and in acknowledgment of what Mr. Rapp has done to defend my kingdom in the past. But I want to be clear that I believe him to be a murderer.”

  Despite their long relationship, Faisal didn’t look at him. Yet another reminder of how quickly political loyalties could change.

  “Your Highness,” Kennedy said. “I’d like to introduce Joel Wilson, the FBI agent who was helping Director Nassar try to find Mitch.”

  “I’m quite familiar with Agent Wilson,” Faisal said. “Though I was told you were dead.”

  “No, sir. One of Director Nassar’s men tried to kill me, but Mitch managed to prevent it.”

  “That’s a very serious accusation. Do you have proof?”

  “Is the equipment we requested available?”

  The king pointed toward an ornate cabinet against the wall. Wilson opened it, docking his laptop and retrieving a remote control. A moment later the lights dimmed and his screen was projected on the wall.

  “This first image is a list of dates and places where Mitch has traveled since leaving the CIA. They are corroborated by his passport. You can see that it would be impossible for him to have killed your man in Paris or Qadir Sultan in Saudi Arabia.”

  “You’re offering entries in a forged passport as proof?” Faisal asked.

  “Please, let him finish,” Kennedy said.

  “Thank you. We have corroborating evidence from various cameras in airports and other locations, all time-stamped.”

  He scrolled through them, but Rapp’s natural ability to keep his face out of photos worked against him. When Wilson brought up an image of a lengthy telephone record, Rapp had had enough.

  “Stop.”

  Wilson looked over at him. “I was just getting to—”

  Rapp stepped forward and locked eyes with the aging monarch. “You know damn well that I didn’t kill those people because I’m telling you I didn’t kill them. Why would I lie? Why would I be stand
ing here in front of you instead of putting a bullet in your head and hoping the next asshole who sits in that chair is better?”

  Faisal jerked back, alarm and confusion reading on his face. It was probably the first time he’d ever been spoken to that way.

  “Mitch . . .” Kennedy cautioned, but the old man pushed himself to his feet and spoke over her. “You tell me all this, but then you insist that Aali not be present to defend himself. He’s been unfailingly loyal to me and worked tirelessly against ISIS.”

  “Listen to yourself,” Rapp responded. “Even you don’t believe what you’re saying. You either need to run this country or turn it over to someone who can. Because you’ve been played and I can’t tell if you’re too stupid to realize it or too old to care.”

  “Guards!” the king shouted, and a moment later two men armed with HK G36s burst through the door. Kennedy took a few steps back while Wilson scurried for the edge of the room. Rapp held his position. He wasn’t finished yet.

  One guard took a position to his right, unsure what Faisal wanted him to do. Rapp took advantage of the confusion and swept his legs from under him while grabbing the barrel of his gun. He jerked it out of his hands and rammed the butt of it into the head of the second guard, whose knees buckled. Rapp dropped the rifle and snatched the Browning Hi Power from the man’s holster before he dropped to the marble floor.

  The remaining palace guards registered the commotion and he could hear their shouts as they fanned out behind him. They were even less inclined to act, though. Rapp had his weapons lined up on Faisal’s forehead and the slightest twitch of his finger would put an end to their king.

  “Are we going to continue our conversation, Highness? Or are we going to end it?”

  The events of the last few seconds had come too fast for the man and it took him a beat to process what had happened. When he did, he dismissed his guards. Rapp kept the weapon lined up as they dragged the two unconscious men away. When he heard the door close, he dropped the gun on the floor.

  “Twenty years ago, would you have put this much trust in a power-hungry piece of shit like Aali Nassar?”