“Director Nassar,” the man said, stopping to give a crisp salute. “It’s a pleasure to see you, sir. Are you aware that the king is on his way here?”
Nassar had been informed of that fact only an hour ago and, despite the efforts of his staff, was still in the dark as to why. The aging monarch rarely left the walls of his palace anymore. What matter could be urgent enough for him to venture out into the world that he had become so fearful of?
“His Highness and I have matters to discuss and this was a convenient time and location,” Nassar said, being careful to hide his contempt for the young colonel. He was a tepid Muslim with little guile or ambition beyond simple service to his king and country. Nassar’s people had found nothing with which to blackmail him, and he would likely be immune to offers of money, women, or power.
That, combined with the fact that he’d gained the king’s favor, made him a man to be rid of at the earliest opportunity. Fortunately, that opportunity was about to present itself.
“Is everything ready?” Nassar asked as jet engines became audible to the east. He didn’t bother to look, confident that the source of the sound was Faisal’s Airbus A380. Despite being only an hour’s drive from Riyadh, the geriatric fool had flown. Undoubtedly out of fear of leaving the lavish ministrations of his wives and doctors.
“Yes, sir. Intelligence has confirmed that General al-Omari is en route slightly ahead of schedule.”
“Will that be a problem?”
Bazzi shook his head. “I was prepared for variations in our timetable. We’ll be wheels up a half hour earlier than planned, but it won’t affect any of the other operational parameters.”
Nassar gave a barely perceptible nod. Dabir al-Omari was near the top of ISIS’s command structure. Before the invasion of Iraq, he had been one of Saddam Hussein’s most talented young officers and now he was adding his strategic genius to Mullah Sayid Halabi’s messianic charisma. Capturing him would be a devastating blow to the terrorist group and a service that Colonel Bazzi was anxious to perform for his beloved king.
“I have every confidence in you,” Nassar started. “But I’ve decided to personally oversee this operation.”
“But, sir, the general will be traveling with a significant security force. There’s no way I can guarantee your safety. Please allow—”
“I understand. Neither I nor the king hold you responsible for my safety.” He forced a smile and clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “I think you’ll find my men quite useful and I assure you that I can take care of myself.”
The Airbus passing overhead drowned out Bazzi’s response and Nassar began walking toward the runway, feeling his sense of agitation increase with every step. If anything, he had been overcautious in his efforts to undermine the authority of the country’s monarchy. Was it possible that his actions had been discovered? The likelihood seemed remote. But even if the king had unwittingly stumbled upon some faint trail, nothing would lead to Nassar personally. Still, the damage to his plans could be considerable.
A group of soldiers double-timed a set of steps to the plane and Nassar climbed them as one of Faisal’s security men opened the door. He stepped aside and bowed his head respectfully.
“His Highness is waiting for you at the back, Director.”
Nassar passed through the opulent interior and found King Faisal sitting alone on a sectional sofa near the rear bulkhead. There was an oxygen mask next to him but the tank it was attached to was tastefully hidden. Eighty-six years of life and hundreds of thousands of American cigarettes had left the man with emphysema and congestive heart failure. But as near as Nassar’s people could tell, maddeningly free of cancer.
“It’s my understanding that preparations for tomorrow’s operation are proceeding acceptably,” Faisal said, dispensing with the formalities he’d reveled in as a younger man. With so few breaths left, he now tried to use them wisely.
“This is my understanding as well, Your Highness.”
“I also hear that you’ve decided to involve yourself personally.”
“You are indeed well-informed.”
“Do you think it’s wise?”
“The risk to me is minimal and the importance of this operation can’t be overstated. If we move quickly, the capture or assassination of Mullah Halabi is within the realm of possibility.”
“Is that something that we would handle ourselves?”
“No, Highness. I think it would be much wiser to have the Americans take the lead.”
Faisal nodded, his blue-hued lips pursed into a perceptible frown. It had been the king’s strategy for decades—let the West protect his privilege while he quietly undermined them. It wouldn’t work for much longer, though, and Faisal knew this better than anyone. He was one of the smartest royals and had the impressive distinction of being perhaps the most selfish. He saw the growing power of the jihadists and understood the horrors that a confrontation would bring. He just wanted to make sure that confrontation didn’t occur until he was gone.
“And what of the other matter?”
“You’re referring to Tha’labah?”
“You know I am.”
Tha’labah was a Saudi blogger who despised the monarchy and was becoming increasingly bold in airing that distaste.
“It’s an issue we’re still studying, Excellency.”
“‘Studying’? If Khaled was still in charge of our intelligence efforts, this problem would have been resolved long ago.”
It was hard to argue the point. Prince Khaled, in addition to being a complete idiot, had been almost comically heavy-handed. He liked to make an example of anyone who defied the royal family with a public trial and an even more public execution. Unfortunately, with every agitator killed, a thousand more were created.
“May I remind you that this is precisely why you found it necessary to remove Khaled, Your Highness. Any overt action against Tha’labah will only martyr him. News of his death will spread across social media like wildfire, consuming everyone who reads it.”
“But he’s associated with ISIS!” Faisal protested. “And you tell me there’s nothing we can do?”
The old fool was incapable of understanding the world that had grown up around him. Affiliations were fluid at best, meaningless marketing declarations at worst. ISIS was as much an idea as an organization. An idea that was infecting Saudi Arabia’s youth like it had the youth of Iraq and Syria. An idea that would soon overwhelm everything.
“Discretion is why you hired me, Your Majesty. And so that your family could be insulated from these things.”
“What about the Americans?”
“They won’t act against Tha’labah. Freedom of speech is one of their most dearly held values.”
Faisal finally reached for his oxygen mask and continued to stare at his intelligence chief while gulping from it. With falling oil prices, he could no longer provide sufficient entitlements to keep his people docile. They were beginning to turn on him, fueled by the fanaticism beat into them by the Wahhabi madrassas he’d built to blind them.
His relationship with the West was all that stood between him and his own people. Unfortunately, the Americans had begun to tire of spending billions supporting a country that was anathema to everything they stood for. Worse, terrorism was becoming more important to them than oil, and Saudi Arabia was among the largest exporters of both.
ISIS could be defeated. It was a trivial matter, really. But the idea that it represented would not be so easily vanquished. With ISIS gone, what would fill the vacuum left behind? History had answered this question countless times. Eventually, extremist forces had their day. The only question was whether Saudi Arabia would lead those forces or be consumed by them.
The king removed his oxygen mask and allowed his withered frame to sink deeper into the sofa. “The President of the United States has demanded a meeting with our ambassador.
No information has been provided as to the reason. This is unprecedented. Do you have any thoughts as to what would prompt such a request?”
“None whatsoever,” Nassar said, but his mind immediately went to Prince bin Musaid’s actions in Morocco.
“The ambassador is quite worried. He believes that the lack of an agenda is intentional. That they don’t want to give him the ability to prepare.”
It seemed obvious to the point of being self-evident, but then, Saudi Arabia’s ambassador to America was a drooling moron. Unfortunately, he was also King Faisal’s cousin.
“Would you like me to attend that meeting, Your Highness?”
The king smiled. “I assumed that you would resist, Aali.”
Normally he would have, but if there was any chance that the Americans had information on what had happened in Rabat, it would be unwise to let the ambassador go alone to that meeting.
“I am yours to command as always,” Nassar said.
“You’ve never met President Alexander, have you?”
“No, Highness.”
For a man in his position, he had met very few Americans—something that was by design and not chance. He hated their arrogance. Their obsession with peace and money. They had traded the privilege of serving their god for order, comfort, and pleasure.
President Joshua Alexander took this one step further. He had been attacking the Saudi way of life since he was a young politician—trying to transform the kingdom into a modern, secular blend of Eastern and Western values. To force the followers of Allah to make the same bargain with the devil that his own countrymen had.
“Perhaps this would be a good time.”
“It would be my honor, Your Highness.”
Faisal nodded regally. “Success in your action against General al-Omari should be enough to put us in a position of strength with regard to the Americans.”
He covered his mouth with the mask again. His next words were muffled but still intelligible. “Yes . . . al-Omari’s head will keep the Americans docile for a bit longer . . .”
CHAPTER 11
East of Manassas
Virginia
U.S.A.
AND that?” Irene Kennedy said, pointing to a partially completed stone dome.
The afternoon had turned warm and the sky was marred by only a few white clouds to the east. Claudia had just mowed the lawn with a John Deere tractor that was her new favorite possession, and the scent of freshly cut grass still hung in the air.
“Pizza oven, I think.”
Kennedy took an austere sip of her wine, trying to hide her smile.
“What?”
“Most of us would have bet against Mitch Rapp ever owning a pizza oven.”
“Maybe I’m less of a one-trick pony than you thought.”
Her smile broadened. “The house is magnificent, Mitch. So is the location. I can see why you chose it.”
“There are still a few lots left if you’re interested. I think I could convince Steven to give you half off. Fifty cents.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but I’m a city girl at heart. I’ll just hope you invite me back.”
Rapp nodded and took a less austere pull on his beer. In some ways they had become like siblings. Despite that, they rarely saw each other outside of work. Their lives were in a constant state of chaos and the normal things that normal people did tended to get lost in it. Even now, the reason she and her teenage son were there wasn’t because of him. It was because of Claudia.
He heard Anna walk up behind him and felt a tug on his pants leg.
“Can I take Tommy to see the barn?”
He glanced at Kennedy but she turned away, pretending to examine the landscaping. His reflex was to tell Anna to ask her mother but he fought it. Kennedy was testing him.
“Sure. But there’s still a lot of construction equipment in there and I don’t want you to get anywhere near it, okay?”
She grinned and then looked up at Kennedy. “Mom wants me to ask you if you want another glass of wine.”
“No, thank you, dear. One’s my limit.”
With that, Anna sprinted toward Kennedy’s son, who was standing in front of the sculpture near the gate, studying it with a slightly cocked head.
“Tommy!” Rapp shouted. “You’re in charge. Don’t do anything that’ll make me want to snap your neck!”
The teen gave him two thumbs up and jogged toward the gate, playfully nudging at Anna as she ran.
Kennedy watched them start up the road, not speaking again until they disappeared into the trees. “Terrifying, aren’t they? I make life-or-death decisions every day and more often than not it’s Tommy that I lie awake at night worrying about.”
“Yeah. I’m not sure I’m doing a very good job making the transition.”
“Really? My understanding is that you’re doing a wonderful job.”
“Did Claudia tell you that?”
Her only answer was another dainty sip from her wineglass.
“What’s happening with the little prince?” Rapp said, changing the subject to one he was more comfortable with.
“The president’s called a meeting with the Saudi ambassador.”
“You’re not going to get anything from that idiot. No one tells him anything.”
“I agree. But I understand that he’s bringing Aali Nassar along.”
“The new intelligence chief? Interesting. Have you dealt with him yet?”
“Not personally. But I can tell you he’s very different from his predecessor. Strong, intelligent, and ambitious.”
“Is that better than Khaled’s stupid, radical, and misogynistic? Or is it worse?”
“Having a counterpart like Nassar in Saudi Arabia could be very helpful. Or it could be very dangerous. Unfortunately, where the Middle East is concerned, it’s usually the latter. I’ve been included in the meeting, so I’ll be able to give you a better assessment after.”
“And what’s the tone of this meeting going to be?”
She considered her response for a moment. “The president’s angry. In fact, this may be as angry as I’ve ever seen him.”
Rapp could very much sympathize. The redacted twenty-eight pages from the report that detailed Saudi involvement in 9/11 was only the tip of the iceberg. The Agency had been told to bury everything else they’d found on the subject. King Faisal had been left to handle the many coconspirators in his government as he saw fit. Stability and the flow of oil were preserved, but it was a decision that Rapp had been violently opposed to. At the time, though, he’d been a young operative with very little to say about decisions at that level.
“And do you feel the same, Irene?”
“Angry? Yes. But I’d be surprised if Faisal knows anything about his nephew’s activities. Even you have to admit that after 9/11, the Saudi government has been an imperfect but reasonably cooperative partner in the war against terrorism.”
“Faisal’s on his last leg, though. The man spends most of his time holed up in his palace with oxygen tubes up his nose.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “He’ll be gone soon and we’ll have a whole new set of challenges to deal with. That’s for another day, though. The question we have to answer now is whether Rabat was an isolated incident or whether there’s a greater conspiracy. The people looking to fill the vacuum Faisal’s death creates may also be looking to generate closer ties with the young radicals gaining power in the region.”
“Maybe I made a mistake, Irene. Maybe I should have let ISIS irradiate Faisal’s shithole of a country. How many times are we going to have to go through this with them? We let them off the hook for the most deadly terrorist attack in U.S. history and now here we are again. It’s starting to sound like a broken record.”
“You didn’t make a mistake. We still have a significant amount of influence
on the Saudis and letting the country fall to ISIS would have been a disaster.”
“Sometimes I wonder. Every day it seems to get worse. It may be that we have to let it all burn down before we can rebuild it.”
“Possibly. But I don’t think we’re there quite yet, Mitch. I still see a few rays of hope.”
“You must have better eyesight than I do. So you think you’ll actually be able to resolve anything in the meeting with Nassar?”
“Probably not. I assume the Saudis will just deny everything and we don’t have much in the way of hard evidence. It would have been convenient if we’d actually captured bin Musaid . . .”
She fell silent but kept looking directly at him.
“Go ahead, Irene. Say it.”
“Okay, I will. You need to replace Scott. Not forever. Just until he’s fit for duty again. I heard he’s thinking about splitting his job into operations and logistics. That’s an intriguing idea.”
As if on cue, Claudia appeared from the front of the house, holding a fresh beer for him. She handed it over and smiled warmly. “Dinner will be about another half hour. So, what are we talking about?”
CHAPTER 12
Central Iraq
IRONICALLY, the house had once been the property of a U.S. contractor charged with the hopeless task of rebuilding Iraq. America’s politicians had once again made the mistake of judging this part of the world by their own standard. They believed that the natural state of humanity was justice and that it would reign if the pockets of wickedness were eradicated. In truth, the natural state of humanity was chaos. The Americans had just managed to hold it at bay over most of their short history.
Colonel Maheer Bazzi crawled forward to get a better view of the property. The compound was constructed of stone and ancient beams, built into the cliff behind it. Trees sprouted in front of the stacked rock perimeter wall and vines clung to the gray stone, nearly obscuring it. Through the haze of his night-vision scope, the property looked abandoned, but it was just an illusion created to ward off American drones.