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Rashid turned away from the window and said, “Guess anyway.” It was a command.
Tayyib stood off to the side and tried to come up with anything that was plausible. “Saeed has many militant ties. It is possible that a rival to one of these groups decided to kill him.”
Rashid scoffed at the idea. “You don’t find it at all coincidental that Saeed paid twenty million dollars to have Mitch Rapp killed? The killers miss him and end up killing his wife, and now Saeed is dead. You don’t find that odd?”
“Of course I do, but with all respect, Prince Muhammad, men like Rapp don’t blow themselves up.”
Rashid thought about that for a second. He had a point, but things had changed. “His wife was killed. Who knows what he is capable of now?”
Before Tayyib could respond his phone rang. Tayyib froze. The prince hated phones, and had a steadfast rule that when in his presence they were to be turned off. He struggled to get it out of his pocket and silence the ringer. His large hands fumbled with the tiny buttons. The screen told him it was his office. Tayyib hesitated. The call could be important. He looked at Rashid, held up the phone and said, “I’m sorry. This is my number two. He might have more information about the explosion.”
Rashid nodded reluctantly.
Tayyib answered the phone and listened intently. After about thirty seconds he said, “Are you sure?” He listened to the man for a little bit longer and said, “Call me if you learn anything more.” Tayyib shut the phone and exhaled.
“What?” Rashid asked impatiently.
“Several of Saeed’s sons were there. They had accompanied him to prayer and they were walking back to the office together when it happened. After they’d overcome the initial shock of the bombing they began cursing the body of the suicide bomber. They were spitting on it and kicking it when one of them suddenly realized he recognized the bomber.”
“Who was it?”
“It was their brother Waheed.”
“Waheed?” Rashid said in utter disbelief. “That cannot be. He is dead.”
“He is now,” Tayyib said, not trying to be funny.
“Rapp killed him six months ago,” the prince insisted.
“Apparently not.” Tayyib folded his arms and thinking aloud said, “The body was never returned.”
“Why would Waheed kill his own father?”
“He may not have.” Tayyib knew something the prince didn’t.
“You just said he did,” Rashid snapped.
“He may not have known what was happening. There is a security tape. It shows Waheed being led by another man. The two stop in front of the office building and wait there for several minutes. Then as Saeed starts to cross the street from the mosque to go back to the office the man leaves Waheed’s side and walks away. He looks over his shoulder once and then looks down at something in his hand. We think it was a remote of some sort. A second before the explosion the man raises his hand to the camera like this.” Tayyib held up his middle finger and made the gesture toward the wall, away from Rashid. “Then there is an explosion, and Saeed is blown in half.”
“Can they tell who the man on the tape is?”
“They are going to try, but it will be difficult. The man was wearing a kaffiyeh and sunglasses.”
Rashid looked back out the window, his mind running down the list of possibilities. “That gesture is very American.”
Tayyib nodded. “The Americans and the French.”
“What is your assessment now?” the prince asked.
“Six months ago, Mitch Rapp
captured Waheed Ahmed Abdullah in a mountain village on the Pakistani-Afghan border. Shortly after that the U.S. government informed us that Waheed was dead. Now Waheed shows up back from the dead and ends up blowing his own father to pieces.” Tayyib shook his head.
“Who was the man in the surveillance video?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it.”
Rashid scoffed. “You know who it was.”
