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He was only vaguely aware of the man’s screams and couldn’t be certain when they finally stopped. Eventually, Rapp took a step back, breathing hard and looking down at Mihran’s broken neck, shattered skull, and open eyes caked with sand.
Finally, Rapp returned to the laptop, kneeling next to it and starting the process of linking to the CIA’s mainframe. The security was extensive and the connection was spotty—probably due to dust interfering with the satellite connection. After a solid ten minutes, he managed to initiate a software download and route a call to Kennedy’s office.
“Hello?”
“Jamie!” Rapp shouted. “Can you hear me?”
There was a long delay before she came back on. “Mitch? Is that you?”
“Connect me to I
rene.”
“Trans”—she dropped out for a moment—“now.”
Kennedy’s voice came on a moment later. “Mitch! Are you all right? Where are you?”
“Fine. About a hundred miles east of Riyadh.”
“That puts you right in the middle of the Saudi’s main oil-producing region,” she said, though her words were difficult to decipher. “We were right.”
“Yeah. Look, I’m downloading software that will allow Marcus to take control of this computer. At a minimum, it’s tracking one of the teams that ISIS has in Saudi Arabia. I’m guessing it will have the capability of tracking all six once they go active.”
“Marcus is on his way to my office now.”
“What do the Saudis know, Irene?”
“I told them I had a man inside ISIS and that there was a potential nuclear threat, but I didn’t give them any more details than that. Their special operations group is on alert and waiting for a target.”
“Do they have anyone who can get to me?”
No answer.
“Irene!”
“I can do you one better,” she said, coming back on. “I sent Fred Mason to Riyadh in case you needed an extraction. He and his copilot have been sleeping in their helicopter since they got there. Give me your coordinates. The weather looks bad, but I’ll see if I can get him in the air.”
CHAPTER 50
RIYADH
SAUDI ARABIA
A VIOLENT gust slammed into the chopper when it was only ten feet off the ground, sending it toward a series of aircraft lined up on the tarmac. Rapp braced himself as the pilot barely missed some Saudi asshole’s Learjet and set the bird down with a surprising lack of drama.
“Thanks for the ride, Fred,” Rapp said before removing his helmet and going for the open door.
“No problem,” Mason shouted over the sound of the rotors. “Between this and Pakistan, Irene’s gonna send my daughter to grad school.”
Rapp jumped out, clutching the Toughbook he’d taken from Mihran. Ahead, a white SUV was barreling toward him on the runway.
It lurched to a stop a few yards away and a young man in the uniform of a spec ops officer exited. He took a few steps but then stopped short. The abruptness of it seemed odd, but then Rapp remembered what he must look like. The battered face had been bad enough, but now the bottom of Eric Jesem’s pants were splattered with the story of Mihran’s last moments on earth. In fact, there was still a dried piece of his scalp, complete with hair, stuck to the top of Rapp’s boot. In retrospect, he probably should have scraped that off.
“Mr. Rapp?” the man said, sounding a bit uncertain. Undoubtedly, he’d heard endless stories about the CIA operative and what he saw before him didn’t match the image he’d built up in his mind.
“Take me to King Faisal,” Rapp said in Arabic, passing by the young officer and climbing into the back of the SUV.
“I’m afraid he’s not available,” the man said, taking a seat next to Rapp and slamming the door closed behind him. “I’m Captain Bazzi. I’ve been instructed to take you to your hotel, where you’ll be met by the government’s representative in this matter.”
