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“I have people along every route to you. We can probably improvise something.”
“Do what you can. Kent and I are going into the church—”
“Going in? Why would you—”
“Don’t talk, Claudia. Listen. Put Grisha on the north roof with a rifle. Put Donatella east.”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll do it.”
“And don’t worry. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
Black, still on his knees, started to protest before Rapp could even disconnect the call.
“Donatella on the east roof? That should be me, Mitch. She’s crap with a rifle. She says it herself.”
Rapp shook his head. “You’re coming with me.”
“What, to help you find the envelope? I can tell you right where it—”
“No, so I can use you to stop bullets when this thing goes to shit.”
CHAPTER 46
HOW much farther?” Wilson asked.
“We good,” his driver responded enigmatically. It was likely that he hadn’t understood the question and that those two mangled words were the only English he knew. Nassar had handed over his entire team and arranged for Wilson to be met by a further contingent of men at the airport. The dilapidated SUV he was riding in was at the center of a three-car motorcade picking its way through the city of Juba. While the local team’s English skills were lacking, all the men were well armed and all seemed familiar with the operating theater.
Still, it was less than ideal. The lack of U.S. personnel—an FBI team at least, but even better some SEALs—added to the sense that he had stepped off the edge of the world. Despite the demands of his former job, he’d never much liked traveling. Even vacations to places like London and Paris had made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. The loss of control that went along with being in a foreign land never sat well with him.
Intermittent intel was still filtering in, but he probably wasn’t going to get anything else useful. The problem wasn’t that sources weren’t available, it was that he couldn’t bring himself to trust most of them. Irene Kennedy had her hands in everything, and half the world’s intelligence community was either loyal to her or afraid of her. That left him with no choice but to rely on a patchwork of people who either hated her or were too long retired to be influenced by her.
It appeared to have been enough, though. They’d managed to sift through all of Claudia Dufort’s emails and tease out every piece of relevant information they contained. A friend at Immigration had provided the critical piece in all this—the names of former residents of Juba now residing in the U.S. They had independently confirmed the location of the church Rapp had referred to and given a fairly detailed description of its surroundings. Combined with satellite maps and a series of photos they’d found on a travel blog, Wilson had a reasonable sense of his tactical situation.
The lead car turned down a side street and Wilson twisted around, looking through the dust at the vehicle behind. Normally he relished being in command, but this was something different. His lack of knowledge about this part of the world and his difficulty in communicating with the men working under him made him feel less like the captain of this ship than someone caught in its wake.
As much as he hated to admit it, he wished that Aali Nassar hadn’t been called back to Saudi Arabia. Unlike Irene Kennedy, Nassar had a straightforward manner that instilled confidence in everyone around him. He had combat experience and a reputation for backing up his comrades in arms.
Wilson faced forward again as his driver turned to follow their lead car. What would it be like to capture the infamous Mitch Rapp? To drag him back to the U.S. in chains? To expose him and Kennedy for what they were? There would be the massive media circus, of course, and the political posturing that always came with it. Then there would be the endless hearings and the inevitable vicious attacks by the people who benefited from the status quo. Even as the hero of this story, Wilson knew it would be a difficult couple of years. At the end, though, he would be able to write his own ticket.
Returning to his position as an FBI executive had its benefits but seemed like small thinking. While he’d never fancied himself a politician, it was impossible not to consider that as an option. With the Saudis’ financial backing and his newfound notoriety, it was hard to imagine that a Senate seat wouldn’t be his for the taking. Was it feasible that he could take Car
l Ferris’s place as chair of the Judiciary Committee? He’d love to see the look on that backstabbing old prune’s face if he did.
Wilson was blinded by a sudden flash ahead of his lead car. A moment later the sound of the explosion reached them, mixing with the static of machine-gun fire.
“Go right!” Wilson screamed, all thoughts of his future suddenly extinguished. “Right, you idiot!
He crammed himself onto the floorboard as his driver spun the wheel and jammed the accelerator to the floor. The sound of gunfire faded, and Wilson rose just long enough to confirm that his motorcade was still intact. Arabic chatter was audible over the walkie-talkie lying on the seat next to him and he picked it up.
“What the hell was that? Report!”
“It is fine,” a voice responded. He recognized it as belonging to one of the men who had been with him in Cape Town—the only one of a handful of English speakers he had.
“What the hell are you talking about? You call that fine?”
“Just a skirmish between two of the factions trying to control the city. We can route around. It won’t be a problem.”
“Are you sure? Do we know where we’re going? We could end up heading down a dead end and getting pinned down.”
