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“Is everything all right, Jamie?”
“I’m honestly not sure how to answer that question. Joel Wilson is here to see you again.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say Joel Wilson?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The FBI agent had been last seen in Juba, where he and his team were ambushed. Intelligence was still piecemeal, but the best information circulating was that it was a case of mistaken identity. A local rebel leader thought Wilson and his people were a group of arms dealers led by someone called Jason Blaze.
She, however, knew a bit more. Blaze was really a former Army Ranger who answered to the name Kent Black. Further, she had a description of his associates that bore an uncanny resemblance to Mitch Rapp, Claudia Dufort, Donatella Rahn, and Grisha Azarov.
In all likelihood, Rapp and Claudia had led Wilson into a trap—the goal of which was to kill Aali Nassar without their direct involvement. Unfortunately, Nassar wasn’t there. A tragedy, really. Not only was he a man who very much needed killing, but she hated to see such a beautifully conceived plan go wrong.
“Irene? Should I send him in?”
“Absolutely,” Kennedy said. She’d been working under the assumption that Wilson was dead. And in her experience conversations with dead men tended to be extremely illuminating.
She stood but didn’t immediately come out from behind her desk when Wilson appeared in the doorway. He was normally put together with a sterile meticulousness that very much embodied who he was. The hesitant gait, filthy clothing, and blackened eyes of the man entering her office were completely unfamiliar.
“Dr. Kennedy. Thank you for meeting with me without an appointment.” He offered his hand but then seemed to realize how grimy it was and withdrew it.
“Are you all right, Joel? Should I call a medical team?”
He shook his head and she pointed him to a seating area at the corner of her office. He sat and she handed him a bottle of water before taking a position across from him.
“My understanding is that you and Director Nassar’s men were attacked in South Sudan. Could you tell me what happened?”
“We tracked Rapp there through some emails he sent to Claudia Dufort. I don’t know who attacked us. But it wasn’t him.”
She was intrigued. Historically, Wilson blamed Mitch for everything bad that happened to him. “How do you know that?”
“Because he saved my life. One of Nassar’s men—who wasn’t really one of his men—tried to kill Mitch. When I yelled at him to cease fire, he turned on me. If Mitch hadn’t shot him, I’d be dead.”
“Joel, I want you to slow down. What do yo
u mean it wasn’t one of Nassar’s men?”
“We questioned him. I think he was ISIS. But I don’t know if that means he infiltrated Saudi intelligence or if Nassar knew the whole time.”
He pulled a phone from his pocket and almost dropped it trying to place it on the coffee table between them. She’d seen this before in her career. The man was broken. He’d spent his entire life as a narcissist who believed that he was always right—always on the side of the virtuous. Now reality had imploded that self-image. Most people in his condition never recovered from the cognitive dissonance. A rare few managed to absorb their new position in the universe and adapt. Which category did Joel Wilson fall into?
“There are pictures on there of all of Nassar’s men and a recording of our interrogation of the one who survived.”
She picked up the phone and began flipping through the photos as he continued.
“Nassar was playing me. The more I think about it, the clearer it becomes. He was counting on my hatred of Mitch to blind me to everything else that was happening. And he was right.”
Kennedy set the phone down and appraised the man. His head was hanging loosely on his shoulders with a blank stare focused on the carpet.
“In this business, it happens to us all eventually, Joel. The question is what you do about it.”
“I want to help,” he said without hesitation. “I want to find out if Nassar is connected with ISIS. And if he is, I want to take him down.”
It was an interesting offer. Even more interesting, though, was whether it was an offer that Mitch Rapp had anticipated. Had he consciously forgone killing Wilson at the risk of allowing the FBI man to continue his vendetta? It was a level of restraint and strategic thinking that she wouldn’t have necessarily attributed to her old friend.
There was no question that Wilson was a gifted investigator. In some ways it was his weakness. His ability to see the big picture was compromised by his obsession with fine detail. In this case, though, it was those fine details that needed attention. The big picture was her job.
“Is that a sincere offer, Joel?”
