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And while all these developments were undoubtedly gifts from Allah, they were hardly sufficient to elicit a smile from a man unaccustomed to the expression. No, only the news of Mitch Rapp’s resignation had the power to do that. The extent of the injuries suffered by the CIA man in Saudi Arabia were apparently far worse than the intelligence community had been told.
A chime on his phone sounded and he glanced down at it. An encrypted email from Irene Kennedy. He opened it and, instead of text, found only a link to an ISIS propaganda site. Intrigued, he clicked on it and waited for the video to load. When it began playing, he felt the breath catch in his chest.
It was a slickly edited film of an attack on a small group of U.S. operatives. The location was immediately recognizable—Fares Wazir’s home in Iraq. Nassar rewound it and watched again, his fist clenching around the phone as the roof blew off the top of Fares Wazir’s apartment and gunfire erupted from every direction. The overhead shot zoomed onto a man running across the street, jerking wildly as he was impacted by what seemed like an infinite number of rounds. He finally fell, firing his own weapon uselessly into a stone wall before going still. The video then began quick cuts accompanied by loud revolutionary music—dead Americans being carried from buildings, the barely recognizable remains of the ones from the roof being collected, a bloody corpse being dragged through the streets.
He finally shut off the video and dialed a number Mullah Halabi had given him. He had never imagined he’d be forced to use it so soon, and in response to such crushing stupidity. Surprisingly, the ISIS leader picked up personally.
“You’re up late, Director.”
“I just saw the video of the raid on Fares Wazir’s home.”
“Glorious, isn’t it?”
“Glorious?” Nassar said, glancing at the glass separating him from his driver, although he knew it was soundproof. “It’s insanity! I gave you that information to allow Wazir to escape before the Americans arrived. Irene Kennedy just sent me an email with only the link to the video—no text at all. I can assure you that her lack of diplomacy was intended to make a point. To make it clear that she suspects that the leak came from my organization.”
“Yes, I imagine you’re right.”
“Then why would you do this? Why would you jeopardize my position and my ability to provide you with intelligence?”
“Because you needed this, Aali.”
“What? I needed it?”
“You portray such strength, but inside you’re weak. Of course, you would say that you grew up poor, but in fact you lived the lifestyle of your family’s wealthy benefactors and attended Oxford. And I’m aware of your military service, but your carefully planned operations were acts devoid of any real risk or passion. Now you feel the danger. You feel the Americans’ eyes on you, the anxiety of wondering if one of their drones is circling you right now. Will they discover your betrayal? And if so, what action will they take?”
“If they kill me, all the money and intelligence I’m providing you will disappear. The king—”
Halabi began to laugh, drowning out Nassar’s words. “I suspect you’ll be fine, Aali. Particularly now that the CIA is trying to deal with the departure of Mitch Rapp. But I’m not certain of it. And neither are you. You’re now in a position that will test your faith in God. Will you pass that test? Are your actions in His service? Or your own?”
There was no point in fighting with the man. Nothing would come of it.
“I serve God.”
“Good, Aali. Good. And of course I sympathize with the difficulties the general has caused you. So tell me. What is it I can do to balance the scales?”
Nassar was both surprised and relieved by the offer. Already, Halabi was beginning to understand his value and the importance of maintaining his loyalty.
“Prince Talal bin Musaid is on his way to Monaco,” Nassar said.
“Ah. Can I assume that his usefulness to you is at an end and that you’re concerned about the risks of dealing with him yourself?”
“Yes.
”
“Then I’ll contact my people in Europe and have the matter put to rest.”
CHAPTER 24
East of Juba
South Sudan
THIS sucked.
No, that was the understatement of the century. This had catastrophe written all over it. In blood. Ten feet high.
Kent Black’s foot suddenly felt too weak to depress the accelerator and he let the truck’s speedometer drift. Outside, dust was enveloping the vehicle, confining him to the suffocating heat of the closed-up cab.
