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AALI Nassar stood next to King Faisal on the tarmac, waiting for a set of stairs to be pushed up to his private Airbus A380.
The plane had been in a holding pattern for over two hours to allow the sun to set. The aging monarch could no longer tolerate the afternoon heat. It was an ironic weakness for a man who ruled a desert kingdom and yet another indication that the order of things would soon be changing.
A group of formally dressed men appeared in the doorway, carrying a coffin draped in a Saudi flag. They descended with a level of care and solemnity that bordered on the comic. Beyond having been born to the king’s favorite sister, Prince Talal bin Musaid had lived his life as a spoiled, useless child.
It was odd that a man whose life had been so inconsequential could be so dangerous in death. The actions against Zaman and el-Hashem had been forced by bin Musaid, as was the continued dismantling of the network Nassar had so carefully built. The Saudi intelligence apparatus was in turmoil as the royals shrank in horror at one of their own being targeted by the radical forces they themselves had created. The vulnerability the nobles suddenly felt had put a strain on his relationship with the king, instantly reversing the gains he’d made by convincing ISIS to attenuate its public criticism of him.
Strife and chaos always traveled hand in hand with opportunity, though. It was just a question of whether one was strong and clever enough to take advantage.
Faisal began to shuffle forward and Nassar followed at a respectful distance. The pallbearers stopped and allowed the king to run a hand over the flag. His face was uncharacteristically hard to read. Was he feeling grief for a self-indulgent boy who had betrayed him? Anger at the fact that the royalty, and not just its subjects, were now at risk? Or was this just a reminder of the mortality that he felt more keenly with every passing day?
Faisal finally stepped back, allowing the men to continue to the hearse as he returned to his limousine.
“Who were these murderers?” the king said as Nassar slid in next to him.
“Former Iraqi soldiers who joined ISIS.”
“I want them destroyed. I want ISIS destroyed. No more middle ground. No more cowering behind the Americans. I want their heads and the heads of anyone who has even hinted at supporting them.”
“Your Majesty—”
“What, Aali? Are you going to say that this is a delicate matter? That we have to proceed with caution? That I have to hide behind the walls of my palace while these cowards plot how to put a knife in my back?”
“It’s not just a delicate matter, Highness. It’s a complicated one.”
“Complicated how?”
“We now have sharpened video composites from MI6 and, based on them, we’re reasonably certain that Mitch Rapp was the man who carried bin Musaid out of the nightclub.”
“Mitch Rapp?” the king said, twisting toward him. “How certain?”
“Seventy-five percent.”
Faisal faced forward again and nodded knowingly. “I wonder, Aali. You seem to have a personal animosity for Mr. Rapp that I don’t share. He risked his life to save my kingdom from a nuclear holocaust. Without him, I doubt we would have a country to discuss.”
The implication was clear—that Nassar had provided no service in his lifetime that could rival those of this vile American. The king was dazzled by the man, rapt with tales of his exploits and seduced by the illusion of being under his protection. It would be a difficult task to break the old fool of his obsession with Rapp, but not an impossible one.
“Your Highness, I think you have to consider the fact that Rapp’s appearance in that nightclub just as it was attacked is coincidental to the point of absurdity.”
“Perhaps the CIA became aware of the threat and he was there to thwart it. I’ve watched the video, too, Aali. And it’s quite apparent that his primary objective was to save the prince.”
The monarch’s tone was defensive enough that Nassar had to suppress a smile. The man was aware that his argument was ludicrous. He just needed to be forced to admit it.
“Our analysts do not believe this to be the case, Highness. First, as we both know, Mr. Rapp has left the employ of the CIA, and as far as we can tell has cut off all contact with his former colleagues. Second, we know that he suspected the prince of financing terrorists. The idea that a man like Rapp would try to protect the prince stretches credibility to the breaking point.”
“And what else do your clever analysts say?” Faisal asked coldly.
“We think it’s feasible—perhaps even likely—that Rapp was behind this attack.”
The king let out a laugh strangled by his deteriorating lungs. “That’s insane, Aali. It’s everything he’s fought against his entire life.”
“True, but consider the following, Your Highness. We know that as a young man he was violently opposed to the pact our governments made to bury the evidence of Saudi involvement in 9/11. And, at a minimum, he would have seen Prince bin Musaid’s activities as a betrayal of that pact. More likely, he would have seen it as an indication of a larger conspiracy.”
“Your point, Aali?”
“Why would Mitch Rapp, one of the most powerful and effective cogs in the American intelligence machine, suddenly quit? We suspect that it’s because he wanted to investigate bin Musaid’s actions further and was blocked by the president, who would be concerned by the potential fallout from such an investigation.”
“I’m not convinced, Aali.”
