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Alghani nodded submissively. He’d initially thought that the man was a wealthy Saudi businessman but he could now see that he was wrong. The regal posture, the comically exaggerated sense of self-importance, the recklessness of cutting out the Egyptian and handling this errand personally. A young prince.
Alghani had dealt with them many times, both in his current capacity and previously when he’d targeted them in a number of real estate scams. As near as he could tell, they were all the same. Useless, arrogant, stupid men who believed that their privileged birth put them above the rest of humanity. Qualities that made them attractive targets for graft and utterly blind to the fact that they would be the first to die in a caliphate led by Sayid Halabi.
In this instance, though, the royal’s presence created an impossibly dangerous situation. He had promised Rapp the Egyptian courier. Not a pampered child. Would the CIA man think he had been duped? Would he revoke his promise of freedom in favor of a summary execution?
The man held out the suitcase. “A gift from me to your leader. The first step in drawing the Americans into a fight that they can never win.”
Alghani accepted the case and confirmed its weight at around ten kilograms. He expected the young Saudi to turn and disappear from his life forever, but instead the idiot began to speak again.
“We’ll battle the American cowards from without while simultaneously destroying them from within. I know them well. I was educated in the West and have many business interests in the United States. The American people are weak and easily manipulated. They see things in terms of five years. Perhaps ten. We understand that those time frames are meaningless. Allah is eternal and favors the patient. We will defeat them over the next fifty years. Or a hundred. Or even a thousand. As their society crumbles under the weight of its own wickedness and lack of cohesion, we will rise up to take their place.”
“Praise be to Allah,” Alghani responded, trying to comprehend why this pup wouldn’t leave. What profit could there be in staying? Surely there were safer places that he could listen to himself talk.
“As I say, I know the Americans,” he continued. “Better than they know themselves. I would like to offer my services to the mullah. If he wants to destroy the Westerners, he must first understand them. His background . . .” The Saudi’s voice faded for a moment. “. . . would make that kind of understanding difficult.”
Alghani had to struggle not to react. Halabi had been educated in madrassas likely financed by this man’s own family. While the mullah indeed lacked direct experience with the West, he had retaken enormous amounts of territory lost by his predecessor and created a complex command and control structure that the world was only now beginning to understand. What had the pampered man-child standing in front of him ever accomplished? His only responsibility was to cash the checks provided to him and to try not to lose it all in Europe’s casinos.
“I will pass on your generous offer to the mullah when I see him. I’m sure he would greatly value your counsel.”
Like others of his kind, the man was easily flattered. He smiled condescendingly and motioned to his bodyguard. A moment later they were finally gone.
Alghani opened the briefcase and emptied the bundles of American dollars on the floor before retrieving his phone and replacing the battery. He stood by the window, peering out and trying to slow his breathing. A few moments later he saw headlights flash on and move away. When the darkness and silence had descended again, he made a move for the door but stopped with his hand on the knob.
What should he do? Call Rapp’s people and tell them that the man he’d met with wasn’t the one they’d expected? Or should he just run? What would give him the best chance of forever disappearing from the gaze of Sayid Halabi and, even more important, from the gaze of Mitch Rapp?
CHAPTER 5
Al-Shirqat
Iraq
REPEAT that,” Rapp said into his throat mike. “I lost you.”
No response.
Despite having to deviate from the initial plan and take the truck, the operation was going pretty smoothly. Mohammed’s lifelong familiarity with the area had gotten them on the road out of town without being seen and with no wrong turns. Al-Shirqat was five miles in Rapp’s rearview mirror and he was estimating that they’d arrive at the LZ in another six. The road surface was better than his intel had suggested and the bottomed-out pickup was negotiating it with no significant problems. Its maximum speed wasn’t much over thirty, but the wheels hadn’t fallen off and all the gauges looked good.
“Marcus! Come in!”
“Hold . . .” came the static-ridden reply. “Trying to fix . . .”
Marcus Dumond was a computer hacker who would have been in prison if it weren’t for Rapp intervening and giving him a job. Over the past couple of years he’d become increasingly involved in these kinds of operations and had proved his worth many times over. In a way, he was a victim of his success. He despised being involved in life-or-death situations and knew precisely nothing about military tactics. His grasp of technology, though, was second to none.
“Penetrating the army’s jamming is a pain in my ass!” he said when he came back on the comm. The military was doing everything it could to keep electronic communications down in ISIS-held territory, and Dumond had set up a narrow encrypted band to cut through. Unfortunately, its effectiveness was spotty.
“I’ve got you back,” Rapp said, slamming into a deep rut that the feeble headlight hadn’t picked up. He glanced back to confirm the people riding in the bed hadn’t been thrown out. Gaffar anticipated his concern and gave a few encouraging slaps on top of the cab.
“The good news is that the chopper’s on schedule,” Dumond said.
“And the bad news?”
“You’ve got a patrol coming at you from the north. Same road.”
“How far out?”
“Call it two miles. You should be seeing their lights pretty soon.”
“Any detours I can take?”
