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A young FBI agent was standing at the keypad that opened the gate, working with a screwdriver and alligator clips to gain access. He’d been there for more than ten minutes—significantly longer than Wilson ordinarily would have tolerated without intervening. But not tonight. Tonight he’d just savor the moment.
Earlier that day he’d spoken directly to Joshua Alexander. The president had confirmed Aali Nassar’s story and made it clear that Wilson would be provided whatever resources were necessary. If he called the FBI, the local cops, the CIA, the NSA, or Jesus Christ himself, and they didn’t jump, he was to use Alexander’s private number immediately.
The turnabout from exile to having the president’s personal contact information had happened at disorienting speed. His official reprimands, his demotion and transfer to North Dakota, his wife leaving him—even his brief flirtation with suicide—were already fading from memory.
What he hadn’t shared with the president was how far he intended to take this investigation and how bad it was going to get. This was about more than Mitch Rapp going off the reservation—something a complete moron could have seen coming a mile away. It was about Kennedy’s protection of him. It was about Senator Ferris abandoning Wilson and becoming one of Kennedy’s most ardent supporters. The only things that could have brought about that betrayal were the threat of public disgrace or treason charges. How many other politicians were in her pocket? How many other government officials had she allowed to keep their pensions in the hope that it would prevent them from blowing the whistle?
His phone rang and the screen displayed a number that was still immediately recognizable. It had been a long time since Director Miller had called him, and he wondered whether he should even bother picking up. He didn’t answer to Miller anymore. If anything, Miller answered to him.
In the end he couldn’t resist.
“Hello?”
“I understand you’re at Mitch Rapp’s house with some of my people.”
“I thought it’d been made clear that they’re my people, Director.”
“Joel . . .” the man said in an exasperated tone Wilson remembered well. It was like hearing his father all over again. But Miller wasn’t his father. He was one of the men who had been subverted by Irene Kennedy. One of the men who would be exposed before all this was over.
“I know you want revenge against Rapp and Kennedy,” Miller continued. “And that you want to take us all down for corruption and God knows what else. But you need to put your personal feelings aside and think about what you’re doing.”
“Are you afraid I’m going to dig too deep? That I’m going to find out what’s really been going on? Because that’s the job the president gave me.”
“It’s the job the Saudis gave you, Joel. We don’t work for the Saudis. The enemy of your enemy isn’t your friend. Aali Nassar is a treacherous, fundamentalist son of a bitch who would slit his own mother’s throat for . . . hell, for damn near anything. You’ve been in this exact same position before with the Pakistanis. Here’s what I can guarantee you, Joel—”
“Are you about to threaten me, Director? Because I should warn you that I’m recording this call.”
“Shut up for once in your life and listen. Nassar and the Saudis have a hidden agenda here. What it is, I don’t know. But don’t trust them, Joel. Stay neutral, stay professional, and you might get out of this with your skin.”
“Then you are threatening me.”
“Damn it, Joel!” Miller said, raising his voice for one of the few times in their relationship. “If Rapp really has gone rogue, then this isn’t about you losing your pension or getting transferred. He’s going to kill you. Can you get that through your thick skull?”
“Can I quote you on that?”
The line went dead and Wilson smiled. It had been a good try, but Miller’s call reeked of desperation. He wondered how many more like it he’d receive before all this was over.
The man working on Rapp’s keypad suddenly turned and began walking in Wilson’s direction. The gate was still closed.
“What? Why aren’t we in?”
“I’m not getting through that, sir.”
“So when the Bureau told me you were competent, that wasn’t true? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Sir, I’ve never seen a unit like that. It doesn’t have any brand markings or a model number. I couldn’t even tell you what country it was made in.”
“Then go home.”
“Sir, I—”
“If you can’t do your job, then you’re just in the way, aren’t you? Now, get the hell out of here.”
Wilson turned his attention to an FBI SWAT team standing behind a massive vehicle fitted with a battering ram. “We can’t get through the electronics, so we’re going to have to tear the gate down.”
The team leader looked at him and then at the gate. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir.”
“What do you mean, not a good idea?”
