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South Sudan
THE power was out again, but the breeze coming through the open windows kept the heat down. The fifty-year-old mansion had been converted into a hotel years ago, but after Sudan’s split, it had been largely shut down. The owner had been endlessly grateful when they rented the entire property, and he’d been working ever since to demonstrate that gratitude. Not only was the place spotless, but a sideboard in the living room was arranged with hard-to-get premium liquor.
Azarov was reading the label on a bottle of bourbon while Rapp scanned the landscape beyond the windows. According to Black, this area was under the iron-fisted control of a rebel group that Abdo counted among his most dedicated enemies. The young sniper seemed confident that they were momentarily safe from the locals, and Rapp had no reason to question that conclusion. The kid seemed to understand the intricacies of the fighting around Juba.
“I haven’t been able to find much information that I have confidence in,” Claudia said, grazing on a platter of vegetables provided by their host. “I’m certain that Nassar is in the U.S. and ninety percent sure that he had a meeting at the White House.”
“What about now?” Rapp asked.
“The best I could determine is that he went to North Dakota.”
“That seems kind of unlikely,” Black said. He was on his fourth beer and looked like he was starting to feel them.
“I agree. I’m working to corroborate, but it’s difficult.”
“If he’s in the States, he’s vulnerable,” Black said. “It would be a hell of a lot easier to operate there than in Saudi Arabia.”
“I wonder,” Azarov said. “If I were him, I’d have requested an American security team. Mitch would hesitate to attack out of fear of injuring one of them.”
“A frontal assault isn’t feasible anyway,” Claudia said. “Even if it succeeded, it would play into the narrative that Mitch has gone insane and is running around the globe, killing people. He’d be hunted for the rest of his life, and anything he had to say about the Saudis would be completely discredited.”
“It’s like being teamed up with a bunch of old ladies,” Black said. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to North Dakota or Iowa or wherever and pop that asshole right in the head. No muss, no fuss, no collateral damage. And Mitch can be three thousand miles away with an airtight alibi.”
“They’d still assume he was behind it, based on what’s happened so far,” Donatella said.
Black grabbed another beer. “But Claudia said she could get Mitch off the hook for killing Nassar’s two buddies—”
“Three,” Rapp said, causing the others to turn toward him. “Qadir Sultan was found dead last night along with two security men from the Saudi intelligence ministry.”
“Let me guess,” Donatella said. “One shot to the head from a nine-millimeter bullet.”
“That matches the early reports.”
“He’s destroying his own network in an effort to keep it from leading back to him,” Azarov pointed out. “Is it possible that this is good for us?”
“Sultan was the last of the men that we’ve identified as being close to him,” Claudia said. “It’s likely that his network extends further, but Mitch and I don’t think anyone left would have direct knowledge of Nassar’s involvement. He would have interacted with them through intermediaries.”
“Then punching a few holes in Nassar is the way to go,” Black said. “He’s taken out his lieutenants for us. With him dead the whole thing collapses. Job done, Mitch hangs out a shingle and makes an obscene amount of money taking contracts. How is this not a good plan?”
“Because the rest of us are experienced enough to know we don’t want to spend the rest of our lives being hunted by the world’s governments,” Donatella said. “It’s not as romantic as it sounds, Kent.”
“Then we need to demonstrate Nassar’s involvement,” Azarov said. “Prove that he killed those people and that he’s financing ISIS.”
“Agreed, but it’s easier said than done,” Claudia replied. “The man doesn’t leave behind a lot of loose ends.”
Rapp’s phone chimed as a heated discussion of their situation broke out among the others. He opened a hidden app and watched a series of jerky images being broadcast via a satellite connection.
The gate he’d spent so much money on turned out to be worth every penny, surviving the first attempt at a breach before succumbing to a SWAT vehicle traveling at reckless speeds. His front door had held longer than expected, too, noticeably fatiguing the men who were now fanning out in his entryway. A man wearing a suit instead of combat gear appeared after the area had been secured and Rapp squinted down at the image.
Claudia would be pleased to know that she’d been right about North Dakota. It was where the FBI had sent Joel Wilson.
Wilson began tearing up the room, ostensi
bly in a search but really just to cause as much destruction as possible. Rapp had told Irene Kennedy that they should bury that piece of shit in the woods somewhere, but she’d thought moving against him would cause more problems than it solved. He wondered if she still felt that way.
“Mitch?” Claudia said. “Mitch? What are you doing? Are you listening to us?”
He didn’t respond, so she broke up the meeting, finally coming alongside him while the others wandered off.
