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She was virtually certain that President Alexander had set Mitch on his current course without considering the consequences. And now that those consequences were making themselves known, he was scrambling for cover. It was a game that had been played by powerful men for thousands of years.
The Iraqis who had attacked the nightclub in Monaco were associated with ISIS, and their pursuit of Prince bin Musaid after he’d escaped suggested that this wasn’t the random terrorist attack that the public believed it to be.
After acknowledging those two things, though, she was forced to step onto far less stable ground. It seemed likely that Rapp had sent Donatella into that club in an effort to lure bin Musaid to a location where he could be interrogated. The terrorist attack was a violent and messy interruption of an operation that should have been clean and quiet.
Assuming that Nassar was indeed behind bin Musaid’s terrorist activities, what would he think of Mitch Rapp’s rescue of the prince? The answer was obvious. He would have no choice but to assume that bin Musaid had given up everything about Nassar’s network, forcing the intelligence chief to get rid of anyone who knew of his involvement. The three men who had been killed so far all had unusually strong connections to Nassar.
It was there that the web became even more tangled. She certainly wouldn’t put the torture and deaths of those men beyond Rapp. But would he have had the resources to move so quickly? Doubtful. Would he have killed the security guard at the Brussels hotel? Absolutely not. It seemed much more likely that it was all Nassar’s doing. His survival now depended on cutting ties to ISIS and getting rid of Rapp.
The question now was what action should she take. What action could she take? President Alexander had washed his hands of Rapp, but she wasn’t Joshua Alexander. She very much appreciated Rapp respecting her wishes and keeping her out of this. But how long could she remain in the background? They’d been through too much together for her to abandon him.
There was a quiet knock on the door, followed by one of her assistants entering. “Dr. Kennedy? There’s a Special Agent Joel Wilson here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment.”
She’d expected a call, but a surprise visit? Wilson was enjoying himself even more than she’d anticipated. “Thank you. Send him in.”
By the time she could stand, he was already striding across the carpet.
“Hello, Joel.” She began to extend a hand but he just dropped uninvited into one of the chairs in front of her desk.
“I assume you’ve heard?”
“That you managed to get a search warrant for Mitch’s house? Yes.”
A smug smile played at his lips. “Word in this town travels fast.”
Which was exactly what he wanted, she knew. Wilson desperately needed for everyone to know that he had been vindicated. That he now wielded the power of the White House in his crusade to vanquish the corrupt forces lined up against him.
She also knew that he blamed her as much as Rapp for what had happened to him. What he would never accept was that he had done this to himself and that the penalties for his actions could have been much worse. If it hadn’t been for her and Director Miller, Joel Wilson might have ended up in jail. Or dead.
“We’ve been able to determine with nearly one hundred percent certainty that Rapp was the man in Monaco.”
She sat, resigning herself to the fact that this meeting wasn’t going to be as brief as she’d hoped. “He’s retired, Joel. He’s allowed to go to nightclubs.”
“I figured you’d say that. We’ve also been able to determine that he was the man who attacked the two security guards at that Brussels hotel. Tell me, Irene. Is he allowed to do that?”
“What about the one who was killed?” she said, genuinely curious.
“He covered his tracks better on that. But we’re working on it.”
She nodded. “And what does all this lead you to believe?”
“That he’s finally completely lost his fucking mind. I don’t know what did it—the stress, the concussions, watching his wif
e get blown apart . . . Doesn’t matter, though, because he’s running around the world, murdering innocent people. And I think we can both agree he isn’t going to stop unless someone makes him. He likes the taste of blood, Irene. He’s addicted to it.”
There was so much that could be said. About bin Musaid’s involvement with ISIS. About Nassar’s connections to the dead men. But mostly about Mitch Rapp himself. In fact, he despised the taste of blood. His entire life had been nothing but one sacrifice after another. None of it would make any difference, though. Wilson saw only himself.
“You’re a talented investigator, Joel. You always have been. But your judgment’s being clouded by your personal feelings. I’d urge you to clear your mind and apply it to the problem. If you do, you’ll see that none of what’s happened makes sense.”
He actually laughed at that. “My personal feelings? You’re so blinded by him, you can’t see the bodies piling up around you. Hell, I just got testimony that last year he shot an unarmed Iraqi girl named Laleh Qarni.”
Kennedy stiffened. “Let me offer you a piece of advice, Joel. If you should ever come face-to-face with Mitch, don’t mention that name. I’ve known him for most of my life, and even I wouldn’t dare say it out loud in his presence. Do you understand?”
Whether it was what she’d said or how she’d said it, the FBI man’s arrogance faltered. As a cover, he pulled out a photo and slapped it on her desk. It depicted Mitch, Claudia, and Anna playing croquet in South Africa.
“Forget Laleh.” He tapped the photo. “Who’s this woman?”
He didn’t have clearance to know her real identity, so Kennedy used the one the CIA had created for her. “Claudia Dufort.”
