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“What?”
“It’s a bunch of bullshit about Anna, but then look what he says. ‘It hit ninety three degrees today but the sun finally went down a half an hour ago.’ ”
Wilson dialed his phone and put in an earpiece. “Yeah, it’s me. September twenty-seven. Where in the world did the temp top out around ninety-three and the sun set around three forty-five GMT. Uh-huh. Yeah, I can wait.”
He continued scrolling through emails, closing most within a few seconds, but occasionally minimizing one instead.
“Central Africa? You’re sure? Are you going to narrow it down? Okay, I’ve got something else for you. On October fifth, there was audible shelling in the morning. Yeah, it uses the word ‘shelling’ specifically, so some kind of active war zone. Right . . .”
Nassar left the man to his work and exited the house, crossing the lawn to a stand of trees near the rear wall. He glanced around him to make certain no one was within earshot and then dialed his sat phone.
“Peace be upon you, Director,” Mullah Halabi said.
“And you.” He deeply resented having to check in with the man, but it would be unwise to refuse the request.
“I understand you’re at the home of one of Rapp’s women. Is the search proving fruitful?”
Nassar’s jaw clenched, but it was hardly a surprise that Halabi’s men were reporting back to him. Having the volatile mullah tracking his movements so closely, though, unnerved him. As with Rapp, it was often hard to distinguish between the hunter and the hunted.
“We believe that he may be in central Africa. We’re working now to pinpoint a location.”
“Excellent. I have many devoted men in the region. I’ll be happy to make them available to you.”
Nassar wanted to reject the offer, but there was no practical way to do so. Pointing out that the ISIS leader’s African followers would be unpredictable and poorly trained would be an insult. And admitting that their presence made him uneasy would make the mullah question what he had to hide.
“That’s most generous.”
“Of course, Aali. My resources are always at the disposal of my loyal disciples.”
Nassar bristled at being lumped in with the illiterate cannon fodder that made up Halabi’s cult of personality, but he did nothing that would hint at his displeasure. The ISIS leader was a critical tool in the subjugation of the Middle East and would have to be deferred to until an opportunity to replace him arose.
Joel Wilson appeared around the edge of the house and began rushing toward him.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to go,” Nassar said respectfully. “The American FBI man is coming.”
“May Allah be with you,” he said, and then severed the connection.
“I’ve got something!” Wilson shouted, showing no interest in who Nassar had been talking to.
“Really? That’s surprising, Joel. We’ve been here less than an hour.”
In fact, it seemed quite incredible. While Mitch Rapp undoubtedly had a gift for violence, it was likely that Wilson was underestimating his intellect. Strength, speed, and steel nerves alone couldn’t explain the trail of dead the man had left over the last twenty years. Was Rapp capable of making obvious mistakes?
The FBI agent smoothed out a single sheet of paper on an outdoor table and motioned him over. Nassar looked down at the crude map of Africa and the various markings on it.
“The red circles indicate everywhere our satellites picked up significant explosions on the day Rapp talked about shelling. Combining that with the temperature and sunset data gives us a ninety percent probability that they’re in South Sudan.”
“Impressive, but that’s an entire country.”
“I’m not done,” Wilson said. “There was active fighting in a number of places in that country, but he mentioned in a later email that he was getting provisions from the main market and that it was more trouble than it was worth to drive. That means he’s close enough to a main market to walk and hand carry food back to where he’s staying. Then he made his fatal slip. He called the place he was staying ‘the church.’ ”
“And that’s enough information for you to locate him?”
“I’m still cross-referencing with MI6, but I think there’s a good chance. ‘Main market’ suggests a town big enough to have more than one, which rules out a number of villages with shelling close enough to hear. My gut says we’re talking about Juba.”
“And the church?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’m guessing my people will have a bead on it before we go wheels up. How many nonoperational churches can there be a few minutes’ walk from the central market?”
