“Oh . . . Somewhere in Europe. He’s afraid to come back. He doesn’t want to face you.”
They drove in silence for a good five minutes before Coleman spoke again. “You keep avoiding the subject, but we can’t anymore. We’ve got to talk about finding a replacement for me until I can get my shit together. You need reliable backup and I guarantee if you put Mas in charge of anything again, he’s going to quit. I don’t want it to be my fault if another op goes south or if you get shot up. I’d never hear the end of it from Irene.”
He was right, Rapp knew. The hope had been that Coleman would bounce back in a few months, but that wasn’t happening. It could easily be another year. Or, as much as no one wanted to face the possibility, it could be never.
“It’s your organization, Scott. Not mine. You can do what you want.”
Coleman seemed to relax a little. “But it’s your ass out there. I need you to be comfortable with who I pick.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“Mike Nash and I have been doing some spitballing. We’ve turned up a few names and he’s digging a little deeper for me. We’ve also been talking about splitting the job in two. Maybe having a separate field commander and logistics person.”
“So you’d handle logistics, then?”
The former SEAL shook his head. “I’ve got more on my plate than I can deal with right now.”
Rapp felt increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. The more they talked about a replacement, the more it felt like Coleman wasn’t coming back. They’d been together for years. In many ways they’d grown up together in the business. Beyond the friendship they’d forged, there was a level of trust that he didn’t see being able to rebuild with someone new.
Coleman seemed to read his mind—another facet of their relationship that was going to be hard to replace. “It’s just for a little while, Mitch. I need this, okay? I’m stressing out that you or one of my guys is going to get killed. I don’t need that right now.”
“When’s Mike going to have some recommendations?”
“Next day or two. He’s working on the ops side. I’m dealing with logistics.”
“And?”
Again Coleman didn’t immediately answer, instead focusing on getting around a truck creeping along the rural highway. He seemed to be building up to something, but Rapp had no idea what it could be.
“It’s hard not to think about Claudia,” the former SEAL said finally.
For the second time since he’d gotten in the car, Rapp found himself having to control his anger. Normally he wouldn’t bother, but Coleman was struggling. He’d gone from being one of the best operators in the world to barely being able to roll out of bed in the morning. He felt like he’d abandoned his comrades and was terrified that he might live the rest of his life getting winded buying groceries.
“No,” Rapp said. “She’s already risking enough just being near me.”
“To be clear here, Mitch, I didn’t approach her. She approached me. And we both know that a big part of Louis Gould’s success was her doing most of the thinking for him.”
“We’re done with this subject, Scott.”
Coleman shrugged. “All right. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a dead issue. But I’m not sure Claudia’s going to feel the same way.”
CHAPTER 8
Rabat
Morocco
PRINCE Talal bin Musaid stepped into the Learjet 75’s cool interior and frowned at the pilot bowing to him from the cockpit door. He’d never seen the man before, but it mattered little. The pilots he’d been provided in the past had been adequate and he had no reason to believe that this one would be any different.
“Welcome, Your Highness. All is ready for your return to Riyadh.”
“Make me a drink,” bin Musaid said, and then went to the back, taking a seat.
He watched disinterestedly as the pilot closed the door and then rushed to pour a single malt for his only passenger.
“Do I have your permission to lift off?” he said, handing bin -Musaid the drink with another bow.
The prince nodded and took a sip from the crystal glass. Not his preferred brand but it would do for the relatively short flight. He savored the dark liquor without guilt as he did women, drugs, and gambling. Why not? He had been shut out of his rightful place by old men fearful of his youth and vitality. Certainly Allah would understand him taking solace in these meaningless vices until the order of things changed. Until the storm that was brewing in the Middle East finally destroyed the Western appeasers who infested the region.
As the engines spooled up, he wondered idly what had happened to the money he’d provided ISIS. Was it being passed along their elaborate network on its way to America? Had it been laundered and deposited in a legitimate financial institution? Was it already in the hands of the devout men who would use it for a glorious attack?
What would the target be? An American sports stadium? One of the country’s decadent commercial centers? The Capitol building during a meeting of its congress?
Freedom made the Americans weak. How could a society protect itself unless the greater men took charge of every aspect? How could a society be truly exceptional when it was at the mercy of the whims of the mob?
His own country was slowly succumbing to a similar fate, he knew. King Faisal and the leaders who had come before him had turned their backs on Allah. The old man had retreated behind the walls of his depraved palace, emerging occasionally to falsely proclaim his devotion to subjects who were beginning to see through his lies. He had abandoned the almighty power of God long ago, replacing it with the power of America.
Like all bargains with the devil, though, this one was beginning to unravel. The vast network of conservative madrassas financed by the House of Saud were no longer blinding the people to its excesses, but instead showing them the truth. The king was now faced with an impossible situation. His strategy of publicly condemning the U.S. while privately supporting its battle against fundamentalist Islamic forces was beginning to fail. And the Americans were finally waking up to the fact that the billions they spent on Saudi oil was being used to -create terrorists whom they then had to spend billions fighting.
This increasing dysfunction had culminated in the recent action ISIS had taken against his own country. They had acquired radioactive material from Pakistan and attempted to use it to irradiate Saudi Arabia’s oil-producing region. In the ensuing economic chaos, Faisal and his lackeys would have fled to the West, leaving the forces of true Islam to take control of not only Saudi Arabia but the trillions of dollars’ worth of sophisticated weapons the Americans had sold its military.