It was a magnificent plan, but one that had never come to pass. The murderer Mitch Rapp had thwarted the attack. Now King Faisal was bowing and scraping even more to the Americans—begging men like Rapp to provide enough stability to protect him in the last few years of his life. After that, Faisal cared little about what happened to his country and the religion that should have been under his protection.
The plane accelerated a bit abruptly up the runway and bin Musaid struggled to keep his drink from spilling. He was about to shout an insult in the direction of the cockpit but then reconsidered. He would soon rise to a position from which he would lead the Arab people. A king of kings acting as God’s representative on earth. Personally interacting with this man was beneath him. A brief mention to one of his people when they landed would ensure the pilot never worked again.
Bin Musaid’s phone rang and he glanced down to see the recently appointed Saudi intelligence chief Aali Nassar’s name on the screen. He ignored it.
Nassar was undoubtedly strong and had proven intelligent enough to identify bin Musaid as an ally, but he was also a commoner. It was a fact that he seemed to be forgetting as his power grew. While his machinations were unquestionably impressive, they were entirely for the benefit of the next generation of Saudi aristocrats. When bin Musaid took his rightful seat as the head of the House of Saud, he would of course reward Nassar’s efforts lavishly. But he would also forcefully remind the man that he was a servant. A valuable one, to be sure, but a servant nonetheless.
The plane leveled out and the pilot immediately made his way back to him.
“Your Highness, Aali Nassar is trying to contact you. He wonders if perhaps your phone is not functioning properly?”
Bin Musaid stared up at the man. “My phone is functioning perfectly.”
“I don’t understand, Your Highness. You—”
“I’m not interested in what you do or do not understand!”
Knowing that he’d been dismissed, the pilot retreated back to the cockpit. Before bin Musaid could take another sip of his drink, though, he had returned. This time with a phone in his hand.
“I’m sorry, but I’m told it’s urgent.”
Bin Musaid let out a frustrated breath and snatched the phone.
“What?”
“You went personally? You were to leave the money for the Egyptian and let him make the exchange!”
“You’d do well to watch your tone when you speak to me, Aali. It was my money and I wanted to meet the man taking it.”
“Watch my tone? Idiot!”
“You know nothing of this!” bin Musaid shouted. “You sit in your office in Riyadh using other people’s funds and labor to advance your plans. You would be able to do nothing—you would be nothing—-without the support of my family.”
“It never occurred to you that you could be seen? That your involvement might be discovered?”
“Impossible.”
“You drove there in a car provided by the embassy! Do you have any idea what your thoughtless arrogance has put at risk? Have you—”
Bin Musaid disconnected the call and threw the phone against the bulkhead. Who was Aali Nassar to speak to him like that? He was a pauper. One of the thousands of meaningless bureaucrats who infested Saudi Arabia’s government payroll. The fact that he had temporarily gained the favor of the useless old woman who was their king had caused him to become drunk with self-importance.
The pilot apparently had a second phone, because it began ringing almost immediately. Surely he would not be stupid enough to bring it back again. Bin Musaid swallowed what was left of his drink and went to the galley to pour himself a second. A third and fourth would probably also be necessary to soften both the memory of that conversation and the fact that he was being forced to return to Riyadh.
He’d spend only the number of days required to keep up appearances. The moment his familial obligations were fulfilled, he would leave again. Perhaps for New York. He had an interesting woman there and a sudden yearning to walk among the godless inhabitants of that country. To revel in their ignorance of what was to come.
“Allahu Akbar!”
The sudden shout from the pilot was followed by the nose of the plane dipping violently and the fuselage beginning to vibrate. Bin Musaid lurched for the cockpit but the angle of descent continued to steepen. A moment later he was weightless, feeling panic grip him as the aircraft dropped below the clouds and revealed the earth rushing toward them.
He screamed but it came out as more of a whimper, swallowed up by the sound of rushing air and the deafening whine of the engines. The sensation of weight returned suddenly and he hit the floor, rolling through the food, dishes, and liquor bottles strewn across it before slamming into a table.
Gravity continued to increase until bin Musaid’s body felt as though it was being pressed to the floor by the hand of God. The breath went out of him and urine ran down his leg as his universe contracted until it consisted only of blinding sunlight, the deafening roar in his ears, and the unbearable force of gravity.
Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over.
The pressure subsided and the scream of the engines returned to the reassuring hum he had spent so much of his life surrounded by. Blue, unwavering sky glowed beyond the windows and he fixated on it, gulping air as he tried unsuccessfully to stand. The pilot appeared, hovering over him for a moment before dropping a phone onto his chest. Bin Musaid took it in a shaking hand and put it to his ear. A moment later Aali Nassar’s voice came on.
“Do we understand each other, Your Highness?”
CHAPTER 9
East of Manassas
Virginia
U.S.A.
LET’S see if they finally added me to this thing,” Coleman said, sticking his arm through the open window and pressing his thumb against the scanner. After a brief delay, the gate in front of them began to open.
Rapp’s subdivision was situated in a rural area outside of Washington, D.C., and had originally consisted of ten large home sites to be sold off at market price. His obscenely rich brother had swooped in and bought the other nine, leaving Rapp with a hundred acres on the top of a butte surrounded by farmland. It was a nice gesture but had the effect of making his house too remote. The 9th Armored Division could roll up to his gate and go unnoticed for a week.
Ever the idea man, Steven had sold off the luxury lots to Rapp’s friends and colleagues for a dollar apiece. A retired Secret Service man had already broken ground on one to the north and Mike Nash’s wife had finally decided on one to the east.
“That’s mine,” Coleman said, pointing through the windshield at a wooded knoll next to the barn that Anna was preparing for the pony she was certain would be arriving for her birthday. “I’m thinking Western contemporary. Something that’ll give me a little class, you know?”