A chime on his phone sounded and he glanced down at it. An encrypted email from Irene Kennedy. He opened it and, instead of text, found only a link to an ISIS propaganda site. Intrigued, he clicked on it and waited for the video to load. When it began playing, he felt the breath catch in his chest.
It was a slickly edited film of an attack on a small group of U.S. operatives. The location was immediately recognizable—Fares Wazir’s home in Iraq. Nassar rewound it and watched again, his fist clenching around the phone as the roof blew off the top of Fares Wazir’s apartment and gunfire erupted from every direction. The overhead shot zoomed onto a man running across the street, jerking wildly as he was impacted by what seemed like an infinite number of rounds. He finally fell, firing his own weapon uselessly into a stone wall before going still. The video then began quick cuts accompanied by loud revolutionary music—dead Americans being carried from buildings, the barely recognizable remains of the ones from the roof being collected, a bloody corpse being dragged through the streets.
He finally shut off the video and dialed a number Mullah Halabi had given him. He had never imagined he’d be forced to use it so soon, and in response to such crushing stupidity. Surprisingly, the ISIS leader picked up personally.
“You’re up late, Director.”
“I just saw the video of the raid on Fares Wazir’s home.”
“Glorious, isn’t it?”
“Glorious?” Nassar said, glancing at the glass separating him from his driver, although he knew it was soundproof. “It’s insanity! I gave you that information to allow Wazir to escape before the Americans arrived. Irene Kennedy just sent me an email with only the link to the video—no text at all. I can assure you that her lack of diplomacy was intended to make a point. To make it clear that she suspects that the leak came from my organization.”
“Yes, I imagine you’re right.”
“Then why would you do this? Why would you jeopardize my position and my ability to provide you with intelligence?”
“Because you needed this, Aali.”
“What? I needed it?”
“You portray such strength, but inside you’re weak. Of course, you would say that you grew up poor, but in fact you lived the lifestyle of your family’s wealthy benefactors and attended Oxford. And I’m aware of your military service, but your carefully planned operations were acts devoid of any real risk or passion. Now you feel the danger. You feel the Americans’ eyes on you, the anxiety of wondering if one of their drones is circling you right now. Will they discover your betrayal? And if so, what action will they take?”
“If they kill me, all the money and intelligence I’m providing you will disappear. The king—”
Halabi began to laugh, drowning out Nassar’s words. “I suspect you’ll be fine, Aali. Particularly now that the CIA is trying to deal with the departure of Mitch Rapp. But I’m not certain of it. And neither are you. You’re now in a position that will test your faith in God. Will you pass that test? Are your actions in His service? Or your own?”
There was no point in fighting with the man. Nothing would come of it.
“I serve God.”
“Good, Aali. Good. And of course I sympathize with the difficulties the general has caused you. So tell me. What is it I can do to balance the scales?”
Nassar was both surprised and relieved by the offer. Already, Halabi was beginning to understand his value and the importance of maintaining his loyalty.
“Prince Talal bin Musaid is on his way to Monaco,” Nassar said.
“Ah. Can I assume that his usefulness to you is at an end and that you’re concerned about the risks of dealing with him yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll contact my people in Europe and have the matter put to rest.”
CHAPTER 24
East of Juba
South Sudan
THIS sucked.
No, that was the understatement of the century. This had catastrophe written all over it. In blood. Ten feet high.
Kent Black’s foot suddenly felt too weak to depress the accelerator and he let the truck’s speedometer drift. Outside, dust was enveloping the vehicle, confining him to the suffocating heat of the closed-up cab.
The road he was on was little more than a tracked-up strip in an endless plain of sunbaked dirt. His GPS said he was headed in the right direction and kept counting down to his arrival, but he wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
He despised South Sudan. When he’d been an army sniper, he’d spent a lot of time fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan, but that had been different. Sure, both countries were dry, dusty shitholes, but at least he’d had backup and a few geographic features to hide behind. The empty landscape he was penetrating into had a hazy, overexposed-photograph feel that Black found disorienting. Undoubtedly why Kariem had chosen it as the location for their meeting.
Arms dealing had never been high on his list of careers, but what choice did he have? His lucrative job as a five-thousand-dollar-suit-wearing, supermodel-dating contract killer had recently run into an impassable roadblock named Mitch Rapp. Their business together had ended with Rapp agreeing not to kill him but making it clear that, the next time they met, the outcome would be different.
So Black had grabbed a map and searched for corners of the world that were both remote and in need of a man of his talents. South Sudan, which was teetering in and out of civil war, seemed to fit the bill. He figured he’d do a little mercenary work for the government while Rapp forgot about him. Unfortunately, the government proved to be only slightly less crazy than the rebel forces it was fighting. In the end, supplying both sides from way behind battle lines turned out to be not only more lucrative but a hell of a lot safer.
Until now.
Kariem was the most psychotic of the rebel leaders he dealt with—-a guy who would set a man on fire for putting too much cream in his coffee. If human history taught any consistent lesson, though, it was that the biggest psycho usually came out on top. So while their relationship had a lot of potential upside, it was also extremely precarious. Which was why Black always had one of his lackeys make the physical deliveries.
Again, until now. Yesterday, Kariem had requested that Black be personally involved in their transaction—a shipment of surplus AKs and a few RPGs that were as likely to blow up the person using them as the people they were aimed at.
The question was why. To reward him for his service to the cause? Probably not. To cut him up with a chain saw? A better bet. It wouldn’t be the first time one of the rebel leader’s suppliers ended up in pieces.
A line of military vehicles—all supplied at a tidy profit by him—appeared on the horizon. He accelerated to a more confident pace, finally skidding to a stop in front of the rebel contingent and throwing open the door.
“General!” he said, using the title the man had given himself. “It’s great to see you! How’s the war going?”
Kariem was a disconcertingly large man with deep-black skin setting off eyes that had turned a bit yellow. One tracked reasonably well while the other wandered a bit. The result of a childhood head injury, apparently.
“Have you brought the weapons?”
“Of course.”
“They’re good?”