His real name was Steve Thompson. The Kent Black bullshit was an effort to make him sound more like the jet-set private contractor he’d always wanted to be. In truth, he was a poor Montana kid who had grown up with fewer creature comforts than he had here in Africa. His father had been a crazy survivalist who’d spent half his time preparing for the end of the world and the other half beating on his son. That was, until he’d disappeared. There hadn’t been so much as a hint of foul play and no body was ever recovered, so the younger Thompson—now Black—had been cleared and shuffled off to a foster home.
He’d eventually become an Army Ranger and top-notch sniper. The problem was that he’d seen his father in every commander he’d ever had and eventually was booted out of the military for insubordination.
Rapp had actually considered taking Black on when he hit the street, but it wasn’t an idea that lasted long. The kid was gifted, but also unpredictable and in possession of a seriously broken moral compass. So, while perhaps not CIA material, he was just the man for the shit detail the president had handed out.
“Seriously, Mitch. You don’t want me in South Sudan? I’ll disappear. How about Borneo? Or Siberia. I could—”
“Shut up.”
He fell silent, fidgeting in his chair like a schoolkid called in front of the principal.
“Do you want a job?”
The young man didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Was I not clear?”
“Word on the street is that you left the Agency.”
“That’s right.”
“So you’ve gone private?”
“Something like that.”
“And you want to work with . . . me?”
“I did, but now I’m starting to change my mind.”
“Don’t do that!” Black said, leaping from his seat. “I’m in.”
“Do you want to know what the job is?”
“Not really.”
That was starting to become a theme. “How about the pay?”
“I’m not worried. You always take care of your guys.”
He took a few steps in no particular direction, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Fuckin’ A. I’m working with Mitch Rapp.”
CHAPTER 25
The Principality of Monaco
PRINCE Talal bin Musaid stepped from his brother’s jet and walked unsteadily down the steps. He didn’t even bother to berate the men handling his expensive leather luggage, instead focusing on getting to the tarmac safely. His arrival in Monaco and numerous glasses of Hennessy had failed to calm him.
He’d been forced to lie about his plane being in for repairs to prompt his brother to send his own. In fact, it was in perfect working condition, but bin Musaid had no way to fuel it or pay landing fees. His bank accounts—even the hidden ones—had been completely drained. His credit cards had been canceled due to fraudulent activity. His lines of credit had been maxed out and most of his significant assets had liens against them—either from the loans he’d used to buy them or for taxes he couldn’t be bothered to pay. If his brother had refused to fetch him, it was unlikely he could have put his hands on enough cash to buy a ticket on a commercial carrier.
A black Mercedes pulled up in front of him, but instead of his brother appearing from the back, his brother’s wife stepped out from the driver’s seat.
“Your Highness,” she said with a polite smile. “It’s so good to see you.”
He hadn’t laid eyes on her in more than a year and that was very much by design. When his brother had begun seeing this Spanish commoner, bin Musaid had understood. She was young, stunningly beautiful, and, he assumed, good in bed. But then he’d married the bitch. She was his only wife and, as far as anyone knew, he didn’t even keep a mistress.
Bin Musaid watched in silence as she oversaw the loading of his luggage and then indicated to the passenger seat. Instead he got in the back. His brother had been disinherited for his relationship with her, but he cared little. He’d made an enormous amount of money in European real estate and had no need of the family’s support.
“I’m sorry that Hossein couldn’t pick you up personally,” she said, starting the car and pulling away. “He’s stuck at the office.”
Her Arabic was still barely intelligible, and listening to it made his anger grow. He had no choice but to swallow it, though. His brother had been largely estranged from the family for more than a decade, and in that time it had become clear where his loyalties lay. With this infidel and their three Westernized children.
“What brings you to Monaco?” she asked. It was likely that his brother was aware that he came there often but never contacted them. He’d undoubtedly put the woman up to finding out what had changed. Bin Musaid didn’t bother to respond.
Aali Nassar had done a skillful job of sowing doubt about bin Musaid’s involvement in the Rabat affair, but the king was not entirely convinced. That doubt put the prince in a very dangerous position and made his brother’s independent life in Europe a gift from Allah. Bin Musaid was unwilling to tell either the king or Nassar about what had happened to his fortune out of fear of what a criminal investigation might find. His brother’s lawyers and accountants would be in a position to make discreet inquiries, and bin Musaid could use what they learned to plan what came next. If this was a simple matter of hackers, the king could exert considerable pressure on the relevant financial institutions to return the money lost through their incompetent security measures. If it was something more, then other arrangements would have to be made.
“Will you be staying long?” his sister-in-law probed.
“Be still, woman!”
He immediately saw the error of his outburst and softened his tone. “I’m sorry. It was a long flight. No. Not long.”
It was likely a lie. The more he considered it, the more improbable it seemed that this was the work of hackers. Not only was the attack too thorough, but some of it seemed designed solely to anger and humiliate him. Most of his money had just disappeared so completely that it seemed to have never existed. The exception was the three million or so dollars that had been donated in his name to Jewish charities and girls’ schools.
No, the answer would likely be much more dangerous and needed to be hidden from his brother for as long as possible. He wouldn’t tolerate any risk to his wife and children in order to hide a brother he barely spoke to.
Bin Musaid gazed out the window at the opulent cityscape that he knew so well. What would his brother’s people discover? The CIA was the most obvious perpetrator, but Aali Nassar seemed convinced that the pathetic American president would never authorize a move against a prominent Saudi royal. The Jews? The Iranians? Or was he being na?ve? Nassar had been angered by his personal involvement in the Rabat operation but had become enraged when he discovered that the CIA had been tracking the exchange. Was it possible that this was his doing? A punishment for Rabat? And, if so, had it been authorized by the king?
While it was hard to imagine, it was even feasible that he was actually in physical danger. This was another reason his brother was a gift from God. He maintained a security detail and the presence of his wife and children at the house would discourage at least the Americans from making a move. Unfortunately, it also meant that bin Musaid would not only have to tolerate their presence but court it.
He forced himself to lean forward between the seats. “How have you been, Carmen?”