Nassar watched the gunfight play out. When all the terrorists outside had been killed, a man appeared and ran for the doors. Safar paused the video. “We assume that this is the other successful shooter.”
“A security guard for one of the men inside?”
“We’re not sure.”
The video switched to an interior view, displaying the chaos in a steady flow of changing angles. “Six terrorists entered. One is already dead at this point, but it’s unclear who fired the shot. Watch the left side of the screen.”
A man ran at incredible speed across the frame, one hand over his head and the other holding a pistol. He aimed awkwardly and fired, surprisingly taking out a terrorist firing at a booth full of young people.
“Have we identified that man?”
“Yes, sir. His name is Grisha Azarov. A well-regarded energy consultant from Russia. Have you heard of him?”
“The name is vaguely familiar. His company has done work for Aramco, no?”
“That’s correct.”
The man who had crossed the parking lot came into the frame, sliding on the floor toward an injured terrorist and calmly pressing a Glock to the back of his head before pulling the trigger.
The camera angle changed and finally Prince bin Musaid came into view. He was wrestling with a woman whose purse appeared to be on fire.
“Who is she?”
“We don’t know. Most likely one of the whores who frequent the establishment.”
A moment later the man from the parking lot appeared and began pulling the prince toward the door.
“Here,” Safar said, slowing down the video. “This is where bin Musaid is hit.”
The impact was obvious, but it was difficult to tell exactly where the bullet had penetrated. The man from the lot threw bin Musaid over his shoulder and ran, eventually getting picked up by the exterior camera before disappearing into the parking lot.
“So the wound the prince suffered was fatal?”
“We can’t be certain, sir. He was driven away and later found riddled with bullets in the middle of the road.”
“Was the man who took him from his security detail?”
“No, sir. They were both killed in the parking lot.”
Safar’s nervousness seemed to be growing and Nassar’s agitation grew with it. Mullah Halabi had said he would deal with bin Musaid but had made no allusion to the fact that it would be done in the context of a terrorist attack targeting some of the wealthiest men in the world. And to make matters worse, his lackeys hadn’t killed the prince cleanly. It was possible that he had survived for some time with his rescuer.
“If he wasn’t part of bin Musaid’s detail, then who was he? Even with limited footage, it’s obvious that he’s highly trained and has significant combat experience. A man like him would be known to the world’s intelligence community.”
Safar minimized the video and brought up another. Instead of being designed to give an overview of the attack, this one had been spliced together to focus on that one shooter. The additional footage confirmed Nassar’s initial analysis. Even in his years in the special forces, he’d never seen anyone who could match the man’s speed, accuracy, and flawless instincts. He didn’t hesitate, he appeared to be immune to the confusion of battle, and he never missed. Unfortunately, he also seemed to have a gift for keeping his face from lining up directly with the establishment’s cameras.
Safar switched to an unrelated video that appeared to depict an American military operation in an unidentifiable Middle Eastern village. The shaky footage—probably from a helmet-mounted -camera—detailed an ambush and the desperate battle that ensued. All the soldiers fought well, but there was a man who stood well above the others. Despite the poor quality of the image, it was clear that he was the same size and build as the man in Monaco and that he wore his hair and beard the same way. More importantly, he had the same icy calm and the same graceful, economical way of moving.
“What you’re watching now,” Safar said, “is a rare and highly classified video of Mitch Rapp in combat.”
Nassar felt his mouth go dry. “How long was bin Musaid in the car with him? Tell me!”
Safar fumbled with the computer, pulling up Google Maps and making the calculations based on where they’d found the Saudi prince’s body. “No more than four or five minutes.”
Nassar pressed his palms against his temples, feeling them begin to throb. If bin Musaid had been conscious, he would have been confused, terrified, and in pain—an easily exploited situation. Rapp would have told the prince that he’d been sent there to protect him but that he couldn’t do so unless he knew who was behind the attack. How much could bin Musaid have revealed over the course of five minutes?
“We need more than speculation,” Nassar said, trying to keep his voice even. “I’ll be at the office in one hour and I want facts, names, and options. Further, we’re going to have to calculate how to present this to the king. Obviously there will be no mention of Rapp’s potential involvement. Eventually the other agencies will identify him, but for now we have some time.”
Safar was already packing up his computer. “I’ll see to it immediately. Is there anything else?”
“Find Azarov and use our contacts at the CIA to get a location on Rapp.”
Safar disappeared through the door as Nassar eased himself unsteadily into the chair behind his desk. By all reports, Rapp had resigned from the Agency. Was it possible that he’d gone rogue? That he had been following the prince of his own volition and thus had been present for the attack by Halabi’s men? Or was it something far more dangerous? Was his retirement just disinformation created by a CIA that was supporting this operation?
His phone rang and he immediately recognized the number. His decision to pick up, though, took another few seconds.
“Yes.”
Mullah Halabi’s voice sounded uncharacteristically upbeat. “I understand that you’ve been briefed on recent events in Monaco.”
The fact that the man knew this so quickly added to Nassar’s anxiety. Did he have people watching the house? Was it possible that Nassar’s personal guards—perhaps even his trusted assistant—were among the man’s many disciples?
“I have,” was all Nassar could get out.
“A magnificent operation, wouldn’t you say, Aali? Not only is your prince dead but all those infidels as well.”
“Bin Musaid wasn’t killed.”
“You’re misinformed, Director. When my men left him in the road, he was little more than a piece of meat.”
“But he wasn’t killed immediately,” Nassar said angrily. “The man who got him out . . .”
“Yes?”
“We believe it was Mitch Rapp.”
“Indeed?” the mullah said, sounding even more gleeful. “Wonderful! Can you feel him, Aali? Can you feel Satan’s breath on your neck? I can. Every second of every hour. The day that you lose your sensitivity to that searing wind is the day that God no longer sees you.”
CHAPTER 32
West of Carbonia
Sardinia
WHAT happened to the BMW?” Claudia said as she walked into the yacht’s galley.
“Bottom of the sea,” Rapp responded, sliding a cup of coffee toward her.