“I don’t recognize the name. Please give my condolences to his family.”
Nassar flipped to another photo and Azarov allowed a hint of fear to register. It depicted Rapp dragging bin Musaid toward the door. The photo was blurred from movement, and Rapp was doing everything possible to keep his face out of the camera.
“I have trouble sleeping,” Azarov said. “When I wake up, it’s this man and not the terrorists I see. He aimed right at me and fired. I thought I was dead, but he missed.” Azarov looked away for a moment as though he was struggling to get his throat to produce sound. “Do you . . . do you know who he is?”
“We have suspicions. If I were to bring you a better photo, do think you could identify him?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
Nassar tapped the glass next to him. “It appears to have stopped raining. I appreciate your time, Mr. Azarov. And your heroism.”
*
Nassar watched the Russian go, studying his athletic gait as he hurried along the sidewalk.
It seemed extraordinary that he could have done what he had in Monaco, but everything he said checked out. He was indeed the semiretired CEO of a highly respected energy consulting firm and a personal friend of Saudi Arabia’s oil minister. He had spent a significant amount of time at combat shooting school, and his athletic prowess as a youth was well-documented. Add a little luck and it wasn’t impossible. It was, however, improbable.
He looked down at the tablet just as the photo of Mitch Rapp went black. They now had incontrovertible evidence that bin Musaid was alive when he left the bar. And that forced Nassar to assume that Rapp knew of his involvement. What would the CIA man do? Was he indeed rogue or did he have the clandestine support of the Agency? Would he dare attempt to assassinate the director of Saudi Arabian intelligence?
It was possible but unlikely that even Rapp would be that rash. It seemed more likely that he’d first look for proof. And with bin Musaid dead, that meant moving against Nassar’s closest associates.
He reached for a button between the seats and lowered the glass separating him from his driver. “Are our people in place in Brussels?”
“They’re still making preparations, sir. But I’ve been assured that all will be ready when you arrive.”
CHAPTER 34
Brussels
Belgium
THE rain in Brussels was coming down much harder than it had been in London. Heavy droplets fell on the windshield, threatening to overwhelm the nondescript Citro?n’s wipers. An ideal environment for the tragic but necessary event to come.
Having completed the money transfer to ISIS, Mahja Zaman was staying in a hotel a few kilometers to the north. Nassar’s staff had created a plan to bring him back to Saudi Arabia, where he could be protected, but that strategy required a careless arrogance that was not one of Nassar’s failings. How many times had Mitch Rapp’s targets been put behind impenetrable security only to end up missing or dead? As difficult as the decision had been to make, Zaman had to be moved permanently beyond Rapp’s reach.
His driver dialed a phone with one hand and spoke quietly. “One minute out.”
When the call was disconnected, he glanced over at Nassar in the passenger seat. “With due respect, sir, there’s no reason for you to be personally involved in this. My people can deal with it quickly and quietly without putting you in danger.”
“Noted.”
They pulled into an alley that ran behind the hotel and Nassar stepped out. The service door immediately opened and he entered a utilitarian corridor. To his right, one of his men was closing a door leading to the security guard charged with monitoring the hotel’s myriad security cameras. The recording function had been disabled and the man was lying facedown at his desk with a bullet hole in his head.
They entered a service elevator and Nassar tried to maintain his calm fa?ade as it rose. He was allowing his personal feelings to force an obvious error. His people should have been handling this while he made his way back to Saudi Arabia. Zaman would have felt nothing as he was sent on his journey to paradise. And when he arrived, he would understand that his death was necessary in the battle against the enemies of God.
The doors slid open and Nassar’s man checked the hallway before motioning him forward. Fortunately, the entrance to Zaman’s suite wasn’t far and, as in the alley, the door opened just before Nassar arrived.
“Aali,” Zaman said, embracing him. “I’m happy to see you so soon after our last meeting.”
“As am I, old friend. I understand everything went smoothly?”
“It was a simple matter,” he said, ushering Nassar and his man into the room.
“In affairs like these, Mahja, I’m afraid nothing is simple.”
The man’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but we have reason to believe that the CIA is aware of your involvement.”
“The CIA! How? I followed your instructions to the letter!”
“It had nothing to do with a failure on your part. Just the fortunes of war.”
“Are you here to take me back to Saudi Arabia?” he said, starting to sound a bit panicked. “The CIA kidnaps people from Europe! We must—”
“Mahja! Be calm. We’ve had a long and close friendship. More than that, you’ve been of great service to me and to God. I would never allow you to fall into the hands of the Americans.”
Nassar gave a subtle nod to the man who had taken a position three meters to Zaman’s left. When he pulled a silenced Glock from his jacket, Zaman registered the movement in his peripheral vision. Fortunately, there was hardly even enough time for surprise to register on his face before a round hit him in the temple.
Nassar stood motionless as his man lifted Zaman’s corpse into a chair and began securing it there with a roll of tape.
“Sir,” he said. “There’s no reason for you to be part of this. You should go.”
Nassar nodded and turned toward the door. The war against Mitch Rapp had begun. The former CIA agent was aging and suffering from a lifetime of injuries that would have killed a normal human being. More important, he appeared to be isolated—not only from Scott Coleman and his team, but also from the brilliant strategist Irene Kennedy.
Would it be enough? Would Aali Nassar be remembered by history as the man who finally defeated the American? Or would he just be another entry on the list of his victims?
*