He led them to a seating area and they all settled in. Alexander should have been enjoying turning the tables on the Saudi. Instead he was calculating every possible way Rapp’s actions could blow back on him. It wasn’t lost on Kennedy that it would be far better for him if the former CIA agent disappeared forever. As Stan Hurley had been fond of saying, dead men tell no tales.
“I demand that we dispense with these games immediately,” Nassar said. “Everyone in this room knows that the man in that video is Rapp.”
“I know no such thing,” Kennedy retorted. “And even if it is, the man in that video is killing the terrorists and appears to be trying to save the prince.”
“Save him? He threw His Highness into the street, where he was gunned down like an animal!”
“Gunned down by the men in the pursuing car. Perhaps the prince was already dead. I think it’s fair to say that it would be quite disturbing to have a dead body in one’s passenger seat.”
“Disturbing? Don’t be absurd! A man like the one in that video wouldn’t be bothered by the presence of a dead body in his car.”
She just shrugged.
Nassar pulled two photos from the portfolio he was carrying and handed them to her.
“Since you’re not satisfied by the quality of the pictures captured from that video, Director Kennedy, perhaps you’ll find these more convincing.”
Each depicted a bloody corpse secured to a chair. She tapped the top one. “Ahmed el-Hashem.”
“We were very sorry to hear about your assistant ambassador’s death,” the President interjected.
“I’m sure you were,” Nassar remarked in an openly disrespectful tone. “He was tortured—likely for information—and then executed with a single shot to the head from what my people are saying was probably a Glock. The second man, Mahja Zaman, suffered the same fate.”
“Mahja Zaman?” Kennedy said. “Who is he?”
“A Saudi businessman.”
She pulled out her phone and Googled the name as he continued. It was just for show, though. She was extremely familiar with Mr. Zaman.
“He was killed at a Brussels hotel, as was one of the hotel’s security people. Further, the murderer—who fits Mitch Rapp’s description—incapacitated two more security guards on his way out of the building before being driven away by a Caucasian woman.”
“Do you have photographic evidence?” Kennedy asked.
“Rapp disabled the cameras when he killed the security guard.”
“So, a six-foot, bearded, dark-complected male in his forties. That narrows it down to about a quarter of a billion people.”
“Don’t be a fool! You know as well as I do that this is Mitch Rapp’s doing! He believed that Prince bin Musaid was involved with ISIS, and he’s interrogating and murdering men he perceives to be connected.”
“And why would he perceive these men to be connected?”
He didn’t reply, and Kennedy continued to scroll through her phone. “This is interesting. It says that Zaman is about your age and went to Oxford. Did you know him?”
“We were roommates.”
“Really,” she said, looking up and affecting an expression of sympathy. “Then I’m very sorry for the loss of your friend.”
“This is all irrelevant,” the Saudi said, trying to regain control of the conversation. “Whether this is or is not the work of Mitch Rapp is a matter that’s easily resolved. All we need to do is speak with him.”
“Then I’d encourage you to do that,” Kennedy said.
“Where would I find him?”
“I’m not in the habit of keeping track of my former employees.”
Nassar finally turned his attention to the president, who, for obvious reasons, was content to let his CIA chief take the lead. “Sir. You know as well as I do that Mitch Rapp is involved in this. The man was always unstable and violent, and now he’s gone rogue. King Faisal demands that he be found before he can kill any more of our citizens. If we discover that he wasn’t involved, of course we’ll provide both you and him a formal apology. Until then, though, I think we can make the assumption that he’ll keep killing until he’s stopped. Because of the king’s deep respect for you and his acknowledgment of Mr. Rapp’s past contributions to our security, we’re willing to keep this quiet. If you refuse to help, however, we’ll be forced to make this information public and seek the help of the world’s law enforcement agencies.”
Even Alexander couldn’t hide his increased apprehension at the word “public.” He turned to Kennedy.
“Irene, can you get in touch with him? Ask him to come in for an interview?”
“Probably not,” she said, vaguely.
Nassar’s jaw clenched. “Mr. President, I am formally asking for your government’s help in finding Mr. Rapp. If he’s innocent, he’ll have an opportunity to clear his name. If he’s not, his capture will prevent any further bloodshed.”
Checkmate, Kennedy knew. Refusing the perfectly reasonable request would be a political disaster and would force Alexander to manufacture a rationale for that refusal that would be too far-fetched to play on the world stage. It’s what she had feared since the day the president sent Rapp on this fool’s errand.
“What is it you need?” Alexander said.
“For you to provide my task force with a man who can assist and who can act as a liaison between my people and yours.”
Alexander looked at Kennedy. “Irene? Could you provide someone?”
“Of course. Perhaps—”
“With all due respect, sir, I already have someone in mind.”
“Who?”
“Special agent Joel Wilson of the FBI.”
Kennedy’s heart sank at the name. Wilson was the former acting deputy director of counterintelligence, a twisted little man who hated Rapp with the same intensity as many of his terrorist enemies. Worse, he was an extremely competent and obsessive investigator. Nassar had once again proved his cunning. Wilson would abandon all common sense, all perspective, and all national loyalty for an opportunity to exact revenge on Rapp.
“I don’t know him,” the president said, standing. “But if that’s who you want, fine.”
Nassar stood as well, shaking the man’s hand and giving a curt nod to Kennedy before heading for the door. When it closed behind him, Alexander turned to her. “Joel Wilson? Who the fuck is that?”
“You remember him, sir. He worked with Senator Ferris against us when—”
“That little prick? The idiot who the Pakistanis used to try to take out the CIA’s clandestine services?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I still can’t understand why you didn’t put that bastard in jail and throw away the key.”
“It was less complicated not to. We didn’t want to give the FBI a black eye, and tensions with Pakistan were already bad enough. We demoted him and agreed to let him keep his pension. To the best of my knowledge, he’s working at one of the FBI’s resident agencies. Montana, maybe? Or it could be Alaska.”
Alexander dropped back into the couch. “What do you know about all this, Irene? I’m not buying that you came up with Zaman and Nassar going to school together from your phone.”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”