“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“I don’t guess it would. I’m the chief of Saudi Arabia’s General Intelligence Directorate.”
That captured the man’s attention, but he remained understandably skeptical. “Just out touring the Dakotas, are you?”
“I assure you that I am who I say I am, Joel. May I call you Joel?”
“Whatever works for you.”
“Could we move to a booth and speak for a moment?”
“What’s wrong with right here?”
Nassar leaned in a little closer. “I’d like our conversation to be private, and because I’d feel more comfortable with my back to the wall.”
“Why?”
“Because Mitch Rapp is trying to assassinate me.”
Skepticism was replaced by fear at the mention of the CIA man’s name.
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Please,” Nassar said, pointing toward the back.
It was the first test. Wilson was not a stupid man, and after everything he’d been through, he had every reason to decline the invitation. But would he be able to? He had become obsessed with Rapp during an investigation into the accusation that the CIA man had been misappropriating government funds. It had turned into a self-righteous crusade that had collapsed on him when it became clear that those accusations had been disinformation from Pakistan’s ISI.
Men like Wilson, though, could never admit they were wrong. He believed with religious certainty that he had been undermined by corrupt forces inside the U.S. government. That he had been made a scapegoat in an effort to save the Washington elite from embarrassment. The question was whether that righteous indignation had been beaten out of him or whether every demotion, insult, and threat had instead fanned its flames.
Wilson passed the test when he picked up his things and walked to the back of the building. Nassar took a position to the right of him and nodded toward the man’s tablet. “I assume that’s connected to the Internet. May I first suggest you confirm my identity?”
He was impressed by the man’s thoroughness. Wilson pulled up multiple websites containing photos of Nassar, then repeated the search using a British proxy server. Undoubtedly he was concerned that this was a sting operation designed to see if he’d left his Mitch Rapp obsession behind him.
“Okay. You’re who you say you are,” he said finally.
In response, Nassar pulled out a photograph of Rapp and slid it across the table. “Do you recognize this man?”
“Not a very good photo.”
“It was stitched together from a number of different stills to create as clear an image as possible. We believe it to be Rapp.”
“If you say so.”
“Obviously, all this is highly confidential, but he took Prince Talal bin Musaid out of the Monaco nightclub that was just attacked and may have murdered him. We also believe that he’s responsible for the deaths of at least two more Saudi citizens.”
Wilson’s face went blank again, and he slid the photo back to Nassar. “Then I’m guessing Irene Kennedy wanted them dead. You should be talking to her.”
“Is it possible that you’re not aware of Mr. Rapp’s resignation from the CIA?”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s hardly a secret. Perhaps information like that takes time to filter to this part of the country?”
The man took the photo back and stared down at it for a long time. “What’s this have to do with me?”
“I’m forming a task force to track him down before he can do any more damage. I need a man with outstanding investigative abilities, courage, and unimpeachable integrity. You came to mind.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’ve been down this road before. It’s why I’m sitting in a North Dakota coffee shop. Mitch Rapp has a lot of enemies, but he’s also got a lot of heavy political cover. I think I’ll just stay here and keep my pension, if you don’t mind.”
Nassar took the photo back and put it in the breast pocket of his jacket. “I think your understanding of Mr. Rapp’s position is a bit dated, Joel. He’s left the CIA and begun murdering civilians, one of whom was King Faisal’s nephew. Your government has authorized you to join my task force as my second-in-command.”
Wilson actually laughed at that. “You want me to believe that you got Director Miller to agree to that?”
“What Director Miller wants or doesn’t want is irrelevant. I’m working directly with President Alexander.”
“The president?” Wilson said, his demeanor suddenly changing. It was an easily predicted transformation. Wilson would find the idea of going over the head of the man who had banished him irresistible.
“I assume you’ll want to confirm that,” Nassar said. “Just call the White House and tell them who you are. They’ll put you through.”
“To who?”
“To the president, of course.”
Wilson chewed his lower lip, his eyes turning distant. It was almost possible to see the grandiose scenarios playing out behind them. Him being honored at the White House. Him refusing to inform Director Miller of the Rapp investigation’s progress. And, finally, him putting Mitch Rapp behind bars while the people who had halted his prior investigation were accused of a cover-up. At long last, the nation would recognize Joel Wilson for the hero he was.
“What about Kennedy?”
“It’s been her inability to control Rapp over the years that created this disaster. She has no say in this matter whatsoever.”
“Yeah? Well, in my experience she has a way of deciding herself what she does and doesn’t have a say in.”
Nassar nodded. “You’re right to be afraid of her, Joel. You live in a lovely city, have a safe job, and you’ll soon be eligible for retirement. I can’t be blamed for trying, though.”
He started to stand but Wilson grabbed his arm.
“Sit down. I didn’t say no.”
“Then you’re considering it?”
“What exactly are you offering?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“If I help you, I want my career back.”
It would have been expedient to simply make that promise, but Wilson wasn’t stupid. The delicate balance of believability and fantasy had to be maintained.
“I’m a Saudi bureaucrat, Joel. I can’t guarantee something like that. But I can tell you that the president is anxious to have this matter dealt with before it can cause an international incident. It’s hard to imagine how having his gratitude could hurt your career.”
Wilson stared out the windows at the front of the building, watching widely spaced snowflakes fall in the street. “Bringing him in is going to be a hell of a trick. He’s not going to surrender. And even if he did, can you imagine the shit he has locked up in his head? What are they going to do? Put him on trial? Just let him sit there and spill everything he knows all over the courtroom floor?”
“I agree. Mr. Rapp will strongly resist being taken alive.”
The implication was clear, but, instead of recoiling, Wilson smiled.
“So, are you interested, Joel?”