“Peace be upon you, Director,” Mullah Halabi said.
“And you.” He deeply resented having to check in with the man, but it would be unwise to refuse the request.
“I understand you’re at the home of one of Rapp’s women. Is the search proving fruitful?”
Nassar’s jaw clenched, but it was hardly a surprise that Halabi’s men were reporting back to him. Having the volatile mullah tracking his movements so closely, though, unnerved him. As with Rapp, it was often hard to distinguish between the hunter and the hunted.
“We believe that he may be in central Africa. We’re working now to pinpoint a location.”
“Excellent. I have many devoted men in the region. I’ll be happy to make them available to you.”
Nassar wanted to reject the offer, but there was no practical way to do so. Pointing out that the ISIS leader’s African followers would be unpredictable and poorly trained would be an insult. And admitting that their presence made him uneasy would make the mullah question what he had to hide.
“That’s most generous.”
“Of course, Aali. My resources are always at the disposal of my loyal disciples.”
Nassar bristled at being lumped in with the illiterate cannon fodder that made up Halabi’s cult of personality, but he did nothing that would hint at his displeasure. The ISIS leader was a critical tool in the subjugation of the Middle East and would have to be deferred to until an opportunity to replace him arose.
Joel Wilson appeared around the edge of the house and began rushing toward him.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to go,” Nassar said respectfully. “The American FBI man is coming.”
“May Allah be with you,” he said, and then severed the connection.
“I’ve got something!” Wilson shouted, showing no interest in who Nassar had been talking to.
“Really? That’s surprising, Joel. We’ve been here less than an hour.”
In fact, it seemed quite incredible. While Mitch Rapp undoubtedly had a gift for violence, it was likely that Wilson was underestimating his intellect. Strength, speed, and steel nerves alone couldn’t explain the trail of dead the man had left over the last twenty years. Was Rapp capable of making obvious mistakes?
The FBI agent smoothed out a single sheet of paper on an outdoor table and motioned him over. Nassar looked down at the crude map of Africa and the various markings on it.
“The red circles indicate everywhere our satellites picked up significant explosions on the day Rapp talked about shelling. Combining that with the temperature and sunset data gives us a ninety percent probability that they’re in South Sudan.”
“Impressive, but that’s an entire country.”
“I’m not done,” Wilson said. “There was active fighting in a number of places in that country, but he mentioned in a later email that he was getting provisions from the main market and that it was more trouble than it was worth to drive. That means he’s close enough to a main market to walk and hand carry food back to where he’s staying. Then he made his fatal slip. He called the place he was staying ‘the church.’ ”
“And that’s enough information for you to locate him?”
“I’m still cross-referencing with MI6, but I think there’s a good chance. ‘Main market’ suggests a town big enough to have more than one, which rules out a number of villages with shelling close enough to hear. My gut says we’re talking about Juba.”
“And the church?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’m guessing my people will have a bead on it before we go wheels up. How many nonoperational churches can there be a few minutes’ walk from the central market?”
Nassar nodded, examining the map. “Excellent work, Joel. I was always confident that you were the man for this job, but now I have no doubts at all.”
All true, but something in the back of Nassar’s mind remained suspicious of the man’s success. It was bordering on being too easy. And this suggested two scenarios. First, that Rapp would be aware that his emails to his woman could be accessed and used to locate him, in which case he was already a thousand miles from Juba. Or, second, that those emails were the bait for an elaborate trap.
Of course, Nassar recognized that it was also possible that he was just being paranoid, but it wasn’t something he was willing to bet his life on. Wilson’s life, though, was of less importance. While it would be inconvenient to lose him, he was hardly irreplaceable. And his death at Rapp’s hands would do a great deal to further the narrative Nassar had been crafting.
“I was speaking to the king earlier, and I’ve been recalled to Riyadh on an urgent matter,” he lied. “I tried to explain to His Majesty that I was needed here, but he wouldn’t be deterred. My men and my plane are at your disposal, Joel. I’ll take a commercial flight home and return as soon as I can.”
CHAPTER 45
Juba
South Sudan
THE darkness in the alley went from deep shadow to impenetrable darkness and back again every few feet, but Kent Black kept inching forward. Juba’s electricity was out again, and all he had to work with was a few battery-powered lamps glowing in distant windows.
It wasn’t the safest time to be skulking around town, but the possibility of being jumped by a bunch of drunk rebels wasn’t why he wanted to get the hell out of there. All that mattered was that he got back to the safari camp before Rapp figured out he was gone.
Black came to the mouth of the alley and was able to make out the vague shape of the church’s listing steeple against the stars. It was only another seventy-five yards to the east pedestrian gate, then five minutes inside and then he was out. Easy, right?
One of the men Abdo had sent to watch the place was sitting in an open jeep across the street, but he was dead asleep with an AK clutched to his chest like some kind of security blanket. Based on his age, he’d probably only recently traded up.
The next fifty yards went pretty well. Quiet, good cover, and no more of Abdo’s men. The gods of war had taken pity on him.
Or so he’d thought. When the church’s east wall came into view, he saw a lone figure standing next to the gate. The sheer size of him and the slightly crooked stance acquired when a bullet had crushed his right femur a few years back made him easy to identify. Barnabas Malse.
Black froze. He’d had some training in hand-to-hand combat in the army, but that had been a long time ago. As far as he was concerned, getting any closer than three hundred yards to a target was just plain stupid. If God had wanted people to fight with knives, he wouldn’t have given them sniper rifles.
Skirting the building next to him, Black managed to leave the glow of a distant fire behind. He was wearing tattered fatigues and had smeared his face with dirt in an effort to blend in, but the effect was marginal. With a little backlighting, though, it might get the job done.