“What the fuck are you doing?” Black said, sharing Claudia’s confusion. “Blast those assholes into the next time zone and let’s get the hell out of here.”
It probably wasn’t bad advice, but Rapp ignored it. He was curious about what would happen. While he was confident that Wilson really did want to march him in front of the cameras in chains, Nassar would be far less excited about the prospect of a bunch of congressional hearings.
Rapp inched into view, ignoring Wilson, who was aiming at him with a shaking hand, and instead focusing on Nassar’s man. His accent and mediocre performance during the fight suggested that he wasn’t one of the Saudi General Intelligence Directorate’s crack operatives. And if that was the case, who was he?
“Okay, everybody, take it easy. I’m coming down.”
Nassar’s man sighted over an AK-47 as Rapp moved toward the ladder. The distance between them was about thirty yards, and that, combined with the angle, would make a clean shot difficult. The Arab looked smart enough to wait, but for how long? Would he take the doable but difficult shot at Rapp when he started down the ladder? Or would he risk letting the CIA man get close enough for a sure thing?
Those questions were answered when Rapp reached for the first rung. The man’s stance suddenly stabilized, and he pulled the butt of his assault rifle more firmly into his shoulder. Rapp jerked back just as a short burst chewed through the ladder an inch from his hand.
“Cease fire!” Wilson shrieked, as Rapp dropped to the floor. “Cease fi—”
The sound of the rifle changed subtly as the shooter adjusted his aim and squeezed off another burst. Rapp rolled to absorb his impact with the floor and rose to one knee in time to see Wilson throw himself over a pew. Impacts from successive rounds pounded the wood for a few seconds before Nassar’s man began swinging his weapon back in Rapp’s direction.
The CIA man’s position wasn’t ideal, and it took more time than it should have to line up. The shooter was backing away as he fired, going for the cover of the altar. Rapp squeezed off a round and hit him in the stomach, causing him to lose control of his rifle. The barrel rose and rounds started punching holes in the roof as Rapp sprinted across the floor, grabbing the weapon and taking the wounded man’s legs out from under him. He tossed the AK and used a foot to pin the Arab to the ground, ignoring the fact that Wilson was approaching with his pistol held out in front of him.
“I told him not to shoot,” the FBI man stammered. “And then he . . . he tried to kill me.”
Rapp grabbed the injured Arab by the collar and began dragging him toward what was left of the church’s front entrance. “Do you have a phone with a camera, Joel?”
“A phone,” he mumbled. “Yeah. I have one. But I—”
“Get pictures of all of Nassar’s men. Do it now.”
The careful recording of crime scenes was very much in the FBI man’s wheelhouse, and the task seemed to revive him. He moved hesitantly at first but gained confidence as he flipped the bodies and lined his lens up with their faces.
“Change of plans. I’m coming out the front,” Rapp said into his radio. “Wilson will be following. Don’t shoot either of us.”
Black, who had line of sight on the front courtyard, acknowledged.
“Where are you going?” Wilson said, running up behind him. “What just happened? Who attacked us? Were they your people?”
Rapp dropped the wounded man behind one of the vehicles in Wilson’s motorcade and popped the trunk.
“You’re under arrest,” the FBI man said in a voice that was completely devoid of conviction. He didn’t seem to be able to think of anything else to say.
The injured man managed to find the strength to swear in Arabic as Rapp lifted him into the trunk. It was a tight fit and he had to slam the lid a few times to get it to latch.
“You have a shooter moving toward you from the rear courtyard,” Azarov said over his earpiece. “He appears to be one of Abdo’s men.”
“Can you handle it?”
“I should have a shot in a few seconds.”
“Mitch,” Wilson said, once again aiming his service pistol. “Did you hear me? You’re under—”
Azarov’s rifle sounded and Wilson dropped to the ground. “Shit! Someone’s shooting at us!”
Rapp slid into the vehicle’s driver’s seat, leaned out the window, and looked down at the man lying in the dirt. “Get in the car, Joel.”
Wilson thought about it for less than a second before jumping to his feet and scrambling for the passenger door.
CHAPTER 50
Riyadh
Saudi Arabia
MALIK! Respond!”
But there was only silence where moments before desperate shouts and gunfire had reigned.
Aali Nassar removed his headset and stared blankly across his desk. He’d considered the possibility that this was a trap and for that reason had not accompanied Wilson to South Sudan. Even in his own mind, though, his return to Riyadh had been cautious to the point of paranoia. The idea that someone like Rapp would be capable of backdating emails and mining them with a series of innocuous clues that, in their entirety, were just barely enough for Wilson to find that -warehouse . . . It was unthinkable.
Despite the air-conditioning, Nassar could feel the sweat beginning to run down his forehead. One thing was certain. Four of his most loyal men were dead. Worse, so were the men supplied by Sayid Halabi. Men like Malik. Could they be identified and traced to him? What about the Africans the mullah had provided? Finally, what if they weren’t in fact all dead? What if some were in a condition that would allow interrogation?
His hand hesitated for a moment over his phone and then he picked it up, dialing his assistant.
“Yes, Director. What can I do for you?”
“I need you to contact Jean-Paul Jayyusi.”
“Sir? Are you—”
“Just do it!” Nassar said. “Have him call me on this line.”
His man’s reluctance wasn’t surprising. Jayyusi was the head of the loosely defined South Sudanese intelligence apparatus and a man who was best avoided at all costs. Until the recent formation of his country, he had been nothing more than a sadistic criminal with a gift for gathering and brokering sensitive information. Since then, little had changed. He had loyalty to no one and nothing beyond feeding his own insatiable desire for wealth, power, and women.
Nassar waited for almost half an hour in unbearable silence before his phone rang. Jayyusi couldn’t be trusted and there was no question that the details of their conversation would be up for sale before it had even ended. But what choice did he have? If he accepted that a thug like Mitch Rapp couldn’t have planned a trap this clever, then he had to consider the possibility that Irene Kennedy was involved. And if that was the case, the game he was playing was far more dangerous than he could have ever dreamed. He couldn’t afford to leave any information on the table, even if it meant hinting at the true nature of his involvement.