“General Jayyusi,” he said, putting the phone to his ear. “I appreciate you getting back to me so quickly.”
“It’s not every day that I receive a call from someone of your stature and your . . .”—his voice faded for a moment as he searched for the right word—“resources.”
Normally political pleasantries would be exchanged, but Nassar had no interest in speaking to this man any longer than necessary. They both understood their roles in this transaction and there was no point in pretending otherwise.
“I’m interested in a gun battle that occurred in Juba today.”
“There were many such incidents,” the man probed. “Can you be more specific?”
“It just ended and was centered around a church.”
“Ah, the well-armed foreigners. Your people, Aali?”
“I had men attached to the detail, as did the Americans. We were trying to locate a terrorist who has recently murdered a number of prominent Saudi citizens. Information came to light that he might be hiding in South Sudan.”
“And you’re just calling me now? If you told me sooner, I could have helped you.”
More likely the man would have played both sides, charging an outrageous sum to support Nassar’s men while selling information of their arrival to anyone interested.
“We had to move quickly,” Nassar said. “My apologies.”
There was a lengthy silence before Jayyusi spoke again. “Neither of us has any interest in wasting valuable time, so let me be direct. I have information and you have money. Am I mistaken, or is an exchange desirable?”
“It is.”
“One million U.S. dollars.”
“We both know that’s an unconscionable sum.”
“Indeed. And my information isn’t even that good. But you brought a team into my country and created a deadly confrontation in the middle of my capital city. Under the circumstances, and considering the obscene wealth that your country holds, I see this as a fair price.”
“Do you have account information for the wire?”
“Those details can be handled by our people at a later time. I have no reason to believe that you’re not a man of your word.”
“Then we have an agreement. What do you know about what happened in Juba?”
“The church was the headquarters of an American arms dealer.”
“Name?”
“Jason Blaze. Obviously an alias.”
“And do you know his actual identity?”
“No. It was never something that interested me.”
Undoubtedly because Blaze was paying him to look the other way. “Please continue.”
“Recently a group of white people joined his business. Two men and two women.”
“Do you have descriptions?”
The tapping of computer keys was audible over the marginal connection. “The women are both quite attractive and dark-haired. One midthirties, the other perhaps ten years older. The younger of the two appears to be a native French speaker. The men are both athletic in build and around six feet. One is blond and tanned, but probably naturally fair-skinned. Likely Eastern European. The other has nearly black hair, long, with a beard and dark complexion. He speaks English with an American accent and, we think, fluent Arabic. He did something that no one else has been able to—he killed a local rebel leader named NaNomi. Apparently by driving a knife through his skull.”
Nassar nodded to himself. Mitch Rapp. And it could be assumed with reasonable confidence that the young Frenchwoman was Claudia Dufort. But who were the others?
“After that incident, they were forced to run,” Jayyusi continued. “The rebel group sent scouts to watch the church in case they returned.”
Nassar felt some of the tension in his shoulders easing. Jayyusi’s information was proving to be worth its exorbitant price. The Rapp it portrayed was the one that Nassar was familiar with. A violent man who had been unable to control himself when confronted with a meaningless African guerrilla, thus forcing his team to flee an ideal base of operations.
“So my men—” Nassar began, but Jayyusi anticipated his question.
“Walked into an ambush meant for Blaze and his associates.”
Nassar turned the man’s words over in his head for a few moments. “Were there any survivors?”
“One of the cars your men arrived in was seen leaving the scene, but we have no information as to who was inside.”
A rebel fleeing the battle? One of Nassar’s own men? None had contacted him yet, but it was possible that they just hadn’t had the opportunity.
“Was there a white man among the dead, General? An FBI agent named Wilson was in command.”
“I don’t have those kinds of details yet. My people are just now moving in.”
“And you’ll provide me with that information as soon as you have it?”
“Of course.”
“Then I have only one last question for you, General. Do you know where Blaze and his people went?”
“I’m afraid that I don’t have the ability to share that information with you, Aali.”
It was a strangely constructed response. “Is that because you don’t know or because our financial transaction isn’t satisfactory?”
“Neither. It’s because of what Blaze’s new associate did to NaNomi. I see no profit in making an enemy of him.”
CHAPTER 51
South Sudan
THE city of Juba was thirty miles in the rearview mirror, and Joel Wilson still hadn’t spoken. Rapp glanced over and saw him staring through the windshield in a state that bordered on catatonia. Was it feasible that he was reevaluating the things he’d done? Could he actually be facing the fact that, after being duped by the Pakistanis, he’d just fallen into an identical trap set by the Saudis?
Rapp was still fifty-fifty on leaving the man’s body in the desert, but his enthusiasm for the idea was waning. The risks of counting on Wilson to pull his head out of his ass were astronomical, but the benefits might be, too. This kind of complex plotting was Irene Kennedy’s sphere of influence and he’d never seen any reason to get involved. With her out of the picture, though, a hammer couldn’t be the only tool in his box.
There was a poorly defined dirt track to his right and he took it, climbing a steep slope out of the scrub and into the trees. The change in scenery broke Wilson from his trance.
“Where . . . where are you taking me?”
“Relax, Joel. I need to talk to the asshole in the trunk before he bleeds out. Is there anything you can tell me about him?”
Wilson nodded. “His name is Malik. One of Nassar’s men.”
The road petered out in a small clearing surrounded by dense vegetation. Rapp stopped in the middle, stepping out and going around to the trunk. Any concerns he had that the man was dead from blood loss or heatstroke were put to rest before the trunk lid was even fully open. Malik swung a car jack at him with a piercing shout, missing by at least a foot.
Rapp didn’t bother to disarm the man, instead grabbing him by the hair and dragging him out into the dirt. The terrorist took another swing, but it passed harmlessly in front of Rapp’s shins.
“Get a photo.”
Wilson retrieved his phone and snapped a shot of the man’s face.
“Can you record audio on that thing?”