“Perhaps death isn’t Rapp’s immediate destiny, Aali. If he’s taken back to America in chains, what havoc might he wreak? Certainly the political enemies of the CIA would line up against him. Would there be public hearings? If so, Rapp might reveal secrets that would shake his godless country to its core.”
“Yes, but in that kind of a hearing, my relationship with you would be uncovered.”
“And then the king would put you to death. It is a man’s greatest hope to have the privilege of being martyred.”
The line went dead, and Nassar slammed his phone against the table. It was easy for that cave-dwelling goatherd to speak of the glory of martyrdom. Nassar, however, had no intention of dying or ending up in one of Faisal’s dungeons. He had a great many things left to do in this life, and Mitch Rapp was the last great obstacle to accomplishing them.
CHAPTER 55
East of Riyadh
Saudi Arabia
REMEMBER when I told you I thought you were insane?” Claudia said, looking through the jet’s window at a private airstrip cut into the desert. “Now I’m sure of it.”
Rapp was dozing on a sofa near the back of the plane. “It’s going to be fine.”
“How is it going to be fine?” she said. “Aali Nassar is desperate to see you dead, and now we’re flying into his backyard. Do you think King Faisal’s going to save you? It doesn’t matter what you’ve done for him and his country in the past, Mitch. He’s an old man and Nassar will have poisoned him against you. He’s probably personally sharpening the sword they’re going to use to behead you.”
“Faisal never does anything himself,” Rapp said, adjusting into a more comfortable position. “He’s probably just overseeing the sharpening.”
“Stop trying to deflect.”
“Stop worrying so much.”
“I’m your logistics coordinator. It’s my job.”
“And you’re good at it.”
“Don’t patronize me, Mitch. Just don’t.”
Rapp had hoped his relationship with Claudia would achieve the balance and ease he’d been searching for. She was pragmatic and adaptable, lacking both his late wife’s na?veté and Donatella’s violent unpredictability. Unfortunately, it seemed that anyone he got close to was eventually sucked into the chaos and darkness that swirled around him.
And it was time to admit that he was making it worse. He just couldn’t stop testing her. From the standpoint of logistics, she was virtually flawless—one of the best he’d ever worked with. But he was still concerned with how she dealt with the stress of life-and-death situations and how their relationship would affect her judgment.
Or was that just a copout? Maybe he was testing himself. Hell, maybe he was trying to drive her away. The idea of losing someone again constantly lurked at the back of his mind. Thoughts of his own death didn’t concern him all that much, but the idea of another funeral and the emptiness and rage that followed was the one thing that had the power to scare him. On the other hand, one day he’d be forced to look back and assess his life. Was “numbness” the word he’d wanted to use to summarize it?
“Mitch?” she prompted. “You better not have fallen asleep during this conversation.”
Once again he was reminded of how much he missed Scott Coleman. The former SEAL would be sitting silently at the front of the plane, cleaning his weapon and waiting for orders.
“I’m awake.”
“This is too much of a risk for not enough reward. If you want to convince someone of your innocence, it should be the Americans. And even then you should let me set up a neutral meeting place. Somewhere with a back door if things go—”
The wheels hit the ground and the engines reversed, causing her to fall silent. Too late.
Rapp rose to his feet and walked toward the cockpit. The pilot was scanning an empty building to the north as he brought the aircraft to a stop. His hand was white-knuckled on the throttle, waiting to slam it forward again if necessary.
“Take a left after that hangar,” Rapp said, pointing through the windscreen.
“It says that’s a restricted area.”
“Just do it, Paco.”
As he eased the aircraft forward, a military contingent appeared. The pilot began to slow, but Rapp took a seat next to him and pushed the throttle forward again.
“I think they’re serious,” Paco said, pointing at four machine gunners tracking them from the top armored vehicles. “Are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure.”
While there had never been any formal introductions, it was likely he’d figured out who Rapp was by now. And in light of that, he’d decided it was better not to question orders.
“Stop by that building up there,” Rapp said, slipping out of the seat and heading toward the back. He pointed at Claudia. “We’re up.”
“What? What’s that mean?”
The plane came to a stop and he opened the door before lowering the steps. She followed him into the heat and glare of the sun, looking around nervously at the soldiers watching them.
Normally, Rapp would have been wearing a hat and sunglasses in an effort to thwart the cameras that had become so ubiquitous in modern society. Today, though, he walked slowly, scanning the airstrip with his face completely exposed.
Claudia put a hand in his back and pushed him forward. “What the hell are you doing? I don’t know where you think you’re going, but could we at least get there?”
He adjusted his trajectory toward a Gulfstream G550. David Graves, wearing a dark suit and seemingly unaffected by the heat, was standing at the base of the steps leading onto the aircraft. He watched them carefully, moving his hand toward the weapon holstered beneath his left arm.
His reaction drove home for Rapp the seriousness of his situation. They’d known each other for years and still got together at the range every month or so, usually grabbing a beer afterward.
By the time they made it to within ten feet, his hand was wrapped around the grip of the SIG P226 that Rapp himself had shot many times. It wasn’t surprising. Word was going around the intelligence community that Joel Wilson was dead and that Rapp was responsible.
“What are you doing here, Mitch?”
“I’m not here, Dave.”
“There are about fifty Saudis behind you who might disagree.”
Graves glanced at Claudia but then pressed a finger to his earpiece, suggesting that he was receiving a transmission.
“Are you sure?” he responded into the microphone on his wrist. “Do you want me to come in? I think you should have at least some—Yes. Understood.”
He stepped aside and Rapp followed Claudia as she moved toward the steps. When they entered the aircraft, she stopped short.
Irene Kennedy rose from her chair and approached, giving Claudia a short embrace as Rapp chose a seat near a section of fuselage with no windows.
“I’m so glad to see you, Claudia,” Kennedy said. “I’ve been worried. Are you all right?”
“Yes, but what are you doing here? Mitch kept refusing to call you.”
“I called him,” she said, indicating toward the chair next to Rapp’s and taking a facing seat. “And I’m looking forward to hearing about what you’ve been doing over the past month. Grisha Azarov, Donatella Rahn, and Kent Black . . .” She shook her head. “Desperate times . . .”