“Word is Joel Wilson’s dead,” Rapp said. “Last time I saw him, he looked okay. You didn’t—”
“No, of course not.” She twisted in her seat. “Joel! Could you come out here, please?”
The FBI man appeared from the secure communications space at the back, looking a bit sheepish.
“Joel’s been working to identify the men who were killed in Juba and helping to clear you in the deaths of the Saudi nationals you’re accused of killing.”
“Are you making any progress?” Rapp asked.
“It’s hard to get anything concrete,” Wilson replied. “But we’re building a pretty decent circumstantial case for your innocence.”
Rapp pulled out the fake passport he’d been using and tossed it to the man. “It’s not exactly ironclad, but you might be able to get some mileage out of it.”
Wilson flipped through the pages, looking at the entry and exit stamps. “Every little bit helps. Let me go back and get some scans.”
Rapp returned his attention to Kennedy. “Is our meeting with the king still on?”
“Yes,” she responded, glancing at her watch. “In fact, we’re running late. Claudia, why don’t you wait here for us?”
“I think I should come,” she protested. “I have all the details of what we’ve done—times, dates, places, transportation. I could help fill in anything that Joel hasn’t been able to figure out.”
“I understand, and we’ll need you to coordinate with him later, but for now I’d like to keep you out of this as much as possible. And besides, it will give you a chance to give Anna a call. She and Tommy are having a wonderful time together, but she misses her mother.”
*
The lights of the Erga Palace’s fountain had come on, bathing the pillared entrance in a warm glow. Guards were plentiful, all carrying assault rifles and all very interested in the limousine gliding past them.
“Stop here,” Rapp said in Arabic to the driver.
“What?” he responded. “Why? I’ve been told to take you to the entrance where the king’s assistant is waiting.”
“Stop here,” Rapp repeated. The man had no choice but to do so. Rapp was the king’s guest and, as such, his wishes were to be carried out to the letter.
“You don’t mind a little walk, do you, Irene?”
“An excellent idea,” she said, following him out into the quickly cooling evening.
“What are we doing?” Wilson said, looking around at the guards before leaving the relative safety of the limo.
“Relax,” Rapp said, putting a friendly hand in his back and ushering him toward the palace entrance. “I just needed a little air.”
In truth Rapp wanted to make sure this little visit was as public as possible. He needed the guards—many of whom would be loyal to Aali Nassar—to see not only him and Irene Kennedy walking freely into a meeting with the king but also the late Joel Wilson strolling along with them.
They met Faisal’s assistant on the palace steps and, after some strained pleasantries, were led to a marble-and-gilt audience room near the back of the palace. As expected, the king wasn’t there. He liked to make an entrance and they were forced to wait. The only seat was a gold-and-red-velvet throne on an elevated platform, so they had to stand.
After five minutes Faisal appeared and struggled into his seat. The platform had been getting progressively shorter as he aged, and Rapp noted that it might be about time for another adjustment.
“I have agreed to this meeting and excluded Director Nassar at your request, Dr. Kennedy. I do this out of respect for you and in acknowledgment of what Mr. Rapp has done to defend my kingdom in the past. But I want to be clear that I believe him to be a murderer.”
Despite their long relationship, Faisal didn’t look at him. Yet another reminder of how quickly political loyalties could change.
“Your Highness,” Kennedy said. “I’d like to introduce Joel Wilson, the FBI agent who was helping Director Nassar try to find Mitch.”
“I’m quite familiar with Agent Wilson,” Faisal said. “Though I was told you were dead.”
“No, sir. One of Director Nassar’s men tried to kill me, but Mitch managed to prevent it.”
“That’s a very serious accusation. Do you have proof?”
“Is the equipment we requested available?”
The king pointed toward an ornate cabinet against the wall. Wilson opened it, docking his laptop and retrieving a remote control. A moment later the lights dimmed and his screen was projected on the wall.
“This first image is a list of dates and places where Mitch has traveled since leaving the CIA. They are corroborated by his passport. You can see that it would be impossible for him to have killed your man in Paris or Qadir Sultan in Saudi Arabia.”
“You’re offering entries in a forged passport as proof?” Faisal asked.
“Please, let him finish,” Kennedy said.
“Thank you. We have corroborating evidence from various cameras in airports and other locations, all time-stamped.”
He scrolled through them, but Rapp’s natural ability to keep his face out of photos worked against him. When Wilson brought up an image of a lengthy telephone record, Rapp had had enough.
“Stop.”
Wilson looked over at him. “I was just getting to—”
Rapp stepped forward and locked eyes with the aging monarch. “You know damn well that I didn’t kill those people because I’m telling you I didn’t kill them. Why would I lie? Why would I be standing here in front of you instead of putting a bullet in your head and hoping the next asshole who sits in that chair is better?”
Faisal jerked back, alarm and confusion reading on his face. It was probably the first time he’d ever been spoken to that way.
“Mitch . . .” Kennedy cautioned, but the old man pushed himself to his feet and spoke over her. “You tell me all this, but then you insist that Aali not be present to defend himself. He’s been unfailingly loyal to me and worked tirelessly against ISIS.”
“Listen to yourself,” Rapp responded. “Even you don’t believe what you’re saying. You either need to run this country or turn it over to someone who can. Because you’ve been played and I can’t tell if you’re too stupid to realize it or too old to care.”
“Guards!” the king shouted, and a moment later two men armed with HK G36s burst through the door. Kennedy took a few steps back while Wilson scurried for the edge of the room. Rapp held his position. He wasn’t finished yet.
One guard took a position to his right, unsure what Faisal wanted him to do. Rapp took advantage of the confusion and swept his legs from under him while grabbing the barrel of his gun. He jerked it out of his hands and rammed the butt of it into the head of the second guard, whose knees buckled. Rapp dropped the rifle and snatched the Browning Hi Power from the man’s holster before he dropped to the marble floor.
The remaining palace guards registered the commotion and he could hear their shouts as they fanned out behind him. They were even less inclined to act, though. Rapp had his weapons lined up on Faisal’s forehead and the slightest twitch of his finger would put an end to their king.