“This was true when you were Saudi Arabia’s intelligence chief. But now you’re just a man on the run. I have many men on the run at my disposal. Every one of them loyal zealots who want nothing more than to die for me.”
“Martyrs are of little strategic value,” Nassar said, trying to keep his voice even. He knew that the outcome of this conversation would determine whether he lived or died. “I have intimate knowledge of military operations and intelligence methods that will be impossible to alter quickly. I also still control significant financial resources. Bring me in and allow me to make my case. If you’re not convinced, you can kill me.”
He heard muffled voices—Halabi speaking to someone else in the room.
“You’ll be sent an address,” the mullah said finally. “I suggest you begin your preparations to leave.”
The line went dead and Nassar swept a hand across his desk, knocking most of its contents to the floor. A glass mug shattered loudly on the tiles, prompting one of his men to burst through the door to his left.
“Is everything all right, Director?”
“Bring my car around. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
“Where are we—”
“Don’t question me!” Nassar shouted. “Just carry out my orders!”
The man disappeared as Nassar slid a USB drive into one of his computer’s ports. The worm it contained would download thousands of critical files before covering the theft by wreaking havoc on the General Intelligence Directorate’s computer system. Most important, though, it would drain a number of government accounts and deposit the money into anonymous ones he controlled.
It was a protocol he’d set up years ago when he took his first hesitant steps toward undermining the Saudi royalty. He’d never expected to have to use it or to have to flee the country he believed he was destined to rule. Again the rage washed over him. Rapp was back safe in the arms of his country. And he was laughing.
*
Nassar looked past his two security men at the lights of Mecca shining through the windshield. The journey there had taken almost five hours, but he still found it impossible to collect his thoughts. All he could feel was an increasing sense of disorientation.
It was all gone. His position and prestige. His opulent home and private aircraft. His sons and the powerful friends he had so carefully cultivated. He would spend the rest of his life in squalor, surrounded by fanatics and at the pleasure of a religious fanatic who believed that Allah spoke through him and him only.
Nassar tried to clear his mind and focus on the immediate steps that needed to be taken. The only thing that mattered now was convincing Halabi of his value.
Soon, though, he found his thoughts drifting to the future. The former Iraqi officers whom Halabi had surrounded himself with presented an opportunity. While they were far more competent than the rank-and-file ISIS fighter, they were also far less fanatical. They continued to be concerned with such worldly trappings as power, survival, and money. Subverting their loyalties would be no small task but, if done carefully and over time, it might be possible. With their support and the convenient martyrdom of the mullah, the fanatics could be brought into line.
Patience would be the most difficult part, straining even his iron discipline. The thirst for revenge—on Rapp, on the king—was burning inside him with an intensity that would have to be temporarily quenched. He had the knowledge and contacts to use ISIS to its maximum potential now, but with every hour that passed, those advantages would fade. Intelligence was a commodity with a very short shelf life. He would have to resist letting his passions overpower his reason. Mullah Halabi would be watching for any hint of disloyalty and would deal with it quickly and permanently.
“Director,” his driver said. “The address you gave us is just ahead.”
Nassar squinted at a garage door lit by a single security lamp. As he was searching for signs of life, the door began to open.
“Pull in.”
“Do you want us to clear—”
“Just pull in.”
The interior was poorly illuminated, but Nassar was able to make out a lone man standing at the back of the building. It looked like some kind of shipping depot, and there were a number of trucks lined up in the space. It would be sufficient to hide a significant force, although there was no sign of that kind of activity.
Another decision point had been reached. Did he exit the car with his men in case this was an ambush? Or did he use this as an opportunity to display his fealty and submission?
There was little choice. His immediate survival and eventual success depended entirely on the mullah’s trust.
“Do you see that man, Director? Should we get out?”
“Let’s wait a moment,” he said, pulling a Browning pistol from its holster. The two men in the front seats had been with him for years and had fulfilled their duties impeccably. It was a shame that their service had to come to an end.
He lifted the weapon and fired in quick succession, putting a single round into each man’s head. They slumped forward and he stepped from the vehicle, leaving his gun on the seat.
CHAPTER 57
Northern Iraq
HE’S still on course toward your position. One klick out.”
Rapp remained motionless, lying partially buried by the sand in an elevated position over a roadbed. The steady voice of Marcus Dumond in Langley inspired even more confidence than he remembered.
Not that Claudia and the group of misfits he’d put together had been bad, but there was something to be said for a team of professional, motivated, and patriotic government agents armed with cutting-edge technology. The less drama the better, as far as he was concerned.
“They should be right on top of you, Mitch. I’m using thermal on the surveillance drone, so I’m not sure if they’re running headlights.”
“Copy.”
They weren’t. The hum of an engine was the first thing to reach him. It was a moonless night but a sky full of stars was just enough for Rapp to make out an SUV emerging from the blackness. He followed it with his eyes as it passed and continued north. According to the Agency’s maps, there was nowhere for it to get off until a small village about ten klicks farther on.
The hope was that it was their final destination, but hope had never been worth much in Iraq. Just as likely, they would pass through the village and climb into a mountain range pockmarked with caves that no one knew anything about. If that was the case, this was going to turn into another of the clusterfucks that he’d spent his career dealing with.
Rapp gave them a two-minute lead and then stood, picking up the dirt bike Scott Coleman had lent him. It was an all-electric model made by Zero and, as advertised, it didn’t make a sound when he started it. Slipping on a pair of prototype night-vision goggles, he twisted the throttle and was treated to a disorientating combination of acceleration and silence.
“Are you getting the overhead feed, Mitch?”
All he could see was the hazy green terrain in front of him. “I’ve got nothing.”