Consent to Kill (50 page)

The plan was straightforward. Waheed and his father would be killed in the favored manner of the terrorists they sponsored. Everything Rapp needed had been waiting for him when he landed in Qatar. A khaki-colored tactical vest, a ¼-inch sheet of C-4 plastic explosives, ball bearings, primer cord, a blasting cap, and remote detonator. The sheets of C-4 were made with a peel-and-stick side. The tactical vest had Velcro straps on the side and a solid front. There was a large pocket across the chest to hold a chicken plate, or ceramic breast shield designed to protect the heart during combat. Rapp had cut out three squares of C-4; two for the large lower pockets of the tactical vest and one to fit into the pocket where the chicken plate was supposed to go. He peeled off the wax paper backing on the C-4, pressed ball bearings into the dough like explosive sheets, put the sheets into the pockets, and then connected them with primer cord through the lining. Waheed was a walking claymore mine.

Rapp glanced over his shoulder after the tenth pace. The father was just stepping onto the curb. Rapp continued moving away from them. He looked straight ahead for a few seconds and then over his shoulder again. Waheed had his arms extended and his father stood frozen in shock at the sight of a son he thought dead. Waheed rushed forward and the two men embraced. Rapp was almost to the corner of the building; he watched father and son for a split second, the memory of his wife flashed across his mind, and then he turned away. The security camera was just ahead and above him.

Rapp kept his chin down. He glanced at the remote detonator in his right hand and then raised his left hand and extended his middle finger at the camera. Rapp pressed the button, and a thunderous explosion ripped through the warm, dry afternoon air. He never broke stride, never bothered to look back. He was already trying to decide how he would find Erich Abel, and how he would kill him.

M
INISTRY
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SLAMIC
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FFAIRS
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AUDI
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RABIA

N
awaf Tayyib was not the type of man to obsess about his career. He believed in duty, loyalty, and success, all the things he had learned playing on the elite soccer teams of Saudi Arabia as a youth and then as a young man. These qualities along with his size and speed had carried him out of poverty and into the inner sanctum of one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, the very man he was going to see at this moment. Prince Muhammad bin Rashid was going to be very disappointed.

Tayyib remembered blowing out his knee at the age of twenty-five, and how he had laid there on the field looking at his leg. It was a night game, as most of them were. To play a soccer match in the midday heat would have been suicide. Tayyib played defense, and his size and roaming ability enabled him to cover a lot of ground. The first rule for a defender was to never let an opponent get behind you. There was one exception which involved a good deal of risk. Usually once or twice a game Tayyib would be back on defense and he would perfectly anticipate an opponent’s pass. They always underestimated his speed. He would lull them into thinking he was moving one way and then when he saw his opening, he would dart forward and pick the pass perfectly. He would catch the entire opposing team leaning toward his own goal and Tayyib would be off like an Arabian thoroughbred, racing to the other end of the field with everyone chasing him.

On this last night of his career, he had made it practically the entire length of the field, the goalie had come out to cut down the angle, Tayyib made a fake to his right, and then kicked the ball from the right center over to the left center. The goalie was caught completely out of position, and Tayyib had an open net. He let up for just a second; it was the easiest of shots. He planted his right leg to deliver a booming kick with his left foot and then from out of nowhere an opposing player came in high and fast and rather than take him out at the ankle, took Tayyib out at the knee. With all of his weight on his right leg, his knee folded like a cheap umbrella in a gale. Tayyib hit the turf, rolled, and when he lifted his head his thigh was straight, but his foot was off to the side at a right angle. Tayyib knew his soccer career was over before he’d even registered the agonizing pain.

Now, as he walked down the wide, opulent marble hallway to Prince Muhammad’s office, he had the same feeling as he had had that day. None of this had been his idea, but that didn’t matter. He believed in Prince Muhammad. He trusted the man’s vision to expand Islam under the banner of the Wahhabis—the only true followers of the faith. Their religion was under a constant onslaught by the West. To protect Islam they needed to expand and retake the southern shores of Europe as a buffer. He so believed in the cause that he planned on offering his resignation. Tayyib’s career was over. He had failed a man who did not accept failure.

After firing the RPG through the front door of the Sheriff’s Department on Saturday night, Tayyib had gone back to Alexandria and waited down the street from the car garage. He had $500,000 sitting in the trunk and had never been so eager to give money away. As the clock inched toward 11:00 he expected the three black trucks to come pulling up any second. At 11:15 he started to worry. By 11:30 he was crawling out of his skin. He waited until midnight and dialed the phone he’d given Castillo. After eight rings he got a recording. Tayyib started the car and left. On the way to the embassy, he wiped down the phone, removed the battery, and chucked it out the window.

He didn’t sleep that night. He tried, but he couldn’t. Two scenarios kept playing on a loop in his brain. In the first Castillo and his men took the $500,000 they already had and were out having the time of their lives laughing at the stupid foreigner who had handed them such a large amount of money. The second scenario was that they had gone to the safe house and failed. The more he thought about it, the more he hoped they had taken the money and flown to Las Vegas. If they had been caught trying to kill Mitch Rapp, it might create some problems. Tayyib doubted Castillo or any of his men knew he was a Saudi, but they might be able to make a link with the witness he’d had them kill the year before.

The Sunday morning newspapers were delivered to the embassy at 5:00 a.m. There was no mention of anything happening in Virginia. Tayyib supposed they’d had to go to press before the story could be written. He turned to the TV to see if he could learn anything. At 7:00 a.m. one of the local affiliates led with the story of the explosions in Leesburg. There were reporters on site giving live updates, and there was an announcement that the sheriff would hold a press conference at 12:00 noon. Tayyib checked the twenty-four-hour news channels. Fox mentioned the explosions on the crawl at the bottom of the screen, but that was it. Tayyib got on the Internet to see if he could learn more. There was nothing. The press was not equipped to handle stories that broke late on a Saturday night, but by the time the sheriff held his press conference three of the twenty-four-hour news outlets and all of the local affiliates were covering the story.

Tayyib watched the press conference in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed. He listened intently to everything that was said. At no time did anyone mention an attack on a federal facility in conjunction with the attacks in Leesburg. Tayyib spent the afternoon trying to learn something, anything. He drove by the garage three times, half expecting to see police cruisers and yellow crime scene tape, but there was nothing. He took this as a bad sign. A very bad sign. Tayyib jumped on the last nonstop flight of the day from Washington, DC, to Riyadh.

He had a first class ticket so he was able to sleep through most of the flight. He landed in Riyadh a little before 1:00 p.m. He did not want to face Rashid, but he knew he must. Tayyib wasn’t a man to shake responsibility or blame. A car and driver were waiting for him. As soon as he’d settled into the backseat of the Mercedes sedan he called his office to get an update on what was going on with the Leesburg story. Nothing had changed since he’d left Washington. Something else had happened, though. Tayyib listened carefully and then asked the man on the other end if he was certain. He said he was. Tayyib hung up, looked out the window of the Mercedes sedan, and closed his eyes. He had been back in the country for a little more than thirty minutes and the situation had gone from bad to disastrous. The car pulled up in front of the Ministry of Islamic Affairs. Tayyib got out and put on a white robe over his suit.

He took the elevator up to the top floor and stepped into a wide hall with Carrara marble floors and alabaster stone columns every twenty feet on the right and the left. Deep burgundy fabric hung on each side of the columns, creating semi-intimate nooks. There were eight of them. Four on the left and four on the right. Each nook contained a desk. Behind each desk sat a man. No women worked in the building. The hall served as the outer office for the Minister of Islamic Affairs.

Tayyib marched down the hall, his gaze straight ahead, more intent than usual. He did not bother to look at any of the gatekeepers and they did not bother to stop him. He stopped in front of the last desk on the right and said, “Is the minister alone?”

“No.”

“Clear the office.” It was a command.

The administrative assistant looked at an appointment book on his desk and hesitated.

Tayyib leaned his six-foot-four-inch frame forward and placed his large hands on the man’s desk. “It is not a request. It is an order. Unless the king is in there, I suggest you clear the office or you will be out of a job.”

The man jumped to his feet and scurried into the office. Tayyib followed.

The office was eighty feet long by fifty feet wide. There was no desk anywhere in sight, just clusters of chairs, couches, and pillows. Rashid was at the far end of the room sitting on an oversized chair that was almost, but not quite, a throne. Five men, well into their seventies, were gathered around Rashid on a group of three couches. The assistant scurried ahead at a pace just short of an all-out run. Tayyib made him nervous.

He approached Rashid and whispered in his ear. Rashid nodded and then informed his guests that he was most sorry, but he would have to cut their meeting short. The men got up and filed out of the room at a snail’s pace. Tayyib stood off to the side clenching and unclenching his fists.

When they were finally gone and the door was closed, Tayyib bowed at the waist and said, “My prince, I apologize for the intrusion.”

Rashid stared down at him with his slightly hooded eyes. He’d known Tayyib for eleven years now, since the man’s early days at the Saudi Intelligence Service. Tayyib built a reputation as someone who got things done and kept his mouth shut as well. There were plenty of men who got things done, but few knew how to keep quiet about it. Tayyib was not a lighthearted individual, but neither was he someone prone to melancholy, fits of rage, or any other outward expression of emotion. He was serious and steady, and that was why Rashid liked him. That was also why the look on Tayyib’s face gave the prince cause for concern. “I assume things did not go well in America.”

Tayyib blinked, his business in America already a distant memory. He dropped to a knee. His bad one. He lowered his head and said, “Prince Muhammad, I am sorry, but I have some terrible news.”

Rashid exhaled through his nostrils and nodded for the man to continue.

“On my way here from the airport I received a call from my office.” Tayyib lifted his head and glanced up at the prince. “There was an explosion in Riyadh just a short while ago.”

“Where?” Rashid asked in a guarded tone.

“In front of the headquarters of Abdullah Telecommunications.”

“Abdullah Telecommunications,” Rashid said absolutely shocked. “What kind of explosion?”

“A suicide bomber.”

“A suicide bomber,” repeated a confused Rashid. The Kingdom was very good at exporting suicide bombers. Occasionally one would strike within the Kingdom itself, but it was always against Western targets, usually the Americans. “Was anyone killed?”

“I’m afraid so.” Tayyib looked down. “Saeed Ahmed Abdullah.”

Upon hearing the name of his childhood friend, Rashid was speechless. After a moment he regained his composure and asked, “How did this happen?”

“Witnesses say that Saeed was leaving noontime prayer and was walking across the street to his office. The man was waiting for him. He came up and hugged Saeed and then blew himself up.”

Rashid was dumbstruck. “Who was the bomber?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“Why would a suicide bomber want to kill Saeed?”

Tayyib had been wrestling with this same question.

The prince stood and gathered his robes, one folded over each arm. “Rise,” he said as he stepped down from the platform. His mind had stumbled upon a horrible possibility. “And what of our business in America?”

Tayyib stood and said, “I have failed you, my prince.” He had thought about his answer on the long flight. The truth was he didn’t know what had gone wrong, but that in and of itself was proof of failure. “The men I sent to take care of the job never returned.”

“What happened to them?”

“I do not know.”

“So Mitch Rapp is still alive.” It was a statement not a question.

“I think so.”

“And my good friend Saeed has just been killed.” Rashid walked across the marble floor from one Persian rug to the next until he was looking out a small window. He could think of no reason why a Muslim would kill Saeed. Rapp on the other hand had plenty of motives. Rashid remembered he had warned his old friend to keep his mouth shut. The Americans had found out about the bounty, and Rapp was already in Saudi Arabia killing those responsible for his wife’s death.

“I know what you are thinking, my prince, but I do not see how Rapp could have left America and put this together so quickly. Who would he find to be a suicide bomber?”

“Maybe he blew himself up?” Rashid asked in a hopeful tone.

Tayyib thought about that for a moment and then announced, “I have studied Rapp. The man would never commit suicide unless he had to. He would have simply shot Saeed.”

“Then tell me why a fellow Muslim would want to kill Saeed?”

“Maybe it wasn’t a Muslim.”

Rashid frowned. “There is no such thing as a non-Muslim suicide bomber. Do you see any Jewish suicide bombers? Even the Irish during their war with the British never resorted to suicide bombings. The Japanese are the only other culture to employ the tactic in modern history, and I doubt the Japanese killed Saeed.”

“I’ll grant that the timing looks bad, but I don’t see how Rapp could have left America on Sunday and orchestrated something like this. I myself left Sunday evening and I arrived only an hour ago.”

“What about Abel?”

Tayyib considered the possibility. “We still can’t find him. As of Saturday I know he had not returned Saeed’s money, but again where is Abel going to find a suicide bomber?”

“Then what happened?”

“I am reluctant to guess with so little information.”

Rashid turned away from the window and said, “Guess anyway.” It was a command.

Tayyib stood off to the side and tried to come up with anything that was plausible. “Saeed has many militant ties. It is possible that a rival to one of these groups decided to kill him.”