"This is where it gets tricky, Mitch." Coleman folded his arms across his chest and widened his stance as if he was preparing himself for stormy seas. "You know how people like us tend to make the feds real nervous."

Rapp nodded.

"I brought Wicker with me last night and we found some stuff they overlooked."

Rapp knew Charlie Wicker well. They'd worked together many times, and occasionally they trained together. There was no better shot with a long barrel in the world. "Like what?"

"Someone was in the woods yesterday across the street from your house." Coleman studied Rapp for a reaction.

"Go on."

"Irene sent us out there because she knew we'd know what to look for. When we got there the feds and the locals were focused on the house. You know how good Charlie is...it took him all of two minutes to pick up the scent. We think one tango was in the woods when you got home. He had a bicycle with him. Wicker thinks the guy was careful enough to carry the bike into the woods, but then in the excitement after the explosion he wheeled it out, leaving a clear trail through the tall gra.s.s on the side of the road." Coleman made a curved gesture with his right hand. "The guy headed south where your street dead-ends. Charlie knew there were paths down there, so he took off with his flashlight and followed this guy's trail to the dirt road that runs along a landing strip a few miles from your house."

Rapp was proceeding along the trail in his mind. He'd covered it hundreds of times on both foot and bike.

"Charlie found a fresh set of tire tracks on the edge of the dirt road about where the bike tracks ended. We think the guy threw the bike in the back of a truck, pulled a U-turn, and vanished."

"Why do you say truck?"

"Fortunately, Skip is running the show for the feds so he ordered his people to take molds of the tracks. Apparently the tires were new, and they left very clear marks. The FBI says the tire is made by BFGoodrich and is used on a lot of the Chevy pickups, Tahoes, and Suburbans."

Rapp thought about what Wicker and Coleman had discovered and asked, "So why are the feds calling the explosion an accident?"

"Not all of them are. Skip knows this was no accident, but there're others who would prefer it if this investigation was closed by the end of the week."

"Why?"

"Do you have to ask?"

"Why?" Rapp asked again in an angry tone. He knew the answer, but he didn't care. He wanted to hear Coleman say it.

"You make people nervous, Mitch. They're afraid of what you're going to do when you get out of here, and they don't like people like us rubbing shoulders with their law-and-order types." Coleman walked over to the window. "Skip told me the attorney general went nuts this morning when he found out that Wicker and I were at the crime scene poking around. He says this evidence we discovered is trivial at best, but since it was discovered by a couple of spooks, it's now tainted and worthless."

Rapp had never cared for the attorney general, but now he felt an intense hatred toward the man. Rapp told himself that was fine. People needed to decide which team they were on. "Let's be clear about two things, Scott. First of all, when I'm well enough to walk...I'm out of here, and no one is going to stop me. Second, no one is going to be put on trial for this."

Coleman looked out the window and slowly nodded his head. None of this was a revelation. "Whatever you need...just let me know."

46.

FAIRFAX C COUNTY, VIRGINIA.

P rince Muhammad bin Rashid finished his morning prayer and went downstairs to greet his guests. The sun was shining, the air was a bit cold for his tastes, but it could have been snowing and it wouldn't have spoiled his mood. Mitch Rapp was dead, and that was all that mattered. Rashid had spent the previous day following the story as it unfolded on MSNBC. Throughout the day so-called experts debated whether or not the explosion was an accident and then finally in the early evening the local authorities held a press conference and announced their findings. A gas leak and accidental propane explosion had killed the husband and wife. Several of the experts, former government types, refused to believe what they called rushed findings and protested that there were ways to trigger these types of explosions and make it look like a mishap. The debate raged into the night, with conspiracy theorists who refused to believe anything the government said, a cabal of former Special Forces types who said the local authorities were in over their heads, and the reporters for the most part buying into the official story. rince Muhammad bin Rashid finished his morning prayer and went downstairs to greet his guests. The sun was shining, the air was a bit cold for his tastes, but it could have been snowing and it wouldn't have spoiled his mood. Mitch Rapp was dead, and that was all that mattered. Rashid had spent the previous day following the story as it unfolded on MSNBC. Throughout the day so-called experts debated whether or not the explosion was an accident and then finally in the early evening the local authorities held a press conference and announced their findings. A gas leak and accidental propane explosion had killed the husband and wife. Several of the experts, former government types, refused to believe what they called rushed findings and protested that there were ways to trigger these types of explosions and make it look like a mishap. The debate raged into the night, with conspiracy theorists who refused to believe anything the government said, a cabal of former Special Forces types who said the local authorities were in over their heads, and the reporters for the most part buying into the official story.

Rashid was tempted to call Abel and congratulate him, but he thought it unwise to make such a move when the chances were very good that the Americans were monitoring his communications. His old friend Saeed Ahmed Abdullah had phoned him, however. In between praising Allah and crying over his son, Abdullah thanked Rashid profusely. Rashid, fearing that Abdullah was speaking a bit too freely, admonished his friend and told him they would continue their conversation when he returned to the Kingdom.

The success of the operation was giving Rashid pause. He wondered if he hadn't been too hasty in ordering the removal of the German. It was rare for him to second-guess one of his own orders. Rashid admired men with a cunning personality and a decisive will. These two traits more than any others were the most important to his cause. Reversing his decision could be seen as weak and indecisive-traits that did not play well with Arab men. But still the German had succeeded in short order where Rashid had thought it was likely he would fail. And he had made it look like an accident. Maybe he would have to reconsider killing him. The man was very useful after all.

Rashid descended the grand plantation staircase, his l.u.s.trous brown riding boots showing from beneath a black robe with gold trim. A black kaffiyeh was fastened to his head by a matching gold braid, and his black goatee and mustache were perfectly groomed. He was an impressive man. A ride was planned for the morning and he was not about to eschew his Arab heritage simply because he was in America. A cortege of servants dressed in crisp white tunics and black pants awaited him. Rashid's personal secretary, who was dressed in a white robe and kaffiyeh, kept his eyes on the floor and stepped forward.

"Prince Muhammad, Colonel Tayyib is in the library. Would you like me to bring you coffee?"

"Yes." Rashid walked past the phalanx of men and continued down the long cross hall and through the double doors to the oak paneled library. Old leather-bound volumes filled the bookshelves, and there was a smattering of expensive oil paintings that were decidedly Anglo. Rashid decided he would have to register a complaint with his half brother that there wasn't a single painting that honored Arabia. Such an oversight was unforgivable. Maybe he would purchase several for him and send them as gifts. He needed to be careful to keep the right people on his side.

Colonel Tayyib was dressed in a black suit, with a blue shirt and tie. Anyone else would have received a rebuke from the prince for breaking with custom, but Tayyib had a job to do and it was better if he did not draw attention to himself. The man bowed his head and said in an unusually exuberant tone, "Good morning, Prince Muhammad."

Rashid smiled just enough to show his teeth. "Yes, it is."

Tayyib looked up and was unable to restrain his joy as he smiled at Rashid.

The two men silently communicated their happiness over Rapp's death for a moment. Servants entered quietly with a serving tray of Arab coffee and separate tray of fresh pastries. They poured coffee for two and left, closing the doors behind them.

Rashid took a sip of coffee and said with great satisfaction, "The American is finally out of our way."

"Yes. Finally," Tayyib agreed.

"Have you discovered more details?"

"None, but I expect you will learn more when Director Ross arrives."

"Yes," Rashid said, "but I will have to be careful not to seem too eager."

"You are never too eager, my prince, and besides, I told you that Ross and Rapp did not get along."

Rashid remembered. The two men had fought over something recently. But still, he would have to be careful not to gloat. "What have you found out about our German friend?"

"Nothing, I am sorry to report. He is not answering any of his phones, and his secretary will not tell us where he is."

Rashid wondered if he had come to America to monitor the business with Rapp.

"We have both his office and his apartment in Vienna under surveillance. He will show up sooner or later, and I will make sure it is taken care of."

The prince walked over to the large French doors that looked out onto the paddock area. A magnificent shiny, black Arabian thoroughbred was being led out to the track for some exercise. "Colonel, do you feel I have been too hasty in my decision to eliminate the German?"

Tayyib was an athletic man with broad shoulders and st.u.r.dy legs. He was six feet tall and did not have the outward appearance of a thinker. In truth he was an exceptionally good tactician when it came to operational matters. He attributed this ability to survey the battlefield and properly a.s.sess the situation to his years as a standout defens.e.m.e.n on the Saudi national soccer team. He was, of course, a devout Wahhabi, which was an absolute prerequisite for working so closely with the prince.

"It is not my position to question you, Prince Muhammad."

Rashid continued to look out the window and smiled. He prized loyalty and obedience above all. "For today let us make an exception."

Tayyib stroked his mustache and said, "I am not sure I trust the German, but he has proven himself very useful."

"Why is it that you don't trust him?"

"I don't know."

"Is it because he is a foreigner?"

"Probably."

Rashid nodded. "I have never trusted him completely for that very reason myself, but he has performed brilliantly."

"That is true. Maybe we should look at the problem in a different way."

Rashid turned around. "Continue."

"Do we have anyone else who can do for us what he does?"

The prince shook his head. He had already thought of this. "No."

"The decision to have him removed was a sound precaution at the time based on a realistic expectation that we would need to cover our tracks. It appears that the German may have done such a good job we no longer have to worry."

Rashid looked beyond Tayyib, through the French doors at the other end of the room, which opened onto the front yard of the estate. A motorcade of black vehicles was coming up the drive. It would be Director Ross. He was very much looking forward to this breakfast. The prince said, "Let the German live for now."

Tayyib accepted the order with a bow of his head.

"I think Director Ross is here. It might be a good idea if you make yourself scarce."

Tayyib left the room and a few minutes later Director Ross was escorted into the library. He was wearing a pair of blue jeans, cowboy boots, flannel shirt, and jean jacket. The prince thought he was trying a bit too hard to flaunt his American cowboy bravado. His attire in itself was a minor nuisance, compared to the faux pas he'd committed by dragging four of his people into the room with him. Rashid looked at Ross and then gave the other Americans a scornful glance. It was not Ross, or any of the other Americans with their ingrained egalitarian sense, who picked up on Rashid's irritation, but his personal secretary. The man gently touched each of the four on the elbow and gestured toward the door.

It seemed to finally dawn on Ross that he was in the presence of royalty and the prince did not enjoy the company of people beneath him. Rather than draw attention to the screwup he decided to lay it on. "Prince Muhammad, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to see me. I'm really looking forward to our morning together."

"So am I," Rashid said in a kind voice. "And I thank you for your invitation. I had not thought of coming with the delegation."

"Well, that's too bad. You are always welcome in America."

Rashid supposed this would have been a good time to tell him he was always welcome in Saudi Arabia, but the truth was that he wasn't. "You are very kind."

"I would just like to say, Prince Rashid, that I do not underestimate how important you are to Saudi Arabia." Ross paused and then offered, "The king may be the heart of Saudi Arabia, but you are its soul." Ross was very pleased with himself. He had worked on this line over and over to give it the perfect dramatic flair.

Rashid was momentarily stunned. For the first time in his life he felt genuinely flattered, not patronized, by an American. Although he completely agreed with Ross, Rashid had never shared this comparison between himself and his half brother with anyone. When he was alone in his thoughts, though, a day did not pa.s.s where he didn't think of himself as the soul and bedrock of the Saudi people. Maybe the reports on this new director of National Intelligence were wrong.

Servants entered the room with fresh coffee and pastries, taking away the others even though they had not been touched. Rashid walked over to where Ross was standing and gestured for him to sit. The servants silently poured two cups of coffee without having to be asked and then took the prince's barely used cup and left efficiently and most important, silently.

Rashid grabbed the folds of his robe, lifted it, and sat on the couch directly across from the American. Ross added some cream and sugar to his coffee and then took a sip.

"Oh...you Arabs make the best coffee in the world."

Rashid smiled and thought to himself, That is true, but why do you ruin it by adding cream and sugar? That is true, but why do you ruin it by adding cream and sugar? Instead he simply said, "Thank you." Instead he simply said, "Thank you."

"May I be frank with you, Prince Muhammad?"

"By all means." Rashid leaned back.

"Nine-eleven was a very unfortunate event for both of our countries. In its aftermath there was a rush to judgment. A lot of decisions were made." Ross hesitated and then added, "Some of those decisions were, to put it bluntly, wrong and unfair."

Rashid was not a talkative person under normal circ.u.mstances, but when dealing with foreign dignitaries he was practically a mute.

"The decision by my government to force your removal as minister of the Interior was wrong, and I would like to apologize for it."

Rashid was once again caught off guard. His relationship with the American government had been so contentious since the glorious attacks of 9/11 he did not think for a second that he would be receiving an apology. He slowly took a drink of his black coffee and said, "Your words are very kind, Director Ross."

"They are long overdue in my opinion, and I have told the president so."

Rashid's demeanor remained placid, but inside he was scrambling to figure out what this American was up to. Even Rashid, as self-righteous as he was, knew that the last thing he deserved from the Americans was an apology.

"For our two countries to get along we must understand and respect our differences...especially when it comes to religion."

Rashid nodded, and continued to listen as Ross expanded on his thoughts. The man was beguiling. A charismatic speaker who had a way with words. He reminded himself that Ross had been a senator, and politicians were never to be trusted. After a few moments, Rashid told Ross what he wanted to hear. That America was Saudi Arabia's greatest ally and that the two countries must continue to work together to fight the scourge of terrorism. Ross offered a few ideas, most of them trivial, but there was one point he made that again shocked Rashid. Ross told him that it was his sincere opinion that America should set up a one-year timetable for the withdrawal of all U.S. military personnel from the Kingdom.

The prince was awash in a sea of elation as the servants announced that breakfast was ready. As the two men walked from the library to the dining room Rashid reached out and held the American's hand, saying, "You are a good ally. You have a better understanding of what it will take to defuse these terrorists than anyone else I have spoken with in your government."

Ross took the compliment and then proceeded to expand on what he'd already told the prince. By the time they sat down at the table, Rashid was so thoroughly pleased with how things were going he decided he might have to stay an extra day in America and get to know the director of National Intelligence better. Ross continued to do most of the talking as the exquisite breakfast was served. He commented effusively on the food, the service, the prince's robes. They were almost done with their meal when Rashid looked across the table and in a very respectful tone said, "I am sorry to hear that the famed Mr. Rapp was killed in an explosion."

Rashid had planned on bringing this up for two reasons. The first was that he wanted to see if he could discover more details, and the second was to deflect any suspicion from himself by making it seem that he cared about Rapp's demise. After Rashid had delivered his condolences, he noticed that Ross's demeanor had changed. In fact, he face looked as if he had bitten into a ripe grapefruit. Sensing something was amiss, Rashid asked, "What is wrong?"

Ross was hesitant to reply at first. He took another bite of his salmon and then slowly wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He looked at Rashid, tossed the napkin down on the table, and said, "I might as well tell you. You'll know soon enough. Mitch Rapp is not dead."

47.

R ashid remained surprisingly calm. His eyes narrowed slightly, but other than that, he showed no outward signs of his inner distress. He stared stone-faced across the table at Mark Ross and asked, "What are you saying?" ashid remained surprisingly calm. His eyes narrowed slightly, but other than that, he showed no outward signs of his inner distress. He stared stone-faced across the table at Mark Ross and asked, "What are you saying?"

"He's not dead. His wife was killed in the explosion, but he survived."

"But the papers and the TV," Rashid said with a disbelieving look on his face, "both yesterday and today have reported him dead."

"And they are wrong." Ross leaned in and pointed emphatically toward the window. "He's at a CIA safe house not far from here right now. He was severely injured but he is very much alive."

"Why hasn't your government corrected the press?"

"It's a complicated thing, Prince Muhammad." Ross sat back and let out a deep breath. "Let's just say there are a few people who think the explosion was not an accident."

"Someone tried to kill him?"

"It looks that way," Ross said without much enthusiasm.

"You do not sound convinced."