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After confirming that their cargo was adequately hidden beneath a stack of fishing nets, he threw his wet clothes overboard and changed into baggy pants and a sweatshirt similar to those worn by the man steering the skiff toward shore.
Behind, he heard the engines of the dhow as it started toward deeper water. Job done, they would go back to their lives as traders and petty smugglers, as though none of this had ever happened.
The boat grounded on shore and Azarov jumped out. An SUV with two men standing next to it was visible about fifty meters away and he jogged through the sand toward them.
The vehicle turned out to be an impeccable Range Rover. The two men were equally well appointed, in tailored silk suits and traditional headdresses. In most places, their appearance would be less than subtle, but in the context of Saudi Arabia, it was relatively mundane. In fact, these men really were who they portrayed themselves to be—minor royalty who had enjoyed lives of unimaginable privilege since the day of their birth. Like so many young men with similar backgrounds, though, they had become bored. Now they played at jihad.
“Praise be to Allah that you were delivered to us safely,” one of the men said, extending a hand. He had been educated in America and spoke flawless English.
“Indeed,” Azarov replied, allowing his still-damp hand to be clamped in the crushing grip of overconfident youth.
While the benefit of using these men was obvious—their station in life made them largely above the law—they were not to be trusted. Creatures of comfort and entitlement, they would turn on him, and the God they professed to serve, at the first sign of danger.
The fisherman approached from behind and loaded the first two crates into the Range Rover. Of course neither of the Saudis made a move to help. Azarov knew from his time working as an energy consultant that it would be pointless to ask. They would be genuinely confused by a request that they participate in physical labor.
He wanted to minimize their time on this empty beach, so he turned and ran back down toward the boat. With his participation, they could be loaded and on the road to Al-Hofuf in less than five minutes.
CHAPTER 45
AL-SHIRQAT
IRAQ
RAPP was sitting on the floor of the tiny bedroom with his back against the wall. He’d removed the makeshift shade from the apartment’s only window and the morning sun was casting a dim glow over Laleh as she squinted in his direction. Her wrists were free and she was curled up beneath the covers with her dark hair tossed across her face.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” she said. “What are you thinking?”
He was thinking about the panicked girls running past him at the school. About the ones on stage being sold off to the highest bidder. About the ones still in hiding, praying to Allah to keep them safe. But most of all, he was thinking about her.
In a few hours, he would leave for Saudi Arabia to try to stop whatever attack Ali Mustafa was planning. That was his responsibility, he told himself. His only responsibility. Laleh and the thousands like her weren’t a priority. They couldn’t be.
“You’ve never told me your name,” she said when he didn’t answer.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You’re Mitch Rapp, aren’t you?”
Lying came easily to him, particularly on the subject of his identity. But she deserved better than that.
“Yes.”
She nodded but didn’t otherwise react. “You’ll leave with them tonight, then. You’ll stop them. Kill them.”
“If I can.”
“Good.”
They sat in silence for a long time, the intensity of the light in the room growing with an uncomfortable inevitability.
“There’s going to be no way for me to get back here, Laleh. Assuming I even survive.”
“I know.”
“Get dressed. I’ll take you to your brothers.”
“And how would you explain my absence to the men who come for you?”
“Let me worry about that.”