“Understood. Does he work for our friends in that country?”

She would know that he was referring to Saudi Arabia’s General Intelligence Directorate.

“Oh, probably. But also for the oil company.”

ARAMCO. A convenient cover for a GID agent or, more likely, a contractor used to put as much distance between the royal family and people like Gideon Auma as possible.

“Did we know him?”

“Not at all. He’s a very private fellow.”

“Not anymore. Seems like someone should go talk to him.”

“My thought exactly. But our travel agents are unreliable right now. Can you handle it yourself?”

“No problem. For the time being at least, I’m flush.”

35

KING KHALID INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA

“DOCUMENTS?”

Rapp handed his Iraqi passport to the control officer while myriad cameras—on the walls, in the ceiling, behind the glass in front of him—studied his features.

The king, whom he knew well, had stepped back and turned the country over to his extraordinarily ruthless son. The prince had immediately consolidated his power, imprisoning critics and rival family members, murdering journalists and bloggers, and inserting people loyal to him in every level of government. Phase two of his takeover had been to spend billions creating an elaborate surveillance system designed to spy on every corner of Saudi society. With virtually unlimited funds he’d already surpassed the Chinese in both the number of cameras per capita and the sophistication of the artificial intelligence running it. The technology wasn’t perfect yet, but gaming it was becoming increasingly difficult.

Rapp was wearing glasses that looked clear to the human eye but caused distortion when filmed. He’d also taken advantage of having Ward’s movie makeup artist at the lodge, but with full acknowledgment of the risks. If he got flagged, there was a good chance they’d uncover the artificial bump in his nose and the surprisingly painful wires flaring out his nostrils.

And then Mitch Rapp, the man everyone thought was dead, really would be.

The control officer flipped through the well-worn pages, occasionally glancing up to examine Rapp’s face. With the alterations, it didn’t exactly match the photo, but the changes would be less obvious to a human than to a computer algorithm. Or at least that was the theory.

The passport was a gift from an Iraqi official whose life Rapp had saved a few years back. He’d kept it in reserve for a situation just like this one. The CIA had no knowledge of it and thus it wouldn’t appear in the database that Kennedy now believed to be compromised.

After less than a minute, the official gave him the stamp he needed and slid the document back across the counter. Rapp nodded respectfully and shoved it in his pocket before joining the crowd flowing toward baggage claim.