“My experts,” England said, “concur, with one exception.”
Kennedy sat and asked, “What is that?”
“One analyst thinks the Israelis dropped a low-yield tactical nuke into the place.”
“Interesting. One of my people brought up a similar scenario last night. What led your analyst to decide it was a nuke?”
“Not so much evidence as plausibility. He says the other way is too complicated. Too many variables.”
Kennedy thought about it for a moment and asked, “How does he say the weapon was delivered?”
“That’s where his argument gets a little thin. Possibly a cruise missile.”
“Our satellites would have picked up a missile launch.”
“More than likely. He also thinks there is a good chance the Israelis must have developed a stealth bomber.”
Kennedy glanced at the president and then looked back at England. “Your people probably have a better handle on this than my people do. Do they think it’s that Israel developed a stealth bomber?”
“No,” England said emphatically. “I put the question out last night and all my experts are in agreement that they just don’t have the money.”
“They might not need as much money as you think,” Wicka said.
“How so?” the president asked.
“They have a history of stealing what they need. That’s how they developed their own nuclear weapons program. We did all the research, development, and testing and they came in and stole all of our data. They even stole nuclear materials from us to make their first bomb.”
The president looked at Kennedy. “Is this true?”
“I’m afraid so. It happened in the sixties. They stole approximately two hundred pounds of highly enriched uranium.”
“I agree it’s possible,” England said, “but it is still highly unlikely. Remember this attack happened in broad daylight. My imaging people went back and reviewed every airfield in the country. They paid special attention to the bases in the Negev. They came up with nothing. Every takeoff they discovered was corroborated by other tracking assets. It’s too big of a leap of faith to buy into the idea that Israel secretly developed a multibillion-dollar plane and then flew it during the day.”
“So you agree with Mitch’s theory,” Kennedy said.
“Yes.”
The president took a sip of coffee and then said, “And we’re all in agreement that Mitch’s plan could work?”
One by one the president’s three advisors agreed.
The president looked at Secretary of State Wicka. “You have any problem lying to the United Nations?”
Wicka beamed with amusement and then laughed. “If I was afraid of skirting the truth in that den of pathological liars, I would not be a very good secretary of state. What did you say Mitch called it? Creating an alternative truth.”
“Yes.”
“I like that. The UN runs on alternative truths. All of them self-serving, of course.”
“Wonderful.” The president turned to Kennedy. “What about your meeting with the Iranian intel chief?”
“It has been agreed to in principle. The details are being worked out.”
“Where will it take place?”
“Mosul. That is where we have met in the past.”
The president glanced at Wicka. “Do you have any problems with this?”
“The State Department has no official and very few unofficial ties with Iran. I think this is the right move.”
Glancing at Kennedy he asked, “Have you heard from Mitch?”
Kennedy checked her watch. “He should be landing in Tel Aviv shortly.”
“You think they’ll give him a straight answer?” Wicka asked.
Kennedy thought it over for a second. “I’m not sure it will matter. They’ll love Mitch’s idea for the simple reason it will give them diplomatic cover. It’ll muddy the waters enough to give countries on the UN Security Council a reason to vote against whatever sanctions Iran asks for.”
“You honestly don’t think they’ll tell him?” Alexander asked in a surprised tone.
“Mr. President, they are a tough bunch. If anyone can get them to talk, though, it would be Mitch.”
20
TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
The Gulfstream 5 landed at Ben Gurion International Airport, where it was met by a refueling truck. After the tanks were topped off, the pilots were directed to a dilapidated hangar far away from the commercial terminal. The CIA pilots eased the plane’s ninety-three-and-a-half-foot wingspan through the hundred-foot opening with great care and then shut the engines down. Mitch Rapp looked out the port side window and checked out the men who were assembled to greet him. They looked like misfits from some Cold War–era film about to handle a prisoner exchange at Checkpoint Charlie.
Rapp unbuckled his seat belt and stood. He looked over at Rob Ridley, who was about to get up. “Stay put.”
“Yeah, right.” The chief of the CIA’s Near East Division began to stand up.
Rapp put a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder and pushed him back down. “I’m serious.”
“We just finished a twelve-hour flight,” Ridley complained. “Are you out of your mind? I need to stretch my legs.”
“Yeah…well, if you get off this plane, I might have to break your legs. So stay put until I tell you otherwise.”
“I swear you were raised by a pack of wolves. Why do you always have to threaten violence?”
“Just sit tight. You know how secretive Ben is.” Rapp moved past Ridley and stopped next to Marcus Dumond, Langley’s resident computer genius and hacker extraordinaire.
Dumond looked up at Rapp and asked, “What’s up?”
“Sit tight until I’ve had a chance to talk to Ben. He doesn’t like strange faces.”
Rapp proceeded forward and lowered the stairs. He tilted his head to the right to get through the opening and moved stiffly down the short run of steps. Rapp was dressed in black dress pants and a loose-fitting, untucked Bugatchi short-sleeve shirt. His black Italian loafers hit the smooth concrete floor, and he started toward the director general of Mossad. With his thick stubble and shaggy black hair he looked more native to the region than the men he was walking toward. This was not his normal attire, but it allowed him to fit in. Too many security contractors flew into the region wearing 5.11 tan, tactical clothing, and SWAT boots. They stood out like a sore thumb among the locals, which in a way served as a deterrent. A kind of don’t-mess-with-me sign. I carry a gun, and I have the permission to shoot anyone who messes with me. The flip side of that was that it also marked them. Rapp didn’t want that. Where he was headed, he needed to blend in.
Rapp proceeded across the hangar toward Freidman, who was flanked by two huge men who looked as if they were waiting for Freidman to give them the okay to snap Rapp in half. Freidman himself was no wilting flower. He stood five feet ten inches tall and weighed at least 250 pounds. Set atop his bull-like shoulders and neck was a bald shiny head with heavy jowls. In his day he’d been known to do a lot of the heavy lifting himself. Now in his late sixties, he left that to men like the two standing next to him.
As Rapp neared, he said, “Ben, good of you to come out here and meet me.”
Freidman’s acerbic expression remained unchanged. “I think of you every day when I get out of bed.”
“You can still get a hard-on after all these years?” Rapp asked. “Good for you, you old dog.”
The bone crusher on Freidman’s right took a half step forward.
“Easy, killer,” Rapp said. “I don’t want to have to kick your ass in front of your boss and your twin brother here.”
“I am referring to the bullet hole you put in my leg,” Freidman continued.
“Well, Ben,” Rapp said, “I hate to think what you would have done to me if I had been dumb enough to assassinate an Israeli citizen and got caught trying to interfere in your country’s political process.”
Freidman raised his chin in defia
nce and ignored his two bodyguards, who were now looking at him.
“What…you didn’t tell Mongo and Loid here?” Rapp asked with feigned shock. “I’d be happy to fill them in on the little operation you were running against your country’s most loyal ally. It went like this, boys…”
“Enough!” Freidman shouted. “Wait for me outside,” he snapped at the two men. Like obedient Rottweilers following the command of an owner, they turned and left without having to be told a second time. As soon as they were out of listening range, Israel’s chief spy snarled, “What do you want?”
“You look a little haggard, Ben. Not enough sleep lately?”
“The only reason I am here is because your president requested that I meet you. What do you want?”
“I don’t want anything, Ben.”
Freidman scoffed. “I suppose you flew all this way because you missed my pretty face.”
“No, I flew all this way to thank you.”
The Israeli spy chief rolled his eyes. “For what?”
“For doing us all a favor and destroying Iran’s nuclear program.”
Freidman stared Rapp straight in the eye and said, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Rapp put one foot in front of the other, crossed his arms, and admiringly said, “I think you’re the best liar I’ve ever met, Ben.”
“That means a lot, coming from someone as accomplished as you.”
“Thank you. Now let’s get serious. I know you destroyed that facility, and you know you destroyed that facility. I’m on your side. I told President Alexander you guys did us a huge favor.”
“We did not drop bombs on that facility. I don’t care what that crazy little man has said…. No Israeli planes were anywhere near his country when this attack occurred, which leaves me with only one conclusion.”
Rapp smiled. “This should be good.” He waved his hand toward himself. “Let’s hear it.”
“I think maybe it was American planes that were spotted over Isfahan.”
“Yeah, right. One of our pilots decided enough was enough and he just went and bombed the hell out of that place without getting approval from the Pentagon or the president.”
“All I’m saying is that this plane that was reportedly seen over Isfahan was not one of ours, which means it was more than likely one of yours.”
“You’re unbelievable. I fly almost six thousand miles to save your ass and you think I’m dumb enough to buy some load of crap like that?”
“I don’t remember asking you to save my ass.”
“You didn’t, but I’m going to anyway.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“The hell you don’t,” Rapp said with frustration building. He took a step back and then admitted, “Maybe I was the wrong guy for the president to send, considering our history, but here it is. I am sincerely grateful that you guys had the balls to do what needed to be done. The president, while he can never say so publicly, feels the same way. I have permission from him to launch an operation that will take the blame off you guys, and expose the Iranian leadership for the lying bastards that they are.”
“I don’t…”
Rapp cut him off. “Ben, please let me finish. I know you did it, and I know how you did it. There was no plane or planes. No missiles. Nothing like that. You had someone on the inside. You guys blew that damn thing up and it collapsed into a nice little pile right on top of itself. I admire you for it, and if you weren’t such a pain in the ass I’d probably give you a hug right now.”
Freidman’s already sour face twisted into a deeper frown. “How many people have you discussed this with?”
“Only Irene and the president.”
Freidman exhaled and took a look around the hangar. The pained look on his face said it all. He was deeply troubled that Rapp knew one of his government’s most closely kept secrets. “What are your sources?”
Rapp smiled. For Freidman to ask such a question was as close to an admission as he was ever going to get. “I’ve got a friend in your building.” Rapp knew the lie would drive Freidman nuts. Changing gears, he said, “I need you to get your government on the same page. Stay silent. Keep denying. Whatever you need to do. I don’t care what kind of evidence the Iranians say they have, just don’t admit you were behind this thing. They’re going to show up at the UN on Friday and try to pin this whole thing on you. After they’ve presented their case, we’re going to pull the rug right out from underneath them and leave them looking like lying fools.”
Freidman was intrigued. “What do you have planned?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll see soon enough. Again the president sends his thanks. I don’t like you, Ben, but I sure as hell admire your audacity.” Rapp turned and started walking away.
“Where are you going?” Freidman yelled.
“To Northern Iraq,” Rapp shouted over his shoulder. “To bail your ass out.”
21
TEHRAN, IRAN
Ashani had spent the night in the hospital under sedation. He woke up in the morning with a screaming headache and a vague memory of the meeting he had attended the evening before. His wife and daughters were there to explain what had happened and offer comfort. They made a great joke out of the fact the doctor wanted him to abstain from work and talking for at least two days. His lungs were operating at ten percent of their normal capacity due to the amount of dust he had inhaled. The doctors tried to remain positive. They told him that with rest, and antibiotics to ward off an infection, he should be back to himself in a week or so. Ashani got the distinct impression they were lying to him.
Deputies from the Ministry of Intelligence began showing up at his bedside by mid morning to deliver briefings and keep him apprised of what was going on. At first these were nothing more than routine reports, although in the wake of the attack on Isfahan there was a new sense of importance to everything. His wife hovered nearby and twice she tried to stop people from getting into the room. While Ashani appreciated her trying to protect him, it was not realistic. He needed to know what was going on.
It was shortly after noon when Ashani started to get the feeling that trouble was brewing. There were little signs here and there that Amatullah was putting the country on a full-blown war footing. To a certain degree this was fine. It would force the Americans and the Israelis to react. Putting bases on high alert and organizing protests was one thing, but ordering the entire Iranian Submarine Fleet to sea was an entirely different matter. The Americans were very skittish about the Kilo-class submarines his country had purchased from Russia. Putting all of them to sea as well as the minisubs and the noisy Iranian-made subs would make the Americans even more skittish.
Ashani was sipping his lunch through a straw when his number two entered the room with a box of chocolates and a worried expression. The man leaned over him so that no one else in the room could hear and he whispered, “We have problems.”
Ashani had known Firouz Mehrala Jalali for sixteen years. He was not prone to exaggeration. The worried look on his face told him the problem was internal. Ashani lifted his hands from his lap and made a shooing motion. Four people filed out of the room, but his wife held her ground. Ashani’s jaw line tightened and he jerked his head toward the door. His wife shook her head in disappointment and left.
Jalali pulled up a chair and sat at the edge of the bed. “Has your room been inspected?”
Ashani nodded. The sad truth was that he was more concerned with espionage from within his own government than from a foreign agency.
“The mutt,” Jalali said with a look of disgust, “is prancing around demanding this and that. He acts like he is running things.”
Ashani nodded. His friend was talking about the abrasive Mukhtar. The man’s non-Persian roots did not endear him to Jalali and many others.
“Amatullah has told us to give him whatever assistance he wishes. The man is planning attacks on a scale that will provoke the Israelis and the Americans to strike back. And that isn??
?t even the worst of it. Our fearless president has come up with another one of his ideas.” Jalali held his index finger next to his right temple and rolled it over and over in a circular motion, the universal sign for crazy. “He wants us to put together a plan to sink one of our own tankers in the Strait of Hormuz.”
Ashani’s eyes grew wide.
“I know,” Jalali shook his head. “He wants to frame the Americans. He says everyone will believe us and it will further isolate the U.S.”
Ashani checked the door and then in a quiet voice croaked out the words, “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. He says it will put oil prices through the roof, which will give the treasury a much needed boost, but mostly he says it will cement the fact that the Americans are waging war against us.”
Ashani could feel his blood rising. He thought of Amatullah’s stupid plan to kidnap the British sailors and marines the previous spring. It had been his crazy idea to create an incident after several high-ranking Iranian officials had defected to the West. While Amatullah thought the entire thing played very well with his countrymen, he had never realized the damage it had done to them internationally. It showed him to be a thug and a man who lied with great ease. The British, with the aid of the Americans, had presented rock-solid satellite images that the sailors had been plucked from Iraqi water, not Iranian. Amatullah had declared the evidence fabricated and was willing to put his fate in the hands of the UN Security Council, but Ayatollah Najar intervened at the last minute and convinced Amatullah to release the hostages. The propagandist then had the gall to hold a staged ceremony where he announced the release as a gift to the British people.
Ashani knew he had to get hold of Najar and try to talk some sense into someone before these reprisals began. Glancing toward the door, he whispered to Jalali, “You need to get me out of here.”
22
WASHINGTON, DC
CIA Director Kennedy looked out the heavily tinted side window of her armored Chevy Suburban with a dazed expression. The buildings, pedestrians, and naked trees zoomed by like a reel of film in fast forward. She was running on fumes, and it was only 4:00 in the afternoon. Her expanded security detail was plowing its way through early rush hour traffic trying to get her to the State Department. Secretary Wicka had requested an informal meeting to help her prepare for her presentation at the UN. This was all a new experience for Kennedy. To say that the previous secretary of state disliked the CIA would have been too strong. It was probably more accurate that he was guarded. Which was not unusual. Association with the CIA had a way of making most people nervous. Kind of like being around someone with a communicable disease. An ominous and even nefarious label was often attached to America’s top spy agency. She had dealt with people who openly despised the agency, some going as far as to tell her the place should be shuttered and its employees thrown into jail. Kennedy wrote these confrontations off as vitriol launched by left wing extremists who deluded themselves into thinking everyone would get along if America simply played nice.