“Then who the hell is this?” Rapp shuffled through the photos and held up the one of the man who had been dressed as a police officer.
Tahmineh took one look at the photo and his face twisted into a disgusted scowl. “That is a Palestinian dog. He is not part of my unit.”
“Name?” Rapp barked.
“Ali Abbas,” the man offered willingly.
“If he isn’t Quds Force, then who is he with?”
“Hezbollah.”
“Hezbollah,” Rapp repeated as he stood. “What the fuck is Hezbollah doing in Mosul?”
“I do not know. I am only a corporal.”
Rapp had a good sense that the man was telling him the truth, but he needed to keep him on the edge for a bit longer. He stuck his knife under the Iranian’s chin and lifted it until he was looking straight into his eyes. “I’m going to go check your story, and if I find out you lied to me about a single thing, I’ll be back for your nuts.”
50
Rapp closed the door to the cell, and hustled down the hallway. The looped recording of a man being tortured was playing on the overhead speakers. Rapp ignored the agonizing screams and grappled with the implications of what he’d just learned. From the onset of the attack on Kennedy’s motorcade he’d assumed it was Sunnis who were behind the plan. The Sunnis ran the police force and had been known to work with al-Qaeda in Iraq on a limited basis. Iranian and Hezbollah involvement brought things into a much more complicated light. At first Rapp couldn’t believe they would be so reckless as to actually kidnap the sitting director of the CIA, but the more he thought about it, the less he was surprised. Clearly these were desperate men willing to take great risks to hold on to power.
Dumond had set up shop in the conference room. He had two of his high-powered laptops plugged into full-size monitors and was working both. Stilwell was sitting next to him taking notes and helping translate.
Rapp stopped in the doorway. “Any luck?”
“Not yet.” Dumond didn’t bother to look up from the screen. “I’m not sure the Iranian Army has these personnel records on their network.”
Rapp was afraid of that. “What about public databases? Motor vehicle registry, utilities, birth records?”
“I’m searching all of them.”
Ridley joined Rapp in the doorway. He was holding a stack of freshly printed 5x6 photos. “These just came in.” Ridley handed the stack to Rapp, who began peeling through them. “That first one is of Minister Ashani right after he arrived.”
Rapp reached the third photo and Ridley stopped him. The vantage was from the front of the helicopter and showed Ashani walking to the right. On the left side of the helicopter there was another man in a dark suit walking in the opposite direction. “Who’s this?”
“I don’t know.”
Rapp flipped through a couple more photos and stopped on a head shot of the mystery man. The digital photo had been cropped and blown up. The quality wasn’t perfect, but it was still easy to make out the man’s features. He had a dark brown beard and even though he was wearing sunglasses there was something vaguely familiar about him. Rapp continued going through the shots and stopped on the second to last one. It showed the mystery man climbing into a police SUV that was bracketed by two police pickup trucks, both with .50-caliber machine guns mounted to the roofs.
Rapp quickly shuffled back to the best photo of the mystery man and handed Ridley the rest of the stack. “Charlie’s in the Situation Room with the president, right?”
“Yes.”
“Get on the horn with him and tell him we’re ninety percent sure Iran is behind the kidnapping of Irene.”
“Ninety percent?” Ridley questioned. “We haven’t even verified that this Tahmineh is who he says he is.”
“That’s why I didn’t say one hundred. Trust me, Rob, we need to get the National Security Council talking about this. If it is Iran, it’ll take them half a day to figure out who the hell to even call.” Rapp began moving toward the door. “Irene doesn’t have that kind of time.”
Rapp went straight back to Tahmineh’s cell. He threw open the steel door, walked right up to the seated and handcuffed man, and thrust the photo in his face. “Who is this guy?”
The Iranian’s eyes were literally bugging out of his head and he was sweating profusely. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit!” Rapp screamed.
“I mean I don’t know his name. I don’t know him. I saw him for the first time today.”
Rapp felt his jaw tighten. Through clenched teeth, he asked, “When and where?”
“It was this morning. Right before the attack. We had been moved into position before dawn and were waiting. He showed up maybe an hour before the attack and took over.”
“Is he special forces?”
“No.” The prisoner frantically shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“He gave Captain Dadarshi orders?”
“Yes.”
“Was he from the Ministry of Intelligence?”
“I don’t know,” the man pleaded.
Rapp eyed him. There were no signs that he was being anything less than truthful. “You have no idea who the man is?”
“No.”
It would stand to reason that the mystery man worked for Ashani, and it would also stand to reason that a lowly corporal would have no idea who the man was. Rapp did not want to try to figure out his next move in front of the prisoner. He left the cell without saying another word and closed and locked the door. He began pacing up and down the hall while the torture track played as background noise. His mind turned the facts over and over, looking at each bit of information from every angle he could think of. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it earlier.
Rapp snatched the two-way radio from his hip. He hit the talk button and said, “Rob, get me a number for Minister Ashani.”
51
TEHRAN, IRAN
The helicopter ride from Mosul to the border had taken just twenty minutes. The Air Force had a relatively small Dassault Falcon 10 waiting to take him to Tehran. For most of the hour-and-ten-minute flight Ashani made notes to himself. They were cryptic so as to protect him if somehow they should fall into the wrong hands, which was doubtful since he planned to destroy them as soon as he got to his office. He’d hesitated even making the notes, but he wanted to organize his thoughts and be very clear about what Kennedy had offered on behalf of the U.S. government.
There was another reason he had opened the notepad. Ashani wanted to make a list of objections, or more precisely a list of who would object. There were more than a few people in Tehran whose power would evaporate if peace was made with America. It would make no difference that the American offer made complete sense. President Amatullah would do everything in his power to make sure the offer was rejected. That was why Ashani had opted not to call the president during his brief border stop. He needed to talk to Najar first. As head of the Guardian Council he could influence many people if he was persuaded. If Amatullah found out first, he would find some way to have his P. R. machine kill the offer before it was ever seriously considered.
Shortly after the plane landed in Tehran, Ashani looked out the window and got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. In addition to his normal car and driver there were two additional vehicles and another eight armed men. Ashani looked at his security chief, Rahad Tehrani, who had the same look of concern on his face.
“Stay here,” Tehrani said, “and I will see what the problem is.”
Ashani glanced out the window and watched his security chief approach the group of men. At that precise moment he realized he had forgotten to turn his cell phone on upon landing. Ashani hit the power button and watched the color screen come to life. A picture of a spinning globe flashed on the screen before it changed to a list of icons and then the phone started to beep as it retrieved voice mails first and then e-mails. After a few seconds the beeping stopped, and Ashani saw that he had eight voice mail messages and twenty-thre
e new e-mails. The amount was not unheard-of, but it was a bit high. He was about to begin scrolling through the e-mails, when the phone began ringing. The readout on the phone would tell him only that the information on the person who was calling was unavailable.
Ashani pressed the talk button and said, “Hello?”
“Minister Ashani?” the caller said in English.
“Yes.”
“This is Mitch Rapp. I work for Director Kennedy. Do you know who I am?”
Ashani glanced nervously out the window and said as casually as he could, “I’m afraid everyone in our line of work is aware of your reputation.”
“Good. Then you’ll know how serious I am when I tell you that I’m going to kill you.”
“Excuse me?” Ashani said in genuine surprise.
“I know what you’ve been up to. If Director Kennedy is not released in the next hour, I’m coming after you. And if, as you say, everyone in our line of work is aware of my reputation, then you know I will succeed. I will hunt your ass down and kill you, and no level of security will stop me.”
“Mr. Rapp, I can assure you that I have no idea what you are talking about, and I do not take kindly to your threats.”
“What are you going to do…take out a fatwa on me? Well, let me tell you something. I’m not some defenseless author who’s going to go into hiding because you thin-skinned little pricks decide I’ve offended Islam. I bite back, and I’m going to hunt down every single one of you fuckers that had anything to do with this.”
Ashani was literally speechless. He was all too well aware of Mitch Rapp’s abilities. On at least two occasions the American operative had sneaked into Iran. Both times his targets were terrorists who had traveled to Iran in an attempt to avoid the reach of the U.S. government. Both men were extremely well protected, and neither had survived his run-in with Rapp.
Despite his dry throat and trembling hands, Ashani attempted to sound calm. “Mr. Rapp, I have no idea what you are talking about and, as I said, I do not appreciate being threatened.”
“Well, you’ll have to excuse my poor manners, but in light of the fact that my boss has been kidnapped and her entire security detail killed, I really don’t give a shit what you appreciate and don’t appreciate.”
Ashani’s mind was swimming. All he could think to say was, “In Mosul?”
“No, in Paris! Of course in Mosul.”
“I can assure you that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well…I have a stack of photos, and three prisoners who say otherwise.”
Ashani looked up as Tehrani came back on the plane. The security chief started to talk, but was silenced by Ashani, who waved him off the plane. “Mr. Rapp,” Ashani said with as much sincerity as he could muster, “I do not know what you are talking about. I have a great amount of respect for Director Kennedy.”
“Go sell your bullshit to some moron who’s buying. I don’t have the time for this, and if you want to live, you’ll get your ass in gear and have her released within the hour.”
“Mr. Rapp,” Ashani said with a trace of panic in his voice, “I have no idea what you are talking about!”
“You’re telling me that she left a meeting with you, traveled a block and a half, and was attacked by a platoon of Quds Force commandos and you had no idea?”
“What?”
“And I suppose that guy who flew in with you on your helicopter…you have no idea who he is either…because I’ve got a bunch of Iranian soldiers in custody who are telling me he ran the operation to kidnap Director Kennedy.”
Ashani’s mouth was agape as he pictured Mukhtar blessing him and running toward the waiting police vehicles.
“What’s wrong?” Rapp yelled. “You finally run out of fucking lies to tell me?”
Random pieces of information fell into place as Ashani replayed the events of the past several days. Ashani was left no other conclusion than the dreadful reality that he had been deceived by his own government. Amatullah and Mukhtar had clearly been conspiring, but to what end Ashani could not see.
“Mr. Rapp, I have not told you a single lie. I’m afraid this entire operation was kept from me.”
“Well, you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t take you at your word,” Rapp said sarcastically.
Ashani’s chief of security was back in the door looking very nervous. Ashani waved him away. “Mr. Rapp, I am going to do everything in my power to make sure Dr. Kennedy is released safely.”
“Who was that man who flew in on the helicopter with you?”
“I…” Ashani hesitated, “am going to have to get back to you on that.”
“Bullshit! You’ve given me no reason to believe you. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t tell the president to proceed with the strike that the Joint Chiefs are recommending.”
“What strike?”
“Operation Medusa. They want to cut off the head. Your homes, your offices, they’re all in the targeting package.”
“Mr. Rapp, I urge you to tell the president to give me time.”
“Why the fuck should we trust you? You set us up. You kidnapped a sitting director of the CIA, the president’s closest national security advisor. You think he’s going to negotiate for her release? He’s going to use this as an excuse to bomb you fuckers back to the Stone Age.”
“I just landed in Tehran. Please give me some time to find out what is going on.”
“You don’t see what’s going on here, do you. I’m in Mosul. President Alexander is sitting in a bunker right now surrounded by a bunch of generals who think this is a blessing. They’ve already launched the B-2s from their base in Kansas. They’re on the way. You can help avoid this. That man who rode in on the helicopter with you…what is his name, and where did he take Director Kennedy?”
“That man,” Ashani hesitated, “is someone I detest.”
“Name!” Rapp shouted.
Ashani looked out the window at the waiting men and it occurred to him that they might be there to arrest him, or at a bare minimum keep an eye on him. This might be his last chance to freely discuss things with Rapp. “Imad Muhktar,” Ashani said, with loathing in his voice.
“Imad Mukhtar!” Rapp practically screamed. “You mean Hezbollah’s head of paramilitary operations?”
“Yes.”
“Where did he take her?”
“I have no idea, but I am going to do everything I can to find out. Do you have a pen?”
“Yes.”
“Take down my e-mail address and send me your phone number.”
Ashani gave him the information and then promised he would get back to him within the hour. He ended the call before Rapp could threaten him again. He stood, his mind reeling with horrible possibilities. Amatullah had clearly not told him of this operation because he knew he would have never agreed to go along. The question now was, whom else had Amatullah recruited? Whom could Ashani trust, and how could he make things right without committing treason in the process?
52
WASHINGTON, DC
The president was on his feet, his right hand stuffed under his left arm and his left hand up and supporting his chin. His jacket was off, and the sleeves on his crisp white dress shirt were rolled up. He was basically in a standing version of Auguste Rodin’s statue The Thinker. Behind his chair at the end of the long conference table he paced back and forth. Four steps to one wall and then back again. In the far corner, Secretary of State Wicka was talking in hushed tones on one of the bulky secure telephone units. She was in the midst of calling a half dozen key allies and explaining to them that despite what they were seeing on TV, the United States had not attacked the Iranian vessel. The president would have made the calls himself, but they had decided until they received absolute confirmation from the navy that he would let others put their reputations on the line.
Secretary of Defense England was sitting near the president with a phone clutched tightly to his ear. His deep baritone voice had a tendency to carry, so
most of the other Cabinet officials had either left the room or moved farther away like Wicka. From time to time England would raise his head and relay to the president what the Joint Chiefs were telling him. Everyone from the secretary of the navy down to the theater commander had denied the report of a U.S. submarine’s being involved in the sinking of an Iranian frigate. Now, England was attempting to speak firsthand to the Task Force Commander for the subs in the region.
The door to the conference room opened, and Ted Byrne, the president’s chief of staff, entered with a deeply concerned look on his face. He moved quickly around the far side of the table and intercepted the president.
“I just got off the phone with Mark.”
“Mark?” the president asked.
“Stevens.”
Mark Stevens was the president’s treasury secretary. Alexander nodded for Byrne to continue.
“The European markets are in a free fall.”
“Shit…I should have seen that coming. Oil futures?”
“Through the roof. They jumped to ninety dollars a barrel, and there’s rumors that Iran is calling for an OPEC embargo of the United States.”
Before the president could decide what assets to put on this new front, Secretary of Defense England’s voice drowned out the entire room.
“You’re sure?” England half yelled. “Have you seen the footage?” England looked at the president and smiled. “Great work, Captain. Send it.” The secretary of defense slammed the handset back into the cradle and said to the president, “You’re not going to believe this. We had a sub in the strait when the Iranian frigate was torpedoed.”
“Why would we find that hard to believe?” the chief of staff asked in a sour tone. “That’s what the Iranians are claiming.”
“They’re claiming we sunk their ship, and they’re full of it. We had the U.S.S. Virginia tasked to follow the Yusef, one of Iran’s three Kilo-class subs. The Virginia followed the Yusef into the strait and has the sonar tapes of the Yusef firing on its own ship.”