The man stepped away from the camera and help up a finger. “You have one hour to reconsider, and if your answer is still no, there is nothing I can do to help you.”
56
WHITE HOUSE
Ted Byrne stayed on the president’s left elbow, matching him step for step, which was not easy, considering he was almost a foot shorter. The debate had been as heated as anything Byrne had ever seen in his nearly twenty-five years of politics. He’d known Josh Alexander since he was a little tyke. Byrne had played high school football for Alexander’s father and had coached for the father after college. When Alexander looked at him with those same dead, serious eyes that his dad used to shoot him when he’d pushed an issue as far as he could, Byrne knew he’d lost the battle. It didn’t help that the majority of the National Security Council, as well as the Joint Chiefs, had sided against him.
Even so, Byrne felt so strongly that the president was making a mistake that he had to give it one more try. “Josh,” he whispered so no one else could hear, “I really think you need to sit on this one for an afternoon. Probably a whole day, but at least an afternoon.”
“Too late, Ted. They’re all up there waiting for me.”
“So give a brief statement like I said. A blanket denial. Then we can send others out to argue the details. Don’t lower yourself to the guy’s level.”
The president hit the steps that led from the basement to the first floor of the West Wing. “I’ve made up my mind.”
“I know you have and that’s why I’m trying to talk you out of it. That’s my job. When you’re about to run off a cliff, I’m supposed to stick out my foot and trip you.”
“I’m not in the mood for any jokes right now.”
“It never hurts to take a breath and collect yourself.”
“And sometimes he who hesitates gets his ass handed to him.” They reached the first-floor landing and the president stopped. A cortège of aides and advisors piled up behind him on the stairs. “If I had the time, we could sit here all afternoon and throw sayings back and forth at each other, but it comes down to this, Ted. If you don’t confront a lie, people will believe it. Now I’m done talking about this. Are you done?”
Byrne hesitated and then reluctantly nodded.
“Good.” The president turned and strode into the White House press room. Secretary Wicka and Secretary England joined him on the small dais, taking up positions behind him, one off each shoulder. The president placed both hands on the edge of the podium and looked out at the reporters and photographers. He made no attempt to hide the fact that he was not happy.
“I’m about to give you a lot of information. The press secretary is preparing briefing books for you. You may pick them up when I’m finished.” The president paused for a moment and consulted an outline that he had written on a piece of paper. “I’m sure by now you’ve all had an opportunity to review President Amatullah’s remarks. I am here to openly refute his two main accusations. The first, that a United States submarine sank the Iranian vessel Sabalan, is an outright lie. The U.S.S. Virginia, a nuclear-powered submarine, was in the vicinity and tracking the Iranian submarine Yusef as it proceeded through the Strait of Hormuz earlier today. The Virginia recorded the Yusef flooding her rear torpedo tubes and firing one torpedo against the Sabalan. That torpedo hit the Sabalan and sunk it. The Virginia reported this incident immediately, and followed the Yusef through the strait and into the Persian Gulf. The Yusef is now on an intercept course with the Eisenhower strike group, as is much of the Iranian navy. I have ordered the strike group to engage and sink any Iranian vessel that attempts to close within fifteen miles of the U.S.S. Eisenhower. I repeat, if any Iranian vessel attempts to close within fifteen miles of the aircraft carrier Eisenhower it will be engaged and sunk.”
Alexander glanced down and then said, “Knowing President Amatullah’s penchant for rhetoric and obfuscation, I feel it is my duty to provide hard evidence of what I have just told you. Against the advice of the secretary of defense and the Joint Chiefs, I am going to allow representatives from Great Britain, France, Russia, and China to review the contact tapes made by the U.S.S. Virginia. These tapes will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt to any naval officer with sonar experience that it was the Yusef that fired on and sank the Sabalan. In addition, I am offering to make the U.S.S. Virginia available for immediate inspection by representatives from Great Britain, France, Russia, and China. Upon boarding the Virginia, they will find that she is still carrying her full complement of torpedoes. I challenge President Amatullah to also make the Yusef available for inspection, although I doubt you will find him so accommodating. As to why President Amatullah would order one of his submarines to sink an Iranian frigate, I have my theories, but I will leave it up to you, the press, to try and get an honest answer from him.
“Now on to the second point of contention between our two countries. CIA Director Irene Kennedy did in fact have a meeting in Mosul this morning. It was with this man.” The president nodded to one of his aides and then gestured toward the flat-panel TV that sprang to life with a head shot of a bearded man in his mid fifties. “Iran’s Minister of Intelligence. In recent years Director Kennedy and Minister Ashani have met on several occasions to share information that would help combat terrorism. I directed Dr. Kennedy to sit down with Minister Ashani and discuss the possibility of our two countries restoring limited diplomatic relations. Upon the conclusion of this meeting Minister Ashani was escorted to his helicopter and is now safely back in Iran. Director Kennedy was not so fortunate.” The president gestured to his aide yet again, and a new photo appeared.
The photo showed charred vehicles and bodies littering a street. “This is Director Kennedy’s motorcade. After parting with Minister Ashani, Director Kennedy’s motorcade made it exactly a block and a half before it was ambushed.” A new photo appeared. It was of four men lying facedown on the street. Pools of dark red blood could be seen by each man’s head. “These were members of Director Kennedy’s security detail. They all lived here in the Washington area. All of them were married, and they all had children. I spoke with each of their wives over the past hour and offered my condolences.”
The president lowered his head and consulted his notes. “Eighteen men died in the attack on this motorcade. A secondary CIA security team was nearby and fought their way to the site of the attack in time to see Director Kennedy being forced into a car and driven away. The CIA security team took three prisoners.”
The president paused and the photos of three men appeared on the screen with their names and affiliations listed. “The man on the left of the screen is Ali Abbas. He is a senior member of the terrorist organization Hezbollah and has been in Iraq recruiting and arming terrorists for more than a year. The next man is Captain Rashid Dadarshi of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps.”
Gasps and murmurs erupted from the seated reporters. Alexander stopped until he had their undivided attention. “Captain Dadarshi has admitted that he received orders from his superior officers in Tehran to participate in the kidnapping of Director Kennedy. The last man is Corporal Nouri Tahmineh, also of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. All three of these men identified the next man,” a new image appeared on the screen of a man in a suit wearing sunglasses, “as the one who ran the operation. This is Imad Mukhtar, the head of Hezbollah’s Security Services and the mastermind behind the U.S. Marine barracks bombing, the U.S. Embassy bombing in Beirut, and many others. He is also believed to be behind numerous kidnappings and assassinations committed by Hezbollah over the past three decades.”
Several photos appeared showing Mukhtar and Ashani exiting the same helicopter from different sides. “These photos were taken this morning when Minister Ashani arrived in Mosul on an Iranian Army helicopter with Imad Mukhtar. Note the briefcase in Mr. Mukhtar’s right hand.” An enlarged image of the briefcase appeared and then, next to it, a second photo of an open briefcase filled with cash. “The photo on the right is the one that President Amatull
ah showed the world only an hour ago. President Amatullah claimed that Director Kennedy was in possession of this cash when she was supposedly caught meeting with an Iranian opposition group. I find it a bit too coincidental that Imad Mukhtar arrived in Mosul this morning carrying a briefcase that looks exactly like the one President Amatullah claims was found in the possession of Director Kennedy.”
The president stopped and shook his head sadly. After a long pause he said, “This might be humorous if it wasn’t for the fact that so many people have died today. I refuse to speculate what it is exactly that President Amatullah is up to, but I will not tolerate such brazen aggression. Director Kennedy is one of my closest advisors and the head of one of America’s most important national security agencies. I consider her abduction an act of war by Iran. I have directed Secretary of Defense England to put all U.S. forces at Defense Condition Three. I have also ordered the U.S.S. Reagan strike group, which is conducting operations off the east coast of Africa, to proceed at top speed to the Gulf of Oman, where she will join the Nimitz strike group already on patrol. Other assets are also being rushed to the region.
“I want to be very clear on something. I will not negotiate with terrorists, and I will not get drawn into a debate with a man who is so desperate to hold on to power that he would kill his own people in order to drum up support. I am giving the Iranian government two hours, and not a minute longer. If Director Kennedy is not released within that time, I will order offensive operations to begin against the Iranian military and the country’s leadership.”
The president took a second to look around the room at the shocked faces of the reporters, and then said, “That is all I have to say, for now.”
57
MOSUL, IRAQ
Rapp was seated on a metal folding chair. Next to him, lying on a stretcher, was a drugged-up Ali Abbas. The CIA interrogation team had arrived from Baghdad, and were busying themselves with the other two prisoners. Captain Dadarshi and Corporal Tahmineh had given up the location of three safe houses and the warehouse halfway to the Iranian border. An army unit patrolling near the warehouse was dispatched but found nothing. This did not surprise Rapp. A man like Mukhtar didn’t stay alive all these years by making mistakes. The Quds Force safe houses in the city were tempting though. Rapp had to fight the urge to head into the city and participate in the safe house raids. As much as he wanted to be on the street doing something, however, he knew he needed to stay put until they had some solid intel. The safe houses would no doubt be an intelligence boon, but they would not find Kennedy in them.
Rapp’s hope for that crucial piece of information was lying at his feet, and with each passing minute he became more doubtful that he would learn anything from Abbas. From Rapp’s prior experience sodium pentothal worked differently with each subject. The drug always elicited conversation, but not necessarily meaningful conversation. Typically, the more logical and ordered the person’s mind the better the answers. Conversely, the more scatterbrained or dim the subjects were, the more likely it was that they would string unconnected thoughts together like a radio stuck in scan mode. Five seconds on one subject and then on to the next. After twenty minutes with Abbas, Rapp was wondering if the man was clinically insane.
The terrorist’s train of thought bounced from one subject to the next, and the only common thread had to do with a comment Rapp had made about the seventy-seven virgins that were supposedly awaiting Abbas in paradise. Abbas had been rambling on and on about how he was not afraid to die. Allah had a special place for him. He would have his pick of the finest seventy-seven virgins. Rapp told Abbas is was too bad he wouldn’t be able to have sex with them. When Abbas asked why, Rapp told him because he was going to cut off his dick. This one comment sent the thirty-some-year-old terrorist into a fit of blubbering tears. Some twenty minutes later he was now trying to engage Rapp in a theological debate over whether or not his penis would magically reappear when he reached paradise.
Rapp decided that giving the man sodium pentothal had been a mistake. He stood and looked down at Abbas. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does,” Abbas replied with tear-filled eyes.
Rapp thought about telling the man the virgins didn’t exist, and even if they did he would undoubtedly be on an express elevator to hell, in which case his penis wouldn’t matter, but he decided it wasn’t worth it. It was time to call Ashani again and put more pressure on him. He left the interrogation trailer and went back to the office trailer, where Dumond, Stilwell, and Ridley were holed up in the conference room working the phones and computers. Rapp felt a wave of hopelessness. They were not making anywhere near enough progress.
He looked across the room at Stilwell and asked, “Anything new?”
“Yeah. Come here and look at this photo.”
Rapp walked around the conference table and looked at the computer screen. On it was the photo of Kennedy that President Amatullah had shown during his speech.
Stilwell clicked on the wall behind Kennedy and zoomed in on that part of the photo. “They’re holding her underground, and I’m pretty sure she’s in the city. This type of limestone is quarried near the river. You can find it in cellars all over the city, but it’s predominantly found in the old section of the West Bank.”
Rapp studied the photo. Bands of green and black mold streaked the rocks closest to the floor, and white clumps of calcification could be seen near the corner. “He’s making mistakes.”
“How so?”
“Terrorism 101, cover the walls with sheets, so you don’t give up clues like this.” Rapp felt a glimmer of hope. “He’s someplace he wasn’t planning on, and my guess is, he’s short on people too.”
“Really,” Stilwell said with feigned surprise. “You only killed about twenty of his men this morning.”
Rapp ignored the comment and said, “Make copies of this section of wall and get it to all the military units. Also, track down any local stonemasons and see if they can give us a better idea of where this might be.”
Moving on to Dumond, Rapp asked, “Any luck with Ashani’s cell phone number?”
“Nothing. The only thing we came up with today was the call you made to him, and a call he made to his wife.”
“Shit.” Rapp ran a hand through his thick black hair. “Is the NSA giving you everything you need?”
“And then some. With all the drones up in the air and the satellites overhead we’re picking up so much stuff, the translators are having a hard time keeping pace. If we had a sample of Mukhtar’s voice it would help.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Rapp grabbed his cell phone and scrolled back a couple of calls until he found the one he was looking for.
58
TEHRAN, IRAN
With the blessing of Amatullah, Ashani had rushed back to the Ministry of Intelligence. He had told Amatullah it was not wise to conduct such a risky operation from the Presidential Palace. Ashani now sat at his desk with the piece of paper Amatullah had given him resting squarely in the middle of his leather desk pad. Next to it was a small index card with the number and e-mail address Rapp had given him. Across the room, sitting atop a credenza, a TV replayed the speech of the American president.
Ashani watched at first with his usual analytical detachment. He did not know a great deal about President Alexander, but he had a general feel for the man’s speaking style. Like most politicians, he talked a lot, and when he talked about Iran, Ashani’s people made sure he received a DVD of the speech. He could tell from the first line of this speech that Alexander was not going to roll over.
By the time Alexander got to the part about the Yusef sinking the Sabalan, Ashani feared the worse. It all came back to him now. The knowing glances between the generals at the Presidential Palace during Amatullah’s speech, Amatullah ordering Mukhtar to accompany him to Mosul—it was all a deception, and the madman actually thought he was going to get away with it.
As the American president continued to lay out the facts, A
shani grew increasingly anxious. What path were these supposed leaders leading them down? Then the photo of Ali Abbas appeared on the screen along with those of the two Iranian Republican Guardsmen. Right when Ashani thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse, the president showed a photo of him and Mukhtar arriving together in Mosul.
Ashani was so distraught he almost missed the closing part of President Alexander’s speech. As it was, the ultimatum couldn’t have been more clear. Ashani thought of Alexander’s words yet again. I am giving the Iranian government two hours and not a minute longer. If Director Kennedy is not released within that time, I will order offensive operations to begin against the Iranian military and the country’s leadership.
Ashani knew with a discomforting level of certainty that the very office he was sitting in would be decimated by the first wave of cruise missiles. Before he could even attempt to think what his next move would be, his office door burst open. His deputy minister for covert activities wanted to know why he had not been consulted. Within seconds, the deputy minister in charge of Hezbollah was in front of his desk demanding to know the same.
Ashani attempted to explain to them that he had also been kept in the dark. It was obvious from the looks on their faces, though, that they did not believe him. Then the phones began to ring and ring; office phones, cell phones, secure phones—every single phone he had. His wife reached him on his personal cell phone after trying to get past his secretary. She was in a panic and wanted to know if she should load up the girls and leave the city. Ashani told her to stay put and tried to reassure her. Before getting off the phone he promised he would call within the hour.