Protect and defend (20 page)

Ordering him to bring Mukhtar on such a delicate mission was proof that Amatullah was desperate. The two men were up to something, and Ashani was sure that whatever it was, it would only make matters worse. Ashani was informed of this strange addition to his entourage only this morning. He immediately put a call in to the Presidential Palace to ask why. When Amatullah finally got on the line, he told Ashani that Mukhtar needed to talk to Hezbollah’s commander in Mosul. The man had very important information that the Americans had backed the entire MEK operation to sabotage the Isfahan facility. Ashani wondered what could have possibly developed after he had left the Presidential Palace at half past midnight. All night Amatullah had been holding firm that America had fabricated the evidence at the UN, which in his mind proved they had been the ones who had destroyed the facility with their stealth planes. Now, he was suddenly reversing course and claiming the facility was in fact destroyed by sabotage. None of it made any sense.

The helicopter set down in a nearly empty parking lot.

Mukhtar extended his hand to Ashani and said, “Remember. Allah favors the bold. He has great plans for us. That is why we survived the attack in Isfahan.”

“Allah is great.” Ashani exited the helicopter and approached his security chief, who had flown in the night before to coordinate protection with their people from Department 9000—the group that recruited, trained, and funded Shia insurgents in Iraq. Men from the local Shia militia were providing transportation and security to and from the meeting. All of them were wearing black hoods. Ashani greeted his security chief and then turned to an American whom he had met twice before.

The man from the CIA stepped forward and extended his hand. “Minister Ashani, thank you for coming all this way.”

“Mr. Ridley,” Azad said in perfect English, “you have traveled much further than I.” He shook the man’s hand.

“That’s true,” Ridley replied, “but we still appreciate you making the effort.”

“I appreciate Director Kennedy reaching out. Not talking only leads to further misunderstandings.” Ashani noticed Ridley looking over his shoulder. He turned and saw the back of Mukhtar. The terrorist was holding a large briefcase and walking hurriedly to the other side of the parking lot. Mukhtar stepped into a blue-and-white police SUV that was sandwiched on each end by police pickup trucks with heavy machine guns mounted in the beds. Policemen wearing black hoods were loaded into the back of the trucks.

“Who’s that?” Ridley asked.

For a moment Ashani toyed with the idea of telling the American spy the truth. Mukhtar was on the FBI’s list of most-wanted terrorists. The man from the CIA probably had the ability to call in an air strike on very short notice. It would have simplified his life greatly if the man were dead, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Ashani instead chose to ask a question of his own.

“I trust Director Kennedy is waiting?”

Ridley kept his eye on the other man and watched as the police vehicles began to move. He hoped whoever Stilwell had hired was getting shots of the man. “Yes. As soon as I tell her we are on the way she will move.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to speaking with her.”

Director Kennedy’s plane landed just before sunrise. Ridley and General Tom Gifford, the base commander, met her. She was then escorted by Gifford to the officers’ quarters, where she was given a room. After a hot shower and a change of clothes she grabbed some breakfast and went over to the CIA’s station located within a sector of the base that was highly secure. It consisted of four trailers that formed a square with an open courtyard in the middle. The courtyard was filled with satellite dishes and arrayed antennas. Double layers of sandbags were stacked along the walls of the trailers, as well as the roofs, where the bags sat atop reinforced plywood planks. Random mortar attacks on the base were not uncommon. One trailer was devoted entirely to the sensitive communication equipment. Another was split into four offices and a reception area; a third trailer doubled as a lounge and conference room, and the fourth trailer served as a bunkhouse and storage area. On the far side of the compound four empty cargo containers had been strung together to form a makeshift jail and interrogation facility. The entire area was ringed with a heavy-gauge fence and razor wire.

Stilwell escorted Rapp through the security checkpoint and they found Kennedy in the communications shack. She was receiving a briefing from the deputy director of the CIA’s Global Ops Center back in Langley. While Rapp waited for her to finish the videoconference, he took the opportunity to sit down with the head of Kennedy’s security detail and go over the plan. Rapp had known Tom McDonald for five years. He had the perfect mentality for his job. He was steady, alert, and typically unflappable. The first thing Rapp noticed was that McDonald seemed unusually edgy this morning. Rapp soon found out why.

McDonald had flown in with Kennedy just a few hours earlier, but he’d sent an advance team out the day before. Six men accompanied three armored Suburbans in the belly of a C-17 Starlifter. They unloaded the equipment and decided to take two of the Suburbans off base and do a dry run to the meeting place and back to the airport. The men got momentarily lost in a bad part of town and came under fire. Both vehicles made it back to the base, but one of them was pretty shot up. McDonald had taken a look at the vehicle right before Rapp arrived. They counted over forty hits from small arms and rifle fire. The armor had performed as advertised, but the vehicle was out of commission. McDonald didn’t even want to tell Kennedy about the incident and Rapp agreed.

McDonald wanted to arrange transportation through General Gifford and one of his Stryker brigades, but one of the negotiating points for the Iranians involved military units. If they saw any American military personnel at the site of the meeting they would walk away. Down one vehicle and limited in his options, McDonald was now going to have to borrow an unarmored SUV from the private security contractor who was going to augment his protective detail.

Rapp was tempted to scrap the entire plan, and put her in the backseat of one of Stilwell’s beat-up sedans, but it wasn’t his call. In an effort to reassure McDonald he explained that he and Stilwell would be directly across the street during the entire meeting. He went over the arsenal that Stilwell had assembled and told him if anything went wrong they would be able to bring a significant amount of firepower to the fight.

“All you have to do, Mac, is get her to the meeting and back to the base. I checked out the entire neighborhood with Stilwell last night. He’s got the thing wired. He’s had lookouts posted since seven this morning. Four of them. Two blocks away in every direction. He knows the owner of the café, and he’s got a half dozen Kurds on standby. These guys know the neighborhood. Who belongs there and who doesn’t. If anything doesn’t seem right they’ll let us know.”

“What do you think of the route?” McDonald asked as he pointed at a map with a red line showing the roads they would take.

Rapp studied the options. On the bright side, they were only five miles from the airport. The only worry was the directness of the route. “I think you made the right call. You could take her north and across one of the bridges but it would double if not triple the length of time you’ll have her on the road, and you still have to get her back to this main road, which, Stilwell told me, is like the Indy five hundred with bombs.”

“I know. I was already briefed by the base commander. He put sniper teams out last night and has a bomb unit on standby.”

Rapp looked at the map again. “I think you’ve got the right idea here. Limit her exposure. Get her from point A to point B as quick as you can.”

“All right.” McDonald studied the map. “This isn’t like Washington.”

“No,” Rapp said, “it sure as hell isn’t.”

The door to the communications trailer opened, and Kennedy entered the room. “Mitchell,” she said as she walked toward Rapp.

“Good morning, boss.” Rapp checked out her outfit. She was wearing a pair of black hiking boots, a pair of jeans, and a formfitting black jacket called a manteau. A black hijab was draped around her neck and shoulders. Kennedy had spent a significant amount of her youth in the Middle East. Rapp was happy to see she still remembered how to blend in.

Kennedy offered her cheek to Rapp. He leaned in and kissed her.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“You look tired.” She studied him with a frown.

Rapp pointed at her and looked at McDonald. “She’s like my big sister. Does she ever tell you that you look like crap?”

McDonald smiled. “Nope.”

“I didn’t say crap. I said tired.”

“You meant to say crap…you’re just too polite.”

“Well…you look really tired. You have dark circles under your eyes and you…” Kennedy leaned in and sniffed the air. “You’ve been smoking,” she said disapprovingly.

“Yes, I’ve been smoking. That’s what people do over here. Everyone smokes. That’s how you fit in. Otherwise you look like a politically correct American and then they either shoot you or kidnap you, which is a hell of a lot more hazardous to your health than a few smokes.”

“Good point,” Kennedy conceded.

“What’s gone on since last night?”

“The resolutions that were brought on behalf of the Iranians have been tabled, but they are holding firm that they are suspending our right to innocent passage through the Strait of Hormuz.”

“Yeah…let’s see them try to enforce that one.”

“My fear is that they will.”

“You can’t be serious. It would be the most lopsided naval engagement in history.”

“That’s my point. They might try to provoke something and make themselves look like the victims. They’re desperate, Mitch. This operation that you started is having a real effect. The Brits informed us that two banks and several gas stations were firebombed in Tehran last night. They say anti-Amatullah graffiti is suddenly popping up around the city.”

“Good. Maybe they’ll storm the Presidential Palace.”

“If only we could be so lucky.”

Stilwell entered the room and said, “Good morning, Director.”

“Morning, Stan.”

“I just got a call from Rob. He says Ashani has landed and is on his way. It’s time to go.”

Rapp looked at McDonald and said, “Give me a five minute head start and then don’t stop for anything.”

“I won’t.”

He turned to Kennedy and with a reassuring smile said, “Good luck. I’ll be close by in case anything goes wrong.”

The street was blocked at each end by police cruisers. One of the blue-and-white cruisers backed onto the curb to allow Ashani’s motorcade to pass. The three vehicles stopped directly in front of the café. Ashani opened his door and stepped onto the curb as the masked men in his security detail spread out. Ashani thought the whole thing a bit overdone. He proceeded into the café with his security chief and the man from the CIA. The place was small. Fifteen feet wide by about forty feet deep. The floor was covered with beige, rectangular tiles. The grout had turned from gray to black in the high-traffic areas, and the entire floor seemed to have a coating of grime on it. Ashani looked around. The white walls had taken on a yellowish tinge from all the smoking. It made him think of his lungs, which thankfully were feeling much better. Hopefully the doctor was right, and there would be no lasting effects.

“Minister,” Ridley said, “may I get you anything to drink? Director Kennedy should be here in a little bit.”

“I would like some tea, please.”

Ridley looked at Ashani’s security chief, and the man shook his head.

Ashani approached one of the tables halfway back and took a seat in one of the blue fiberglass chairs. He was about to start looking for listening devices and thought better of it. The Americans had such good technology it would be a waste of time. It was more than likely that they would be using lasers or directional microphones to capture the conversation. Ridley came over with his tea and a jar of honey. Ashani was amused that the man from the CIA knew he liked his tea with honey, but didn’t show it. He thanked him and was about to mix in the honey when he saw his counterpart’s entourage show up.

Ashani set the honey down and stood. He watched as a large man carrying a machine gun entered the room in front of Kennedy. He surveyed the entire place and then stepped out of the way and gestured for the director of the CIA to enter. Kennedy stepped over the threshold and took off her oversized black sunglasses.

Ashani had met face-to-face with the director of the CIA on two previous occasions. According to his dossier on her she was forty-six years old. She also happened to be the youngest person to ever run the American spy agency and the first woman. She had a Ph.D. in Arabic studies and was the divorced mother of a boy approximately the age of ten. Ashani knew that obscure fact because several years ago Mukhtar and his animals at Hezbollah had come to him with a proposal to kidnap the boy. Ashani gave the paramilitary leader of Hezbollah a stern rebuke for even considering such an operation.

“Director Kennedy,” Ashani said as he extended his right hand, “it is good to see you again.”

Kennedy smiled. “I wish it was under better circumstances, Minister Ashani.”

“Please call me Azad.”

“Only if you’ll call me Irene.”

“Of course. Sit.” He motioned to the chair across from his. “May I get you something to drink?”

“Tea would be nice.” Kennedy pulled out her chair and sat.

Ashani looked to his security chief and nodded toward the barista behind the counter. He then joined Kennedy at the table. He studied her face for a moment and thought she looked at ease. Either she was very good at dealing with stress or she was a good actress. He guessed by the lack of worry lines around her eyes that she handled stress well.

Gesturing toward her face, Ashani said, “You did not have to wear the hijab on my account.”

Kennedy touched the black scarf she had draped over her head and shoulders. “I don’t mind it. I wore one as a girl.”