Protect and Defend

by Vince Flynn

  “Send a flash message to CTF 54,” Halberg said. He paused to look at the sonar monitor. The Yusef was passing the container ship in front of her and sprinting toward the Persian Gulf. “Set course to follow the Yusef.”

  44

  MOSUL, IRAQ

  Rapp walked through the short sandbag tunnel and into the trailer that housed the offices. He was looking at the last of the six photos he’d taken. The colors were growing more vivid with each step. The castration speech had gone over swimmingly. He’d delivered it to each of the three men, and they all took it differently. The first one, the one who Rapp had punched in the mouth, went into shutdown mode. Before the speech the man had been cussing up a storm and acting as defiant as a teenager. As Rapp described how he would dissect the man’s groin, he watched the fight drain out of him. He had either decided it was not wise to antagonize Rapp any further, or he was working to come up with a plan. More than likely a lie that would keep him firmly in the sexual category of his choice.

  The second man, the policeman, was either a great actor or an absolute crazed lunatic. With each increasingly descriptive word about what Rapp planned to do, the man only laughed harder. He had a kind of crazy, bring-it-on attitude that Rapp had seen before. He was the type that either cracked right away or never did. There was very little in between. Rather than waste time, Rapp decided to find out if the guy was a pretender or a crazed, true believer.

  The army medics had cut away the man’s pants so they could bandage the bullet wounds to his knee and butt. He was still on a stretcher, his lower body covered with a drab green army blanket over which he was bound by restraints. Rapp yanked the blanket out from under the straps, exposing the man’s genitals. He drew his knife and held it in front of the man’s face.

  “What’s your name?” Rapp asked in an easy, even tone.

  The man laughed hysterically and refused to answer. Rapp placed the tip of the knife against the man’s left testicle and repeated the question. The man’s laugh turned into a crazed cackle. Rapp forced the knife downward, twisted it and jerked it back up. A hunk of flesh flew from the tip of the knife and smacked against the cold, steel wall of the cell.

  The man twisted back and forth on the gurney, struggling against his bonds and screaming at the top of his lungs. After ten seconds the man stopped his wailing, looked at Rapp through moist eyes, and continued to laugh maniacally.

  Rapp looked down and simply said, “I’ll be back for the other one in five minutes.”

  With that he left the cell and went to find the last prisoner. This was the one Rapp had knocked out rather than kill. Rapp guessed since he was younger than the other two by at least ten years he would be the easiest to break. After delivering the castration speech, Rapp stood, took a second photo, and told the man he’d give him a few minutes to think about life without a pecker and then left.

  Rapp entered the reception area and found Stilwell and Ridley standing behind a desk looking at a large flat-screen monitor. Rapp held up a photo of the man whose left nut he had just cut off and said, “There’s no way in hell this guy is a cop.”

  Ridley pointed at the screen and said, “I just got off the phone with Chuck O’Brien, and I think he’s right.” Ridley pointed at the screen. “You’ve lost it.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about,” Ridley pointed at the screen in front of him, “you cutting off that guy’s testicle. You think we’ve only got one work station to keep an eye on the prisoners?”

  “Oh…don’t tell me you’ve gone soft too.”

  “It has nothing to do with going soft, although I’m not so sure about your methods…it’s about the fact that this is a U.S. military base. This isn’t some dark facility in the Stans. The military keeps records, they keep track of who comes and who goes, and these GIs gossip more than a bunch of goddamn sorority sisters. Then there’s the press, and I don’t even want to think about what’s going to happen when that guy ends up with a lawyer someday.”

  “That guy is never going to end up with a lawyer,” Rapp said forcefully.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Oh, I sure do, because after I’m done cutting his dick off, I’m going to drag him into one of those other cells and I’m going to blow his brains out right in front of the other two.”

  “Mitch,” Ridley screamed, “you can’t do that. We have a team of interrogators on the way up from Baghdad. These guys are the best in the business. They will get every last ounce of information out of them.”

  Rapp folded his arms across his chest. “Great, why don’t we just grab some lunch and a cup of coffee, kick back, shoot the breeze, and give these pros some room. That sounds like a hell of a plan. Then a week or a month from now when they finally squeeze the information out of these guys we can try to get Irene back. In the meantime I’m sure they’ll treat her like a queen.”

  “It’s not going to take them a month.”

  “It’s not going to take me more than an hour.”

  “Mitch,” Ridley sighed, “I personally don’t care what you do, just so long as you don’t leave any permanent marks on these guys.”

  “I personally don’t give a shit what you think, Rob. We’re not in Washington. We’re in a fucking war zone where our boss, the director of the CIA, the person who knows every damn spy we have in every damn country, has just been kidnapped. You think those guys are flying in a team from Damascus. A team that’s going to make sure they won’t leave a mark.” Anguish gripped Rapp’s face and he screamed, “They’re going to torture the shit out of her, Rob, and I’m not going to sit here and debate with you what I can and can’t do.”

  Rapp took the six Polaroid photos and threw them down on Stilwell’s desk. “Scan those into the system and see if you can find a match. Where’s Marcus?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Find him.”

  Stilwell picked up the photos just as the phone started to ring. He grabbed the handset with his other hand and said, “Chief of base, Mosul.” He listened for a moment and then looked at Rapp. “Yeah, hold on.” He held the phone out for Rapp. “It’s the White House…the president wants to talk to you.”

  Rapp thought about not taking the call for a second. Most of his career had been based on asking for forgiveness rather than permission. But this was the president, not one of his colleagues from Langley. Rapp thought of the conversation they’d had on Air Force One. He didn’t get the sense Alexander was the type of man who would try to put a leash on him. Even so, Rapp reluctantly stuck out his hand and took the phone.

  45

  WASHINGTON, DC

  The warning came in while the majority of Washington was asleep. The duty officer in the White House Situation Room received the call from the CIA Global Ops Center shortly after 5:00 a.m. Within minutes phone lines were buzzing around the capital and beyond. There were plans in place for such things. Security details were rousted, motorcades were sent out early, and key players in the National Security arena were told to get to their respective offices immediately. Secretary of Defense England was the first Cabinet level official to receive the bad news.

  A former Merrill Lynch executive and the head of their London office, England rose at 5:00 a.m. every morning so he could spend some time monitoring the European markets before heading in to the Pentagon. He was sitting at his desk in his study when the call came in. The ring, two quick chimes followed by a third, longer one, was distinctly different from all of the other phones England’s job required. At this early hour, England instantly knew the ring was a harbinger of bad news. As he eyed the secure telephone unit, his mind ran down a list of hot spots that could warrant the predawn call. Almost immediately his thoughts turned to Kennedy and her meeting. He picked up the phone, listened to the voice on the other end, and simply said, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  England called his office and told the duty officer to roust the Joint Chiefs. He also directed the woman o
n the other end, that in twenty minutes, he wanted to talk to someone in Mosul who could give him an on-the-ground assessment of what had happened. Irene Kennedy may have been CIA, but Mosul was the domain of the Defense Department. He knew of Kennedy’s meeting with her Iranian counterpart, but knew none of the details other than the disquieting fact that the Iranians had been adamant that no U.S. military personnel be present.

  England raced upstairs, showered, threw on a suit, and grabbed his electric shaver. By the time he came back downstairs his full security detail was waiting in the driveway. England jumped in the back seat of the armored, black Suburban and started running the electric razor over his mostly gray stubble. His thoughts turned to Kennedy almost immediately. All he had been told by the situation room duty officer was that Kennedy’s motorcade had been hit in Mosul. The director of the CIA was believed to be alive and taken hostage. Everyone else had been wiped out.

  England liked Kennedy. He liked her style, the way she kept things brief and to the point. Washington, England had found, was a town with an inordinate amount of people who liked to hear themselves talk. Kennedy was a breath of fresh air, highly intelligent and as well versed in Islam and the Middle East as anyone he’d ever met. He had grown to depend on her input.

  England was an old acquaintance of the president. He had no government service on his record—military or otherwise. As the president had told him at the time of his nomination, he wanted England for his analytical mind and his ability to not just win an argument, but get others to agree with him. He’d also spent decades trying to anticipate trends, constantly looking into the future, and attempting to predict how things would play out. As his vehicle moved through the predawn streets of DC, he tried to do the same now with this crisis. Unfortunately, the first thought that entered his mind were the tapes of Muslim extremists decapitating their prisoners. The beheading of the director of the Central Intelligence Agency would be a powerful piece of propaganda.

  England pushed his personal feelings aside and played out parallel permutations in his mind. As harsh as it sounded, the quick beheading of Kennedy might not be the worst thing for America. The celebration among the Islamic radical fundamentalists would more than likely be short-lived. Europe, Australia, Japan, Russia, and possibly even China were certain to see in the end the beheading of a woman and the mother of a child, not the leader of America’s chief spy agency. Such a barbaric move by the terrorists could end up harming them in the long run.

  As cruel as it sounded, Kennedy knew too much. A drawn-out hostage situation would provide her captors with the opportunity to compromise America’s national security on a scale that was almost unthinkable. Just the thought of having to advise the president in such a manner made England extremely uneasy. He was too positive a person to settle for such a dismal outcome so early in a crisis. There had to be a better way to resolution.

  As England’s Suburban passed through the Secret Service checkpoint on West Executive Drive, his secure phone rang. The duty officer at the Pentagon informed him that she had General Gifford on the line. England had met Gifford twice before on recent trips to the region.

  “Tom,” England said, “I’m walking in to meet with POTUS right now. Can you give me the brief version of what happened?”

  England listened while Gifford passed along the condensed version of an already condensed version that had been given to him from the commanding officer of the quick-reaction force. When Gifford was done, England thanked him and told him to stay by the phone. There was a good chance the president would want to talk to him. England entered the West Wing and went straight to the Situation Room, where he found President Alexander, National Security Advisor Frank Ozark, and Attorney General Pete Webber. The three men were sitting at one end of the massive, shiny wood conference table. They all had their elbows on the table and were staring at a gray, star-shaped speakerphone.

  “Mr. President, I’m afraid he’s out of control.”

  England unbuttoned his suit coat and sat in the leather chair next to Ozark. He recognized the voice coming out of the speaker phone as that of CIA Deputy Director Chuck O’Brien.

  The president sighed and sat back in his chair. “Chuck, considering the situation, I think his rage is understandable.”

  “Sir, I’m as big a believer in Rapp’s abilities as anyone. I just think that his judgment is clouded at the moment. He’s too close to this thing.”

  England cleared his throat and said, “Chuck, Brad England here. What has he done that has you so worried?”

  “Apparently several of the attackers were left behind and taken prisoner. One of the men, who we think may be a policeman, was wounded. After the attack was over, Rapp shot the man in the backside while he was lying on the ground.”

  “The policeman?” asked a surprised attorney general.

  “Yes. We think local law enforcement may have aided the insurgents. Rapp then decided to conduct a battlefield interrogation with one of the other men. According to early reports he pulled out a knife and stabbed the man in the shoulder while he was subdued.”

  The attorney general looked extremely uncomfortable. “Were there witnesses?”

  “This all happened in a residential neighborhood,” O’Brien replied. “My guess is there were plenty of people who saw it.”

  “Oh God,” the attorney general moaned. “Any reporters on the scene?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Again,” England said, “I apologize if I missed something, but why are we so concerned with how Rapp is handling prisoners? I just got off the phone with the base commander in Mosul. He says the local police didn’t merely look the other way. He says they opened fire on Directory Kennedy’s motorcade.”

  “That’s correct,” O’Brien’s voice sounded from the speaker phone.

  “So let me get this straight. The director of the CIA has been kidnapped, her personal security detail was all shot execution-style, and we are worried about Mitch Rapp roughing up a few prisoners?”

  “I personally could care less about these men, Brad, but mark my words, when the dust has settled, the hill is going to have a lot of questions. They are bound to launch hearings into how this happened and how all of us acted in the aftermath. Right now Rapp is out of control.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t he always out of control? Isn’t that one of the reasons why he gets stuff done while everyone else sits around and talks about it?”

  “Mitch Rapp is very good. But there have been plenty of times when he’s gone overboard.”

  England looked at the president and then said, “Chuck, I’m going to try and be gentle here. You’ve got a lot of pressure on you right now. One of Director Kennedy’s greatest strengths was that she got results. She also knew how to keep the president insulated from some of the less-than-civil stuff that is sometimes required in your covert world. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

  O’Brien did not answer right away. After a moment he said, “Yes, but I still think it would be a good idea for the president to talk to him. Just briefly. My point is we can get answers out of these guys without cutting off appendages.”

  “I agree,” the attorney general said forcefully.

  President Alexander looked to England, who simply shrugged in a manner that said, what harm could it do?

  “All right,” the president said. “Have your people put the call through.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  There was a click as the line went dead. The president leaned forward and pressed a button on the speaker phone. He then looked up at his old friend England and asked, “Your thoughts?”

  “My thoughts,” the secretary of defense leaned back and sighed. “If we don’t get her back soon…and I mean really quick, we are going to have some major problems.”

  The president rubbed his forehead. “How the hell did this happen?”

  “Don’t even go there, sir. It won’t do us any good at this point. We have to deal with the here and no
w. Let’s talk to Rapp, find out what he has, and then we can make some contingency plans.

  The president nodded. A few seconds later a voice came over the speaker announcing that Rapp was on the line. The president leaned forward and stabbed the speaker button saying, “Mitch, it’s the president here. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  “Do I have this right that you saw Irene being put into the back of a sedan and driven away?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Any ideas who is behind this?”

  “No, but I have three prisoners, sir. In fact I’m in the process of interrogating them right now. I’m confident two of them will talk. The third looks doubtful.”

  The president looked around the room. “Mitch, I’ve got Pete Webber with me, as well as Frank Ozark and Brad England. The rest of the National Security Council should be here shortly. There’s been some concern that you’re too close to this thing.” The president paused and then added, “That you might be out of control.”

  A sigh of frustration could be heard over the speaker phone. “Mr. President, the director of the CIA has just been kidnapped. As per our discussion on Air Force One…I think now is the time to pull out all the stops.”

  Attorney General Webber had no idea what Rapp was talking about, but it didn’t sound particularly thoughtful. “Mitch, Pete Webber here. We all know you and Irene are close, but you really have to take a few steps back and remember that you took an oath…an oath to protect and defend the constitution of the United States. We all took that oath, and that means none of us are above the law…including you.”