Protect and Defend

by Vince Flynn

  Amatullah was going through a timeline of the events that led up to the sinking of the Sabalan. Apparently two separate ships reported picking up a submarine on surface radar as well as visually confirming the vessel only minutes before the Sabalan was torpedoed. Amatullah was adamant that the Sabalan had done nothing to provoke the attack and called it a blatant act of war by the Americans.

  “This act of barbarism is bad enough, but Iran’s security agencies have uncovered something more treacherous. Over fifty years ago the CIA launched a plot to remove the rightfully elected Dr. Mohammad Mossadegh from office in my country. For the next thirty years the CIA backed the criminal Mohammad Reza Pahlavi and continued to meddle in the affairs of the Iranian people until we rose up in revolution and threw both the shah and the Americans out of our country. For more than twenty-five years now, we have been vigilant in our fight to remain independent from the corruption of imperial America.”

  Ashani glanced to his left and then right as Amatullah continued his litany of American deception and manipulation against the people of Iran. The generals and the foreign minister seemed excessively pleased with Amatullah’s words. Most of his complaints were old accusations; more than a few of them complete falsehoods, but that did not stop these men from paying rapt attention. Ashani got the sense that the master manipulator was building toward something even bigger.

  “As the entire world knows, earlier this week my country’s nuclear facility in Isfahan was destroyed. The American secretary of state went before the United Nations and offered so-called proof that the facility was destroyed by Iranian saboteurs. She made it seem to the world that the United States had no hand whatsoever in the attack against my country. That it was simply average Iranians who were rebelling against an oppressive government. What she intentionally chose not to tell the world was that those saboteurs were recruited and funded by the CIA.

  “For months now various intelligence services in my country have been tracking the movement of this dissident group of mercenaries. That investigation culminated in Mosul, Iraq, this morning when the group’s leaders met directly with CIA Director Irene Kennedy.” Amatullah held up an enlarged photograph of Kennedy.

  Ashani noticed immediately that she did not look herself. Her straight brown hair was matted down and one side of her face looked red, as if she’d been hit. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her expression was far from her usual calm demeanor. Ashani felt ashamed for his country and embarrassed for Kennedy.

  “In Director Kennedy’s possession was this.” Amatullah held up a second enlarged photograph. “This briefcase and several others like it contained more than a million dollars in cash that the director of the CIA was delivering to her spies as a bounty for destroying Iran’s quest for energy independence and self-government. I ask the world to stand up for what is right and help my country stop Imperial America’s aggression. It is time for us to come together and stand up for true democracy and freedom and to fight against the capitalist pigs of America.

  “Iran will not pump another drop of oil”—Amatullah shook his fist defiantly at the camera—“until every American warship has left the Persian Gulf. I call on my OPEC brothers to do the same. Together we will send a message to America that we are done being bullied. We have already demanded compensation of ten billion dollars for the destruction of the Isfahan facility and the hundreds of Iranians who were killed in this attack by America and her spies. With the sinking of the Sabalan and the escalating cost to clean up the disaster at Isfahan we are now demanding that America pay a total of fifteen billion dollars. In addition America must also apologize for what they have done and make a commitment in front of the United Nations General Assembly that they will cease meddling in the affairs of Iran.”

  Amatullah paused and folded his hands in front of him, adopting a less aggressive pose. “Until such time as America fulfills these obligations, we will keep CIA Director Kennedy as a guest of the country of Iran. And I can assure the international community that we will treat her with more respect and dignity than America has treated my Muslim brothers that have been captured on the battlefield.”

  With that parting shot, Amatullah turned and walked off camera. Ashani stood among the other advisors absolutely thunderstruck by what he had just heard. The mad genius and sheer audacity of Amatullah knew no bounds. The idea that the Sabalan had done nothing to provoke being torpedoed seemed a bit ridiculous, but what Amatullah had just accused Kennedy of was an outright lie. Only several hours earlier he had sat across from a very sincere and believable Kennedy and listened to her offer an aid package worth billions of dollars. She hardly seemed like a woman plotting the overthrow of the Iranian government.

  Ashani looked around the room at the faces of the other men and got the uneasy feeling that they all knew something that he did not. The door to Amatullah’s office opened, and the president burst into the room like an actor arriving backstage after delivering the performance of his life. Amatullah stopped triumphantly in front of the group with his chin held high. The generals offered their exuberant congratulations on a brilliant speech. The foreign minister, whom Ashani had forgotten about, was now standing in the corner behind him talking to someone on the phone. He began thanking the person loudly and then hung up.

  “Wonderful speech, sir,” Salehi said enthusiastically as he returned to the group. “That was Foreign Minister Xing. The Chinese have agreed to bring our grievances before the UN Security Council, and put pressure on the Americans to make reparations.”

  “Excellent,” Amatullah said with more relief than surprise. Almost as an afterthought he noticed that his intelligence minister was now present. Amatullah looked at him with a hint of suspicion and then said, “Azad, you have made it back safely. I would like to have a word with you in private.” Amatullah gestured toward his office and began walking.

  Ashani did not move right away. His head was spinning with plots and deceptions. Defying the request would undoubtedly lead to bigger problems. With reluctance, he followed Amatullah into his office, and tried not to flinch when the door was closed behind him. Amatullah ordered the TV crew out of his office so he could have a word alone with his intelligence minister.

  “I am sorry,” Amatullah started the conversation, “that I did not let you know about this sooner, but I did not want you tainted by it until the intelligence proved to be accurate.”

  Ashani said nothing, but nodded as if it was a reasonable precaution even though it wasn’t.

  “Imad and his people have been working on this for months. I wanted to bring you in on it, but Imad feared that the Intelligence Ministry had an unacceptable number of people who were sympathetic to the MEK and other resistance organizations.”

  This was such an outright lie that Ashani could barely conceal his growing anger. In a measured voice he said, “I think I know my organization better than Imad Mukhtar.”

  “I will not argue with you on that point, but we have arrived here nonetheless, and your skill and support are greatly needed to help us get through this crisis. Can I count on you?”

  Here it is, Ashani thought to himself. A test of loyalty. He contemplated the two generals in the other room, both fiercely devoted to Amatullah, neither of them afraid to use violence to get what they wanted. Less than a second passed as Ashani’s thoughts raced to his wife and daughters and back again. Now was not the moment to take a stand against the madman.

  “Of course you can,” Ashani answered in his most sincere voice. “I know better than perhaps anyone, other than yourself, that this nonsense with America must stop.”

  “Good,” Ashani said as he clapped his hands together. “Now as you can imagine, I am going to be very busy. The Supreme Leader is on his way back from Isfahan, and I must prepare to brief him as well as continue to lobby our allies to support us against this American aggression.”

  “How can I help?”

  Amatullah led him across the office to his desk. “Imad is in need of d
esperate assistance. I’m afraid his network of agents may have been compromised. He has Kennedy in a safe location for the moment, but he thinks he might have to move her.” He opened his desk drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper. On it was a handwritten list of ten phone numbers. The first two had lines through them.

  “I have spoken with him twice. After each call move onto the next number.”

  Ashani took the sheet and looked at the numbers.

  “If you go through all of them, start over at the beginning.”

  “What would you like me to do?”

  “Call him. You will refer to him as Ali and he will refer to you as Cyrus. Find out what he needs. The last time we spoke he was confident that he could get Kennedy to confess, but he said the city is crawling with American and Iraqi military units.”

  Ashani felt a knot in his stomach. Mukhtar was a brutal thug. “Did he say where he was holding her?”

  “No.” Amatullah shook his head. “I asked, but he did not want to talk about it on the phone.” He handed Ashani a mobile phone. “If there is an emergency, he will call you on this phone.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. If there is any way to get her across the border without being caught I want you to do it.”

  Ashani nodded dutifully and said, “I will look into it immediately.”

  55

  MOSUL, IRAQ

  Kennedy lay naked on the floor. Salty tears streamed down her face and mixed with the puddles of urine on the dirt floor. Her panties and bra lay shredded a few feet away. The musty blanket that had given her a sense of security had been torn from her hands and tossed to the far corner. Her captors stood over her and laughed while they described in graphic terms how they were going to rape her. That had been about the only indignity she’d been spared thus far.

  All she had done was ask to go to the bathroom. A simple function that she had taken for granted her entire life. The man who called himself Muhammad had made it sound as if it would not be a problem. Instead of taking her somewhere, though, the guards brought her a rusty bucket and stood a few feet away leering at her. Kennedy squatted over the bucket and used the blanket to try and maintain a modicum of privacy. When she was in the middle of relieving herself one of the men gave her a kick that sent her sprawling. The second man then joined in as they tore the blanket and her undergarments from her. The men pawed at her bare skin; slapping, punching, and kicking her. Kennedy attempted lamely to fight back, but they were too strong and far too vicious.

  In the end all she could do was curl up in a defensive ball and hope they would tire. When they finally did, they dropped their pants and urinated on her. That was when they began to describe in gruesome detail how they were going to rape her. Kennedy did not scream or cry out loud. She simply lay there and let the tears flow. She thought of her son, Tommy, her mother, and a life she had devoted to her country. She did not ask “Why me?” or drown herself in pity, she simply accepted her fate for what it was—a very nasty ending to an otherwise wonderful life.

  She had surrendered herself to the idea that it would be better to die than give up the most closely guarded secrets of her country. She owed that to the men and women of the CIA, and the spies they had recruited. She knew she would not be able to endure many more beatings like the one she had just gone through, so her mind began searching for a way to end it all. The tears stopped and in a strange way the thought of taking her own life gave her strength.

  A loud clang of the metal latch being lifted and squeaky hinges announced the presence of a visitor. Kennedy did not attempt lift her head and look. She stared beyond the feet of her tormentors at the blanket in the corner as if she could will it to come to her.

  “In the name of Allah, what have you done?”

  Kennedy recognized the voice as belonging to the man who called himself Muhammad.

  “You fools!” he yelled.

  Kennedy saw him push his way past the two men and retrieve the blanket on the far side of the room. He came back and draped the blanket over her naked body and then turned his anger on the men. He screamed at them and ordered them out of the room. When they were gone he returned to Kennedy and squatted down at her side. He started to move a strand of hair from her face and then stopped when he realized it was soaked with urine. He stood quickly and marched into the hallway.

  Kennedy could hear him yelling at the guards and telling them to bring fresh water and a first aid kit. There was more shouting and more demands. Kennedy went numb and stopped listening. The man came back into the room several times to check on her, each time apologizing for what the men had done. Kennedy never acknowledged his presence. She simply kept staring off into space.

  At some point a chair was brought into the room and the man helped her up so she could sit in it. She was beyond caring that she was naked under the blanket. The man tried his best to keep the blanket wrapped around her chest, as he took the bucket of water and began rinsing the urine from her hair. He then wet a washcloth and cleaned her face.

  When he got to her shoulders he stopped and placed the washcloth in Kennedy’s hand. “I will get you some clothes. Please finish cleaning up. We need to discuss your release.”

  Kennedy blinked for the first time in minutes. Her head slowly turned and watched the man leave the room. The door closed behind him and she realized she was alone. Looking down at the white washcloth, she had the strangest feeling that she must have been dreaming. Her eyes moved slowly over her arms, noting the scrapes and bruises. She took the water-soaked cloth and ran it along the inside of her left forearm. The blood and dirt came off. She bit her tongue to make sure this was really happening and upon feeling the pain realized it was. Kennedy stood and draped the blanket over the back of the chair and then set about bathing. She doused herself with handful after handful of water until the blood, dirt, and stench were gone. A good five minutes later there was a knock on the door. Kennedy grabbed the blanket and held it in front of her.

  Muhammad entered the room with a towel, a stack of neatly folded clothes and some sandals. He set them down on the chair and said, “Please put these on. We have much to discuss.”

  After he left, Kennedy slowly got dressed. The clothes were all slightly too big for her but she was grateful nonetheless. She put on the blue dress pants, brown sweater, black hijab, and finally the sandals. There was another knock on the door and then Muhammad entered carrying a video camera and a tripod. Kennedy was instantly suspicious.

  “I am sorry for the behavior of those two animals. They were not raised properly.”

  Kennedy only nodded.

  The man set the camera down and asked, “How do your clothes fit?”

  “Fine.” Kennedy clutched at the hijab.

  “Good. Now I have been talking to many people about your release, and I think we have something arranged. The men who took you…I can’t tell you who they are, but they are a nasty lot. More than half of them want to kill you because of what you have done to their country and who you work for. There are a few, however, who think that this is a waste. They are split. Half of them want to torture you and sell the information to the highest bidder and the other half want to ransom you and be done with it. I think I have them convinced to ransom you, but before I can do that they want you to read a statement.”

  “What kind of statement?” Kennedy asked in a guarded tone.

  “I want to remind you they are only words. Once you are free, you may say whatever you’d like.” The man handed over the sheet of paper and then busied himself with the video camera. “Smile for me, please,” he said as he pressed play.

  Kennedy looked down at the double-spaced typed words and began reading. He heart sank with each sentence. Thirty seconds later she was done. She handed the paper back to the man and said, “I can’t read that.”

  “Yes, you can.” The man handed the paper back. “All you need to do is read it and you will be free to leave with me.”

  “Those are all lies. My cou
ntry had nothing to do with the destruction of the Isfahan nuclear facility. We did not invade Iraq for oil, and we are not plotting to invade Iran to steal their oil.”

  “I am not arguing with you.” The man said with his hands held up. “And when you are set free you can scream from the mountaintops that you were forced to read this statement at gunpoint.”

  Kennedy knew there would be no taking it back. There were too many in the Middle East and beyond who thought it was true to begin with. Her reading this prepared speech would be used for decades to come as proof of America’s imperial ways. “I can’t read it.”

  “You must, or they will kill you.”

  There was something in the way the man said “kill you” that gave Kennedy concern. It occurred to her that the most logical move by her captors would be to kill her after she read the statement. With no denial by Kennedy it would go down as fact. “I’m sorry, but I cannot read that statement.” Kennedy sat down in the chair and folded her hands across her lap.

  The man moved with great speed from behind the camera. He slapped Kennedy across the face three times, knocking the hijab off her head. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her head back. Looking down at her he yelled, “You have exactly one hour to change your mind, and if your answer is still no, I will leave you to your fate. Do you want that to happen?”

  “No,” Kennedy answered.

  “Twenty men!” he screamed. “They will line up to rape you for a week straight. Is that what you want?”

  “No.”

  “Then read the statement.” The man let go of her and handed her the piece of paper again.

  Kennedy took it, looked down at the words, and thought of how the tape would be used against her country. She would be considered a traitor. She could never live with herself. Without having to think any further, she opened her hands and let the paper fall to the floor.