by Vince Flynn
Ashan knocked on the door and turned the knob. He stepped into the large rectangular office and was enveloped in a haze of gray smoke. Ashan didn’t hesitate. He flipped a switch on the wall and the hum of an exhaust fan kicked in. He had had the unit installed nearly four years ago, because he could no longer tolerate sitting in the smoke filled office. He considered chastising his friend for not having it on, but thought better of it. The man was breathing the carcinogens directly into his lungs. The exhaust fan would make little difference.
“Nadeem,” Durrani said, leaning back in his high-back black leather chair, “what a pleasure.” Durrani was dressed in his Army uniform, lest anyone forget the duality of his importance.
Ashan, having served only four years in the Air Force, was dressed in a blue suit and yellow tie. “I was in the neighborhood and I decided to stop by.”
“Exercising again.” Durrani smiled and held out his cigarette. “I’ve warned you, if you keep that up it will kill you.”
“Yes, I know. If only I smoked like you and the rest of the country I would be much healthier.”
“You might have more fun,” Durrani said with a broad grin forming under the ample black mustache that seemed to be a prerequisite for being an officer in the Pakistan military.
“I have plenty of fun.” Ashan continued past the two chairs in front of his friend’s large desk and sat in the chair by the window that looked out onto one of the many inner courtyards of the compound. The armchair was something else he had ordered on his own. The two chairs in front of Durrani’s desk were stubby little things that forced the occupants to look up at Durrani as if he sat high atop K2. Ashan couldn’t be certain, but he suspected that the seating arrangement was a holdover from the old colonial days when British officers ran their country.
“So what brings you to my little enclave this morning? Do you need the dirty tricks of the External Wing to save your rear end once again?”
More serious than kidding, Ashan said, “Your dirty tricks are usually what puts my posterior into the hot water.”
“Oh, come now,” Durrani said with a deep laugh. “We all have our roles to play.”
Ashan was not in such a playful mood. He knew his friend too well. Knew his capabilities and his weaknesses, and if he had been stupid enough to lend any of his people or expertise to facilitate the lunacy in Jalalabad, then they were all in a great deal of trouble. “Let us just pray for a moment that no one in the External Wing had anything to do with what happened across the border last night.”
“Which border are you referring to?”
Ashan ran a hand across his clean-shaven face and tried to gauge whether his old friend’s ignorance was real of feigned. The man had become so adept at playing this game that Ashan could no longer glean the difference. He decided to play it straight. “The border to our north.”
“Ah . . . Mr. Rickman. Very unfortunate. I’m surprised you have heard.”
Ashan was used to the constant shots at the capabilities of his department. “Foreign relations is our specialty.”
“How did you learn of it?”
“The embassy. They sent a cable this morning.” Ashan told only half the truth. He’d also spoken with the CIA directly. “The Americans are very upset.”
“I would imagine they are. Mr. Rickman is not someone I would want to lose.”
Ashan turned and glanced out the window. He sensed his friend was playing some kind of game, but he could no longer be sure. They had met thirty-five years ago while he was studying at Oxford and Durrani was at the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst. Back then Durrani was an open book—transparent about his passions and plans. Ashan had always appreciated his honesty and forthright manner. The ISI had slowly turned him into a duplicitous spymaster, however, and Ashan feared there was an ever-deepening divide between them. “Akhtar, I have to ask you something.”
Durrani gave a welcoming smile, signaling for his friend to proceed.
“You will not like this question.”
“People ask me questions every day that I do not like. It is part of my job.”
Ashan watched him light another cigarette and then casually asked, “Do you or any of your people have any information about the kidnapping of Rickman?”
Durrani didn’t answer right away, as he was taking in a deep breath of smoke to make sure the cigarette stayed lit. Only fools had to relight a cigarette. He shook his head and exhaled, saying, “That is a pretty broad question. Could you be more specific?”
“Did you have any knowledge that he was a target?”
“Personally, I had no knowledge.”
“And your people?”
Durrani scoffed. “Why would my people be involved in something so reckless?”
Ashan could come up with a half dozen reasons that would make his point. He was going to let it go and then something pushed him further than he had gone with his friend in some time. “Maybe you should tell me, since we both know some of your people decided it was a good idea to hide bin Laden from the world. In our own backyard, I should add.”
Durrani’s easy expression hardened. “It has been decided that we are not to discuss that matter.”
Yes, it had been decided. In the embarrassing aftermath of the SEAL team raid, the president and the director general had asked Ashan to investigate any potential involvement by the ISI in aiding bin Laden. A two-star Army general had been ordered to investigate the potential involvement of the armed forces as well. The general had come back with a pathetic report that cleared the military of all involvement. Ashan’s investigation was an entirely different matter. Six intelligence officers were implicated as well as five Army officers and a handful of subordinates, and there were more. Before Ashan could finish his investigation, the director general stepped in and seized all evidence and had it destroyed.
Ashan was furious, but he was told it was for the good of Pakistan. The director general told him the Americans had penetrated his investigation and were now in possession of information that they could use to blackmail Pakistan into doing their bidding. Ashan knew the answer was a complete fabrication. His investigation was taking him to the doorsteps of some very influential people. He was on the brink of exposing to the world that senior Pakistani officials had harbored the world’s most notorious terrorist. Rather than clean house and admit their mistakes, the president and his senior cabinet members decided to bury the entire matter. Not a single person was punished, and since firing those involved might bring about more speculation, they were allowed to stay in their positions. Ashan found the entire thing infuriating but was left with no recourse except one. He very quietly and carefully passed what he knew on to the Americans.
“Yes, it has been decided that we are not to discuss the matter, but we have always prided ourselves on being realists, and since we are in your office, which we both know to be secure, I see no harm in pointing out that we know for a fact that some of your people are indeed reckless.”
“Don’t be so smug. Your department was implicated as well.”
“Yes.” Ashan nodded. “One reckless moron, and I have done my best to make his life miserable. I have him stuffed down in one of the sublevels digitizing old files. And the five men in your department, how are they faring?”
“How I run my department is my business.”
Ashan took the defensive answer for what it was—an admission that the duplicitous scum still held their old positions. “So now that we’ve established that we have people in our fine organization who would indeed participate in a plan as reckless as kidnapping someone like Joe Rickman, how do you suggest we make sure that none of our people had anything to do with this?”
“I would suggest doing nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Even investigating such a thing will draw the attention of the Americans. I see no reason to open my wing up to more of their accusations when I am confident that my people had nothing to do with this. Afghanistan is a rough place, as th
e Americans have found out. They should have gone home a long time ago.”
Ashan made no attempted to conceal his exasperation. “Why must you continue to treat the Americans as if they are our enemy?”
Durrani stabbed out his cigarette in the large copper ashtray and folded his hands across his tight green uniform shirt. “Afghanistan is our toy. The British thought it was their toy for a long time, and then the Russians thought they could take it, and then the Americans in their arrogance thought they could do what neither the British nor the Russians could accomplish. They thought they could tame the savages and take what is ours.”
Ashan shook his head. He had heard all of this before. “Again, you have conveniently left out the part where al Qaeda attacked them.”
“We could have handled al Qaeda for them. All they had to do was ask. They didn’t need to invade our neighbor. Look at all the damage they have caused.”
Ashan started to speak and then stopped. It was all a waste of his time. They had been over all of this before. Durrani loved to feign ignorance and spout his dislike for the Americans, all while gladly taking their money. It was rumored that he’d pocketed millions over the course of the war, some of it undoubtedly coming directly from Rickman. Ashan had been on the verge of leveling the accusation on multiple occasions but had always maintained just enough control to avoid suicide. Durrani wasn’t the only one who took money. Most of the leadership at the ISI received some form of payment from the Americans, including Ashan himself. The problem with Durrani was that he took the money and then worked feverishly to undermine the legitimate goals of their ally.
“The damage they have caused? And I suppose you think we’ve had no hand in this mess . . . training and funding the mujahedeen and then the Taliban and even some members of al Qaeda.”
“Afghanistan is a mess, but it is our mess. It is time for the Americans to leave.”
“And what do you think they’re trying to do? This reintegration program that I’ve been helping them with is so they can pull out.”
“And maintain a network of paid spies to continue to manipulate the affairs of this region.” Durrani shook his head. “It is unacceptable.”
“It is understandable considering everything they’ve been through.”
“Would they allow us to meddle in the affairs of countries in their geographical sphere of influence?” Durrani didn’t wait for an answer. “They most certainly wouldn’t. They have worn out their welcome. It is time for them to go home.”
Increasingly, this was how their conversations played out. To push further would be a waste of time and energy. “And what about Rickman?”
The general shrugged. “Another casualty of war. Everyone involved in this mess has lost thousands. Rickman is just another body.”
Ashan shook his head in genuine disbelief. “That’s where you’re wrong. Joe Rickman is not just another body. He is one of the CIA’s most important assets, and they are not just going to sit back while he’s tortured. The man has too many secrets . . . extremely valuable secrets.”
“You are overstating his importance, and even if you weren’t, good luck finding him.”
“Overstating his importance.” Ashan stood and walked to the other side of the large desk. He faced his friend and said, “Do you know who the Americans have dispatched to find Rickman?”
“I have no idea.”
Ashan placed both hands on the desk and said, “Your old friend Mitch Rapp.”
Durrani looked away and swallowed hard. After a moment of silence he said, “We will offer him any assistance he needs.” The words were flat, with no real commitment behind them.
“Akhtar, we have been friends for a long time. I don’t want you to react . . . I don’t want you to say a word. For once, please listen to me. Mitch Rapp is an extremely dangerous man. The fact that they have sent him over here is proof of how serious the Americans are about getting Rickman back. Rapp doesn’t care about diplomacy or politics. He is the last man you want to cross. He will kill anyone who has anything to do with this. I’m going to leave now, but I suggest you follow through on your words. Offer him any assistance he needs, and if you find out that any of your people have aided the Taliban in—”
“We have no idea who did this,” Durrani said, with more than a tinge of irritation in his voice.
“You are correct,” Ashan said in a soothing voice, “but we can make some educated guesses, and if the usual suspects are involved, we can almost guarantee that somewhere, someone has a connection to the ISI. We need to put our people to work. They need to tell us what they find out and we need to hand it over to the Americans. I know this is painful for you, but you need to act like a true ally.”
Durrani looked as if he’d taken a bite out of a sour lemon. “I am sick of the Americans and their arrogance. This is not my problem. They can find Rickman on their own.”
Ashan stepped back. “Fine, you stubborn fool. Rapp has already warned you what he would do to you if you stabbed him in the back again.” He retreated toward the door and asked, “Does he strike you as a man who doesn’t follow through on his threats?”
“I am not afraid of Mitch Rapp.”
Ashan placed his hand on the doorknob, a genuine feeling of sadness in his heart. His friend had turned into a stubborn old fool who thought the Americans lacked the resolve to play this nasty game at his ruthless level. For the average American he had a point, but Mitch Rapp was in no way average. Ashan opened the door and over his shoulder said, “If you aren’t afraid of Mr. Rapp then you need to have your head examined.”
Chapter 8
Kabul, Afghanistan
Rapp looked out the porthole of the enormous MRAP Cougar. The drive from the airport to the embassy was short, just under two miles. The Army Corp of Engineers had done a nice job widening the Great Massoud Road to relieve as many choke points as possible. Cameras had been installed and fresh blacktop prevented insurgents from trying to bury roadside bombs. No parking was permitted on the street and the sidewalks were kept clear of garbage, vendors, and pretty much anything that could conceal a roadside bomb. Despite all of these precautions, Rapp was filled with anxiety.
While most people found comfort in the Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles, Rapp thought of them as big rolling coffins. You might as well paint a sign on the hulking side that said Infidels. Rapp preferred a more low-profile form of transportation. The Clandestine Service at Langley bought older-model vehicles and had private contractors make sure the cars were in top mechanical shape. Occasionally they would add bulletproof glass and some armor, but in Afghanistan, Rapp felt the key was to change vehicles often and blend in.
As they hit the big turnaround at the corner of the embassy, Rapp felt his chest tighten. They were close to the gate and this was where the crazies liked to attack. The vehicle came to a sudden stop. They were the third in a three-vehicle convoy. Rapp looked up at Coleman with irritation washed across his face and asked, “Why are we stopping?”
Coleman gave him an easy shrug. “Probably checking our creds.” “You mean to tell me those dumbasses didn’t pre-clear us?” “No idea.” Coleman smiled, amused at Rapp’s nervousness. Rapp punched the button to lower the back hatch. “Well, I’m not going be a sitting duck.” As the stairs lowered, Rapp nimbly navigated them before they were all the way down.
Coleman laughed at him and popped the button to close the hatch. The Air Force security guys driving the vehicle were grumbling up front, wanting to know who the moron was who had just compromised their secure vehicle. Coleman waved them off and apologized.
Outside, Rapp came face-to-face with a U.S. Marine who couldn’t have been older than twenty. The corporal gave Rapp a knowing nod and said, “I don’t like those things either.”
Rapp took a quick look around and realized the Marine was part of a security team that had been pushed out one hundred feet from the main gate. They were in a semicircle spaced every thirty feet; a loose picket designed to create a sec
ure pocket while credentials were verified and vehicles checked. The embassy’s perimeter blast walls, ballistic glass, and Kevlar-reinforced walls were impervious to car bombs, but visitors were vulnerable during this brief window when they were at the embassy’s doorstep. Two four-man fire teams composed the extended security.
What a shitty job, Rapp thought to himself. They were a thin tripwire out here to slow down any crazy bastards who were barreling down on the gate in an explosives-laden vehicle. Their early shots with their M-4s were not likely to stop the vehicle nor were the rounds of the M249 SAW. It was the job of the big .50 caliber guns back at the gate to punch a hole in the engine of any unauthorized vehicle.
“How’d you end up with this powder-puff job?” Rapp asked, as his eyes continued to sweep the area.
The Marine tapped the two chevrons on his sleeve. “Shit rolls downhill and, as my gunny likes to remind me, the Corps is not a democracy. So I do what I’m told.”
Rapp nodded—understood it was the way it had to be. “Good luck.” Rapp turned and headed for the door next to the big steel gate. A sergeant in his tan combat utility uniform and decked out in body armor intercepted him. Rapp pulled out a set of fake State Department credentials.
The sergeant took the credentials and said, “Wait here.” He walked over to the closest guard booth and slid the identification through the metal box. A few moments later he returned with Rapp’s fake creds and a badge. “Are you armed, Mr. Cox?”
Rapp shook his head and said, “Nope,” even though he was carrying two pistols and a knife. He followed the sergeant to the small door and stepped through. On the other side a familiar face was waiting for him. Rapp was neither pleased nor bothered to see Mike Nash. “Irene decided to send over reinforcements.”
Nash had been attached to Rapp’s team for almost five years and had recently been promoted to deputy director of the Counter Terrorism Center at Langley. “I’m only the first wave. She’s pulling in clandestine boys from all over the place.”
Rapp grimaced. He didn’t have the time or the patience to manage all of these people. It quickly dawned on him that he wouldn’t have to. That was why Nash was here. Still, he needed to have a say in what these people would be doing or they’d end up falling all over each other. “And what are we going to do with everyone?”