by Vince Flynn
“Who then?”
“You’re too controversial and I assume you wouldn’t take the job anyway.”
“I’d rather put a gun in my mouth.”
“Then Mike Nash.”
Rapp didn’t respond, instead leaning back in his chair and staring past Kennedy through the window behind her.
“He’s the American hero you insisted on making him, Mitch. Any politician who takes a stand against him will run a serious public relations risk.”
While Rapp wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about the idea, Kennedy was likely right. Nash had the resume, and despite a tendency toward moral paralysis, he was no coward. When it came time for things to get bloody, he could be counted on to be there.
“Mike wouldn’t be permanent and I don’t think he or anyone in Washington would want him to be,” Kennedy continued. “The goal here is to put someone in my chair who can keep the politicians off your back long enough for you to resolve the Rickman problem.”
Rapp still didn’t respond.
“Mitch? I need you to say something. If you can’t work with him—technically for him—you have to tell me who you’d prefer.”
“Fine.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I might have to knock him on his ass a couple of times, but I can work with him.”
“For him,” she repeated.
“I said fine.”
She was visibly relieved. “Like I said, I hope it won’t come to that, but we have to be ready.”
“Yeah,” Rapp said, trying to swallow his anger. Putting Irene Kennedy out on the street with everything that was going on would be unimaginably stupid. The problem was that unimaginably stupid had become a job requirement in Washington.
CHAPTER 44
CENTRAL AFGHANISTAN
IT was good to be out of the city.
The air blowing through the missing door was still hot despite the sunset fifteen minutes before. Dust rising from the road swirled inside the cab, attacking Fahran Hotaki’s eyes and working its way into his mouth, but it didn’t bother him. In fact, he found it strangely nostalgic. A reminder of his life before the war. Of days spent tending livestock and raising children.
He had no photos of his village or his family. Cameras, as well as phones and computers, had been of little use to him then. They’d become part of his life only after he’d joined the fighting.
Living a life cut off from the outside world was appealing in so many ways. The unchanging rhythm of it, the intimate familiarity with everything that made up his universe. He’d known nothing of economic swings, the Internet, or nuclear weapons. Nothing of tensions between nations, pandemics, or environmental disasters. There had been only him, his people, and the vast, empty land around them.
It was a level of simplicity that should have been easy to preserve—one that would make his country of little interest to outside forces. For some reason, though, Afghanistan could never just retreat into its primitive, insular culture.
Would-be conquerors had come in seemingly endless waves since the dawn of history. In his lifetime, Afghanistan had endured the Russians, the Taliban, countless foreign terrorist groups, and now the Americans.
Why would Allah not let this rocky corner of the planet exist in peace? Why must there be constant tests of His people’s faith? How many horrors would God force them to suffer before He was convinced of their devotion?
“Allahu akbar,” Hotaki said over the whistle of the wind. His growing habit of questioning the god he would be meeting later that night was the height of arrogance. Still, he hoped there would be some kind of explanation. He wanted so badly to understand.
The stars were beginning to ignite and he glanced down at the truck’s gas gauge while there was still sufficient light. Less than a quarter of a tank. He could extend the pickup’s range by emptying the bodies from the bed, but it was unnecessary. There would be no return trip.
Hotaki came over a small rise and saw the encampment he was looking for. There were a few modern lights but most of the illumination was emanating from a bonfire in the central square. Behind were the mountains, black silhouettes that seemed to swallow the universe he’d only recently learned about.
Hotaki rolled to a stop and examined the scene below. The village was simple—a rough circle crisscrossed with dirt roads and low stone houses. It was inhabited by a particularly brutal group of Taliban looking to reassert control. In his mind, it made them worse than the others. Outsiders owed Afghanistan nothing. If they had the power to conquer it, they had the right. These men, though, were murderers. Killers of their own people.
He pressed the accelerator and started down the back of the rise, suddenly free of the deep sadness that had plagued him since the death of his family. By the time he reached the curving wall surrounding the village, all that was left in him was hate.
“Stop!”
A man with an AK-47 appeared from the shadows and approached the truck. Hotaki had the headlights off in order to obscure the corpses he was hauling, but it was unlikely that the precaution was necessary. The guard wouldn’t acknowledge even the possibility of danger. Like the men Hotaki had already killed that day, this one was confident in his righteousness and invincibility.
The young man didn’t even have his finger on the trigger of the weapon when he leaned toward the open window. “Who are you?”
Hotaki answered by shoving a broken bottle he’d found on the floorboard into the man’s neck. Surprise more than fear or pain froze him long enough for Hotaki to pull him partially through the window and hold his head as he bled. The dying man began to struggle, but he couldn’t free the gun pinned between his chest and the door. Instead, he swung his fists uselessly, slamming them repeatedly into the cab’s rusting metal as the life drained from him.
When he finally went still, Hotaki released his body and pushed the truck’s accelerator to the floor. The back wheels struggled for traction before catching and propelling him through the narrow opening in the wall.
The village’s men were right where he expected them to be, huddled around the central fire. They turned when they heard the approaching vehicle, but their eyes were adjusted to the glow of the flames and couldn’t penetrate the darkness beyond. None realized what was happening until it was too late. He plowed into them, pulling some beneath his wheels and knocking others into the fire. The ones who managed to avoid being hit scattered.
Smoke filled the cab as the oil-soaked chassis ignited. Hotaki leapt out, using an American-built AAC Honey Badger to spray the men trying to scurry away. It took only a moment for the pickup to be engulfed and his advantage was lessened by the blinding glare.
A round hit his flak jacket from behind, nearly knocking him off his feet. He spun, holding the trigger of his weapon down and sweeping from left to right. The scent of charred human flesh filled his nostrils as he charged forward, dodging the burning logs his arrival had strewn about. More rounds struck his vest, their force trying to drive him back. His thigh was hit but the bullet missed the bone, weakening but not destabilizing his leg. A sudden burning in his neck and the subsequent taste of blood in his mouth heralded the death blow he’d known was coming, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. Not yet.
He suddenly found himself amid the men. The flash from their gun barrels and the roar of automatic fire were all around him. He realized that his weapon was empty and dropped it, pulling the .44 Magnum from his waistband. He knew he was being repeatedly hit but could no longer feel anything.
Hotaki was vaguely aware that he had dropped to his knees and that his gun was again empty, but still he didn’t stop. His finger continued to pull the trigger, tracking on the shifting shadows created by the firelight. Finally, the darkness descended.
God is great.
CHAPTER 45
THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE
ISLAMABAD
PAKISTAN
HE’S there. Next to the kitchen entrance.”
Ahmed Taj looke
d past his assistant toward a heavyset American man in a dark suit. Having arrived in the country only that morning, he’d already taken command of the Secret Service team tasked with providing security for the American secretary of state. Even the Pakistani detail seemed to be deferring to him—a shameful display of weakness that Taj would deal with later.
“Who is he?”
“Jack Warch,” Kabir Gadai said quietly. “He’s retired now but he was the head of President Hayes’s security when the White House was attacked years ago. Officially, he’s here only as an advisor, but there’s no question that he’s in charge.”
They moved from their position beneath the ballroom’s windows in order to let a banquet table be deposited there. Chairs were being brought in on wheeled pallets, and decorations were going up on the walls. Freshly polished silverware was arranged in velvet-lined boxes and crystal glasses were being held to the light by kitchen staff in search of spots.
President Chutani had spared no expense. This state dinner was to commemorate a new beginning in Pakistan’s long relationship with the United States. And to demonstrate to Chutani’s enemies the strength of his friendship with the most powerful country in the world.
The real outcome would be quite different. Dramatic pictures of Chutani choking on his own blood while American security men drew their weapons would whip the country into a frenzy that Taj would ride to power.
“Will Warch be a problem?”
“I don’t anticipate it. He’s inundated us with questions and requests, but I’ve been handling his demands personally. Obviously, his primary focus is on the safety of the American delegation.”
“What have we given him on Chef Marri?”
“Everything,” Gadai responded, lowering his voice further. “There’s no information connecting the two of you, so there was no reason to make any alterations that could raise suspicion. The entire staff, including Obaid Marri, has already been cleared by the Americans.”
Taj tried to quell the nervousness growing in the pit of his stomach. His preparations had been painstaking and Allah had smiled on them, he told himself. There was nothing to fear.
On the other hand, perhaps it wasn’t fear of failure that was eating at him. Maybe it was the inevitability of success. Much of his life had been consumed with the creation and implementation of this plan and it was strangely disorienting to know that those machinations would soon be over. In three days, he would begin the violent, but in all likelihood short, battle for control of Pakistan. After that, he would have the power he had craved for so long.
It was the much more difficult task of wielding his newfound power that was beginning to worry him. The Americans were not to be underestimated. They would fight the new order of things with every fiber of their being, doing everything possible to prevent him from asserting dominance over the Middle East. In the end, though, they would fail.
President Saad Chutani entered through the east archway and stopped, taking in the activity around him with a satisfied smile. When his eyes fell on his intelligence director, he motioned. Taj scurried obediently to the politician’s side.
“How are things going?” Chutani asked.
“No problems at all, Mr. President. I think you’ll be happy in the coming weeks with the resolution to your press issues, and security preparations for the banquet are entirely satisfactory.”
“You’re certain? There’s been a rise in terrorist activity in the north recently. Apparently, the loss of Akhtar Durrani is still being felt by your organization.”
In fact, Taj had far greater influence over Pakistan’s radical elements than Durrani ever did. “I’m confident, sir. The men you approved for this detail are some of the finest in Pakistan, and the people the Americans sent are quite impressive as well.”
“We don’t want to test those assertions, Ahmed. Even a thwarted attack would be a disaster. We need to demonstrate that we’re in control and project Pakistan as a stable, modern country. A worthy ally for our American friends.”
“I completely understand, sir.”
The president waved to someone and Taj glanced back to see the infamously volatile Obaid Marri jabbing one of the waitstaff in the chest. Spittle actually few from his mouth as he berated the man. Most people thought it was the arrogance wrought from his restaurant receiving its third Michelin star, but Taj knew that wasn’t true. Obaid had been this way since he was a child.
“Have you met the chef, Ahmed?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Come, I’ll introduce you.”
Marri spotted them approaching and gave the man a shove toward the kitchen. When Pakistan’s most renowned restaurateur turned toward them, his red face had turned respectful.
“Obaid!” Chutani said, embracing the man. “I’m honored that you’ve come to personally oversee the setup.”
“Everything must be perfect, Mr. President. And I fear your staff is . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Incompetent,” Chutani said with a tolerant grin.
“I was going to say ‘in need of polish.’ ”
“I’m certain you were.” The president indicated to Taj. “I don’t think you’ve met Ahmed.”
Marri extended his hand. To his credit, there wasn’t so much as a hint of recognition in his eyes—only a slight nervousness that was hardly uncommon when faced with the head of the vaunted ISI. “It’s a pleasure, Director.”
“The pleasure is mine.”
Marri was from a village not far from where Taj had grown up. Their fathers had regular business dealings and the two boys had known each other since they were toddlers. More important, Marri shared Taj’s thirst for power and vision for Pakistan.
“Have you eaten at Obaid’s restaurant?” Chutani asked.
“I’m afraid I haven’t had the opportunity.”
“You must make the time. It’s truly magnificent.”
“Mr. President, please . . .” Marri protested halfheartedly.
Kabir Gadai appeared on the opposite side of the room and immediately began trying to get Taj’s attention. Excellent timing, as usual. Marri was doing well with their meeting, but it was dangerous to put the man under too much stress. While he had enthusiastically agreed to be part of this plan, in the end he was just a cook.
“Would you excuse me?” Taj said. “My assistant seems desperate to speak to me and I want to make sure it’s nothing urgent.”
“Of course,” Chutani said. “Thank you, Ahmed.”
He started toward Gadai, who was disconnecting a call and slipping his phone into his pocket.
“We released another Rickman file this morning,” he said, leaning into Taj’s ear. “It was all we needed. Our people have tracked it to an Internet service provider in Russia.”
Taj nodded solemnly. It was another in a long line of miracles bestowed on him by God. There was no other explanation. He would soon control not only a nuclear arsenal but America’s entire intelligence network.
“I want you to go personally.”
“But—”
“No arguments, Kabir. I trust no one else in this matter.”
“Of course,” Gadai said, clearly reluctant but wise enough not to press the issue. “My team is assembling as we speak.”
CHAPTER 46
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
U.S.A.
WHEN Irene Kennedy entered the Oval Office, President Josh Alexander immediately strode across the room to shake her hand. The former Alabama quarterback had the gait of an athlete despite having turned fifty-one a few months before. His sandy brown hair was still thick and the elongated dimples that had so captivated the press were still noticeable when he smiled.
Not everything was the same as when they’d first met, though. The suits that had been a bit too shiny now exuded understated elegance. Teeth that had been a few shades too white now were more in keeping with the constituents he served. And a little gray had cropped up at his temples as it alwa
ys seemed to with men in his position.
Despite the fact that he kept as much political distance as he could from her—and even more so from Mitch Rapp—she admired the man. He understood and accepted that he couldn’t stay entirely clean in the fight they were in.
“It’s been too long,” Alexander lied. “Always good to see you, Irene.”
“I appreciate your time, Mr. President.”
“You know Barbara and Carl.”
Barbara Lonsdale didn’t get up from the sofa, but raised a hand in greeting. She was the chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee and at one time had been the CIA’s most rabid detractor. After her closest friend was killed in a terrorist attack, though, she’d had a change of heart.
Carl Ferris, in contrast, did rise. He came toward her with his hand outstretched.
“I appreciate you including me on this,” he said, though he knew full well that she had nothing to do with approving the attendees at a White House meeting.
Kennedy wondered how his new legal and marketing teams were coming along with spinning his relationship with the late Akhtar Durrani. The senator’s arrogant smile and attempt to crush her hand suggested that their work was going well.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Alexander said. “Carl asked to be here, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have the Judiciary Committee’s input. More importantly, though, he’s going to Pakistan with Sunny’s delegation and he’s understandably concerned about his safety.”
“Actually, I’m glad we’re finally connecting. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him about his meeting with Ahmed Taj.”
“Really?” Alexander said, obviously surprised that Ferris had met the ISI director without his knowledge.
“My schedule since I got back has been extremely hectic, Director Kennedy. And the meeting was purely social. Ahmed invited me to his office for a drink.”