by Vince Flynn
“Sixty–forty not.”
“Where is he now?”
“Dead.”
“Dead?” The pitch of her voice rose perceptibly. “What do you mean, dead? What happened?”
“It was part of our agreement.”
There was a brief silence over the line. “We’ll discuss that later.”
“Have you talked to President Alexander?”
“I got off the phone with him ten minutes ago.”
“And?”
“He wants to have the banquet canceled and tell Chutani what we know. Let him deal with Taj.”
“That’s going to leave Chutani with the files.”
“In his mind, that’s an acceptable compromise.”
“If Alexander believes the president of Pakistan won’t sell us down the river the second it’s in his best interest, he’s nuts. And even if Chutani were the Boy Scout we know he’s not, are we sure he can keep that data under wraps? What happens when some ISI mole gets his hands on it? Or one of the eight hundred terrorist groups operating here? What happens when there’s another coup?”
“My argument to him exactly.”
“And?”
“He’s given us authorization to assess the situation. But under no circumstances are you to act without his express authorization.”
“What’s that? You’re breaking up.”
“I thought I might be.”
“So I deal with Taj. Tonight.”
“Neither of us is naïve about these kinds of situations, Mitch. If it all goes right, our sins will be forgiven. If it goes wrong . . .”
She didn’t have to finish the thought. Her expectation was that she would take the political bullet and he would disappear to the far corners of the earth. The world’s governments would try to find him, of course, but he knew most of the people they’d send. Some would put on a show and cash their expense checks, but none would be stupid enough to succeed.
Rapp dropped the razor on the floorboard and brushed the hair off his suit. He’d already made his decision. If he could get this done without exposing his involvement, he would. But if the only option was to beat Taj to death while his security detail emptied their guns into him, that’s the way it would have to be.
One way or another, Ahmed Taj wasn’t going to see the sun rise.
CHAPTER 59
AHMED Taj extricated himself from a conversation with two of Pakistan’s members of parliament and walked toward the center of the room. A uniformed waiter offered a tray of Obaid Marri’s tiny creations and Taj took one. He assumed that the other guests would find it exquisite but he had never seen food as anything more than sustenance.
President Saad Chutani was holding court on the south side of the hall, laughing easily with the American secretary of state. His wife stood next to him wearing an immodest Western dress and holding a glass of wine produced locally by another of Pakistan’s anti-Islamic economic initiatives.
It was a display that made Taj wonder even more about the politician. Until that night, he had seen Chutani as the West’s puppet—an ultimately weak man desperate to prove himself to his masters. Now, though, Taj’s eyes were open. Chutani wasn’t playing a role to ingratiate himself with the Americans. He was one of them. It was his identity as a Pakistani and a Muslim that was a lie.
Predictably, Carl Ferris was at the bar. Despite having only recently arrived, his gait was already a bit unsteady. Not surprising. Taj’s people reported that the American senator had consumed a quarter of a bottle of scotch in his hotel suite.
Ferris started in his direction, but Taj scanned past him at the room itself. Soon it would be his. The presidential palace would become the center of modern Islam and a base for spreading sharia law throughout the world. All while the Americans watched helplessly.
Chef Marri appeared in the kitchen doorway and surveyed the growing crowd, looking understandably nervous. He was carrying the poison Taj had given him hidden on his person. It was not the exotic toxin Taj had originally planned to use in order to further implicate the Americans. Instead he’d chosen a mix of common compounds that would generate a much more sensational and horrifying death for the traitor Chutani. A death that would stir the rage and nationalism of even Pakistan’s growing secular elite.
“Ahmed!” Ferris said as he came within earshot. “Nice party.”
Taj smiled warmly as they shook hands. “I’m glad you approve.”
“And I have to say that the security is impressive. They can’t even keep people from climbing over the White House fence in my country.”
He was speaking loudly enough to be overheard by people around them and Taj made sure his response was sufficiently diplomatic. “Your Secret Service is to be given a great deal of credit for what you see, Senator. My men have felt privileged to work with them.”
Ferris frowned and looked around him at the dark-suited men blending in near the walls. Most were American, with much of the Pakistani detail doubling as waitstaff. Jack Warch, the consultant who had been so much trouble, was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Gadai had overestimated the man’s diligence.
“At least you don’t have to deal with the CIA. I’m telling you, it’s one screwup after another. We could use a man like you to straighten it out.”
Implausibly, the idiot’s voice had grown even louder. A man and woman Taj didn’t recognize glanced inquisitively in their direction. Ferris was unquestionably a destructive force, but there was no telling from one moment to another what kind. Taj had hoped to use him as a scalpel to slowly slice at America’s heart. Based on his recent behavior, though, his destiny might be more as an indiscriminate bludgeon. Less effective, but still blessedly ruinous if enough force was applied.
“The world has become a complex and chaotic place, Senator. I’m glad to be heading a much more modest organization. I wouldn’t want to be in Director Kennedy’s position.”
“Too bad,” Ferris said, swilling his drink. “Because if I have anything to do with it, there’ll be a job opening soon.”
Taj put a hand of Ferris’s back and nudged him toward the knot of people surrounding Sunny Wicka and the president. “I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting your secretary of state. Perhaps you would introduce us.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“You go ahead, Senator. I’ll be there in a moment.”
Ferris forced himself into the group and immediately hijacked the conversation while Taj found the head of Pakistan’s security detail. “Rearrange the place cards so Ferris is next to me.”
The man nodded and Taj returned to the senator’s side. He would have to keep a close watch on the man while he was in Pakistan. It would be impossible to deliver this half-wit to the White House if he couldn’t get through a simple state dinner without compromising himself.
CHAPTER 60
THE Secret Service man was waiting in the shadows of a well-manicured stand of trees. Five hundred yards beyond, the presidential palace was lit up in yellow, green, and white. Pakistani special forces were everywhere, clad in dress uniforms but armed with automatic weapons that were in no way ceremonial. In addition to the tank Rapp had seen earlier, there were no fewer than five armored vehicles within view—three of which had mounted guns.
“I’ve been told to take you to the side gate,” the man said. Rapp didn’t recognize him but the young agent’s nervousness suggested he knew exactly who he was dealing with. Coleman and Rapp followed along, keeping their heads down and managing not to attract any attention. Just two more Americans in dark suits patrolling the area.
Rapp studied the security in the palace courtyard as they skirted the fence. It was understated in an effort to seem welcoming to Sunny Wicka’s delegation, but still solid. The fence itself was only about six feet tall, with bars eight inches apart. Easily climbable, but with the firepower in the area, it was unlikely that anyone trying would still be recognizable as human when they hit the ground on the other side.
They found Jack Warch standi
ng with his back against the bars, scanning the area in a calculated pattern. The retired Secret Service assistant director would have to be close to sixty now, Rapp knew. Backlit the way he was, fine details were impossible to pick out, but it was obvious he had a lot less hair and a lot more midsection than he’d had during his days protecting the president.
“The private sector’s made you fat,” Rapp said as they approached. Their escort peeled off and headed for the main gate without a word.
“And the Agency’s made you crazy if you think you’re just waltzing into my operation like this. Bad things happen when you’re around, Mitch.”
No one shook hands. It might seem suspicious to anyone watching. Warch did give a nod to Coleman, though. They’d known each other for years.
“Chutani’s going to be poisoned,” Rapp said simply.
Warch remained silent for a moment, processing what he’d just heard. “How do you know?”
“I know.”
“Who’s making the move?”
“Taj.”
Warch’s expression turned skeptical. “My ass. He can barely get out of his own way. That’s why Chutani put him in as head of the ISI.”
Rapp just stared at him.
“All right. Fine. I only have authority over U.S. security but I’ll talk to my counterpart on the Pakistani side. I’m not sure he trusts me but he’ll listen to a potential threat. Do you know how it’s going to go down?”
“I might.”
“Give me the details then. That should help.”
“We’re not getting him involved, Jack. You and I are going to handle this.”
“Yeah, Irene told me you’d say something like that. Listen, Mitch. Security is wall-to-wall and there’s a lot of tension on both sides. Basically, you’ve got a powder keg ready to go off, and what I don’t need is you going in there throwing matches.”
“I’ve always liked and respected you, Jack, but right now I don’t care what you think. Get me inside. And do it now.”
Warch hesitated for a moment and then reached into his pocket. Rapp assumed the man wouldn’t do anything stupid but crossed his arms in a way that brought his hand closer to his weapon inside his jacket. There was too much at stake to take chances.
When the former Secret Service man’s hand reappeared, it held a laminated badge. “This guy looks as much like you as anyone I have. I’ve pulled him and you’re going to take his place.” He glanced at Coleman. “I’m sorry, Scott. You’d stand out like a sore thumb in there. I don’t have any blond guys.”
“Mitch—” Coleman protested.
“Go back to the car and keep your eye on Drake. Make sure he doesn’t lose his nerve and take off.”
“The car? Shouldn’t I be closer? I can cover—”
“Not up for discussion, Scott. If this goes right, I’m going to walk out the main gate. If it goes wrong there’s nothing you or anyone else is going to be able to do for me.”
Rapp glanced down at the badge, noting the name, and then hung it around his neck. “Let’s go, Jack.”
They walked to a heavily guarded service entrance where Warch cut left and went around the metal detector. He lectured Rapp about some imaginary screwup loud enough that everyone understood they were together and angrily enough that no one dared interrupt. When they were out of earshot of the checkpoint, Warch lowered his voice and looked down at the ground to obscure his lips from anyone watching through a scope.
“We’re in a shoot first, ask questions later environment, Mitch. With the terrorist shit storm going on in this country, Chutani’s made it clear that this dinner is to go off without a hitch. If it doesn’t, his security people and their families are going to end up in a hole somewhere. Every finger on every trigger is shaking as near as I can tell.”
“Where does that leave your guys?”
“We have a fairly free hand. The head of Chutani’s security knows that having us here can’t do anything but help him. Best case he’s got a bunch of extra guns. Worst case he’s got a scapegoat.”
They entered the presidential palace through an unassuming door isolated from the pomp and circumstance of the main entrance. This time Warch greeted the Pakistani soldier manning the security station by name and asked after one of his children. Rapp was completely ignored.
They continued down a broad hallway, passing no fewer than five Pakistani security personnel and a man carrying a silver tray who looked suspiciously fit and alert. At the end of the corridor, they ducked into a room lined with monitors. The two men watching the various video feeds immediately stood. Warch thumbed toward the door. “Why don’t you guys take a break.”
As they passed, Rapp began to suspect that Warch’s initial protests had been just for show. The Americans seemed prepared for his arrival, and it was hard not to notice that all the security checkpoints had been manned by Pakistanis whom Warch was on friendly terms with.
When the men were gone and the door was closed, Rapp approached the largest of the monitors. It depicted a richly decorated room full of well-dressed people grazing on food arranged on a central table. Sunny Wicka was one of a small group that included Saad Chutani and his wife. More interesting, though, was Ahmed Taj, who appeared to be making an effort to stay close to Carl Ferris. The senator had a good-sized scotch in his hand and already looked drunk.
It was a match made in hell, Rapp knew. A foreign intelligence czar who wanted to take down the CIA and a megalomaniacal American senator with exactly the same goal. How deep was Ferris in this thing? Would it be worth putting the screws to him? Probably not. He was a moron and Taj would be smart enough to keep him in the dark. The Pakistani would just play on Ferris’s ego and greed for power. He wore both on his sleeve.
Rapp recognized a few other members of Congress, but none were important or dangerous enough that he had bothered to remember their names. Warch’s men were also in evidence, trying to blend into the walls. No Pakistani security presence was obvious, but Rapp suspected he knew why.
“Are all the waitstaff ISI?”
“Yeah. It’s driving that prick of a chef nuts. They’ve been training for a month but some of them still don’t know a dessert fork from a hole in the ground.”
“When this thing hits the fan, get Sunny and her people out first.”
“When what hits the fan, Mitch?”
Rapp ignored the question. “Where’s the dinner being served?”
Warch used a computer mouse to switch to a view of the dining room. The only people in it were a few kitchen staff and a man in a chef’s uniform screaming at someone trying to straighten a listing ice sculpture.
“Is that Obaid Marri?”
Warch nodded. “The only person my guys are more afraid of than me. He hit a Black Stork with a frying pan for knocking over a flower display. Nearly cold-cocked the guy.”
“I’m surprised he got away with that.”
“Totally protected. I guess he’s some kind of hot shit cook. Chutani loves him.”
Marri shoved the man working on the sculpture and then stalked toward a set of double doors. A moment later, he appeared on the monitor displaying video from the kitchen.
“I’d like an introduction.”
“To Marri? Trust me, you don’t.” Warch glanced at his watch. “Look, Mitch, they’re going to start seating people for dinner in less than two minutes. After that, you’ve got maybe another fifteen before the soup starts rolling out. Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?”
“Take me to Marri,” Rapp said. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”
They entered the kitchen and Rapp stopped for a moment, flipping his ID badge to face his chest and surveying the tightly controlled order. Obaid Marri ran his kitchen like an African dictator and one of his standing orders was that no waitstaff was allowed inside unless they were serving. That meant no ISI. With the exception of him and Warch, everyone in the room was a professional cook. And by the looks of them, they were all terrified of the man in charge. Onl
y a few dared even a brief glance in their direction before returning to whatever they were chopping, stirring, or arranging.
No one but Marri spoke and he was too absorbed in doing just that to notice Rapp and Warch approaching from behind. Finally, he heard their footsteps and spun. He fell into a stunned silence for a moment before jabbing a chef’s knife in their direction. “What are you doing in here? Get out! Do you hear me? Get out!”
That turned out to be enough for everyone to stop what they were doing and watch—a problem Rapp had anticipated. “Chef Marri? I’m Mitch Keller.”
“What? Why are you speaking to me? Why do I care who you are?”
“I’m Thomas Keller’s brother,” Rapp said, using a name he’d pulled off the Internet on the way there. Apparently, Keller was one of America’s top chefs.
Marri lowered the knife. “From The French Laundry?”
Rapp smiled and nodded. “He wanted me to send his compliments if I got a chance. He’s planning a trip to Pakistan next year and was hoping to get a chance to meet you.”
Rapp extended his hand and Marri, still looking a bit confused, reached for it. With the fireworks over, the kitchen staff went back to concentrating on their tasks. So no one noticed when, instead of shaking hands, Rapp grabbed the chef’s testicles and gave them a hard squeeze.
Marri doubled over, his breath coming out in a loud rush. Once again, all eyes were on them.
“Chef? Are you all right?” Rapp said, feigning concern. He slid an arm beneath Marri’s and pulled him upright. The man was trying to speak but, as planned, the pain and surprise prevented it.
“It’s the heat,” Warch said to the staff as Rapp led the man to a walk-in refrigerator. “He’ll be fine. Just keep doing what you’re doing. We have to stay on schedule.”
It was one of the drawbacks to treating your staff like slaves, Rapp reflected. None had the courage to question or take charge. In the absence of Marri screaming orders, they’d listen to anyone with a plan and an authoritative manner.
Warch rushed ahead and opened the thick metal door, following Rapp and Marri inside before pulling it closed.