Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2

by Vince Flynn

  The SOT itself sits within Fort Bragg, the massive military reservation that is home to the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center and the Special Forces Command; the home of the Green Berets. It is from the Green Berets that Delta Force gets its operators, the best of the best. Security around the facility is very tight. Rarely is a civilian allowed entrance, but in the case of Mitch Rapp, Colonel Gray, the commanding officer of Delta Force, was more than willing to make an exception.

  The guards at the gate allowed Colonel Gray through with a salute. They didn’t bother checking the credentials of the other man in the front seat of the Humvee. Half a mile later the vehicle braked to a quick stop in front of Delta’s headquarters building. Rapp grabbed his garment bag and on the way in Gray confided in him saying, “I envy you young guys. This is going to be the op to end all ops.”

  Rapp smiled back but didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Gray was right. Instead he asked, “What’s on the schedule?”

  “I have my team assembled. I want to give you a full briefing, have you poke a few holes in the plan, and then try and figure out the best way to coordinate our activities. We’re due to ship out at fourteen hundred, so we don’t have much time.”

  Rapp followed him down the hall to a conference room. He draped the garment bag over a chair and took a seat next to Gray at the head of the table. Gray took a moment to introduce Rapp to the team’s commanding officer. “Mitch, this is Major Berg.”

  Rapp stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Major.” The man looked to be in his mid-thirties. Old enough to have served in the Gulf.

  “Same here. The colonel speaks very highly of you.”

  Rapp accepted the compliment with a nod and sat back to listen to the colonel.

  “This is Mr. Kruse,” bellowed the colonel to the other twelve men sitting around the table. They all knew Kruse was not his real name and none of them would bother asking what it was. Gray continued. “He’s spent a lot of time in the Middle East. Probably more than all of us combined.” The colonel made eye contact with each of the twelve men. “I’ve worked with him personally before and can attest to his skills as an operator. I went all the way to the top to request that he help us with this.”

  The men were impressed. It wasn’t often that their CO handed out such compliments. Rapp eyed the twelve men at the table. It was obvious what they’d been trained for. There wasn’t a pair of blue eyes to be found. Not even hazel. All of the men had brown eyes, jet-black hair and thick black mustaches. A few of them also had beards. They were all dark-skinned, and as was the case with Rapp, after applying a healthy dose of deep brown self-tanning lotion, they would pass for Arabs.

  Rapp didn’t have to ask about language skills. He doubted any of them spoke Arabic as well as he did, but they would all be fluent. Many of them would also speak Farsi and Kurdish. These men were trained specifically to operate in the Middle East. Rapp knew the breakdown of the unit. Twelve men: one commanding officer, who was Major Berg, a warrant officer and the rest sergeants. They were what was known in the Special Forces business as Operational Detachment Alphas. Delta Force referred to them as simply “teams.” Each individual had been in the army for at least ten years. There were two weapons specialists capable of stripping, cleaning and firing almost every gun and rifle known to man, two engineers who specialized in explosives, two medics who could work at any emergency room in the country, two communications specialists whose equipment would allow the group to talk to their command via secure satellite uplink from anywhere in the world, an intelligence specialist and an operations specialist who was in charge of keeping everyone supplied and in line. The last man was the senior sergeant of the group.

  They were all the best at what they did, but that wasn’t enough for Delta Force. Every man in the unit was trained almost to the level of their counterparts to do every single job in the unit. If someone went down on an operation, someone else needed to be able to step into their shoes and finish the job. What was often lost in the jumble of acronyms and sterile military references was the fact that these men, in addition to their highly technical skills, were lethal killing machines. The medics weren’t just medics. Both of them were sniper qualified, as were the weapons sergeants and the communications sergeants. First and foremost these men were trained to shoot. Each man on the team, including their commander, fired over 2,000 rounds a week, week in and week out, fifty-two weeks a year. Their skills were kept honed for just this reason—that on a moment’s notice they would be sent into action.

  Colonel Gray introduced each team member, and then asked Rapp, “I know General Flood gave you a brief overview of the mission. Do you have any questions before I get into the details?”

  “I assume the team will be wearing SRG uniforms?” SRG stood for Special Republican Guard. This was the elite unit within the Republican Guard that was in charge of protecting Saddam, his family and his palaces. The unit was made up of men entirely from the towns of Tikrit, Baiji and al-Sharqat, all towns with clans that had proved their undying loyalty to Saddam over the years.

  “Yes. They’ll be in SRG uniforms with U.S. Army uniforms underneath, in case they’re caught.”

  “Good. General Flood told me a little bit about what you had in mind for me.” Rapp paused while he thought about his own plan. “With the time constraints we’re up against, I think it would be difficult to get me into the country without running the risk of setting off some alarms. I have no safe house to operate from, and the few contacts that we do have in Baghdad, I wouldn’t be comfortable using. Not for this sensitive of an operation.” Rapp grimaced. “This would be just the type of thing an agent would flip for. The person would be Saddam’s new best friend. And if that happened, you guys could plan on a nice welcoming party when you landed.”

  Gray had been under the impression that Rapp thought he could help. Slightly irritated, he asked, “So you don’t think you could scout out the target?”

  “Oh, I think I could. I also think there’s a chance I’d get caught, which would then compromise the entire operation. At any rate I don’t think it’s worth the risk. I think your men are better off driving into Baghdad like they own the place.”

  “But we don’t even know what the door to this facility looks like,” protested one of the engineers.

  “I can’t get you that kind of info. If it’s concealed like we think it is, there’ll be a normal entrance from the alley and the real door will be down a flight or two. There’s no way I could go to Baghdad and get all that information for you, without someone getting suspicious.”

  “Then if you don’t mind me asking,” started the colonel, “why in the hell did you fly all the way down here?”

  “Because I have something else to offer,” Rapp replied confidently. He looked evenly at each man and then asked, “Who is the most feared man in all of Iraq?”

  Gray thought about it for a second. “Saddam, of course.”

  “Who is the second most feared man?” asked Rapp.

  The colonel shared a look with his men. No one spoke for a long while. Finally one of the sergeants said, “Saddam’s son Uday.”

  “Correct.” Rapp pointed at the sergeant. “Some would argue that he is the most feared man in Iraq. He’s always been a bit of a sadist, but in 1996 there was an attempt on his life. He was shot ten times and survived. Since then he’s become a real bastard. No one is safe from him. His own friends have been tortured by his hand. Teeth pulled out, fingers cut off, eyes gouged out, servants hobbled . . . he even killed his own brothers-in-law.”

  “Saddam Kamel and Hussein Kamel,” said the sergeant.

  “That’s right. Uday is feared by everyone, including his own family.”

  “So how does he fit into this?” asked Gray.

  “Like you, Colonel, I’ve done some experimenting in my spare time. Your plan, by the way, to use the white cars to transport the team, is pure genius.”

  “Thank you, but I can’t take credit for it. It was Serge
ant Abdo.” Gray pointed to the man who had been answering Rapp’s questions.

  Rapp looked at the man approvingly. “Nice work, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you.” Abdo placed his forearms on the table and asked Rapp, “Where are you going with this Uday thing?”

  “Saddam is not the only person who travels around Iraq in white cars. His sons Uday and Qusai also travel in similar fashion. Uday, in fact, has a fleet of white Mercedes sedans. He has a real penchant for wanting to appear hip, and he sees the sedans as a way to separate himself from the older limousine-riding members of the family. At any rate, just pulling up to the side door of the hospital in white cars does not guarantee that they’ll let you into the facility.”

  “But if we have Uday Saddam Hussein with us,” interrupted Sergeant Abdo, “they will open the door without question.”

  “Exactly,” smiled Rapp. He was beginning to like this Sergeant Abdo. “Uday has become a bit of an obsession of mine. I’ve studied videotapes of his rare public appearances; satellite intercepts of his phone conversations, virtually everything that we have on him. I know the way he walks, with a pronounced limp in his right leg. I know the way he speaks, I know his gestures, and I know where each of his scars are located. I know how to imitate him to perfection.”

  35

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA, SATURDAY MORNING

  Steveken hadn’t slept too well. It was the package. After his meeting with Brown he’d returned to his town house. He didn’t call Rudin right away. He set the letter-size manila envelope on his coffee table and twisted the top off a cold bottle of Anchor Steam. No TV, no music, just him and the package of secrets. If Brown hadn’t dished out his unsolicited advice, there was a good chance Steveken would have just passed the package along and left it at that. But the arrogant man had to dole out his wisdom. If he wasn’t so full of himself, he might have realized that such a warning might only serve to entice him into looking inside the package.

  It was during his third bottle of Anchor Steam that Steveken came full circle with his logic and pondered the possibility that Brown was using reverse psychology on him. After all, who in their right mind tells a former special agent not to look at something? It’s in a fed’s very fiber to want to find things out, to crack the unsolved case. By the time the eleven o’clock news came on, Steveken had pretty much decided that whatever was in the package wasn’t worth knowing. This was the type of stuff that you could get subpoenaed over. And getting subpoenaed wasn’t good for future business. There was also the chance that things could get really ugly. It was not outrageous to assume someone would be willing to kill to keep the information in the package from becoming public knowledge, and if he didn’t know what was in the package, there was no reason for anyone to want to kill him.

  For a brief moment he had thought of looking into the envelope and then transferring the material to a new envelope, but decided against it. There was also the option of discarding the package into the nearest Dumpster and telling Rudin he’d come up empty. As far as Brown and Rudin were concerned, he was impressed with neither. A sense of professionalism, however, and his gratitude to Clark, made him decide not to dump the package. Finally, at 11:30 he called Congressman Rudin and told him he’d come up with something. Rudin wanted him to come over to his row house on Capitol Hill immediately. Steveken told him he’d meet him at 7:00 A.M. at the Silver Diner on Wilson Boulevard in Arlington. As he predicted, Rudin wanted to meet someplace closer to his house. Steveken, emboldened by the three beers and a growing dislike of Rudin, repeated the name of the establishment and the time and then hung up.

  He arrived the next morning at 6:30 A.M. with a copy of the Post and the package. As was fitting for the meeting, he picked a corner booth and sat facing the door. Steveken was in jeans, a blue ski jacket and a Penn baseball cap. He was one of only eight customers in the place and the youngest by a good twenty years. When the waitress showed up he ordered a pot of coffee, a large glass of orange juice, a side of hash browns, a side of links and a tall stack of blueberry pancakes.

  Steveken drank his orange juice and scanned the paper. Below the fold on the front page was a headline that read Historical Confirmation Hearing Begins. Under it was a picture of Dr. Kennedy with her right hand raised. The article was pretty standard background-type stuff. It said Kennedy joined the CIA after her parents were killed in the U.S. embassy bombing in Beirut back in 1983. It encapsulated her career with the Agency, and talked about her successes since becoming the director of the Counterterrorism Center. It mentioned that she had overwhelming support on the Hill with the noted exception of Congressman Albert Rudin of Connecticut, the chairman of the House Intelligence Committee. Fortunately for Kennedy, the article pointed out that Rudin had no say over whether or not she would be confirmed.

  His pancakes and sides arrived and he went to work on the food. He intended to be done by the time Rudin arrived. Steveken came to the conclusion that Kennedy was probably a pretty decent person. Losing your parents to some crazed car bomber would be no fun at all. He found himself looking at the package and again wondering what was inside. His thoughts were interrupted by the obnoxious sound of someone loudly clearing his throat.

  Steveken looked up and saw Rudin standing in front of the hostess stand, with a white handkerchief. He placed it over his large nose and began to blow. Every patron in the place turned to see who was making so much noise. Steveken shook his head and shoved another stack of syrup drenched pancakes into his mouth. He made no effort to alert Rudin to his presence. The man was ten minutes early, and Steveken hadn’t finished his meal yet.

  With only eight people in the place, Rudin eventually found him. He sat down in the booth and unzipped his puffy down jacket. Not bothering to say good morning, he asked, “So, what do you have for me?”

  Steveken ignored his request and asked, “Why do you hate Irene Kennedy so much?”

  Rudin looked shocked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Kennedy . . . Dr. Irene Kennedy.” He held up the paper and showed Rudin the photograph. “Why do you hate her so much?”

  Rudin glared at the young man and said, “You told me last night you had something for me. Now hand it over. I’m a very busy man.”

  The waitress was headed their way so Steveken flagged her down. He pointed to Rudin. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing, I’m fine.”

  “Nonsense.” Looking up at the waitress, he said, “Bring him the same thing you gave me.”

  “But I’m not—”

  Steveken held out his hand and silenced the congressman. He repeated the order and shooed the waitress away. With an arched brow he looked at Rudin and said, “You don’t do this much, do you?”

  “Do what?” he snapped.

  “Clandestine meetings. You come in the door and start honking your nose so everybody in the whole joint turns around to see who’s making the racket. You sit down and tell the waitress you don’t want anything. Well, if you don’t want anything then why in the hell are you here?” Steveken waited half a second to see if Rudin had anything stupid to say and then added, “This is classified information.” He held up the package and saw Rudin’s eyes get as big as a pervert’s in a strip joint. “Pull your head out of your ass, and get with the program.” On the outside, Steveken looked very serious, but inside he was laughing.

  Rudin had seen the treasure and couldn’t take his eyes off it. He mumbled, “Sorry,” and stuck his hand out for the envelope.

  Steveken set it back down on the booth seat and said, “Under the table dummy. People are looking.”

  “Oh.” Rudin put his hand under the table.

  “Not yet,” said Steveken. “We have to go over a couple things first.”

  “Like what?”

  Steveken stabbed his fork into a sausage link and shoved half of it into his mouth. He washed it down with some coffee and asked, “Why do you hate Kennedy so much?”

  It was obvious that Rudin didn’t want to answer the q
uestion, but it was also obvious that he needed to play along until he got what he wanted. “She’s a liar, and I don’t like public servants lying before congressional committees. It’s very bad for a democracy.”

  “You mean a republic.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” Steveken wolfed down his last two bites of pancakes and wiped his mouth. As he looked at Rudin he made a final decision concerning how he would handle things. “I want to be very clear about this. I don’t know what’s in this package. I haven’t looked because I don’t want to get involved.” He flashed Rudin the inside of his jacket and said, “I’m taping this meeting as proof. Whatever you have up your sleeve, I don’t want to be involved in it. I got this from Jonathan Brown. You have any questions, you go to him.” Steveken slid the package under the table and Rudin eagerly snatched it. Sitting back, he watched the congressman tear open the top and sneak a peek at the contents. He wasn’t actually taping anything, but that wasn’t important. Rudin would believe the threat. He’d given Brown up out of a sense of fair play. If he wanted to destroy Kennedy he should have to show his face.

  The waitress dropped off Rudin’s orange juice and coffee. “Your food’ll be up in a minute.”

  When the waitress left, Steveken got up and grabbed his paper. Rudin looked at him and asked, “Where are you going?”

  “I’m a busy man, Albert,” he pointed at his own eyes and then at Rudin, “but I’m going to have my eye on you.” He started to walk away.

  Rudin called after him, “Hey, you forgot to leave some money.”

  Steveken smiled and said to himself, “No, I didn’t.”

  36

  TEL AVIV, SATURDAY AFTERNOON

  Surly was probably the best word to describe Ben Freidman’s mood. He’d just left his wife and was on his way into the office. He’d sent a katsa to Milan to look into the disappearance of Rosenthal and his people, and that trusted agent was back. Unfortunately, it sounded like she had little to report. As the armor-plated Mercedes raced through the suburb of Ramat Aviv, Freidman looked out the window at the ocean and wondered how in God’s name three highly trained agents just disappear. The problem, Freidman knew, was that they didn’t just disappear. There was only one logical explanation after this long: Donatella had killed them. This presented a challenging problem for the head of Mossad. Three kidons can only go missing for so long, and then people start asking questions.