by Vince Flynn
The door was suddenly thrown open with enough force to nearly rip it from its hinges. Safavi’s wife screamed as three men ran into their home, shouting in Persian.
A forearm hit him in the face and he held his daughter tight, trying to protect her as he was slammed to the floor.
“No!” he shouted as she was torn away from him.
His wife continued to scream and he turned his face toward her as his hands were secured behind his back. “Don’t hurt her! She doesn’t know anything!”
The man didn’t listen, grinding a knee into her back as she was bound with flex cuffs. Their driver appeared at the end of the hallway but stopped short when he recognized the intruders as being from the embassy’s security team.
Ava was wailing now, her shrieks echoing eerily through the house. Safavi couldn’t breathe with the weight of the man on top of him, but he barely noticed. His wife was sobbing, still having no idea what was happening. He had done this. He was responsible for the terror his wife and child felt.
An arm snaked around Safavi’s neck and he felt himself being dragged backward. Their maid appeared and ran instinctively toward the man holding Ava, but was hit in the side of the head with a pistol butt. She collapsed to the floor and went completely still.
The arm cutting off his air tightened as they exited into a light London rain. Only then did the man holding him speak. “The ayatollah is looking forward to seeing you and your family, Kamal.”
CHAPTER 38
LONDON
ENGLAND
PULL over.”
The traffic was almost nonexistent on the dark London high street. To his right, Rapp could see a narrow alleyway swirling with the blue flash of a police cruiser’s lights.
“Here?” the cabbie said. “But the address you gave me is another six blocks.”
Rapp had decided to take a taxi instead of getting someone from the CIA to pick him up at the airstrip. His goal was to slip in and out of Britain with as little fanfare as possible. The Istanbul operation was still bringing down a fair amount of heat, and the EU’s intelligence community was starting to suspect him in the death of an Islamic -propagandist in Spain two months earlier. Entirely true, but proper protocols hadn’t been followed, so Kennedy was doing everything she could to shift the blame to the Mossad. Its director owed her and he seemed amenable to taking responsibility.
Rapp retrieved a fifty-pound note and held it out for the driver. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
The vehicle rolled to a stop near the sidewalk and Rapp got out without looking back. The dark overcoat he’d found on the plane was enough to keep the rain off, but not enough to hold back the damp cold. He flipped up the collar, partially for warmth, but mostly because London was the most videotaped city in the world. Constant adjustments to the angle of his head kept his face in shadow as he moved across the cobblestones.
The uneven surface ended at a street that ran through a posh neighborhood lined with turn-of-the-century buildings. Normally, it would have been quiet at such a late hour, but that night almost every light was on and he could see people standing at their windows looking down into a crowded street.
Rapp turned toward a set of yellow barriers blocking off the area in front of an especially impressive stone building. There were twenty or so civilians talking among themselves near the police line, and he kept his distance, skirting the far edge of the rain-soaked barricade.
“Sir!” a cop shouted, starting toward him with a nightstick in his hand. “This is a restricted area.”
“Shut up.”
The man paused for a moment, confused by Rapp’s reaction, but then started running at him. He got within five yards before one of the two men Rapp was striding toward waved him off.
“Charlie,” Rapp said, keeping his hands in his jacket pockets as he stopped in front of a man wearing an impeccable Burberry trench coat and bowler. Charles Plimpton was one of MI6’s top men, and he reveled in his role as a British spy. When he’d started out, he’d been vaguely competent, but now political aspirations had set in. Apparently, his wife was the second cousin to King Arthur’s maid or something. She felt entitled to a higher station in life.
“I wish I could say that it’s good to see you, Mitch. But whenever you arrive in my country, disaster follows.”
The other man was Ken Barrett, the CIA’s London station chief. He had the more appropriately disheveled look of a man woken in the middle of the night: wrinkled jeans, a hooded parka, and waterproof boots.
“What happened?” Rapp said.
Barrett was the first to speak. “Irene called me a couple of hours ago and told me Safavi had been compromised. I got in the car and called Charlie. Unfortunately, we were too late.”
“Meaning what?” Rapp said.
“Safavi and his family were already gone when we got here.”
“For how long?”
“About fifteen minutes, according to the cameras.”
“Did you track the car? There’s no traffic and they’re either going to their embassy or an airport.”
“Their embassy,” Plimpton said.
“So you intercepted? Do we have them?”
Barrett cast his eyes down and Plimpton answered in his place.
“We didn’t, Mitch. He’s an Iranian diplomat being protected by a car full of Iranian security.”
“They’re not protecting him, Charlie. They’re fucking kidnapping him. They’re going to take him back to Tehran, throw him in a hole, and force him to watch while they cut his family apart.”
“I’m sympathetic to your viewpoint,” Plimpton said in an accent that seemed to get more posh every year. “But this is the CIA’s cock-up. We aren’t going to create a diplomatic incident trying to set your problem to right.”
“Our problem?” Mitch said, struggling to keep his voice low enough not to be heard by the people rubbernecking near the police perimeter. “You think it’s going to help the U.K. if Iran builds a bomb?”
“I’ve spoken with the prime minister personally and we’ve agreed that getting dragged into this isn’t in the best interest of Her Majesty’s government.”
“I don’t give a shit what you’ve agreed,” Rapp said, grabbing the man by the front of his coat. “Quit thinking about using your ass to polish a chair in Parliament and do your fucking job. Safavi’s put -everything on the line for us. Now you’re going to just turn your back on him because your wife doesn’t feel like she’s getting invited to the right parties?”
“Mitch,” he heard Barrett caution from behind.
“Shut up, Ken.”
“Cops, man . . .”
Three uniformed men were edging toward them, obviously not certain what to do. Rapp shoved Plimpton back hard enough that he nearly stumbled over his four-hundred-dollar shoes and grabbed Barrett by the arm.
“Where is Safavi now?” he said, dragging the London station chief into the shadows at the far end of the square. “The embassy?”
“Yeah. I have people out front. No activity.”
“They can’t keep him there forever. He and his family will have to be transported.”
“I know what you’re thinking, Mitch, but it can’t happen. Not here.”
Rapp locked eyes with Barrett, who took a hesitant step back. “Easy, man. You know I’d follow you through the gates of hell, but we’ve lost this round. Even if I wake up the FBI guys, we have no manpower. And the minute we make a move, Charlie’s going to have us thrown in jail.”
Rapp balled a fist, but managed not to slam it into Barrett’s face. He had always been a solid man. Given the chance, he would have pulled out every stop to rescue Safavi. But he wasn’t being given that chance. Rickman had nailed down every detail. Every contingency. Like he -always did.
Rapp brushed past the man, dialing his phone as he walked across the street.
“I understand the situation has deteriorated,” Irene Kennedy said when she picked up.
“Safavi’s barricaded in the Ira
nian embassy.”
“It’s what we feared. Rickman is randomizing his methods to keep us off balance. This time he made sure we wouldn’t have time to intervene.”
“That piece of shit Charlie Plimpton’s not going to let us make a move as long as Safavi’s on British soil. The Iranians are going to have to get him back to Tehran, though. It’s possible that we could intercept the plane.”
“I’ve talked to the president and he says no. He’s been working to thaw the relationship between the U.S. and Iran since he took office, and this is a big enough setback as it is. Interfering with their flight would put us on a war footing.”
“So I’m just supposed to do nothing so we can make sure no one’s political career gets bruised?”
“I’m sorry, Mitch. There’s nothing I can do.”
“I don’t want to hear that, Irene. Rick’s just getting warmed up. He’s going to bleed us until there’s nothing left.”
“I might have some good news on that front. Can you get to Rome?”
“Why?”
“Mike’s already on the way. He can brief you.”
“I don’t like it, Irene. Istanbul. London. Now Rome. Rick’s leading us around on a leash. We can’t afford to keep reacting. We need to get ahead of this.”
“You ask me to trust you. Now I’m asking you to trust me.”
He glanced upward as the rain started coming down harder. “Italy.”
“I’ll let Mike know you’re on your way. Oh, and Mitch?”
“What?”
“Let him do the talking, okay?”
CHAPTER 39
ISLAMABAD
PAKISTAN
BUT, sir, I—”
“Shut up and listen!” Saad Chutani shouted.
Taj cradled the phone handset between his ear and shoulder as Pakistan’s president continued his rant. Of course it was necessary to provide the occasional frightened grunt or affirmation to indicate his rapt attention, but in reality he was scrolling through his email.
“I want this journalistic hack silenced, do you understand? I will not have distortions and lies spread by our newspapers.”
Four days ago, the Pakistani Taliban had attacked a girls’ school that Chutani heavily supported. In fact, he had personally attended its opening, hailing it as the foundation of a new Pakistan. There had even been champagne and an absurd Western-style ribbon cutting. Now it was a burned-out husk surrounded by the bullet-riddled bodies of young girls who should have been at home under the supervision of their fathers and brothers.
“Answer me, Ahmed!”
Taj frowned. He’d assumed the question was rhetorical and the fool would continue to shout endlessly while saying nothing of consequence. A gift all politicians had but that this one excelled at in particular.
“Sir, there was simply no question that the press was going to cover this incident. I have the article you’re concerned about in front of me and while it lays out the facts, I don’t find it disrespectful to you or your administration. It—”
“Not disrespectful? Can you read, Ahmed? It makes me look powerless. How could this have even happened? It’s your job and the job of the S Wing to control these events.”
It was an interesting choice of words. Not “prevent” but “control.” And indeed Taj did. He had personally planned and authorized the attack. It was all part of the delicate balance he was attempting to strike. While Chutani’s assassination—ostensibly by the Americans—needed to be an event that stoked Pakistan’s nationalism, the dead president couldn’t be too popular. He needed to be portrayed as a good man who wasn’t equal to the task. The people had to understand that Pakistan needed a stronger leader. Someone who could achieve the order that the democrats had so miserably failed to deliver.
“The death of Akhtar Durrani created a period of blindness, Mr. President. I assure you that his successor has now fully transitioned into his position. Making that transition completely seamless, though, was impossible and the Taliban knew it. They took advantage of the brief period of weakness.”
“Excuses!”
“I’m sorry,” Taj said, conjuring a hint of fearfulness. “I’m doing the best—”
“We have to deal with the reporter, Ahmed. Now. There’s nothing we can do about your incompetence in letting the attack succeed, but we can certainly shape the aftermath.”
“The article has already been published, sir. There’s no way to—”
“It’s emboldening the other media outlets!” Chutani shouted. “In the last two days, there have been two articles critical of my involvement with the American drone attacks, and a newscaster has come out publicly against secular education. Without consequences, there is no way to know what they’ll say next.”
Chutani wanted to impress the West with a free press just so long as it was entirely supportive of his administration. And when it wasn’t, he called the man he’d hired for his weakness, expecting him to suddenly transform into an assassin.
“What kind of consequences are you talking about, sir?”
“We don’t need a press like the Americans have, Ahmed. One that spews lies and distortions twenty-four hours a day in search of profits. Pakistan needs fair and patriotic media outlets dedicated to moving the country forward. This recent activity sets a dangerous precedent.”
Taj smiled. Of course, the politician wouldn’t give a specific order. He had to have deniability. Should the coercion of Pakistan’s newspeople become public, he would need Taj and the ISI as a scapegoat.
“Private media is dependent on advertising dollars, Mr. President. I’ll have my people speak to the companies that support these outlets and ask them whether it’s in their best interest to encourage this kind of journalism.”
There was a long, disappointed silence. Chutani undoubtedly wanted the man dead and Taj completely understood. After he had closed his fist around Pakistan, a man like this would watch his entire family die before being exterminated like the animal he was. However, now wasn’t the time to be pulled into something this controversial. He would need the Americans’ unwitting support during his rise to power, and the assassination of a journalist could jeopardize that support.
“I assure you, this will be quite effective,” Taj continued. “No media company can afford to be painted as unpatriotic, and a large number of their advertisers have significant ownership by the army and ISI. They’ll publish no more articles critical of you, and if we proceed carefully, I think we can coerce a retraction. Or at least a clarification that highlights the difficulties of stamping out terrorism and provides examples of how effective your administration has been thus far.”
“If this is your recommendation, I will accept it,” Chutani said, still unwilling to make demands that could be traced back to him. “But I expect results, Ahmed.”
There was a knock on his office door and a moment later Kabir Gadai entered.
“I think you’ll be quite satisfied,” Taj said, watching his assistant approach. “We should be able to resolve the situation without undue risk to you or your government.”
“Tomorrow morning, Ahmed. I want a briefing on your plan’s specifics tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll have my people schedule a meeting.”
The line went dead and Taj hung up the phone. “Our president can be quite the hysterical woman.”
Gadai smiled and took a seat.
“What news do you have for me, Kabir? Have you determined what was in the Rickman file that we released?”
“I believe I have, sir.” He held out a manila envelope containing a number of eight-by-ten photographs, and Taj began flipping through them. He recognized the city as London and two of the men behind the police barricade as being from MI6 and the CIA, but other than that, the images meant little to him.
“Those are stills from security cameras installed near the Iranian ambassador’s residence. Our resources say that he and his family were taken by Iranian security in the middle of the night. They’re being recalled
to Tehran.”
“Was a threat made against him? This might have been done for his own protection.”
“That’s what we thought at first, too.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Do you see the man in the black coat? The one whose face is always turned away from the camera? We believe that’s Mitch Rapp.”
Taj spread out the photos in front of him and studied the man in question. It was difficult to determine detail but, in a strange way, that’s what made the images stand out. In the middle of London, during a well-lit police operation, there wasn’t a single definitive photo.
Taj leaned back in his chair and met his assistant’s gaze. “So, you’re saying that Kamal Safavi was on the CIA’s payroll?”
“It seems likely. Since this occurred, there’s been a huge increase in diplomatic traffic between Iran and the United States, including a reported personal conversation between the ayatollah and President Alexander. It’s the first direct communication between the two men that we’re aware of.”
Taj felt the perspiration break across his forehead. If he’d had an asset this highly placed, only one or two of his most trusted people would have known. Kennedy operated no differently. If Rickman had access to this level of intelligence, what else could be hidden in his files? What did he know about the Israelis? About America’s politicians and allies? Indeed, what did he know about Pakistan?
“It’s a massive blow to the U.S.,” Gadai said, sounding typically prideful. “The thawing of relations between Iran and America was one of the cornerstones of Alexander’s Middle East strategy. He hoped to build a Shiite bulwark against the expansion of Sunni -militias.”
“Don’t be too pleased with yourself, Kabir. The loss of Safavi has harmed America but if we’d had access to this information instead of being forced to release it, we would have had the tools to turn one of the CIA’s highest-placed assets. He was a well-liked moderate with political aspirations. Who knows how useful he could have been in keeping the Iranians in their place. This wasn’t a victory, it was an opportunity missed. Don’t ever forget that.”