by Vince Flynn
“Liar,” Ashani shouted as he rose out of his chair.
“Sit,” Najar commanded in an authoritative voice. He turned back to Amatullah and asked, “What proof do you have?”
Amatullah seemed momentarily stymied and then he said, “He brought Mukhtar with him on his trip to Mosul. They have been conspiring for a way to get back at the Americans after they were almost killed at Isfahan.”
“He accompanied me on your orders,” Ashani yelled back and then looked to Najar. “Ahmed, you know I would never do something so foolish.”
Najar nodded in agreement and then looked back to Amatullah. “That is hardly proof.”
Amatullah appeared to struggle for a moment to come up with something else and then his face lit up. “He showed me a piece of paper with ten numbers that he is using to stay in contact with Mukhtar. And he has a phone. I saw it on him only an hour ago. Search him,” Amatullah ordered. “I tell you he has it on him.”
Ashani’s fear showed on his face. The phone and the list of numbers were in fact on him. “You gave me the list and the phone when we were in your office.” Ashani looked at Najar for help.
“Empty your pockets,” Najar ordered as he walked around the table.
“That is why I have been trying to call you,” Ashani pleaded. “To tell you about this and try to defuse the situation before it is too late.”
“Empty your pockets!”
Ashani did as he was told. He placed the phone on the table and slowly unfolded the sheet of paper and set it next to the phone.
A gloating Amatullah smiled and said, “I told you he had them.”
Ashani watched as Najar raised his gun and pointed it at him.
Najar looked extremely disappointed. He pulled the hammer back on his revolver and said, “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
With a sad shake of his head Ashani looked back at Najar and said, “In all the years we worked with each other, have you ever known me to be so careless with operational information? Have you ever known me to write it down in such a straightforward, careless manner?” Ashani gestured to the piece of paper and looked at the numbers written in black ink. After a second his shoulders shook, and he began to laugh.
“I fail to see the humor,” Najar said, deadpan with the pistol still pointed at Ashani’s head.
“I’m sorry,” Ashani said, still laughing, “but that isn’t my handwriting.” He looked up slowly from the paper and pointed across the room at Amatullah. “It is his.”
Najar grabbed both the phone and the piece of paper. He walked around the table and handed them to Amatullah. “Call Mukhtar right now, and tell him to release Director Kennedy.”
Amatullah did not move fast enough, so Najar pointed his gun at his head and said simply, “I am going to count to five.”
61
MOSUL, IRAQ
Rapp sat in the back of the blue Chevy Caprice with Stilwell. One of Stilwell’s Kurds was driving, and another one was literally and figuratively riding shotgun, with a twelve-gauge Mossberg in his lap. The other five Kurds were following in the beat-up Ford Crown Victoria. The two vehicles topped 90 mph as they screamed north on the main road from the airport back to the heart of the old downtown, a mere five miles away. Two Predator drones patrolled high overhead offering continuous coverage of the Great Mosque and the tangled neighborhood that it dominated. They had a little more than an hour before the afternoon call to prayer. Stilwell made it clear that they needed to get in and out before the men started to file into the mosque. If they didn’t, there was a good chance they would be torn to shreds by the mob.
General Gifford and his staff were busy repositioning units so they could create a buffer zone around the Great Mosque by sealing off the streets. The catch was to wait until the last possible minute so that they wouldn’t tip off the terrorists and rouse the neighborhood. Rapp would let them know as soon as he was inside the mosque, and then the units would move into final position, setting up a one-block perimeter in every direction. The locals would be told that there was credible intelligence that Sunni insurgents were going to attempt a car bombing during evening prayer. This would allow the army to control the neighborhood and hopefully drive down attendance for afternoon prayer.
An Iraqi army mechanized company was also being mobilized at their base eleven miles away, but they were not told why. The last thing Rapp wanted was a leak that would tip Mukhtar off that they were coming. It was decided that if things got out of control the Iraqi army unit would be called in to secure the mosque itself. Contingencies were being put into place for a helicopter evacuation and medical personnel were put on high alert.
All of this was background noise to Rapp. He knew the contingencies were important, but he couldn’t get his mind off Mukhtar’s words. “Tell him the videotape he requested is taking more time than I anticipated. The actress is not cooperating…I think if I employ some harsher methods she will perform.”
The good news was that Kennedy was alive. The bad news was that harsher methods meant brutal torture. Contingencies took time to put into place. Rapp didn’t have the patience to wait for everything to be perfect, and if American forces were shy about entering the mosque, Rapp had no such qualms. In fact, thanks to Stilwell, Rapp was wearing the perfect solution to their problem.
Stilwell’s clerical robes, vest, and turban fit Rapp almost perfectly. He even had a pair of nonprescription glasses to make Rapp look more learned and less threatening. Under his gold silk vest, Rapp was wearing a level-three body armor. A secure Motorola radio was clipped to his belt and was in sync wirelessly with a tiny ear bud that provided communications with Dumond, Stilwell, Ridley, and General Gifford. His .45-caliber Glock was in a paddle holster on his left hip, and his 9mm was in a paddle holster on his right hip—both had suppressors attached. He had four backup magazines for each gun.
Rapp sat silently in the back of the sedan and listened to Dumond relay an update.
“The fourth number just went active, Mitch.”
“Location?” Rapp asked as the vehicle got off the highway and headed into the old section of the West Bank. Shortly after the call between Mukhtar and Ashani ended, the signal on Mukhtar’s phone went dead. That had been almost ten minutes ago.
“He’s still at the mosque.”
“Do you have us on visual?”
“That’s affirmative.”
“What are you seeing at the mosque?”
“There’s still a group of maybe a dozen armed men out front, but there’s only two guys at the entrance to the madrasa.”
“Thanks for the info. Let me know if anything changes.”
It had been Stilwell’s idea to enter from the religious school that was adjoined to the mosque. That was where Imam Husseini kept his office and were he spent most of his time between prayers.
Stilwell was on his phone. “I will tell you when I get there. We’re about a minute away.” He listened to the other person for a moment and then said, “Faris, just stand on the fucking curb and wait for me. When we get there I’ll tell you what’s going on, and yes, I’m going to pay you a shitload of money. Just tell Husseini’s guy that you have someone who would like to sit down with his boss and discuss a large donation to the mosque. I’ll see you in a minute.” Stilwell stabbed the end button and put the phone back in his suit jacket. “Faris is a good man, but he can be real pain the ass.”
“Will they trust him?”
Stilwell nodded. “Faris has made a lot of money for a lot of people.”
Rapp stared straight ahead and asked, “What about this Imam Husseini?” Rapp was referring to the head Imam at the Great Mosque.
“What about him?”
“Can you trust him?”
“I told you, the only people I trust in this town are my Kurds, but”—he shrugged—“the guy is a whore, so if we show him enough cash, I think he might look the other way and stay out of our hair.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Stilwe
ll winced. “Try not to kill him, Mitch. If you do, we’re going to have a whole lot of pissed-off Shiites on our hands.”
“At this point, I really don’t care how many Shiites I piss off.”
Stilwell was about to tell Rapp that was the kind of attitude that might get them all killed, but he decided to bite his tongue. The car turned hard left at a stoplight and then took the next right.
“There it is,” Stilwell said as he pointed. “Straight ahead on the left. One more block.”
The street was blocked with big concrete Jersey barriers to prevent suicide car bombers from getting any closer to the mosque. The sedan swung left and stopped in front of the main door of the madrasa. Two men were waiting at the curb, both in business suits. Stilwell quickly exited the car with a small attaché case and shook Faris’s hand. Faris in turn introduced Stilwell to Imam Husseini’s personal assistant. The three men exchanged brief pleasantries and then Stilwell motioned for Rapp to join them.
The Kurds piled out of the two vehicles and formed a loose circle around Rapp, Stilwell, and the other two men. Stilwell lifted the thin attaché case and popped the two clasps. He opened the case just enough for the imam’s assistant to get a glimpse of the cash.
Stilwell moved closer to the man and whispered, “The Supreme Leader would like to show the imam his appreciation.”
The assistant smiled knowingly and motioned for them to follow. Stilwell had told Rapp how Imam Husseini frequently traveled to Tehran; especially when ethnic conflict flared up within the city. The imam of the Great Mosque was a ripe target for the Sunni terrorist groups. The assistant opened the door and held it for his visitors. When he saw that the bodyguards were trying to follow, he shot Stilwell an extremely dissatisfied look.
Stilwell turned and motioned for the Kurds to stay put. This had been anticipated. If things got hairy inside, he would radio them for backup. Stilwell then handed Faris an envelope stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, and thanked him for arranging a low-key visit with the imam. Faris turned and left while the other three entered the building.
The assistant led the way down a wide hallway. Rapp and Stilwell followed a pace behind. Behind the closed doors students could be heard reciting suras from the Koran. At the end of the hallway was a stairwell that went down or up a half flight. Rapp noted a side entrance on his right as they went up the steps and straight ahead to another building that connected the madrasa to the mosque.
At the end of the hallway they turned right. Rapp saw a man up ahead standing guard in front of an office door. Rapp’s left hand moved to the hilt of his .45-caliber Glock. His movements were concealed under the black clerical robes. His index finger depressed the release on the holster and he drew the weapon. His right hand reached over to casually adjust the folds of the robe to make sure the gun was fully concealed. As they drew closer to the office door and the bodyguard, Rapp grew increasingly suspicious. The man was wearing the exact same boots as the two Iranian prisoners he had been interrogating and his tactical vest was also identical. The man was holding a black AK-74 across his chest. When they drew within ten feet, he stepped forward and blocked the door.
The assistant said something that Rapp didn’t quite catch. The guard shook his head in response and said, “I have to search them.”
“These are emissaries sent by the Supreme Leader.”
Rapp adopted the haughty attitude imams were known for.
The bodyguard was not intimidated. He stepped forward and motioned for Rapp to raise his hands. At that exact moment, Dumond’s voice came over Rapp’s earpiece.
“Mitch, we’ve got a call being made to the new number.”
Rapp began raising his arms and in clear unaccented English, replied to Dumond by saying, “Patch it through.”
The words spoken not in Arabic or Farsi, but Americanized English caused the bodyguard to pause for a second as his eyes and ears attempted to reconcile the diverging facts. Rapp pulled the trigger on the silenced .45-caliber Glock. The hollow-tipped bullet hit the man in his bulletproof tactical vest like a sledgehammer. He dropped his rifle as he stumbled backward two steps and fell. Rapp swung his cloaked arm around and brought it to bear on the assistant. He grabbed him by the back of the neck, and in Arabic hissed, “Do what I tell you and you will not be harmed.”
Rapp pushed him toward the door, past Stilwell, who was throwing a pair of white plastic flex cuffs on the gasping bodyguard. The assistant opened the door without having to be told, and he and Rapp spilled into the room. The imam was straight ahead, sitting behind his desk, frozen with a pen in one hand and the other draped on top of the desk. Rapp did a quick check to his left and right, and when he put his eyes back on the imam, he saw the gray-bearded man reaching for something under the desk. Rapp took aim and fired, sending a bullet thudding into the top of the heavy wood desk. Splinters flew and the elderly Husseini jerked backwards, rolling away from the desk in his chair. Rapp raised the pistol up above his head and brought it crashing down on the base of the assistant’s neck. The man’s legs turned to rubber, and he collapsed to the floor.
Rapp rushed around the desk and kicked the side of the imam’s leather office chair, sending him rolling across the wood floor and away from whatever it was that he had been reaching for. The chair skidded to a stop against a bookcase.
Rapp looked under the desk and found a gun set inside a small shelf. He left it there and moved to the imam while Stilwell dragged the bodyguard into the office and then went back for the rifle. “I’ve been told you’re a reasonable man, and I’m a little short on time. So I’m going to make this quick. I’ve got a briefcase with fifty grand in it. You tell me where you’ve stashed Imad Mukhtar and CIA Director Kennedy and the money’s all yours. If you don’t, I’m going to start by shooting you in the foot and then the knee. Both places that really hurt. So what’s it going to be…the money, or a bullet?”
62
Stilwell closed the office door and slapped flex cuffs on the ankles and wrists of the unconscious assistant. The bodyguard was lying on the floor writhing in pain from what Rapp guessed was a broken sternum.
Rapp pointed at the bodyguard and said to Husseini, “He’s with Mukhtar, isn’t he?”
The imam nodded.
Rapp thought of Kennedy’s bodyguards all lined up and shot in the head. He then considered how eliminating this problem might motivate Husseini to be a bit more forthright; both in the sense that there would be no witnesses to talk about the deal Husseini had made, and by serving as a stark example of how serious the situation was. Rapp extended his wrist, squeezed the trigger, and a heavy bullet spat from the end. The man’s head bounced off the floor, and then the blood began to flow in an expanding pool of crimson.
Imam Husseini looked on in shocked horror. Rapp was about to tell him that he was now free to talk when he heard President Amatullah’s voice emanate from his tiny earpiece.
“Ali, this is Cyrus.”
“Marcus,” Rapp said in hushed English, “is he still in this building?”
A couple seconds later Dumond said, “We have his signal isolated to a four-by-four-meter area in the southwest corner of the mosque.”
“Stan,” Rapp commanded, “show him the cash.”
“Where are you?” Rapp heard Amatullah ask.
“I would rather not say,” Mukhtar answered.
“Well, there has been a change of plan.”
“I am close to getting you what you asked for.” Rapp could hear the frustration in Mukhtar’s voice.
“You need to release the hostage,” Amatullah said.
Rapp literally froze in mid stride.
“Why?” Mukhtar hissed.
“Because I am ordering you to.”
“I do not take orders from you.” Rapp noted the anger in Mukhtar’s voice.
“Well,” Amatullah sighed, “the Supreme Leader has decided that she should be released.”
“Why? Is this because of the ultimatum the American president has given you?�
��
There was a long pause and then Amatullah said, “Yes.”
Mukhtar started laughing. Rapp knew instantly there was a problem. He took two quick steps and placed the tip of the silencer against Husseini’s knee. “Change of plan. We’re going to start with the knee. I need a quick answer. Fifty grand, or more fucking pain than you’ve ever imagined in your entire life.”
The imam looked at the cash, and then the dead man on the floor and said, “I will take the cash.”
“Good choice. Let’s go.” Rapp grabbed him under the arm and yanked him from the chair. Over his earpiece he heard Mukhtar say, “It is time for the war to begin. It is time for you arrogant Persians to sacrifice for Allah.”
“Fuck,” Rapp mumbled under his breath as he pulled Husseini toward the door.
The imam resisted, saying, “I will tell you where he is. He’s in the old catacombs under the mosque.”
“You will show me,” Rapp kept moving, “or I’ll fucking blow your head off.”
Stilwell opened the door, and Rapp rushed through it with the imam.
“Stan, grab the back of his robes. If he makes a wrong move kill him.” Rapp drew his silenced 9mm with his now free hand. With the .45 in his left hand he grabbed the extra fabric from the robe and draped it over the gun so all but the last few inches of the silencer were concealed. In his ear he could hear Mukhtar droning on about the struggle to cleanse the cradle of Islam of all infidels.
“How many men does he have?” Rapp asked Husseini.
Husseini straightened his glasses as they hurried around the corner for the stairs. “Eight, I think.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t count…maybe ten.”
“What about your men?” Stilwell asked. “The ones from the local militia.”
