by Vince Flynn
Ashan was five minutes early and was irritated to find his friend General Durrani seated and sharing tea with their boss. It was just like Durrani to arrive early in an attempt to reform and dictate the agenda. The room was divided into three parts. To the far left was the director general’s mammoth desk, a map table and four chairs. The middle of the room was dominated by a conference table for sixteen. The most Ashan had ever seen at the table were six people. To the right was a sitting area. A massive leather couch that could seat six was centered on the fireplace. Two more couches framed the area around a large glass coffee table.
Taj greeted Ashan and asked him if he’d like some tea. Ashan graciously accepted and sat by himself on one of the shorter couches. He accepted his tea and saucer with both hands and placed it on the glass tabletop. He would very much like to know what the two men had been discussing, but would never want to seem so desperate. Besides, there was a good chance it would be revealed during the course of their conversation.
“How are things in Foreign Relations?” Taj asked.
Ashan was pleased to see that in a break from his predecessors, Taj was dressed in a light gray suit as opposed to his military uniform. “We’re getting along.”
“Good. So,” said Taj, picking up his cup of tea and taking a sip, “I assume you’ve been following the recent developments in Afghanistan.”
“I have.”
“Any thoughts?” Taj was less than average in height and sitting by himself in the middle of the massive couch gave him kind of a childlike appearance.
Ashan hated such open-ended questions. Especially when there was likely an agenda or at least a formed opinion behind it. His job was to offer his insights to the director general, so he took in a short breath and pushed ahead. “It appears, at least from a timing standpoint, that someone has decided to launch an operation against our American friends.”
“Any idea who?”
This was where it always got tricky. Ashan decided to start out cautiously. “Beyond the usual suspects, no, sir.”
“As for the usual suspects . . . I’d like to hear your list.”
“The Taliban is the obvious choice, although I doubt that they have the organization to be able to conduct such a complicated operation.”
“Explain, please.”
“Three different targets, all individuals, which means it’s very hard to predict where they will be in advance. From everything we know, the Taliban by themselves don’t have the assets to pull something like this off.”
“By themselves?”
“They are,” Ashan started, and then stopped. There was a safer way to go about this. “All we need to do, sir, is look at a map. Afghanistan is landlocked.” Ashan ticked off the neighbors. “Iran, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, China, and us.”
“Don’t leave out the Americans,” Durrani interjected.
Ashan was struck by the stupidity of the statement. “You think the CIA is doing this to itself?”
“I don’t pretend to know the American mind. I’m simply saying they are highly invested in maintaining their influence over the region.”
Ashan decided to let the stupidity of his colleague’s statement stand on its own. “Historically, the Stans have had no relationship with the Taliban. If anything, they have been pulled into America’s orbit. It is, however, possible that Russia could be involved.”
“Do you have any evidence?”
“No,” Ashan said with a quick shake of his head. Although they seem to be taking great joy in poking the Americans as of late, so we should at least consider them. Iran is growing in influence, and we all know they have ample hatred to attempt something so brazen. China, so far has shown almost no interest in the region. As to why, that is fairly obvious. There are no natural resources other than the opium trade. As we’ve discussed, if Afghanistan had oil, China would be very interested.”
The director general rubbed his fingers along his mustache while he considered the analysis. “So we think it is likely that it is either the Iranians or the Russians.”
“There is one more possibility, sir. You forgot about us.” It was immediately obvious that Durrani had been waiting for this.
“I told you he would try to pull us into this sordid mess.”
“I am trying to do no such thing,” Ashan answered in a voice bereft of tension. “The director general asked for my analysis and I gave it to him.”
Durrani ignored his old friend and looked directly at Taj. “I warned you. This is dangerous. He has absolutely no evidence, yet he is willing to implicate us. How long do you think it will take until the Americans get word of this? They have spies all over this building.” Shifting his butt so he could face Ashan directly, he asked, “How many people have you told of this?”
Ashan would have burst out laughing if the entire thing wasn’t so serious. “Akhtar, you must not be listening. Let me phrase this a different way. If you were the Americans, where would you start looking?”
“I don’t give a damn about the Americans. This is not our problem. It is theirs, and we should keep it that way. Not help them try to implicate us.”
Ashan sat back and threw up his hands. “Director General, I do not understand his animosity. There is no place for it here.”
Taj looked as if he wished the entire matter would simply go away, but with these two strong-willed subordinates the chances of that were remote. “I think you both have valid points.” Looking meekly at Durrani, he added, “You really should take a less aggressive approach when it comes to the Americans.”
“I assume that when we are in your office you would like us to speak freely.” Durrani acted hurt by his boss’s admonition.
“Unless,” Ashan added quickly, “the subject involves your department’s unseemly relationship with the Taliban. Then we’re not allowed to speak freely.”
Durrani realized he had set himself up for the rebuttal and could see that his anger was pushing the director general toward Ashan’s position. Rather than speak and risk alienating the director further, he clamped his mouth shut and began a lengthy internal indictment of his friend.
Taj took a last sip of his tea, placed it on the saucer and pushed it a few inches away. After leaning back and throwing his arm over the back of the couch, he announced, “I think we need to show the Americans our support. Nadeem, I spoke with Director Kennedy earlier. She’s at the Bagram Air Base. I’d like you to fly up there and offer our assistance.”
Durrani practically leaped to his feet. “Surely you can’t be serious. I don’t trust him. Not at all. How do you know he won’t say to her what he just said to us?”
The last time Ashan had seen his friend this upset was after the bin Laden raid. “You’ve met Director Kennedy before.” The woman’s intellect within the intelligence community was well known. “You don’t think she’s already thought of this herself? You don’t think the entire bin Laden fiasco isn’t seared into her brain?”
“Why do you keep bringing that up?”
“Because it’s relevant.” Ashan couldn’t believe he had to keep pointing out something so obvious. “The more I think about it, if I were them, the first place I’d look is the External Wing.”
Durrani was on his feet this time, stabbing the air with his finger, threating Ashan that his career was over. “There is no room for Anglo lovers in our world anymore. We are a sovereign nation. Not their trained dogs. If I were—”
“You are not me, and I must tell you, Akhtar, you are behaving like a man who has something to hide.”
“I will not stand here and take this,” Durrani proclaimed, looking at the director for support.
Taj made a calming motion with his hands. “Sit. Everyone needs to calm down.”
Ashan felt like pointing out that only one person needed to calm themselves, but Taj was smart enough to know that. Bringing it up would only serve to irritate Durrani.
“Akhtar, if you do not trust Nadeem, then I think you should accompany him t
o Bagram.” Taj paused for a long beat and then held up a cautionary finger. “Your lack of emotional control, however, worries me. If you cannot conduct yourself in a civil, helpful way with our American friends, then I do not want you to go anywhere near them. Are we clear?”
Durrani looked like someone had just force fed him a shit sandwich. He didn’t want to leave, especially not now. He needed to keep an eye on things, but at the same time it pained him to think of Ashan licking the boots of the Americans. Ultimately, the only rational choice was to stay in Islamabad. If Ashan was right, and he usually was about these things, the Americans would already have his department under their watchful eye. Ashan could go play nice with the Americans. Durrani would stay where he was and make sure there was nothing to raise their ire.
Chapter 25
Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan
The CIA’s offices were off the main drag from the airport in an area that housed the Intel Fusion Center and the snake eaters from the Joint Special Operations Command. Langley also had another piece of real estate at the far end of the flight line where they housed their planes and a few other things. It was their own little domain within the sprawling air base. Out of necessity the spooks had to share information with the various military branches, but there were times when it was unwise for the CIA to be too open with its military brethren. Necessity was, after all, the mother of invention, and the CIA had a real need to keep much of what they did secret. Louie Gould was a perfect example. Bagram had a brand-new shiny detention center replete with prayer rooms, prayer mats, video games, flat-screen TVs, and a Koran on every bed. Putting a man like Gould under the care of the military was an inherently bad idea for the simple reason that once they had their hands on him there would be an official record.
Kennedy made it clear to Nash in the aftermath of the disaster with the Afghan Police that Gould’s identity was to be kept secret from everyone outside their immediate circle. She went so far as to put Darren Sickles and anyone else at the embassy on an exclusion list. Until they knew more, Gould was nothing more than another one of Rapp’s hired guns who was shot during the conflict. Kennedy wanted him kept under wraps until she could question him herself. The two had a shared history that she was certain Gould was not entirely aware of. Early reports were that he had been evasive and uncooperative when questioned by Nash. Kennedy had a piece of leverage that she was almost certain Nash was unaware of.
Kennedy left the hospital and asked her security team to bring her back to the hangar where her plane was parked.
Clark Jones, the head of her security detail, gave her a concerned look. “Are we leaving?”
“No . . . just some business I need to take care of.”
They rolled down the base’s smooth asphalt streets in the black Suburban that had been provided by the base chief. They passed the post office, a Burger King, a fitness center, and bunch of other nondescript buildings. The place was a little slice of America. The hangar was at the far end of the flight line, far away from prying eyes. It looked like all the hangars. The helicopters parked on the tarmac were no different than the U.S. Army Black Hawks all up and down the flight line. The black SUV pulled into the hangar and two beautiful Gulfstream G550s came into view—noticeably absent were any U.S. Air Force markings. Three twin turboprop MC-12 surveillance planes were clustered in the other corner and a smattering of other smaller planes and helicopters were spread about the cavernous space.
Kennedy’s vehicle came to a stop near the glass offices. Her security team jumped out of the vehicle before she could put her hand on the door. Bill Schneeman, the base chief, was waiting for Kennedy by the office door. The bodyguards dismounted and formed their protective bubble around the director. She found the entire thing a bit much, but Jones had given her a firm lecture on the flight over. Jones had been in charge of her detail for just under two years. This was the first time he had “laid down the law,” as he called it. He was rarely briefed on the intricacies of what was going on, but because of his proximity he often picked up bits and pieces of information.
In this case he’d heard about the abduction of Rickman, one of her most senior people in Afghanistan, and the attempt on the life of Mitch Rapp, her most trusted advisor and top counterterrorism operative. There was one other piece of information that he was not privy to. John Hubbard, the Jalalabad base chief, had gone missing and local assets were frantically searching for him. Even without the knowledge of Hubbard, Jones and his men hovered like overly protective mothers of a first child. It was all very stifling.
Schneeman started to approach Kennedy but stopped on the other side of the security team. “Boss,” Schneeman called out with his typical smartass grin, “do you think you could get your guys to relax a little? We own this site. All the jihadists are on the other side of the wire.”
Kennedy gave Jones a sideways glance. “Clark, while we’re on base, do you think you guys could relax your posture just a bit?” Kennedy put her words in the form of a question, but her tone made it was obvious that it was an order.
Jones didn’t flinch. His dark eyes and tight black skin gave him a no-nonsense intensity that was perfect for his job. He might as well have had “Don’t mess with me” on his forehead. For a moment it looked as they were going to have at least a standoff, if not a confrontation. Jones looked around the hangar as if he was making one last check for threats and then motioned for his men to give the director some room.
Schneeman moved past the big men with all the weapons and extended his hand. “Welcome to Spa Bagram.”
Kennedy grinned at the reference. Back at HQ, people liked to joke that the Bagram assignment was a cakewalk. Most of the people posted to Bagram came back thin, fit and in the best shape of their careers. Kennedy knew the real toll of the posting, however. Marriages had fallen apart due to distance, and in more than a few cases, infidelity. The bigger problem, though, was stress—long hours and big demands for results had burned out a good number of her people.
“Sorry I didn’t stop by sooner, but I was at the hospital,” Kennedy offered.
“Don’t worry about it. How’s he doing?”
“Better. He’s awake, but it looks like he’s going to be out of commission for a while.”
“That’s not what I wanted to hear . . . I mean the part about him being out of commission.”
“I knew what you meant.” Very few people knew that Kennedy had increasingly turned to Schneeman to get a handle on what was going on in country. She had lost confidence in Sickles months ago as she began to receive reports of his unabashed enthusiasm for reintegration. How one of the top people in the Clandestine Service could think the plan was a good idea was beyond Kennedy’s ability to comprehend. The blame, she knew, rested squarely on her, as she had been the one who made him station chief in Kabul, and then the fool had gotten too cozy with the State Department contingent, that awful woman Arianna Vinter in particular.
“What have you found out about Hubbard?”
“Nothing so far. His phone doesn’t even show up on the satellites, which we both know is a really bad sign.” Schneeman shrugged and added, “I hate to give you more bad news, but it is what it is.”
“Keep looking. We can’t keep losing people like this.” She was about to add the fact that it was embarrassing, but she knew it would sound self-serving. These were the people that she sent into harm’s way. Her number one priority was to get them back alive.
“I’m not going to lie to you. A lot of our people are spooked. They think this has to be part of bigger plan by the Taliban to cripple us in country.”
“They might be right.”
After staring at his shoes for a second, Schneeman said, “No one’s turned me down yet, but I almost had to make them draw straws to see who would go down to J-bad to search for Hubbard.”
Kennedy did not take this information well. This was another reason she needed Rapp. His unabashed, fearless attitude was contagious. The last thing she needed right now wer
e operatives who were afraid to leave the base. If this problem got worse she would have to lean on JSOC for muscle. The Special Operators shared Rapp’s bold manner.
Schneeman motioned toward a doorway next to the glass-walled offices. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Tea, please.”
Schneeman led and she followed. “I apologize, but things are pretty hectic around here. Including the nine people in your entourage, we have fifty-six additional people who’ve been brought in over the last two days.”
“You need to push them out. How many people did you send down to J-bad?”
“I’m keeping all the analysts up here. I sent six operatives and twelve SOG guys. I told them I don’t want anyone going anywhere by themselves. I assigned two SOG guys to each operative and they need to check in every hour.”
They entered a small break room with a microwave and refrigerator. Schneeman started rifling through cupboards until he found a box of assorted teas. He handed the box to Kennedy and then poured himself a cup of coffee and Kennedy a cup of hot water.
