15

Rapp’s preference would have been to have this conversation in person, but there was only a brief window of opportunity. He figured at a bare minimum China and Russia were tracking Air Force One with a spy satellites, looking to pluck any signals that were beamed to and from the plane. The techies at the Pentagon and the National Security Agency swore that the communication links with Washington were secure, but Rapp had his doubts. Having read enough history to understand that previous scientists had given those same assurances only to be proven drastically wrong, Rapp operated under the premise that there was no such thing as a totally secure line. Even so, his business was often time sensitive, and one could not always wait to speak in person.

The president had got him thinking. Rapp had always begrudgingly admired the Iranians and the way they churned out propaganda. Their leaders understood the key to survival was to get the people to blame America and the West for all of the ills in their lives. It didn’t matter if there was no substance to their accusations, it only mattered that they enflamed their people’s national pride. There would be a lot of that going on in the coming weeks. America would be blamed, evidence or not. All they had to do was make the accusation and it would stick. It wouldn’t matter a bit to the Iranian people that America had no hand in the destruction of their facility. So ingrained was their hatred for America that they would believe without asking their leaders for proof.

It was this realization, and the president’s gloves-off attitude, that steered Rapp’s thinking toward a classic clandestine operation. If Iran wanted to play fast and loose with the facts, they were automatically opening themselves up to a counterattack. One that could prove very embarrassing for their loud-mouthed president. The absence of any plane, American, Israeli, or other, over the facility at the time of its destruction left only two options. The first Rapp dismissed because he knew his Israeli counterparts all too well and because he believed the odds of an accident destroying the facility so completely were simply too large. The second option was that the Israelis did it. Again, knowing them as well as he did, he had no doubt that they had somehow managed to destroy the place.

Rapp would find out soon enough. Kennedy had called ahead and made arrangements. One of the Agency’s G-5s was waiting for him at Andrews Air Force Base to take him to Tel Aviv as soon as they landed. She had also left word with her Israeli counterpart that Rapp was on the way and that until he got there it would be prudent to stay mute on the current crisis in Iran.

To put his plan into motion Rapp needed the help of someone back at Langley. He could make the call on his own satellite phone, but there was a good chance the Air Force crew on board would detect the call and go apeshit. His second option was to elicit their help and ask for the most secure line they had to Langley. More than likely this would work, but it would also alert the Russians and the Chinese that it was an important call. In the end he decided to make the call on an unsecured line. It would be flagged as routine traffic and if he stayed vague enough no one listening in would have any idea what they were talking about. Past the president’s office and conference room were a section of seats for his advisors. Similar to first class on international travel, the seats were big with plenty of room. Rapp spotted an open one and grabbed it.

Some junior staffer in his mid-twenties was in the next seat. The guy tore his eyes away from his laptop and looked at Rapp with an expression that said, Who in the hell are you? Instead he said, “I’m sorry, but that seat is taken.”

Rapp remembered his appearance was far from White House standards. He smiled and said, “That’s all right. I just need to make a quick call.” Rapp grabbed the phone from its cradle and started punching the number for an office in Langley, Virginia. He could tell that the guy was still looking at him.

“Are you with the press?”

Rapp glanced over. “That’s a good one, junior.”

“I don’t see your badge,” the guy said more firmly, “and the press is not allowed up here.”

“Badges,” Rapp said with a Mexican accent, “we don’t need no stinking badges.”

The staffer looked back at him with a blank expression.

“Blazing Saddles. You’ve never seen it?” Rapp could hear the phone starting to ring on the other end.

“No.” The guy was not amused. “Why aren’t you wearing your credentials?”

A woman’s voice answered on the other end of the phone. “Rob Ridley’s office. Penny speaking.”

“Penny, Mitch here. Is Rob around?”

“Where are your credentials?” The staffer persisted.

“Hold on a second, Penny.” Rapp covered the phone and looked the man in the eye for the first time. “Let me guess…law school? Ivy League, University of Michigan something like that…someplace that taught you to be assertive and persistent.”

“ Dartmouth.”

“Good for you. Great school. Now get lost.” Rapp stuck his thumb out and pointed toward the aisle. “I have an important call. Now would be a good time for you to hit the head.”

“I do not appreciate…”

Rapp cut him off. “Go find Ted Byrne, and ask him who I am.”

The young man reluctantly closed his laptop and left.

Rapp put the phone back to his ear and said, “Rob.”

“Well, if it isn’t, Mr. Big Shot. I hear POTUS asked you to catch a ride with him.”

“I would think that today of all days, you would have more to do than gossip.”

POTUS was the acronym for president of the United States. Ridley was Deputy Director Operations, Near East Division. His division was at the center of the brewing storm. He was a former marine, a major league smartass, and one of the most capable people Rapp had ever worked with.

“You never call anymore. It’s the only way I can keep tabs on you.”

“What are you hearing?”

“Well…practically every politician in town is demanding a briefing so that they can go on TV and claim they know what they are talking about, my counterpart in Israel won’t return my calls, and the phone lines between Tehran and Beirut are so hot they’re melting.”

“Have you been able to get a hold of a single person at Mossad?”

“Nope, and I’ve tried a couple end-arounds. Some old buddies I used to tip a few with. No one is answering their phone over there.”

“So you’ve got nothing.”

“From them, but I wouldn’t say nothing in general. Just nothing concrete. There are a lot of rumors flying around out there.”

“How do you feel about starting another one?”

There was a pause and then, “I’m listening.”

“Remember that character we met with in the Sand Box last year?” Rapp was referring to Iraq.

“I meet a lot of characters over there. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The guy from PMOI.”

“PMOI?”

Rapp was talking about the People’s Mujahedin of Iran, but he didn’t want to say it out loud. “Remember, we were at the palace and we stayed up until four in the morning drinking brandy and smoking cigars. He told us how a certain leader over there is referred to as the peacock president.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ridley replied. “I’m with you.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Last time I checked, he moves back forth between Mosul and Baghdad. He’s got a car parts business, if you can believe it. I hear it’s booming.”

“Track him down and set up a meeting.”

“For when?”

“First thing tomorrow,” Rapp said. “And find someone else to brief the president. You’re coming with me.”

“Are you going to fill me in?”

“I’ll explain it all on the plane. Meet me at Andrews in two hours.”