“Just great,” he said sarcastically. “I’m surrounded by men in masks carrying bigger guns than mine who would love nothing more than to kill our boss. Other than that it’s a wonderful morning. The sun is out, the temp’s in the mid-sixties. I feel like I’m on vacation.”

“I know. It sounds like they’re wrapping it up. Irene’s gotten through all her main points. It shouldn’t be much longer, and then you guys can get the hell out of here and back to the airport.”

“I’m counting the seconds.”

“Hang in there.”

Rapp clicked the secure radio out of the two-way mode and looked to the far end of the street. Several of the cops were now milling about with Russian-made rocket-propelled grenade launchers resting on their hips.

“This place is fucking crazy,” Rapp mumbled to himself.

There was way too much unsecured firepower. Subconsciously, he brought his left hand up and touched the.45-caliber Glock 21 pistol on his left hip. Underneath his oversized gray shirt, Rapp was wearing level-three body armor with a ceramic chicken plate over his heart. The Glock was in a paddle holster with two spare magazines clipped to his belt. Rapp turned his attention away from the street for a moment and eyed the small arsenal Stilwell had assembled on the other side of the room. On the floor was a black composite case with two locking clasps.

Rapp walked over, knelt, and popped the two clasps. He lifted the lid and revealed his personal arsenal: a 5.56mm rifle with a suppressor, a spare.45, and a Glock 17 with a suppressor, all sitting in foam cutouts. The M-4 was made by Sabre Defense. It was a Massad Ayoob special broken down into a lower and upper receiver. Rapp assembled the weapon in a few seconds, screwed the silencer onto the end, and loaded it with a thirty-round magazine. He checked to make sure the safety was on, then chambered one of the.233 rounds, grabbed two spare magazines, and walked back to the window.

“Call the base,” he said to Stilwell, “and make sure the quick-reaction force is at the gate ready to move, and I mean locked and loaded, engines running.”

“Will do.”

Rapp clutched the grip of the M-4 and checked his watch. It was 11:17. He looked down at all the firepower on the street and couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. One misstep, by either group, and Kennedy and her detail would be caught in the crossfire. Rapp could hear Kennedy’s voice coming from the speaker behind him. His eyes narrowed as another police pickup truck joined the other two at the far end of the street. This one was carrying eight men, all in uniforms and black hoods. They piled out of the truck and moved off in pairs toward each corner of the intersection. Rapp swore under his breath and decided enough was enough.

“Mac,” Rapp said as he keyed the transmit button on his radio. “I think it’s time to wrap this thing up and get her back to the base.”

“I agree.”

“All right, get your guys ready to move. Minister Ashani goes first and then once he’s gone bring her out and hightail it straight back.”

“You want me to tell her it’s time to go?”

“That’s right. Just whisper in her ear that something urgent has come up. They broke the ice. Next time they can meet in Geneva where we won’t have to deal with all these crazy bastards.”

“Roger.”

Rapp moved his eyes from the front door of the café to the militia men and then the cops at the far end. The sliding glass door was already open. He took a step back so the muzzle wouldn’t stick out beyond the curtain and raised his rifle. With both eyes opened, he looked through the L-3 EOTech sight and centered the red dot on the head of the.50-caliber gunner on the far right. He guessed the distance to be about 140 feet. An easy shot. Rapp moved the sight from one gunner to the next and quietly said, “Just stay calm, boys. This will all be over in a few minutes.”

Someone who must have been an officer walked up to the two men manning the.50-caliber machine guns and started yelling and pointing in different directions. After a moment the men retrained their guns in the opposite direction. Rapp lowered his rifle and relaxed a bit.

35

Irene Kennedy stood inside the café and watched Ridley and Minister Ashani cross the street. Both men looked back as they were about to climb in their vehicle. The meeting had furthered Kennedy’s belief that the Iranian intelligence minister was someone she could work with. Someone she could possibly trust. She smiled warmly at Ashani as he waved at her. Kennedy held her black sunglasses in her right hand and waved back. She could have talked with the man for hours. There was so much they could work on. The relatively short meeting had reconfirmed for her that it was time to bury the hatchet with Iran. Especially if more men like Ashani were in power.

The rest of the men piled into the other two sedans and the motorcade sped off. Kennedy put on her sunglasses and wondered what she was going to do with Rapp. She’d known Mitch since he was a twenty-one-year-old lacrosse star at Syracuse University. She had recruited him, she’d helped train him, and she’d been his handler for most of his storied career. He’d been good from day one. A natural at picking up languages and mannerisms and customs that were unique to every city on the planet. His ability to immerse himself for extended periods of time on overseas assignments, with almost no contact from the Agency, was unique. There’d been plenty of times where the months had ticked away and Kennedy was left wondering if Rapp was still alive.

Somehow, though, he always made it back. And with each successful mission, he became less patient with his handlers. Less comfortable with the suit-and-tie culture of CIA headquarters. Over the years the insubordination worsened. Kennedy’s mentor, Thomas Stansfield, told her the good ones were always a bit rebellious. They didn’t fit into the bureaucratic structure of Langley. Their missions were too fluid to have real structure. Add to that the reality that they knew everything they did would be picked apart by people who had never been on an overseas assignment in their entire career, and you had a problem.

His marriage had seemed to help a bit. At least Anna had made him see the other side of things. After she was murdered, though, he retrenched and the circle of people he trusted contracted further. Any semblance of patience was now gone. Sitting down with Ashani was a rare opportunity. To have it cut short simply because Rapp thought it was dragging on was infuriating.

Kennedy turned to McDonald and asked, “Why did Mitch think it so imperative that he had to end my meeting?”

“There was a lot of tension out here between the minister’s people and the police. It looked like a gunfight was about to break out.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Boss, I don’t joke about stuff like this. Now can we please get you back to the base?”

Kennedy folded her arms and looked across the street at the second-story apartment. She couldn’t see Rapp, but she knew he was up there. Kennedy shook her head and said, “Fine. Let’s go.”

McDonald signaled for three more of his men to come over. A fourth stayed by the rear passenger door of the Suburban. The four men moved in unison, with Kennedy in the middle. The director climbed into the backseat. One of the men followed her and closed the door. Another bodyguard entered from the other side so Kennedy was sandwiched in the middle. McDonald stood by the front passenger door and gave the hand signal for all the other men to load up. When everyone was in their vehicle, he jumped in the front seat of Kennedy’s Suburban and gave the order to move out. The five vehicles rolled single file down the block and idled for a second as the police cars moved to allow them through.