“Good. Then you’ll know how serious I am when I tell you that I’m going to kill you.”

“Excuse me?” Ashani said in genuine surprise.

“I know what you’ve been up to. If Director Kennedy is not released in the next hour, I’m coming after you. And if, as you say, everyone in our line of work is aware of my reputation, then you know I will succeed. I will hunt your ass down and kill you, and no level of security will stop me.”

“Mr. Rapp, I can assure you that I have no idea what you are talking about, and I do not take kindly to your threats.”

“What are you going to do…take out a fatwa on me? Well, let me tell you something. I’m not some defenseless author who’s going to go into hiding because you thin-skinned little pricks decide I’ve offended Islam. I bite back, and I’m going to hunt down every single one of you fuckers that had anything to do with this.”

Ashani was literally speechless. He was all too well aware of Mitch Rapp’s abilities. On at least two occasions the American operative had sneaked into Iran. Both times his targets were terrorists who had traveled to Iran in an attempt to avoid the reach of the U.S. government. Both men were extremely well protected, and neither had survived his run-in with Rapp.

Despite his dry throat and trembling hands, Ashani attempted to sound calm. “Mr. Rapp, I have no idea what you are talking about and, as I said, I do not appreciate being threatened.”

“Well, you’ll have to excuse my poor manners, but in light of the fact that my boss has been kidnapped and her entire security detail killed, I really don’t give a shit what you appreciate and don’t appreciate.”

Ashani’s mind was swimming. All he could think to say was, “In Mosul?”

“No, in Paris! Of course in Mosul.”

“I can assure you that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Well…I have a stack of photos, and three prisoners who say otherwise.”

Ashani looked up as Tehrani came back on the plane. The security chief started to talk, but was silenced by Ashani, who waved him off the plane. “Mr. Rapp,” Ashani said with as much sincerity as he could muster, “I do not know what you are talking about. I have a great amount of respect for Director Kennedy.”

“Go sell your bullshit to some moron who’s buying. I don’t have the time for this, and if you want to live, you’ll get your ass in gear and have her released within the hour.”

“Mr. Rapp,” Ashani said with a trace of panic in his voice, “I have no idea what you are talking about!”

“You’re telling me that she left a meeting with you, traveled a block and a half, and was attacked by a platoon of Quds Force commandos and you had no idea?”

“What?”

“And I suppose that guy who flew in with you on your helicopter…you have no idea who he is either…because I’ve got a bunch of Iranian soldiers in custody who are telling me he ran the operation to kidnap Director Kennedy.”

Ashani’s mouth was agape as he pictured Mukhtar blessing him and running toward the waiting police vehicles.

“What’s wrong?” Rapp yelled. “You finally run out of fucking lies to tell me?”

Random pieces of information fell into place as Ashani replayed the events of the past several days. Ashani was left no other conclusion than the dreadful reality that he had been deceived by his own government. Amatullah and Mukhtar had clearly been conspiring, but to what end Ashani could not see.

“Mr. Rapp, I have not told you a single lie. I’m afraid this entire operation was kept from me.”

“Well, you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t take you at your word,” Rapp said sarcastically.

Ashani’s chief of security was back in the door looking very nervous. Ashani waved him away. “Mr. Rapp, I am going to do everything in my power to make sure Dr. Kennedy is released safely.”

“Who was that man who flew in on the helicopter with you?”

“I…” Ashani hesitated, “am going to have to get back to you on that.”

“Bullshit! You’ve given me no reason to believe you. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t tell the president to proceed with the strike that the Joint Chiefs are recommending.”

“What strike?”

“Operation Medusa. They want to cut off the head. Your homes, your offices, they’re all in the targeting package.”

“Mr. Rapp, I urge you to tell the president to give me time.”

“Why the fuck should we trust you? You set us up. You kidnapped a sitting director of the CIA, the president’s closest national security advisor. You think he’s going to negotiate for her release? He’s going to use this as an excuse to bomb you fuckers back to the Stone Age.”

“I just landed in Tehran. Please give me some time to find out what is going on.”

“You don’t see what’s going on here, do you. I’m in Mosul. President Alexander is sitting in a bunker right now surrounded by a bunch of generals who think this is a blessing. They’ve already launched the B-2s from their base in Kansas. They’re on the way. You can help avoid this. That man who rode in on the helicopter with you…what is his name, and where did he take Director Kennedy?”

“That man,” Ashani hesitated, “is someone I detest.”

“Name!” Rapp shouted.

Ashani looked out the window at the waiting men and it occurred to him that they might be there to arrest him, or at a bare minimum keep an eye on him. This might be his last chance to freely discuss things with Rapp. “Imad Muhktar,” Ashani said, with loathing in his voice.

“Imad Mukhtar!” Rapp practically screamed. “You mean Hezbollah’s head of paramilitary operations?”

“Yes.”

“Where did he take her?”

“I have no idea, but I am going to do everything I can to find out. Do you have a pen?”

“Yes.”

“Take down my e-mail address and send me your phone number.”

Ashani gave him the information and then promised he would get back to him within the hour. He ended the call before Rapp could threaten him again. He stood, his mind reeling with horrible possibilities. Amatullah had clearly not told him of this operation because he knew he would have never agreed to go along. The question now was, whom else had Amatullah recruited? Whom could Ashani trust, and how could he make things right without committing treason in the process?

52

The president was on his feet, his right hand stuffed under his left arm and his left hand up and supporting his chin. His jacket was off, and the sleeves on his crisp white dress shirt were rolled up. He was basically in a standing version of Auguste Rodin’s statue The Thinker. Behind his chair at the end of the long conference table he paced back and forth. Four steps to one wall and then back again. In the far corner, Secretary of State Wicka was talking in hushed tones on one of the bulky secure telephone units. She was in the midst of calling a half dozen key allies and explaining to them that despite what they were seeing on TV, the United States had not attacked the Iranian vessel. The president would have made the calls himself, but they had decided until they received absolute confirmation from the navy that he would let others put their reputations on the line.

Secretary of Defense England was sitting near the president with a phone clutched tightly to his ear. His deep baritone voice had a tendency to carry, so most of the other Cabinet officials had either left the room or moved farther away like Wicka. From time to time England would raise his head and relay to the president what the Joint Chiefs were telling him. Everyone from the secretary of the navy down to the theater commander had denied the report of a U.S. submarine’s being involved in the sinking of an Iranian frigate. Now, England was attempting to speak firsthand to the Task Force Commander for the subs in the region.