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.”

“They are guarding the three main entrances to the mosque, but that is normal. We do not like the guns inside if we can avoid it. They do not even know she is here,” Husseini added as an afterthought.

Rapp felt like asking him, “So you’re the only rat bastard who is helping him,” but since Husseini was cooperating, he thought it was best to keep things as positive as the situation would allow. Rapp heard a new voice come over his earpiece. The man was speaking Farsi and was very angry.

“Imad,” the man barked, “you are to release her unharmed, and you are to do it immediately!”

As they hit the first-floor landing that led back to the madrasa, Stilwell asked in Arabic, “Do you want me to get the Kurds in here?”

“Ayatollah Najar,” Mukhtar said, “knowing your disdain for the CIA, I would have thought you’d approve of my actions.”

“No,” Rapp said to Stilwell’s question. “Give them an update, but tell them to stay put.”

Husseini led them down another half flight of stairs. “The mosque is straight ahead.”

“Where does he have his men?” Rapp asked Husseini.

“Some of them are upstairs sleeping.”

“Back in the madrasa?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“I think three.”

“And the rest of them?”

“He has two out front with the militia, and then two more guarding the stairs that lead to the catacombs.”

“And in the catacombs?”

“I think two. Maybe more.”

Counting the man he’d already killed, Rapp had the number at ten, which fit with Husseini’s earlier statement. Mukhtar and Ayatollah Najar were now in a full-fledged argument. Rapp wanted to concentrate on what they were saying, but he needed to gather more information about how Kennedy was being guarded. Husseini was describing for him where she was being kept at the end of a narrow passageway when they entered the mosque. As they traveled across the centuries-old heaved stone floor another cleric saw them and began walking toward Husseini.

“I am going to kill her, and there is nothing you can do to stop me,” Rapp heard Mukhtar say.

“Keep walking,” Rapp whispered to Husseini. “You are going to be greatly rewarded for this. The Supreme Leader wants her released, and Mukhtar has refused.”

Husseini waved off the younger cleric, and they moved around a series of columns to a long gallery that ran along the south side of the mosque. Much farther down, light streamed into the shadowy space through a series of narrow windows. Rapp got a quick glimpse of a man passing between two columns and back into the large open part of the mosque that was covered in prayer rugs.

“A little further,” Husseini said. “The door is on the right.”

Rapp could see a single boot resting on the square base of one of the round columns. In his left ear he could hear Mukhtar and Najar yelling at each other, and in his right ear he could hear the echo of someone talking loudly in the mosque. Farther down the gallery, at least seventy feet away, the man who he had glimpsed just a moment earlier walked back between the columns through a patch of sunlight. It wasn’t so much that the man was talking on a cell phone, as much as it was the sudden immobility of Husseini that caused everything to click into place for Rapp.