Then he kicked everyone out of his office, told his secretary to hold all calls, and closed and locked the door. After a moment’s hesitation he decided to ring Ayatollah Najar’s private line. For the third time in as many hours he was told by his assistant that Najar was unavailable. Ashani hung up the phone and began to wonder if Najar and the Supreme Leader being out of the capital hadn’t been planned. What if they had given Amatullah their blessing?
The possibility shook Ashani’s faith in the leaders of his country. What if they had all been in on this plot from the beginning? What if they had knowingly sent him to meet Kennedy, knowing full well that she would be kidnapped? Ashani stared down at the list of phone numbers on one piece of paper, and Rapp’s information on the other. With one phone call he could defuse the entire situation. If for a second he thought that either Amatullah or Mukhtar possessed the ability to do what was right, he wouldn’t even think about passing along this information, but he had his doubts. In the end, Amatullah was likely too much of a narcissist to risk the full might of the U.S. armed forces, but he might be able to convince himself that their planes would never find him. In the end, America would never invade. They had neither the troops or the stomach for what would be a very costly battle on both sides.
But Mukhtar was an entirely different matter, a true believer, with a martyr complex. Mukhtar could not be counted on to turn Kennedy over. Since their close call at Isfahan, the man seemed hell-bent on plunging the region into conflict. He had made it abundantly clear that Iran had not sacrificed enough blood in the war against the Jews and the Americans. Ashani decided Mukhtar could not be trusted.
Would he be committing treason, or would it be an act of patriotism? Ashani believed the American president when he said if Kennedy was not returned safely in less than two hours he would declare war. Despite the bravado of the generals and admirals, every Iranian pilot who took to the sky would be downed, and those planes that stayed on the ground would be blown to bits. Every ship and sub foolish enough to try to engage one of the mighty strike groups would be sent to the bottom of the Persian Gulf. It would be recorded as the most lopsided naval engagement perhaps in history. Thousands would die, and that was before the Americans turned their bombs on the civilian leadership.
Ashani shook his head at the heartbreaking thought of all the chaos and destruction. The loss of life. And for what? So a group of men could say that they refused to back down. Ashani knew the nonsense had to stop.
He picked up the list of numbers that Amatullah had given him, as well as Rapp’s information and moved his chair over to his computer. He quickly composed an e-mail to Rapp listing all of the numbers. Even the two that had been used. Afraid he’d lose his nerve, Ashani hit the send key. He then grabbed his satellite phone and dialed Rapp’s number. After a few rings a man answered on the other end.
Ashani recognized Rapp’s voice. “I just sent you an e-mail. It contains a list of numbers that I was given so I could reach the man you are looking for. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“The first two numbers have already been used. I am going to call the third one in two minutes. Is that enough time for you to make the proper arrangements?”
“Yes.”
“Good. There’s one more thing.”
“I’m listening.”
Ashani glanced nervously at his door, half expecting it to be kicked in at any moment. “I want to be clear that I had nothing to do with this. I am acting on my own right now.”
“Why?”
“Out of respect for our mutual friend, and my hope that we can avoid further bloodshed.”
“I appreciate that. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
Ashani set the phone down and looked at his watch. He was only halfway there. In two minutes time there would be no turning back.
59
MOSUL, IRAQ
Rapp paced anxiously behind Dumond, as the younger man worked feverishly to make sure everything was in place. The eavesdropping assets in, around, and over Mosul comprised an all-encompassing net. The mobile phone networks were tapped, as were the fiber optic lines running in and out of the city. Keyhole and Voyager satellites circled far overhead in geosynchronized orbit snapping images and sucking every desired signal from the air. Predator drones hovered above to provide real-time imaging as well as radio intercepts. There wasn’t a call made in the city that wasn’t intercepted.
The complicated part lay in sifting the valuable calls from the 99.999 percent of them that were absolutely worthless. To do that normally required the deciphering of the signal and then the translation and analysis of the conversation. The National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland, accomplished this by employing complex voice recognition software and more sheer computing power than any other entity in the world. So much information was collected that the analysts at the NSA were the modern-day equivalent of the prospectors who worked the rivers and streams of the California Gold Rush. Except in this case, intel intercepts were like produce in a grocery store. Each bit of information came with a “best if used by date.” Provided that Minister Ashani had really given them the numbers that Mukhtar would use, all of these hurdles could be avoided.
Dumond pounded on his keyboard with a final few strokes and then pushed his chair back, removing his headset. He looked over his shoulder at Rapp and said, “It’s all set to go. We’re at the top of the list on every system. The numbers are programmed in. The second they go active we’ll be able to isolate them.” Dumond pointed at the screen on the far left and said, “The two numbers that you said were already used…We’re mining the records right now, to see which towers relayed the most recent calls.”
“What about the third number?” Rapp asked. “If he has the phone turned on, can’t we pick it up?”
“He doesn’t even have to turn it on.”
“I know,” Rapp said with frustration in his voice. “Now’s not the time to get technical with me.”
“Sorry. We’re searching for it right now. As you know, it’s standard field practice to turn these on sparingly. It greatly reduces the risk of being tagged.”
“I know, but ten phones is excessive.”
“He’s probably just switching out SIM cards.”
“Marcus,” Rapp shot him a cautionary look, “I’m well aware of how it works. Can we please focus on what is important and stop talking about semantics.”
Dumond nodded quickly and swore at himself for being so stupid. He’d known Rapp for a long time. Had worked with him on a lot of operations. Kennedy was like family to Rapp. The stress of this situation understandably had shortened his already short fuse.
Dumond pointed at the middle screen, which had a map of the greater Mosul metropolitan area. “These red dots represent mobile phone towers.”
Rapp noted that there was easily more than a hundred dots on the screen.
“Now if Mukhtar is using a satellite phone,” Dumond continued, “he’ll bypass these towers and the big bird up in space will get him.”
“Do you have Ashani’s voice programmed into recognition software?”
“Yep,” Dumond pointed at the third screen. “It’s all set to go. As soon as he comes online. I’ll have verification for you in ten seconds or less.”
“And Mukhtar?”
“We have no known samples, but we’ll be able to use this print and run it against everything we have in the archives.”
“How long will that take?”
“Even if we prioritize it, the search might take weeks. We’re talking about a lot of phone calls.”
“There’s got to be a way to speed it up.”
“If we get lucky and find a hit, we can narrow the search to a specific time frame and region. That would help.”
The door to the trailer opened and General Gifford entered with two other officers. All three were in full battle gear with sidearms strapped to their right thighs.
Gifford took off his helmet and said, “Mitc
h, Stan called me and said you guys might be close to finding a location.”
“That’s right, General.”
“How good is the intel?”
“We have Mukhtar’s mobile phone number, and we expect him to be receiving a call any minute.”
“We’ve got a hit on one of the previous numbers,” Dumond announced excitedly. He pointed at the middle screen. “This tower about ten miles east of town. My guess is he was traveling on this road right here.”
General Gifford hurried around the table and looked at the screen. “That’s Highway Two.”
“Hold on,” Dummond said, “the second number just came in.” He pointed to a tower near the Tigris. “This one was made after the first.”
Rapp looked at the new location and then checked the spot on the map where the ambush had taken place. “Based on the calls it looks like they tried to take her out of the city and then ended up coming back.”
“That’s assuming she’s still with this Mukhtar fellow,” Gifford said.
Rapp considered his point for a moment and said, “I don’t think he’d take his eyes off her.”
“The third number’s up.”
Rapp leaned over Dumond’s shoulder and looked as he pointed the same tower near the Tigris. “Stan,” Rapp yelled, “get in here!”
A moment later Stilwell emerged from his office and joined Rapp and Gifford. Rapp pointed at the middle screen. “Is this the part of town you were thinking of when you were talking about the stone in the photo?”
“It’s exactly where I was thinking.”
Gifford grumbled, “That’s the heart of Indian country.”
“Yeah,” Stilwell agreed. “Shiite central.”
“The streets are really narrow,” Gifford said with a wary expression. “We’ve had more than a few patrols ambushed in there.”
Rapp noticed Dumond touch his headset and then watched him reach for his mouse. After a single click a man talking in Farsi came over the speakers resting on the table. Rapp immediately knew the voice belonged to Ashani. Only he and Stilwell spoke Farsi.
“Ali, is that you?”
There was an unnerving pause and then another voice said, “Cyrus, you sound different.”
“That must be Mukhtar,” Rapp said to Dumond.
“I’m on it.”
From the speakers came, “I was asked by our friend to call and see if there was anything you might need. He is stuck in a very important meeting.”
“There is much that I need.” The man they assumed was Mukhtar made no attempt to hide his irritation. “Things are not progressing the way we had planned, and I have only a handful of men to assist me.”
“Can I send you some help? I have men in the area.”
There was a sigh followed by silence and then, “At the moment, I fear it would only draw more suspicion.”
“Then what can I do to help?”
Dumond announced, “We’ve got him.” He clicked the mouse and the middle screen zoomed in on a four block area of downtown Mosul. A blinking red dot marked the location of the call.
“Nothing at the moment,” Mukhtar replied.
“Our friend would like a progress report,” Ashani stated.
There was another long pause and then, “Tell him the videotape he requested is taking more time than I anticipated. The actress is not cooperating.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I think if I employ some harsher methods, she will perform.”
Rapp’s gut twisted upon hearing the words. He pointed to the screen and asked Stilwell, “Where is that?”
“That’s the Great Mosque.”
“Oh shit,” Gifford moaned.
“What’s the problem?” Rapp asked.
“We can’t go in there.”
“What do you mean, you can’t go in there?” asked an irritated Rapp.
“The city would explode in violence.”
Rapp heard Ashani warning Mukhtar not to harm the actress. The words caused him to put aside what Gifford had just said and focus on Ashani and Mukhtar’s conversation.
“I have come too far to fail,” Mukhtar said. “I will do whatever it takes to succeed. Tell our friend I will have the tape for him within the hour.”
The call went dead. Rapp immediately told Dumond to get him a live overhead shot from one of the Predators. He then turned to Gifford. “You can’t go in there, or you won’t?”
“If the president tells me to go in there, I will go in, but I’m telling you, if American military forces surround and enter the holiest mosque in Mosul we will incite an all-out rebellion in the city and possibly the country.”
“He’s right, Mitch,” Stilwell said.
Rapp didn’t like it, but he knew they were right. “Then we need to go in low profile.”
“That’s fine, but the Great Mosque has some pretty serious security.”
“Local militia.”
“Basically.”
As Rapp struggled to find a solution he was reminded of something he saw in Stilwell’s office. “How well do your Kurds know this area?”
“Like the back of their hands.”
“All right, tell them we’re moving in five minutes, and tell them to bring everything they have.”
60
TEHRAN, IRAN
Only minutes after concluding his forced conversation with Mukhtar, Ashani was informed via intercom that Ayatollah Najar was holding on line one. Ashani greeted his old mentor with a mix of relief and panic. Before he could say a word, Najar ordered him to get to the Presidential Palace immediately for a meeting of the Supreme Security Council. Ashani found his friend’s brevity very unsettling, but after a moment he concurred that in the wake of the American president’s speech, it could simply be that Najar was in a rush to get a handle on the situation.
Five minutes later Ashani was in President Amatullah’s conference room with all but a few members of the Security Council. They were all waiting for the arrival of Najar and, they assumed, the Supreme Leader. While they waited, Ashani paid close attention to Amatullah. At present, he was standing in the corner talking with General Zarif and General Suleimani. All three men looked worried, but then again everyone in the room looked worried. Ashani tried yet again to figure out how far-reaching this plot was. Did Ayatollah Najar and the Supreme Leader know, or were they simply duped? Did they leave the city to distance themselves from any accusations should the plan fail or did they simply travel to Isfahan to offer aid to the families of those lost?
Ashani desperately wanted to believe that Najar was incapable of such foolish and deceitful behavior, but the man had been avoiding his calls all morning, and if Ashani had to guess why, it was because he was not prepared to answer any difficult questions. Nonetheless, here they were, on the brink of war, and a meaningful discussion of the facts had yet to take place. Something that had to happen if there was any hope of releasing Kennedy before the deadline.
Ashani had no doubt Amatullah and his cronies would argue that the Americans were making empty threats. That they would never attack. Ashani was actually listening to General Zarif parroting that very statement to President Amatullah when the door to the room burst open.
Ayatollah Najar strode into the room with six large men all wearing either dark blue or black suits. Ashani recognized several of them as belonging to the Supreme Leader’s security detail. Ashani expected the Supreme Leader to follow, but instead the last man closed the door and locked it. The already tense mood in the room worsened. Ashani shifted nervously in his seat and felt his throat tighten.
Najar walked straight for President Amatullah and the two generals who were still standing in huddled conversation. Najar adjusted his thick glasses and asked, “Which one of you ordered the sinking of the Sabalan?”
Amatullah demurred and said, “I don’t know what you are talking…”
“Lies!” Najar screamed. “Lies! Lies! Lies! I am sick of the lies.”
The entire room was taken a
back, but Amatullah quickly rebounded. With a dismissive half smile, he said, “I can assure you that I am not lying.”
“And I can assure you that the Supreme Leader is certain every word that comes out of your mouth is a lie,” Najar spat back. He turned his glare on the two generals and screamed, “Which one of you came up with the idea to sink the Sabalan?”
Amatullah took a half step forward and said, “The Americans…”
“The Americans did nothing,” Najar snapped. “I know when I’m being lied to, and as much as it pains me, it was brutally obvious that President Alexander was telling the truth. You, on the other hand, have built your entire career out of lying, so I am left with only one conclusion. Now for the last time, which one of you ordered the sinking of the Sabalan?”
Both Amatullah and General Zarif glanced at General Sulaimani and took a half a step away. The leader of the Quds Force found himself deserted. He looked at his two coconspirators and shook his head in disgust. With his chin help high he said, “I am proud of what I have done. It is time to stop running from the Americans. The men aboard the Sabalan will be remembered as martyrs for the cause.”
“And so will you,” Najar said as he drew a pistol from under his robes. He pointed it at the general’s face and squeezed the trigger of the .357 revolver. The large-caliber bullet blew chunks of brain and flesh against the white plaster wall, and General Sulaimani’s lifeless body slumped to the floor. Before anyone had time to react to the shock of what had just happened, Najar turned back to Amatullah and yelled, “And now on to the issue of the kidnapping of the director of the CIA.”
Ashani noticed that the Supreme Leader’s bodyguards had all drawn their weapons.
“Who,” Najar shouted, “was the fool who came up with this plan?”
Ashani’s ears were ringing as he watched Amatullah squirm. The man’s eyes were desperately darting around the room in what looked like a plea for help. Amatullah then locked eyes with Ashani and slowly raised his right hand. Ashani sat in horror as he realized Amatullah was pointing at him. Before Ashani could defend himself, Amatullah said, “It was Minister Ashani’s idea. I only found out about it in the last hour.”