“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.
Rapp and Mukhtar noted each other at the same moment. Both froze for what was only a fraction of a second but seemed like at least five.
“That is him,” Husseini whispered.
Rapp was already moving. He saw Mukhtar pull back his suit coat and reach for a radio. Rapp raised the .45 and fired two rushed shots as Mukhtar jumped behind one of the large columns. The bullets sailed past and thudded into the next column, sending shards of rock to the floor. Two steps later Rapp saw movement on his right. He brought his 9mm up and kept his .45 pointed in the direction of Mukhtar. A man in a tactical vest holding a machine gun came into view. Rapp fired a single shot from the 9mm, striking the man in the head. He could now hear Mukhtar barking commands into a radio. Rapp didn’t have to hear the words. He already knew what they would be.
In a split second Rapp made up his mind. He turned to the right and burst through the doorway as the man he had just shot was coming to a rest on the floor. A second man was sitting on a chair inside the small vestibule. He barely had the chance to open his tired eyes to see what was going on.
The 9mm bullet hit him in the center of the forehead. Rapp tossed off his black robes and yelled for Stilwell to stay with Husseini. As he ran into the vestibule, he could he hear Mukhtar’s voice coming over the radio clipped to the dead man’s tactical vest. While still holding on to his .45, Rapp reached out and snatched the radio with his thumb and forefinger. He pressed the transmit button and countermanded Mukhtar’s order as he started down the stairs three at a time. He reached the first basement in just a few seconds and made sure to keep his finger on the transmit button so that Mukhtar couldn’t relay any more commands.
The door that led to the second basement was right where Husseini said it would be. Rapp yanked it open with no concern for his own safety and rushed into the significantly more narrow passage. A thought occurred to him and he brought the radio to his mouth. In a gruff voice, he barked. “I’m coming down. Don’t do anything until I get there.”
Rapp momentarily lost his footing on the smooth narrow treads and skidded into the wall at the switchback. A third of the way down the last, small flight he leapt and hit the dirt floor. He glanced to his left. There was nothing but darkness. He wheeled to his right, dropping the radio and bringing both guns to bear on the wood slat door thirty feet away. Lines of light cut through the cracks, and a man’s voice could be heard on the other side asking someone to repeat what they had said. Rapp charged forward, picking up speed. Lowering his shoulder he plowed through the ancient dry wood like it was made of twigs.
Two men stood no more than eight feet away. One in front of the other. The closest one was holding a radio in front of his mouth and in the other hand a pistol dangled lazily at his side. Rapp fired the 9mm, hitting the first man in the side of the head. As he sank to the floor, Rapp got a full look at the other man, and his first glimpse of Kennedy. She was tied over the back of a chair and bleeding profusely. Her shirt was lying in shreds on the floor, and her back was covered with long red welts from being whipped. The other man was shirtless, covered in sweat and holding a double length of electrical cord in his right hand.
The man shrugged, dropped the cord to the ground, and raised his hands in the air.
Rapp took one more look at Kennedy and then the man who had been beating her. He could feel the bile rising up from deep within.
The man looked at Rapp and said, “I was only following orders.”
“So am I.” Rapp pulled the trigger on the 9mm and shot him in the chest.
EPILOGUE
WASHINGTON, DC, ONE WEEK LATER
Ashani was driven straight to Langley by Rob Ridley and brought into the Old Headquarters Building via the executive underground parking garage. Before entering the director’s private elevator he’d been roughly searched by two of Kennedy’s bodyguards—an indignity that he would have not tolerated a week earlier; but now, considering all that had happened, he didn’t dare complain. He’d spoken with Rapp twice in the past week. The first conversation didn’t go all that well. In fact it consisted mostly of Rapp threatening him and telling him to pass along threats to other Iranian officials. Ashani had learned a great deal about the man in the past week, and nearly all of it was unsettling. He was not someone they could afford to take lightly or ignore.
Ashani had discussed the problem with Najar, who was not pleased to be threatened. His curt response was that they should hire someone to kill the American agent. Ashani, who hated the idea, dissuaded his mentor by explaining that others had tried to do the same thing and had failed. “In fact,” he added, “they are all dead.”
Ashani used that anecdote to help pitch his proposal. He explained in det
ail what he proposed to do and how it would both solve a problem and satisfy Rapp. It was the classic killing of two birds with one stone. With Najar’s blessing, Ashani had called Rapp and told him he would like to sit down and discuss a very important matter. Rapp pressed him for more information, of course, but Ashani just repeated that he was willing to share some very important information with him. Rapp agreed to the meeting, but refused to do so anywhere other than Langley. Ashani reluctantly agreed, and now he found himself entering the belly of the beast.
As he was escorted through the door by Rob Ridley, he laid eyes on Kennedy for the first time since their meeting in Mosul. She was sitting in a chair next to a couch with an expression that was devoid of emotion. Ashani averted his eyes, feeling an overwhelming sense of shame. He noticed someone approaching from the far end of the large office and turned to see who it was. The man was around six feet tall and had longish, wavy black hair and a beard—both with flecks of gray. He was wearing dark slacks and a white dress shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and tapered down to a narrow waist.
Ashani knew it was Rapp by the photos in his dossier, but seeing him in person was an entirely different matter. It was like looking at a photo of a lion as opposed to standing only a few feet away from one of the Creator’s most efficient predators. He had expected him to be more rigid, like the former army officers who worked for him, but he wasn’t. He had a relaxed, athletic grace in the way he moved. Ashani thought of the threats Rapp had made over the phone, and it sent a shiver down his spine.
Rapp pointed at the couch next to Kennedy and said, “You can sit over there.”
There were no pleasantries. No hellos, or would you like anything to drink. Ashani moved around the glass coffee table and sat on the couch. He looked at Kennedy and with all the sincerity he could muster said, “I am so sorry for what happened to you, and my country offers its sincerest apologies.”
“Bullshit,” Rapp said in a menacing tone. He took up a position on the other side of the coffee table and remained standing. “There’s people in your government who were behind the whole thing.”
Ashani looked up at Rapp and noticed a large-caliber automatic holstered on his left hip. He turned back to Kennedy and said, “He is right. Most of them have been punished. Some have paid with their lives.”
“What about Amatullah?”
“As I have already told you,” Ashani said to Rapp, “his term is up in less than a year. He will not be running for office again.”
Rapp stood there and shook his head in disgust.
Ashani found the man very unsettling, so he turned his attention back to Kennedy. In a soft voice he said, “I wish there was a way I could prove to you that I had nothing to do with this crazy plot. I have four daughters and a wife. I would never have participated in something like this.”
“Yeah, you just help fund and train Hezbollah suicide bombers so they can blow themselves up in supermarkets and kill pregnant women.” With a sarcastic sneer Rapp added, “That’s much better.”
Kennedy looked at Rapp and cleared her throat. It was a signal for him to back off. She then looked at Ashani and said, “It is my hope that this experience will serve as a lesson that our two countries need to open relations. The lack of communications only allows the zealots to advance their ideas.”
“I agree,” Ashani responded.
Rapp made a face like he might get sick.
“Now, why did you travel all this way?” Kennedy asked in a congenial voice.
“The short answer…Imad Mukhtar.”
“What about him?” Rapp said.
“He is back in Lebanon.” Ashani placed a thick manila envelope on the glass table and slid it toward Kennedy. “I have prepared a dossier for you.”
Kennedy opened the package and began flipping through the pages. “This is a lot of information.” She looked at him with her searching eyes and asked, “Why?”
“Because he wants us to clean up his mess,” Rapp said.
Kennedy help up her hand, signaling to Rapp that she would like him to butt out for a minute. “Why?”
“Ayatollah Najar has asked the senior leadership of Hezbollah to arrest Mukhtar and send him to Tehran. They have assured him that they would put their full resources behind it.”
“Let me guess,” said Rapp, “they’re not putting a lot of effort into finding him.”
“They are putting no effort into finding him. They are putting all their effort into hiding him.”
“Where?” Rapp asked.
“North of Tripoli.”
“Lebanon?”
“Yes.” Ashani pointed to the file in Kennedy’s hands. “It is all in there. Bank records, known associates, et cetera…”
“There’s a lot more than that in here,” Kennedy said.
Ashani shrugged sheepishly.
Kennedy studied his face for a moment and in search of a more full answer, repeated her question. “Why?”
“Only one other person in my country knows about my trip to see you. That person and I agree that Iran’s future would be better served if we were to cut our ties with Hezbollah.”
“And by giving this to us you hope to accomplish…what?”
Ashani thought about his answer carefully and then said, “I think it will help us close a very ugly chapter in our shared history, and hopefully give you personally a sense of justice.”
Kennedy considered the thick file for a moment and said, “Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” Ashani stood and said, “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
“You are welcome. Please excuse my not getting up, but I’m still a bit sore.”
Rapp escorted Ashani to the door and handed him off to Ridley. He closed the door and walked back to Kennedy, who was staring out the window lost in thought. Rapp stood there for a moment and then asked, “What would you like me to do with Mukhtar?”
Without looking, Kennedy handed the file over her shoulder to Rapp and said, “Kill him.”
TRIPOLI, LEBANON
The G-5 landed shortly after midnight. Rapp looked out the window and was pleased to see that the police escort was there as promised. It had taken Rapp three hours to read the file from cover to cover, and by the time he was finished, he knew exactly what he was going to do. He had his secretary make two copies of the file. He sent one to Marcus Dumond with instructions to scan everything into the system, so they could begin the collection of intercepts, and the other file went to Kennedy with instructions for it not to be distributed until he gave the okay. The last thing he needed was some gung-ho analyst, or worse, someone from the Justice Department getting in his way before he had a chance to permanently resolve the outstanding issue.
The next thing he did was call a certain Middle Eastern monarch who had a deep fondness and respect for Kennedy. This monarch had called in the aftermath of Kennedy’s kidnapping and offered to do anything to help bring Imad Mukhtar to justice. The king also happened to be from the Sunni sect of Islam and despised the Shiite terrorist group Hezbollah. Mukhtar himself had been behind a plot to kill one of the king’s brothers. Rapp explained the situation, and told the monarch what he would like to do. The monarch did not hesitate to offer his significant assistance, and in fact told Rapp he would like to incur the costs the operation. This actually became the stickiest part of the conversation. Rapp had to eventually invoke tribal honor to get the monarch to back down.
Operations like this were often very tedious and drawn out—usually taking months and sometimes even years. Every so often, though, a shortcut presented itself. The trick was to know when to take it. In this instance, Rapp was influenced by several factors. The first, simple fact was that every government and organization, with the exception of Hezbollah, had turned its back on Mukhtar. And according to Ashani’s information there were even a few high-ranking members of Hezbollah who thought it was time for the man to simply disappear. The second reason why Rapp was willing to take the shortcut was beca
use he knew if anything went wrong, the president would have his back. Alexander had told him personally that he wanted Mukhtar’s scalp and he didn’t care how long it took. The third and final reason Rapp decided to take the quick route was simple poetic justice.
Rapp looked at his satellite phone and punched in a number from memory. After a few rings someone answered on the other end and gave Rapp the confirmation he needed. Rapp thanked the person and put the phone back in his pocket. He unbuckled his seat belt, and opened the storage closet near the cockpit. After putting on his suit coat he grabbed a large, heavy black duffel bag and threw it over his shoulder. On his way past the cockpit, Rapp poked his head in and told the pilots he would likely be back in an hour. Rapp walked down steps and across the rain-slick tarmac. Two police officers were standing by the squad car; one a detective and the other a patrolman. Rapp shook hands with the detective, who informed him that the chief was waiting for him at the station.
Rapp climbed into the backseat and they were off. Where Beirut was a city of mixed religions and sects, Tripoli was predominantly Sunni. They arrived at the station a few minutes later. Rapp lugged the heavy bag up two flights of stairs and was shown immediately into the chief’s office. Introductions were extremely brief. Neither man wanted to get to know the other. They simply wanted to complete the transaction and go their separate ways.
“Is that what I think it is?” the chief asked, pointing at the bag on the floor.
Rapp nudged it with his foot. “Sure is. Would you like to take a look?”
The chief nodded eagerly.
“Before we do that I want to verify one thing.”
“What is that?”
“You spoke to his majesty directly?”
“Yes.”
“And I assume he told you that I am the last guy you want to double-cross.”
The chief grinned uncomfortably. “Yes, he did. He actually said you are the second-to-last guy. He is the last guy.”