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Rapp watched Urda's demeanor change instantly at the mention of one of al-Qaeda's top lieutenants. "I flew eight thousand miles and, in one day, did what you've been trying to do for almost two years. So don't give me this shit about professional courtesy. I don't know you, and I don't give a shit if I get to know you. All I care about is whether or not you're good at your job and whether you get me the results I'm looking for. Now, if you have a problem taking orders from me, let me know right now, and I'll make sure your ass is on the next plane back to the States. I'm sure I can get the director to find a nice desk job for you somewhere."
Rapp paused long enough for Urda to get a clear picture of himself sitting at the desk in question, and just how embarrassing it would be for him to get sent packing back to Langley, and then he offered the man an out. "I admire the sacrifice you've made, and I'd prefer to have you involved in this especially since we don't have a lot of time. So do me a favor. Take your two trucks, pull them around to the back of that Chinook, and let's load these prisoners up and get the hell out of here."
Urda looked at the helicopter and then back at Rapp. "I heard you could be a real prick."
"I heard the same thing about you." Rapp gave the man a wry grin and said, "Let's go."
* * *
Eighteen
Finding a CIA station in a new town was a little bit like looking for a Catholic cathedral. Scan the horizon for the highest point and that was most likely where you would find it. Kandahar was no different, except there were no cathedrals, or even churches-only mosques. The Agency had set up shop at a villa that overlooked the entire town. The place had been built and occupied by a wealthy Afghan family who had fled like all the other well to do families when the Soviet Union had invaded their country. During the eighties the compound had been occupied by the Soviets and then in the nineties by the Taliban, and now it was the Americans.
The recently paved road to the station snaked its way up the hillside to a checkpoint manned by U.S. Marines. The Toyota 4 Runners did not turn off on the road, though. Rapp had told Urda of his plans, and his fellow CIA officer thought it best if they steered clear of both official and unofficial types of U.S. installations. There was a place a little further down the road that Urda knew of. Rapp didn't bother to ask him how he knew of it, or if he'd actually used it. There was no need to ask prying questions in their profession. They only led to liabilities and answers that one was better off not knowing. At the CIA the attitude toward torture was a little bit like the military's policy on homosexuality: don't ask, don't tell.
Rapp was perhaps more comfortable with this state of intentional ignorance than anyone at the Agency. His entire recruitment into the CIA was part of a plan launched by the then director of operations Thomas Stansfield. Stansfield had been a member of the CIA's precursor, the Office of Strategic Services, or OSS. He'd distinguished himself during WWII when he became a highly effective and decorated operative, serving behind enemy lines in both Norway and France. After the war, when the CIA was formed, Stansfield became one of the Agency's first employees.
Stansfield was on the ground in Europe during the Cold War and had been the strategist behind some of America's greatest intelligence coups. During the Church Commission hearings on Capitol Hill in the seventies, when some of the CIA
's biggest dunderheads were exposed, he was grateful to be ensconced behind the Iron Curtain. He was hopeful that the Agency would rebound from the hearings as an organization more focused and clear in its mission, but it was not to be. Stansfield watched his once great spy organization slide further into decline during the Iran-Contra fiasco, and saw long before anyone else what political correctness would do to the effectiveness of the CIA.
In the late eighties he reacted by creating a covert organization called the Orion Team. Its mission was to take the war to the terrorists. Stansfield understood, possibly more than any person in Washington at the time, that fighting religious fanatics by civilized means was a doomed endeavor, and ignoring them simply wasn't an option.
The twenty-two-year-old Rapp had been Stansfield and Kennedy's prized recruit. An international business major fluent in French, Rapp was an All-America Lacrosse star for the Syracuse Orangemen. During his junior year thirty-five of his fellow classmates were killed while returning from a semester abroad. The Pan Am Lockerbie terrorist attack had changed Rapp's life irrevocably. His high school sweetheart, the woman he planned on marrying some day, had been on the plane.
The pain from that tragedy had fueled Rapp's motive for revenge, and over the next decade he was honed into the most effective counterterrorism operative in America's arsenal. All of this was done without the official knowledge of either the Executive or Legislative branches of the government. There were certain key people in Washington who knew of the Orion Team, several esteemed senators and congressmen, but the specifics had been known only to Stansfield. These elder statesmen knew a full decade before the rest of their colleagues that there was a war on terrorism, and they also understood that neither their colleagues nor the American public had the stomach for what it would take to fight the rise in fanaticism.
Calling Rapp a counterterrorism operative was essentially a polite way of ducking the truth. When everything was stripped away, the reality was that he was an assassin. He had killed, and killed often, for his country, and in his mind 9/11 was proof that he hadn't killed enough. These zealots would stop at nothing to impose their narrow interpretation of the Koran, and that included the detonation of a nuclear warhead in the center of a civilian population. Rapp did not look forward to what he had to do, but he certainly wasn't squeamish about it either. There was a very real possibility that the men he had taken from the village possessed information that could save thousands of lives-possibly even hundreds of thousands, and Rapp would do whatever it took to ferret out what they knew.
* * *
Nineteen
The vehicles turned onto a rutted and dusty road. After several minutes they came upon a series of ramshackle buildings. Rapp was a little taken aback to see that the place was occupied, but not as surprised as he was when he spotted a Soviet-made T-72 tank parked next to the largest of the buildings.
Sensing Rapp's unease, Urda turned to him and said, "Northern Alliance. My allies in this crazy war against the Taliban."
Rapp nodded and looked through the smeared and pitted windshield. "They going to be all right with this?"
"They hate these religious nuts more than you can possibly imagine. My boys," Urda pointed to the other vehicle that his two Afghani bodyguards were in, "are fiercely loyal to me. Good kids who lost their parents in the war. The Taliban did a lot of nasty shit to a lot of people. Consequently, they have no shortage of enemies."
Rapp had already noted that Urda's two locals looked as if they were still in their mid-teens, which didn't do a lot to instill confidence.
Urda gripped the wheel and brought the SUV around the side of one of the buildings. "Whenever I have someone who doesn't want to do things the nice way I bring 'em out here, and let these guys get it out of them."
Rapp chose not to respond. This was not a part of his job that he enjoyed.
The two Toyota 4 Runners stopped next to a fenced-in pen of some sort. Rapp stepped out of the vehicle and was hit with the pungent smell of animal waste. He looked over the top of the fence and saw several dozen pigs lying in their own excrement.
Urda lifted the tailgate of the SUV, revealing three bound and hooded prisoners. He looked at his two Afghani bodyguards and said, "Hoods off and up and over the top."
The two Northern Alliance mercenaries grinned at each other and slung their rifles over their shoulders.
Rapp looked at him, somewhat puzzled.
"Pigs!" said Urda. "They freak these guys out. They think if they touch one before they die they won't go to heaven. You know, the whole ninety-nine virgins and all that shit."
Rapp grinned, "You mean seventy-seven houri." Rapp used the Arabic word for the beautiful young virgins who supposedly awaited the Muslim martyrs when they arrived in heaven.
