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The man vacillated and then after clearing his throat and gaining some courage said,"Malikul Mawt."
Rapp smiled. The man had just told the others that Rapp was the angel of death. "That is right. My name is Azra'il, and today isYaumud Deen." The day of judgment.
Urda had joined him in front of the five captives. Rapp pointed to one of the men and said, "Take his gag off."
Urda did so and then remained standing next to the gray-bearded man.
Having looked forward to this day for some time Rapp studied the grizzled face and said, "Ali Saed al-Houri, I have seen theSijjin and your name is on it." TheSijjin was a scroll where the names of all those who will be sent to Hell are recorded.
The weathered features twisted with defiant rage and let loose a gob of spit. Rapp had expected nothing less and stepped effortlessly out of its way.
"You are a liar," al-Houri yelled in Arabic. "You are not even a true believer. You are nothing more than an assassin."
Rapp shook his head sadly. It was all part of an act he planned for the other four men. The CIA had an extensive file on al-Houri, much of it compiled by the Egyptian secret police back in his days as a member of the Muslim Brotherhood. His faith was unshakable even then, and it was sure to have been strengthened over the years. That meant he would be exceptionally difficult to break, even if Rapp had all the time in the world to work on him.
"I am not a liar," Rapp replied without malice. "Allah does not hold in favor men who kill innocent women and children. Your name is on the list, and I am here to send you to Hell."
Al-Houri laughed in Rapp's face. "The tide is turning. We are about to strike a great blow for Allah, and you will pay dearly."
Rapp dropped to a squat so he could look al-Houri directly in the eye. "I found your little room under the house." Rapp paused to let this little surprise sink in. "Interesting plan it's too bad it won't work."
The old man smiled. "You cannot stop us. There is not enough time."
Rapp could tell the smile was not false bravado. Out of fear, he almost asked a question, but stopped himself. There was no way the old man would answer it. No matter what Rapp said to al-Houri, his faith and confidence in his chosen path would remain unshaken. This made him dangerous. His conviction would give the others strength. He had to be removed to get the rest to talk.
Rapp stood and slowly walked around behind the prisoners. He approached Urda and whispered something in his ear. Urda nodded and handed over one of his Kimber.45-caliber pistols. Rapp took the heavy and exceptionally loud pistol and stood behind al-Houri who was trying to make eye contact with the other prisoners. With the weapon in his left hand he pulled the hammer back into the cocked position and covered his right ear with his free hand.
Rapp placed the stainless-steel barrel a mere two feet from his head and said, "Ali Saed al-Houri, your deeds have dammed you to Hell, and that is where I am sending you." There would be no last-minute confession, only orders for the others to stay true to their cause, so before al-Houri had a chance to utter a single word, Rapp squeezed the trigger.
* * *
Twenty-One
Mitch Rapp wasn't sure if he believed in hell, but if such a place truly existed, Ali Saed al-Houri was on his way. Rapp rolled him over so the others could get a good look at what was in store for them. The force of the hollow-tipped.45-caliber round had punched a fist-sized hole through the terrorist's head, leaving a gaping wound where his nose and upper lip once were.
As Rapp looked down at him he didn't feel the slightest bit of regret or guilt. Al-Houri was one of the organizers of the worst terrorist attack in American history. He had cheered and gloated over the deaths of 3,000 peaceful men and women, and he was planning to kill thousands more. He was a vile and demented religious zealot, deserving of the bullet that had just ripped a large portion of his brain from his head.
Rapp paced back and forth in front of the remaining four prisoners. Not one of them dared raise his eyes and look at him. He knew their ears were ringing from the blast of the powerful.45-caliber Kimber so he shouted in Arabic, "Which one of you wants to go to hell next?"
Rapp told Urda to repeat everything he said in Pashtu. He went on to talk about theSirat; the bridge over hell that all Muslims walk to find out if they will make it toJannah, or paradise. He recited verses from the Koran that condemned the killing of innocent civilians. He screamed about the need to be in a purified state to be accepted into heaven. He spat verse after verse at them to drive doubt into their narrow minds that they were true martyrs and thus deserving of paradise. He got right in their ears and shouted that they were about to spend the rest of their days in endless torment, and then he offered them a chance to repent. A chance to be cleaned and purified. When he had set everything up as best as time would allow, it was time to separate the prisoners and begin questioning them one by one.
Urda's bodyguards came back into the warehouse and dragged three of the men out, leaving behind the one Rapp had chosen. He was the youngest of the lot, the man who had recognized Rapp. He was one of two wild cards. Rapp did not even know his name. It would have been ideal to know exactly who he was, to have a full briefing on him so he knew where to apply pressure and probe, but that was out of the question.
Rapp grabbed a couple of empty white five-gallon buckets and turned them upside down. As he walked around behind the prisoner, the man flinched. That was a good sign. Rapp took hold of him under the arms and hefted him onto the bucket. Moving the other bucket a little closer, he sat and looked into the eyes of the young man only a few feet away. The lifeless body of al-Houri lay beside them, the blood draining from his head and snaking its way toward the bare feet of the prisoner. It served as a vivid reminder of where this interrogation could lead.
For the first time, Rapp scrutinized the man's face. He had a beard, of course, and on the surface did not look Arab or Persian. The young man was probably Afghani or Pakistani and looked to be in his mid-twenties.
"Do you speak English?" Rapp asked in an easy tone.
The prisoner would not raise his head and look at him. "Yes," he offered quietly.
The answer was more telling than one would think. It was common for English to be taught as a second language in both Afghanistan and Pakistan, but not in the mountainous border region. That meant the young man was more than likely from a larger city. "What is your name?"
"Ahmed."
"Do you have a last name?" Rapp asked.
The prisoner did not answer at first.
