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“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, I sure do, because after I’m done cutting his dick off, I’m going to drag him into one of those other cells and I’m going to blow his brains out right in front of the other two.”
“Mitch,” Ridley screamed, “you can’t do that. We have a team of interrogators on the way up from Baghdad. These guys are the best in the business. They will get every last ounce of information out of them.”
Rapp folded his arms across his chest. “Great, why don’t we just grab some lunch and a cup of coffee, kick back, shoot the breeze, and give these pros some room. That sounds like a hell of a plan. Then a week or a month from now when they finally squeeze the information out of these guys we can try to get Irene back. In the meantime I’m sure they’ll treat her like a queen.”
“It’s not going to take them a month.”
“It’s not going to take me more than an hour.”
“Mitch,” Ridley sighed, “I personally don’t care what you do, just so long as you don’t leave any permanent marks on these guys.”
“I personally don’t give a shit what you think, Rob. We’re not in Washington. We’re in a fucking war zone where our boss, the director of the CIA, the person who knows every damn spy we have in every damn country, has just been kidnapped. You think those guys are flying in a team from Damascus. A team that’s going to make sure they won’t leave a mark.” Anguish gripped Rapp’s face and he screamed, “They’re going to torture the shit out of her, Rob, and I’m not going to sit here and debate with you what I can and can’t do.”
Rapp took the six Polaroid photos and threw them down on Stilwell’s desk. “Scan those into the system and see if you can find a match. Where’s Marcus?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find him.”
Stilwell picked up the photos just as the phone started to ring. He grabbed the handset with his other hand and said, “Chief of base, Mosul.” He listened for a moment and then looked at Rapp. “Yeah, hold on.” He held the phone out for Rapp. “It’s the White House…the president wants to talk to you.”
Rapp thought about not taking the call for a second. Most of his career had been based on asking for forgiveness rather than permission. But this was the president, not one of his colleagues from Langley. Rapp thought of the conversation they’d had on Air Force One. He didn’t get the sense Alexander was the type of man who would try to put a leash on him. Even so, Rapp reluctantly stuck out his hand and took the phone.
45
WASHINGTON, DC
The warning came in while the majority of Washington was asleep. The duty officer in the White House Situation Room received the call from the CIA Global Ops Center shortly after 5:00 a.m. Within minutes phone lines were buzzing around the capital and beyond. There were plans in place for such things. Security details were rousted, motorcades were sent out early, and key players in the National Security arena were told to get to their respective offices immediately. Secretary of Defense England was the first Cabinet level official to receive the bad news.
A former Merrill Lynch executive and the head of their London office, England rose at 5:00 a.m. every morning so he could spend some time monitoring the European markets before heading in to the Pentagon. He was sitting at his desk in his study when the call came in. The ring, two quick chimes followed by a third, longer one, was distinctly different from all of the other phones England’s job required. At this early hour, England instantly knew the ring was a harbinger of bad news. As he eyed the secure telephone unit, his mind ran down a list of hot spots that could warrant the predawn call. Almost immediately his thoughts turned to Kennedy and her meeting. He picked up the phone, listened to the voice on the other end, and simply said, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
England called his office and told the duty officer to roust the Joint Chiefs. He also directed the woman o
n the other end, that in twenty minutes, he wanted to talk to someone in Mosul who could give him an on-the-ground assessment of what had happened. Irene Kennedy may have been CIA, but Mosul was the domain of the Defense Department. He knew of Kennedy’s meeting with her Iranian counterpart, but knew none of the details other than the disquieting fact that the Iranians had been adamant that no U.S. military personnel be present.
England raced upstairs, showered, threw on a suit, and grabbed his electric shaver. By the time he came back downstairs his full security detail was waiting in the driveway. England jumped in the back seat of the armored, black Suburban and started running the electric razor over his mostly gray stubble. His thoughts turned to Kennedy almost immediately. All he had been told by the situation room duty officer was that Kennedy’s motorcade had been hit in Mosul. The director of the CIA was believed to be alive and taken hostage. Everyone else had been wiped out.
England liked Kennedy. He liked her style, the way she kept things brief and to the point. Washington, England had found, was a town with an inordinate amount of people who liked to hear themselves talk. Kennedy was a breath of fresh air, highly intelligent and as well versed in Islam and the Middle East as anyone he’d ever met. He had grown to depend on her input.
England was an old acquaintance of the president. He had no government service on his record—military or otherwise. As the president had told him at the time of his nomination, he wanted England for his analytical mind and his ability to not just win an argument, but get others to agree with him. He’d also spent decades trying to anticipate trends, constantly looking into the future, and attempting to predict how things would play out. As his vehicle moved through the predawn streets of DC, he tried to do the same now with this crisis. Unfortunately, the first thought that entered his mind were the tapes of Muslim extremists decapitating their prisoners. The beheading of the director of the Central Intelligence Agency would be a powerful piece of propaganda.
England pushed his personal feelings aside and played out parallel permutations in his mind. As harsh as it sounded, the quick beheading of Kennedy might not be the worst thing for America. The celebration among the Islamic radical fundamentalists would more than likely be short-lived. Europe, Australia, Japan, Russia, and possibly even China were certain to see in the end the beheading of a woman and the mother of a child, not the leader of America’s chief spy agency. Such a barbaric move by the terrorists could end up harming them in the long run.
As cruel as it sounded, Kennedy knew too much. A drawn-out hostage situation would provide her captors with the opportunity to compromise America’s national security on a scale that was almost unthinkable. Just the thought of having to advise the president in such a manner made England extremely uneasy. He was too positive a person to settle for such a dismal outcome so early in a crisis. There had to be a better way to resolution.
As England’s Suburban passed through the Secret Service checkpoint on West Executive Drive, his secure phone rang. The duty officer at the Pentagon informed him that she had General Gifford on the line. England had met Gifford twice before on recent trips to the region.
“Tom,” England said, “I’m walking in to meet with POTUS right now. Can you give me the brief version of what happened?”
England listened while Gifford passed along the condensed version of an already condensed version that had been given to him from the commanding officer of the quick-reaction force. When Gifford was done, England thanked him and told him to stay by the phone. There was a good chance the president would want to talk to him. England entered the West Wing and went straight to the Situation Room, where he found President Alexander, National Security Advisor Frank Ozark, and Attorney General Pete Webber. The three men were sitting at one end of the massive, shiny wood conference table. They all had their elbows on the table and were staring at a gray, star-shaped speakerphone.
“Mr. President, I’m afraid he’s out of control.”
England unbuttoned his suit coat and sat in the leather chair next to Ozark. He recognized the voice coming out of the speaker phone as that of CIA Deputy Director Chuck O’Brien.
The president sighed and sat back in his chair. “Chuck, considering the situation, I think his rage is understandable.”
