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“Any ideas who is behind this?”
“No, but I have three prisoners, sir. In fact I’m in the process of interrogating them right now. I’m confident two of them will talk. The third looks doubtful.”
The president looked around the room. “Mitch, I’ve got Pete Webber with me, as well as Frank Ozark and Brad England. The rest of the National Security Council should be here shortly. There’s been some concern that you’re too close to this thing.” The president paused and then added, “That you might be out of control.”
A sigh of frustration could be heard over the speaker phone. “Mr. President, the director of the CIA has just been kidnapped. As per our discussion on Air Force One…I think now is the time to pull out all the stops.”
Attorney General Webber had no idea what Rapp was talking about, but it didn’t sound particularly thoughtful. “Mitch, Pete Webber here. We all know you and Irene are close, but you really have to take a few steps back and remember that you took an oath…an oath to protect and defend the constitution of the United States. We all took that oath, and that means none of us are above the law…including you.”
There was a long pause and then in a voice filled with frustration Rapp said, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Rapp’s stark response caused everyone in the room to take a quick look at each other. “Excuse me?” the attorney general asked defensively.
“The director of the CIA was just kidnapped, and her entire security detail was wiped out, and you want to lecture me about an oath and a two-hundred-plus-year-old piece of paper?”
“Our entire country is based on that piece of paper,” Webber responded defensively.
“You may have been thinking about defending a piece of paper when you took your oath, but I was thinking about protecting and defending American citizens from the type of shit that just happened. I apologize for my language, Mr. President, but this is ridiculous. If they haven’t already started torturing her, they are going to shortly. And once that happens, sir, it is only a matter of time before she breaks. And when she does, we are screwed. She has a photographic memory. She knows every single spy and clandestine operative we have in the Middle East, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
“There are legal ways to do this,” Webber responded.
“This isn’t a court of law,” Rapp snapped. “We don’t have a month to wear these guys down by asking them the same question five hundred times and waking them up twenty times a night. We don’t even have a week. If I don’t get answers out of these guys in the next twenty-four hours, we are going to have to start recalling every clandestine operative the CIA has in the region, and if we still haven’t got her back a month from now, we’ll have to recall the entire Clandestine Service. Every spy who has ever worked with us will be in danger of being exposed and executed. Our intel will dry up faster than any of us can imagine, and we will be flying blind.”
England looked at the president and said, “I’m afraid he’s right.”
“Mr. President,” Rapp said in a pleading tone, “all I’m asking for is twenty-four hours. Just let me do my job and I promise you, I’ll find out who is behind this.”
President Alexander looked directly at England, who in turn looked at the attorney general and said, “Pete, I’d like to have a word alone with the president and Frank. Would you excuse us for a moment?”
The look on Webber’s face was one of dejection, but he understood. He flipped his leather briefing book shut with a snap and stood. He marched across the room and closed the heavy soundproof door behind him.
England knew the president well enough to anticipate what must be done. There was no need for further discussion. Alexander was the quarterback. Their job was to protect and shield him. Alexander had already communicated with his eyes how this thing should play out.
“Mitch,” England said, “you have twenty-four hours…no questions asked. Just cover your tracks.”
“I will.”
“And, Mitch,” the president said, “bring her back.”
“I will, Mr. President.”
“Even if she’s dead, Mitch, I want her back.”
“Yes, sir.”
The speaker phone made a clicking noise as Rapp disconnected the call from his end. The president was about to say something when the door opened and Secretary of State Wicka entered looking very hurried.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner, sir.” Wicka dumped her leather shoulder bag on the chair next to England and reached for one of four remote controls sitting in the center of the shiny table. “I’m afraid this situation has just gotten more complicated.” Wicka pointed the remote at the large plasma TV on the wall across from her. “Sir, al-Jazeera is reporting that one of our subs has just sunk an Iranian military vessel in the Strait of Hormuz.”
“What?” a shocked Alexander asked as images of a heavily damaged gray military vessel appeared on the TV. The president tore his eyes away from the TV and looked at England.
The secretary of defense was already reaching for the phone. “I’m on it, sir.”
46
MOSUL, IRAQ
Irene Kennedy lay on the dirt floor and tried not to move. She was wearing only her bra and panties, and was partially covered by an itchy wool blanket. A foul, canvas bag was tied around her head. Even though she desperately needed to go to the bathroom, she was not about to ask her captors. They had already savagely kicked her for attempting to sit up. The man who had been watching her didn’t bother to say a word. Just delivered a swift boot to the ribs. He didn’t need to. The message was clear. Stay put. If we want you to get up we’ll let you know. Kennedy’s inventory of her surroundings was bleak. She was almost certain they had her underground. The floor was dirt, and even through the filthy canvas bag she could smell the must.
