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compromised.
The Iranian connection had been passed on to General Gifford, who felt that there was little chance Mukhtar could have gotten her across the border into Iran. The military units handling the border had shut down the crossing points less than thirty minutes after the attack. Still, Mosul was a large, sprawling city of close to two million people. The odds of finding Kennedy without some hard intelligence were not good.
Rapp looked at the black rubber dive watch on his wrist and felt his chest tighten. He knew it was the first sign of an oncoming anxiety attack. He’d gone through his entire life without suffering one, and then with the loss of his wife they had started to pop up. He told no one. Not even Kennedy. He figured with the passage of time they would lessen. And they did to a degree, but he could still count on a night or two a month during which he would lie in bed and feel as if an anvil had been placed on his chest. The attacks were characterized by a feeling of overwhelming failure. Failure as a man, that he had not been able to defend his own wife. Failure that he had been so selfish as to ever marry her in the first place.
Rapp held no illusions about who he was, or what he did. He’d been at war with radical Islam a good ten years before the country even knew there was a war. He’d threatened, beaten, tortured, and killed so many men it was hopeless to even attempt a tally. During all of that, though, he’d clung to the conviction that he was very different from the enemy. As strange as it would seem to many in a civilized society, he was able to live with what he did because of whom he did it to. Unlike the people he hunted, Rapp made every effort to make sure noncombatants stayed exactly that. Women and children were strictly off-limits. Thankfully, in the chauvinistic world of radical Islam, this was far easier to accomplish than one would think. The men Rapp hunted, however, made no such distinction. In fact, they sought out the innocent to amplify their terror.
Imad Mukhtar was such a man. Rapp knew the story of Mukhtar all too well. The highly reclusive leader of Hezbollah’s security section had cut his teeth in Beirut in his late teens. He was rumored to be behind the suicide attacks on both the U.S. Embassy and the marine barracks. What worried Rapp most about the man, though, was his involvement in the kidnapping of CIA Station Chief Bill Buckley. Mukhtar and his compatriots had squeezed every last bit of information out of Buckley over the course of a year and then hanged him. The thought of Kennedy suffering at the hands of such an animal was agonizing. With each passing minute, he feared his ability to save Kennedy was slipping away.
Rapp had waited long enough. Strategy or not, he needed to begin breaking these two and hope whatever he got out of them remained current. Rapp yanked open the cell door and approached the man on the stretcher.
As he pulled out his knife, Rapp said, “Name and rank?”
The man looked up at him with dilated pupils and a sweat-drenched face. The severed sex organ was still on his chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Fine.” The man’s right pants leg had been cut away above the knee by the army medic who had treated his bullet wound. Rapp stuck the tip of the knife under the remaining portion of fabric and began slicing away. Rapp intentionally dug the blade into the man’s inner thigh just enough to draw blood. The prisoner yelled and jerked against his bonds.
“Sorry about that,” Rapp said as he cut away the rest of the pants, exposing the man’s underwear. “Do you have a preference…left nut, right nut…it doesn’t matter to me.”
“What are you talking about?” the man said with genuine horror.
“Which nut would you like me to cut off first? Your left nut, or your right nut?” Rapp fished the tip of the knife under the elastic band of the man’s briefs and with one yank, shredded the underwear.
“Wait!” the man screamed. “What do you want to know?”
“Your name, Captain. That’s right,” Rapp said in response to the look of shock on the man’s face. “I know quite a bit about you, so don’t even think about lying. Now tell me your name.”
“Captain Rashid Dadarshi, and I demand to see a representative from the International Red Crescent.”
Rapp laughed. “You demand?”
“Yes, it is my right!”
“And how is it your right?”
“My country is signatory of the Geneva Convention, as is yours.”
“Listen, if you had been wearing a uniform and fighting U.S. troops, I would be more than happy to call the International Red Crescent, but you weren’t. You’re just another piece-of-shit terrorist.”
“I am not. I am an officer in the Iranian Revolutionary Guard.”
“Where’s your uniform? You didn’t wear it to work today?”
“I demand…”
Before Dadarshi could finish the sentence, Rapp stepped on his wounded knee. Dadarshi screamed in pain, and Rapp said, “I don’t want to hear that word come out of your mouth again. In fact, if you say it, I’ll carry out my threat, and if you don’t believe me, you can ask your friend from Hezbollah.” Rapp saw the admission on the man’s face and said, “That’s right. Your buddy Ali Abbas has been singing like a little girl. I actually had to cut one of his nuts off to get him to talk. Since then the guy’s been very helpful, giving me the location of your safe houses, and who your local contacts are. We’ve got people checking on them right now, and if it turns out he lied to me about a single location I’m going to cut off the other one. Now how about you?”
Rapp reached into his pocket and pulled out the surveillance photo of the man who had ridden in on the chopper with Minister Ashani. “The trick here is that I know a hell of a lot more than you think I do, but I don’t know everything. So if you feel like gambling with your family jewels, you go right ahead and try to lie to me. The man in this photo,” Rapp held it up, “who is he?”
Dadarshi closed his eyes and said, “Imad Mukhtar.”
“Good answer, captain. And how do you know him?”
“I met him for the first time this morning.”
“Where?”
“At one of the safe houses.”
