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Ashan made no attempt to conceal his exasperation. “Why must you continue to treat the Americans as if they are our enemy?”
Durrani stabbed out his cigarette in the large copper ashtray and folded his hands across his tight green uniform shirt. “Afghanistan is our toy. The British thought it was their toy for a long time, and then the Russians thought they could take it, and then the Americans in their arrogance thought they could do what neither the British nor the Russians could accomplish. They thought they could tame the savages and take what is ours.”
Ashan shook his head. He had heard all of this before. “Again, you have conveniently left out the part where al Qaeda attacked them.”
“We could have handled al Qaeda for them. All they had to do was ask. They didn’t need to invade our neighbor. Look at all the damage they have caused.”
Ashan started to speak and then stopped. It was all a waste of his time. They had been over all of this before. Durrani loved to feign ignorance and spout his dislike for the Americans, all while gladly taking their money. It was rumored that he’d pocketed millions over the course of the war, some of it undoubtedly coming directly from Rickman. Ashan had been on the verge of leveling the accusation on multiple occasions but had always maintained just enough control to avoid suicide. Durrani wasn’t the only one who took money. Most of the leadership at the ISI received some form of payment from the Americans, including Ashan himself. The problem with Durrani was that he took the money and then worked feverishly to undermine the legitimate goals of their ally.
“The damage they have caused? And I suppose you think we’ve had no hand in this mess . . . training and funding the mujahideen and then the Taliban and even some members of al
Qaeda.”
“Afghanistan is a mess, but it is our mess. It is time for the Americans to leave.”
“And what do you think they’re trying to do? This reintegration program that I’ve been helping them with is so they can pull out.”
“And maintain a network of paid spies to continue to manipulate the affairs of this region.” Durrani shook his head. “It is unacceptable.”
“It is understandable considering everything they’ve been through.”
“Would they allow us to meddle in the affairs of countries in their geographical sphere of influence?” Durrani didn’t wait for an answer. “They most certainly wouldn’t. They have worn out their welcome. It is time for them to go home.”
Increasingly, this was how their conversations played out. To push further would be a waste of time and energy. “And what about Rickman?”
The general shrugged. “Another casualty of war. Everyone involved in this mess has lost thousands. Rickman is just another body.”
Ashan shook his head in genuine disbelief. “That’s where you’re wrong. Joe Rickman is not just another body. He is one of the CIA’s most important assets, and they are not just going to sit back while he’s tortured. The man has too many secrets . . . extremely valuable secrets.”
“You are overstating his importance, and even if you weren’t, good luck finding him.”
“Overstating his importance.” Ashan stood and walked to the other side of the large desk. He faced his friend and said, “Do you know who the Americans have dispatched to find Rickman?”
“I have no idea.”
Ashan placed both hands on the desk and said, “Your old friend Mitch Rapp.”
Durrani looked away and swallowed hard. After a moment of silence he said, “We will offer him any assistance he needs.” The words were flat, with no real commitment behind them.
“Akhtar, we have been friends for a long time. I don’t want you to react . . . I don’t want you to say a word. For once, please listen to me. Mitch Rapp is an extremely dangerous man. The fact that they have sent him over here is proof of how serious the Americans are about getting Rickman back. Rapp doesn’t care about diplomacy or politics. He is the last man you want to cross. He will kill anyone who has anything to do with this. I’m going to leave now, but I suggest you follow through on your words. Offer him any assistance he needs, and if you find out that any of your people have aided the Taliban in—”
“We have no idea who did this,” Durrani said, with more than a tinge of irritation in his voice.
“You are correct,” Ashan said in a soothing voice, “but we can make some educated guesses, and if the usual suspects are involved, we can almost guarantee that somewhere, someone has a connection to the ISI. We need to put our people to work. They need to tell us what they find out and we need to hand it over to the Americans. I know this is painful for you, but you need to act like a true ally.”
Durrani looked as if he’d taken a bite out of a sour lemon. “I am sick of the Americans and their arrogance. This is not my problem. They can find Rickman on their own.”
Ashan stepped back. “Fine, you stubborn fool. Rapp has already warned you what he would do to you if you stabbed him in the back again.” He retreated toward the door and asked, “Does he strike you as a man who doesn’t follow through on his threats?”
“I am not afraid of Mitch Rapp.”
Ashan placed his hand on the doorknob, a genuine feeling of sadness in his heart. His friend had turned into a stubborn old fool who thought the Americans lacked the resolve to play this nasty game at his ruthless level. For the average American he had a point, but Mitch Rapp was in no way average. Ashan opened the door and over his shoulder said, “If you aren’t afraid of Mr. Rapp then you need to have your head examined.”
CHAPTER 8
KABUL, AFGHANISTAN
RAPP looked out the porthole of the enormous MRAP Cougar. The drive from the airport to the embassy was short, just under two miles. The Army Corp of Engineers had done a nice job widening the Great Massoud Road to relieve as many choke points as possible. Cameras had been installed and fresh blacktop prevented insurgents from trying to bury roadside bombs. No parking was permitted on the street, and the sidewalks were kept clear of garbage, vendors, and pretty much anything that could conceal a roadside bomb. Despite all of these precautions, Rapp was filled with anxiety.
