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“Because it’s relevant.” Ashan couldn’t believe he had to keep pointing out something so obvious. “The more I think about it, if I were them, the first place I’d look is the External Wing.”
Durrani was on his feet this time, stabbing the air with his finger, threating Ashan that his career was over. “There is no room for Anglo lovers in our world anymore. We are a sovereign nation. Not their trained dogs. If I were—”
“You are not me, and I must tell you, Akhtar, you are behaving like a man who has something to hide.”
“I will not stand here and take this,” Durrani proclaimed, looking at the director for support.
Taj made a calming motion with his hands. “Sit. Everyone needs to calm down.”
Ashan felt like pointing out that only one person needed to calm himself, but Taj was smart enough to know that. Bringing it up would only serve to irritate Durrani.
“Akhtar, if you do not trust Nadeem, then I think you should accompany him to Bagram.” Taj paused for a long beat and then held up a cautionary finger. “Your lack of emotional control, however, worries me. If you cannot conduct yourself in a civil, helpful way with our American friends, then I do not want you to go anywhere near them. Are we clear?”
Durrani looked like someone had just force-fed him a shit sandwich. He didn’t want to leave, especially not now. He needed to keep an eye on things, but at the same time it pained him to think of Ashan licking the boots of the Americans. Ultimately, the only rational choice was to stay in Islamabad. If Ashan was right, and he usually was about these things, the Americans would already have his department under their watchful eye. Ashan could go play nice with the Americans. Durrani would stay where he was and make sure there was nothing to raise their ire.
CHAPTER 25
BAGRAM AIR BASE, AFGHANISTAN
THE CIA’s offices were off the main drag from the airport in an area that housed the Intel Fusion Center and the snake eaters from the Joint S
pecial Operations Command. Langley also had another piece of real estate at the far end of the flight line where they housed their planes and a few other things. It was their own little domain within the sprawling air base. Out of necessity the spooks had to share information with the various military branches, but there were times when it was unwise for the CIA to be too open with its military brethren. Necessity was, after all, the mother of invention, and the CIA had a real need to keep much of what they did secret. Louie Gould was a perfect example. Bagram had a brand-new shiny detention center replete with prayer rooms, prayer mats, video games, flat-screen TVs, and a Koran on every bed. Putting a man like Gould under the care of the military was an inherently bad idea, for the simple reason that once they had their hands on him there would be an official record.
Kennedy made it clear to Nash in the aftermath of the disaster with the Afghan Police that Gould’s identity was to be kept secret from everyone outside their immediate circle. She went so far as to put Darren Sickles and anyone else at the embassy on an exclusion list. Until they knew more, Gould was nothing more than another one of Rapp’s hired guns who was shot during the conflict. Kennedy wanted him kept under wraps until she could question him herself. The two had a shared history that she was certain Gould was not entirely aware of. Early reports were that he had been evasive and uncooperative when questioned by Nash. Kennedy had a piece of leverage that she was almost certain Nash didn’t.
Kennedy left the hospital and asked her security team to bring her back to the hangar where her plane was parked.
Clark Jones, the head of her security detail, gave her a concerned look. “Are we leaving?”
“No . . . just some business I need to take care of.”
They rolled down the base’s smooth asphalt streets in the black Suburban that had been provided by the base chief. They passed the post office, a Burger King, a fitness center, and bunch of other nondescript buildings. The place was a little slice of America. The hangar was at the far end of the flight line, far away from prying eyes. It looked like all the other hangars. The helicopters parked on the tarmac were no different than the U.S. Army Black Hawks all up and down the flight line. The black SUV pulled into the hangar and two beautiful Gulfstream G550s came into view—noticeably absent were any U.S. Air Force markings. Three twin turboprop MC-12 surveillance planes were clustered in the other corner, and a smattering of other smaller planes and helicopters were spread about the cavernous space.
Kennedy’s vehicle came to a stop near the glass offices. Her security team jumped out of the vehicle before she could put her hand on the door. Bill Schneeman, the base chief, was waiting for Kennedy by the office door. The bodyguards dismounted and formed their protective bubble around the director. She found the entire thing a bit much, but Jones had given her a firm lecture on the flight over. Jones had been in charge of her detail for just under two years. This was the first time he had “laid down the law,” as he called it. He was rarely briefed on the intricacies of what was going on, but because of his proximity he often picked up bits and pieces of information.
In this case he’d heard about the abduction of Rickman, one of her most senior people in Afghanistan, and the attempt on the life of Mitch Rapp, her most trusted advisor and top counterterrorism operative. There was one other piece of information that he was not privy to. John Hubbard, the Jalalabad base chief, had gone missing and local assets were frantically searching for him. Even without the knowledge of Hubbard, Jones and his men hovered like overly protective mothers of a first child. It was all very stifling.
Schneeman started to approach Kennedy but stopped on the other side of the security team. “Boss,” Schneeman called out with his typical smartass grin, “do you think you could get your guys to relax a little? We own this site. All the jihadists are on the other side of the wire.”
Kennedy gave Jones a sideways glance. “Clark, while we’re on base, do you think you guys could relax your posture just a bit?” Kennedy put her words in the form of a question, but her tone made it was obvious that it was an order.
Jones didn’t flinch. His dark eyes and tight black skin gave him a no-nonsense intensity that was perfect for his job. He might as well have had “Don’t mess with me” on his forehead. For a moment it looked as they were going to have at least a standoff, if not a confrontation. Jones looked around the hangar as if he was making one last check for threats and then motioned for his men to give the director some room.
Schneeman moved past the big men with all the weapons and extended his hand. “Welcome to Spa Bagram.”
Kennedy grinned at the reference. Back at HQ, people liked to joke that the Bagram assignment was a cakewalk. Most of the people posted to Bagram came back thin, fit, and in the best shape of their careers. Kennedy knew the real toll of the posting, however. Marriages had fallen apart due to distance and, in more than a few cases, infidelity. The bigger problem, though, was stress—long hours and big demands for results had burned out a good number of her people.
“Sorry I didn’t stop by sooner, but I was at the hospital,” Kennedy offered.
“Don’t worry about it. How’s he doing?”
“Better. He’s awake, but it looks like he’s going to be out of commission for a while.”
“That’s not what I wanted to hear . . . I mean the part about him being out of commission.”
“I knew what you meant.” Very few people knew that Kennedy had increasingly turned to Schneeman to get a handle on what was going on in-country. She had lost confidence in Sickles months ago as she began to receive reports of his unabashed enthusiasm for reintegration. How one of the top people in the Clandestine Service could think the plan was a good idea was beyond Kennedy’s ability to comprehend. The blame, she knew, rested squarely on her, as she had been the one who made him station chief in Kabul, and then the fool had gotten too cozy with the State Department contingent, that awful woman Arianna Vinter in particular.
“What have you found out about Hubbard?”
