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With Ferris leading America and Taj pulling his strings, the country would quickly go from the most powerful in the world to completely dysfunctional. A nation distrusted by its allies, blind to the activities of its enemies, and reviled by its people.
He returned to his desk and started a video from one of the file folders still open on-screen. He’d seen it before but the excitement in the pit of his stomach was even more intense upon the second playing.
Joe Rickman was wearing a cowboy hat and holding a beer bottle in one hand. He stared directly into the camera, eyes glistening and wild.
“Howdy, Irene. Thought we’d go for a change of pace on this one. I figured I’d help you out and tell you that I’m about to release proof that your buddy Ben Friedman at the Mossad is the one behind the destruction of Iran’s nuclear research facility a few years back. And that it was Mitch who came up with the BS cover story you fed the world. Add that to the fact that Kamal Safavi’s probably spilled everything to the ayatollah by now, and I’m thinking that Alexander’s little Iranian lovefest isn’t going so well. May I suggest a fruit basket? In my experience, those always seem to smooth things over.”
The video faded to black and Taj wiped at the perspiration building on his flushed cheeks. The temptation to give the files to a team of ISI analysts was overwhelming but impossible. It was far too sensitive to allow anyone else access to. He would have to personally sift through all of the information, cross-referencing it with the ISI’s data banks and determining how it could be used to generate the maximum impact.
There was little question that Irene Kennedy and Mitch Rapp would end up in an American prison. It was a sweet irony that two patriots who had so brilliantly defended their country would die in cages fashioned by the very people they had dedicated their lives to protecting.
These were largely trivial matters, though. The Rickman files generated far grander questions that Taj was just now daring to ask. Was there enough information to provoke a military confrontation between America and Russia? Or, even more devastating, China? Could the former Soviet bloc countries be turned away from the West? Could he gain enough sway over Middle Eastern oil producers to create an oil shock that would collapse the American economy?
Taj closed the computer files and moved them to a heavily encrypted drive that only he had access to. He stared at the progress bar as they were transferred but didn’t feel the sense of security he had hoped for. The reason was obvious. Kabir Gadai.
The younger man had been a loyal and highly competent assistant for years but he was also ambitious. Had he kept copies of the files and encryption key? Did he have designs on using them for his own benefit?
It was unlikely, but the possibility was too great to risk. After he helped Taj close his fist around Pakistan, Gadai would have to be -quietly dealt with.
Accusations of treason or bribery had the potential to reflect poorly on Taj’s fledgling administration and therefore could not be tolerated. No, an accident or perhaps even martyrdom. Gadai would become yet another inspiring symbol of the rebirth of Pakistan. A shining -example to others as the country rose to its rightful place as the world’s first Muslim superpower.
CHAPTER 57
OVER NORTHERN KAZAKHSTAN
SCOTT Coleman was standing in the plane’s aisle, shouting into a satellite phone as he struggled to maintain his balance in the turbulence. The CIA pilot was more conservative than the Russian who had flown them to Irena Shulyov’s camp and had wanted to fly around the storm. Rapp quickly made it clear that they were taking the shortest route—the only question was who was at the controls.
Coleman finally turned off the phone and tossed it onto an empty seat. “Four dead including the girl who was shot. Everyone else is stabilized and the team’s getting ready to take the sleds to Ukhta. They’ll be back stateside tomorrow morning.”
Rapp nodded. Pavel Katdsyn’s people—particularly the children—had been in bad shape. He’d left McGraw and Wick to save as many as they could. Whatever was going to go down in Islamabad, it wouldn’t be a frontal assault on the heavily guarded presidential palace. The difference between him having three men and one wasn’t going to matter.
“Get some sleep, Scott.”
The former SEAL thumbed back at their prisoner. “You don’t want help?”
“I’ve got it.”
Coleman retreated to a sofa mid-plane and fell onto it, nodding off almost immediately. The ability to rest whenever possible was stressed in special forces training, and it was a lesson Coleman had learned well. Unfortunately, sleep wasn’t an option for Rapp. He was on a laptop paging through everything the CIA knew about Kabir Gadai. None of it came as much of a surprise: Well educated, military background, impeccable record. Wife, three sons, and two daughters. A golden boy since the day he’d been born.
More interesting were the few paragraphs of new intel on Ahmed Taj. Kennedy had started
digging into his background when she’d first begun having suspicions about the man. None of it was particularly shocking considering his success in the murky world of Pakistani intelligence, but there were unquestionably a few useful revelations. Whether they would be enough to get the job done remained to be seen.
The plane dipped and Rapp glanced over the top of his screen. Gadai was strapped into a seat at the back with his hands still secured behind him. The pain generated by his broken sternum had been working on him for hours now, and a thin trail of blood ran down his chin where he’d chewed through his lip. When their eyes locked, Rapp could see that the hatred burning there had intensified—a trend that needed to be reversed before it reached the point of no return.
Gadai wasn’t some run-of-the-mill jihadist. Based on his stoic performance in the snowcat and his unbroken silence on the flight, he’d been well trained in the art of dealing with physical suffering. Of course, he would break eventually—everyone did—but that would take time they didn’t have.
Rapp grabbed a bottle of OxyContin from the seat next to him and started down the aisle. The Pakistani watched his approach with an admirably blank expression. He was aware of Rapp’s reputation and had prepared for what he believed was coming. Any sign of weakness or fear would be hidden for as long as possible.
Gadai’s jaw clenched, anticipating the first of many blows. There was nothing Rapp would have liked more than to oblige him. Unfortunately, circumstances demanded a different strategy.
He shook two pills from the bottle and held them out. “For the pain. I’ve taken shots like that to the vest and I know how bad it hurts.”
Gadai was predictably suspicious. His jaw tightened further and he turned his head away.
“Come on,” Rapp said, sitting in the chair facing him. “If I wanted to drug you, I’d use a needle.”
“I’ll take nothing from you.”
