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They entered the presidential palace through an unassuming door isolated from the pomp and circumstance of the main entrance. This time Warch greeted the Pakistani soldier manning the security station by name and asked after one of his children. Rapp was completely ignored.
They continued down a broad hallway, pa
ssing no fewer than five Pakistani security personnel and a man carrying a silver tray who looked suspiciously fit and alert. At the end of the corridor, they ducked into a room lined with monitors. The two men watching the various video feeds immediately stood. Warch thumbed toward the door. “Why don’t you guys take a break.”
As they passed, Rapp began to suspect that Warch’s initial protests had been just for show. The Americans seemed prepared for his arrival, and it was hard not to notice that all the security checkpoints had been manned by Pakistanis whom Warch was on friendly terms with.
When the men were gone and the door was closed, Rapp approached the largest of the monitors. It depicted a richly decorated room full of well-dressed people grazing on food arranged on a central table. Sunny Wicka was one of a small group that included Saad Chutani and his wife. More interesting, though, was Ahmed Taj, who appeared to be making an effort to stay close to Carl Ferris. The senator had a good-sized scotch in his hand and already looked drunk.
It was a match made in hell, Rapp knew. A foreign intelligence czar who wanted to take down the CIA and a megalomaniacal American senator with exactly the same goal. How deep was Ferris in this thing? Would it be worth putting the screws to him? Probably not. He was a moron and Taj would be smart enough to keep him in the dark. The Pakistani would just play on Ferris’s ego and greed for power. He wore both on his sleeve.
Rapp recognized a few other members of Congress, but none were important or dangerous enough that he had bothered to remember their names. Warch’s men were also in evidence, trying to blend into the walls. No Pakistani security presence was obvious, but Rapp suspected he knew why.
“Are all the waitstaff ISI?”
“Yeah. It’s driving that prick of a chef nuts. They’ve been training for a month but some of them still don’t know a dessert fork from a hole in the ground.”
“When this thing hits the fan, get Sunny and her people out first.”
“When what hits the fan, Mitch?”
Rapp ignored the question. “Where’s the dinner being served?”
Warch used a computer mouse to switch to a view of the dining room. The only people in it were a few kitchen staff and a man in a chef’s uniform screaming at someone trying to straighten a listing ice sculpture.
“Is that Obaid Marri?”
Warch nodded. “The only person my guys are more afraid of than me. He hit a Black Stork with a frying pan for knocking over a flower display. Nearly cold-cocked the guy.”
“I’m surprised he got away with that.”
“Totally protected. I guess he’s some kind of hot shit cook. Chutani loves him.”
Marri shoved the man working on the sculpture and then stalked toward a set of double doors. A moment later, he appeared on the monitor displaying video from the kitchen.
“I’d like an introduction.”
“To Marri? Trust me, you don’t.” Warch glanced at his watch. “Look, Mitch, they’re going to start seating people for dinner in less than two minutes. After that, you’ve got maybe another fifteen before the soup starts rolling out. Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?”
“Take me to Marri,” Rapp said. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”
• • •
They entered the kitchen and Rapp stopped for a moment, flipping his ID badge to face his chest and surveying the tightly controlled order. Obaid Marri ran his kitchen like an African dictator and one of his standing orders was that no waitstaff was allowed inside unless they were serving. That meant no ISI. With the exception of him and Warch, everyone in the room was a professional cook. And by the looks of them, they were all terrified of the man in charge. Only a few dared even a brief glance in their direction before returning to whatever they were chopping, stirring, or arranging.
No one but Marri spoke and he was too absorbed in doing just that to notice Rapp and Warch approaching from behind. Finally, he heard their footsteps and spun. He fell into a stunned silence for a moment before jabbing a chef’s knife in their direction. “What are you doing in here? Get out! Do you hear me? Get out!”
That turned out to be enough for everyone to stop what they were doing and watch—a problem Rapp had anticipated. “Chef Marri? I’m Mitch Keller.”
“What? Why are you speaking to me? Why do I care who you are?”
“I’m Thomas Keller’s brother,” Rapp said, using a name he’d pulled off the Internet on the way there. Apparently, Keller was one of America’s top chefs.
Marri lowered the knife. “From The French Laundry?”
Rapp smiled and nodded. “He wanted me to send his compliments if I got a chance. He’s planning a trip to Pakistan next year and was hoping to get a chance to meet you.”
Rapp extended his hand and Marri, still looking a bit confused, reached for it. With the fireworks over, the kitchen staff went back to concentrating on their tasks. So no one noticed when, instead of shaking hands, Rapp grabbed the chef’s testicles and gave them a hard squeeze.
