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Nash’s expression turned thoughtful. “There’s no question that Chutani would like to take a peek at Rick’s files and hold some of them over us, but I’m not sure he has that kind of penetration into the S Wing yet.”

“I tend to agree. Have you considered Ahmed Taj?”

“Yeah. He’s a lot more interesting.”

“How so?” Kennedy said, wondering if Nash recognized he was being tested and just wasn’t letting on. She hoped that was the case.

“I’ve met the guy a couple times and I’ve read all the files we’ve got on him. Everything points to him being weak. I’m starting to wonder, though. Durrani’s death would have created quite a power vacuum at the ISI. We should have seen a lot of fireworks but we didn’t. I’ve seen successions in my kid’s Boy Scout troop go harder than that.”

Kennedy remained silent, taking another sip of her tea.

“So do you think I’m totally off base here, Irene? Maybe Chutani’s got a better handle on the ISI than I’m giving him credit for.”

“No. Unfortunately, I find myself nursing the same suspicions. Our analysts have been telling me for years that Taj is too feeble to control the ISI, and in the same breath they tell me that the ISI is becoming increasingly effective. Somewhere there’s a disconnect between theory and reality. If you discard the conventional wisdom that Taj is just a figurehead, it’s amazing how quickly the picture comes into focus.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” Nash said. “Because I’d rather see those files in the hands of al Qaeda than the ISI.”

Before she could respond, an alarm sounded on her laptop. She felt her heart rate accelerate. That particular chime was set to sound only when an email arrived from Joe Rickman.

“Rick?” Nash said, noticing her sudden pallor.

She nodded and opened her inbox as he moved to a position where he could look over her shoulder.

The attachment was another video. Kennedy felt her mouth go dry when she started the playback.

“Hello, Irene. I’d say it’s good to see you but I can’t see you because you had me killed.”

He was sitting with his boots on the desk again, wearing the same clothes he had in the last communiqué. Knowing Rickman, he’d recorded these all in one caffeine- and amphetamine-fueled push.

“I hope it drives you nuts trying to figure out how I got all this intel. Take my advice and don’t bother. I’m just smarter than you.” He paused dramatically, letting the seconds tick by. “Freaking out yet, Irene? Want to know what I’ve got? ’Cause this one’s way bigger than Sitting Bull. I mean, who really gives a crap about the Russians? Nothing but a bunch of vodka-swilling losers.”

“I can’t tell you how much I wish I’d been there when Mitch splattered this prick’s brains all over the wall,” Nash said.

Kennedy motioned for silence.

“Okay, I guess you’ve waited long enough,” Rickman said. “I sent the Iranians a detailed file about how their ambassador to the U.K. is on your payroll. Names, dates, bank account numbers. Even a few nice glossy eight-by-tens.” He smiled and reached for a remote on his desk. “Have fun.”

“Is that true?” Nash said when the image went black.

Kennedy was too stunned to answer. It was absolutely true. Kamal Safavi was their highest-placed Iranian asset, a man well versed in both his country’s fledgling nuclear weapons program and its increasingly severe political power struggles.

“What time is it in London, Mike?”

He glanced at his watch. “Around midnight.”

Kennedy shut down her email and pulled up Safavi’s information. She clicked on the text button and sent him an innocuous message that he would recognize as a warning. The contingency plan they’d created was for him and his family to immediately proceed to a safe house, where they’d be met by her London station chief. The question was whether Rickman had left time. Would he have seen it as more destructive to let the United States take the man and weather the -inevitable Iranian demands for his return? Or would he want the ayatollah to take him and extract everything he knew about the CIA’s Iranian operations?

“Where’s Mitch?” Kennedy asked.

“We still don’t know. He said he had some personal business to deal with and took one of the Gulfstreams we have hangared in Europe.”

“During this?” Kennedy said, letting a rare flash of anger show. “You’re supposed to keep track of him, Mike. And the Agency’s planes aren’t his private limousines.”

“Then that’s a conversation you should have with him, Irene. Because sometimes he gets a look on his face like he’s trying to decide whether it would be more efficient to argue with me or just kill me. As far as I’m concerned, he can do whatever he wants with those planes.”

Kennedy’s line buzzed and she picked up. Ken Barrett, her London station chief, was on the other end. He’d been copied on the text she’d sent.

“I have people on the way to the safe house, Dr. Kennedy. Do you want me to send anyone to the ambassador’s residence?”

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