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“Why were you sent to pick Zhutov up?”
“The FSB received an email saying that he was being paid by the Americans.”
“Who was it from?”
“Joseph Rickman.”
“And you just believed it?”
“There was a great deal of information. The names of his handlers, information he’d passed to the CIA, dates, places. It said that he is the Sitting Bull that Rickman spoke of on the video.”
“When did you get the email?”
“Five days ago.”
Rapp pulled his gun from the man’s ribs and jammed it into his crotch. “I thought you weren’t going to lie to me, Vadim. Option one is now back on the table.”
“No! I was informed five days ago. I saw the email myself. Our people checked the servers to confirm the date and to try to find where it came from. I swear!”
“Pull over on the next side street and park, Vadim. I don’t want you to run over anyone when I blow your nuts off.”
“I have no reason to lie to you about this! We arrived four days ago and began watching Zhutov to see if he would lead us to any of his contacts. We flew in on a commercial airliner and went through passport control. I can give you the names we used.”
“Joe Rickman died two weeks ago, Vadim. So unless he’s figured out a way to stuff his brain back into his skull, you have a serious problem.”
“Impossible! Please. Check my story. The CIA can do this easily. You will find that I am telling the truth.”
Rapp kept the silencer pressed into the man’s crotch, but his desire to pull the trigger began to wane. He had a nose for lies and the overwhelming impression he was getting from Yenotin was that he was very fond of his testicles. The Russian wasn’t one of the fanatics Rapp had spent his career dealing with. He wasn’t looking to get his fingernails pulled in an effort to please Allah. He was a professional who understood the zero-sum game played by world powers.
“You said your people tried to determine where the email came from. What did they learn?”
“Nothing. It traveled all over the world. There was no way to trace its source.”
Rapp let out a long breath and indicated for the man to turn right at the next intersection. Things had just gone from complete crap to insurmountable disaster.
CHAPTER 5
LAHORE
PAKISTAN
THE Land Cruiser’s front wheels dropped into a muddy ditch, and Ahmed Taj heard the whine of the engine as his driver gunned the vehicle toward the low bank on the other side.
Taj didn’t bother to look outside. He’d grown up surrounded by such places, and little had changed over the years. Unmaintained dirt roads still threaded haphazardly through tent cities and mud brick huts. The clear sky was still obscured by smoke from cooking fires. The only anomaly was the absence of people. Normally, the area would be filled with children not yet bowed by their circumstances and adults trying desperately to find a way to fill their bellies. On this day, his security detail had coordinated with the local Islamic militias to clear his entry and exit routes.
The SUV he was in was painted white and emblazoned with the logo of one of the aid agencies active in the area, allowing for a certain amount of anonymity despite being the only vehicle on the street. He glanced upward through the moon roof and saw nothing. It was an illusion, though. The Americans were ever present, watching with satellites, drones, and co-opted security cameras. Their mastery of technology was their greatest strength. But their utter reliance on it was, ironically, their greatest weakness.
Areas like these had been slowly taken over by various radical groups with the help of Akhtar Durrani and his notorious S Wing.
The task of relocating these groups from the rural areas to the cities had been as critical as it was monumental. Here, mixed into the general population, even the most surgical drone strike would generate substantial collateral damage. The Americans were uncomfortable with civilian casualties and absolutely abhorred photographs of the blackened bodies of women and children.
It was all part of the bizarre web of lies and hidden agendas created by his country’s long relationship with the United States. Many of the politicians in Washington believed that the quagmire in Afghanistan had been caused by the U.S. abandoning the region after the Soviets fled. It was a naïve and arrogant view—an example of how the Americans saw the world as revolving entirely around their fleeting experiment with democracy. Afghanistan had simply reverted back to what it had been for a thousand years. An inevitable and easily predicted outcome.
The money originally earmarked for the mujahideen, though, continued to flow. In the last year alone, the United States had supplied almost $5 billion in aid to Pakistan, most of which had been quietly absorbed by the military and ISI. In fact, the army was now the -country’s largest holder of commercial real estate, owning condominium complexes, shopping malls, and office buildings throughout the world. Pakistan’s generals were some of the wealthiest men in the country.
While the situation was hopelessly complicated, its fundamentals were simple: Pakistan’s military-industrial complex and intelligence apparatus had become addicted to American dollars. The only real threat to that massive source of funding was the eradication of terrorism in the region. This left the ISI in the twisted but wildly profitable business of publicly fighting the terrorist threat to America while privately supporting it.
It was a situation that had to be handled with the utmost care. Enough fires had to be ignited to keep the Americans chasing after them, but no single fire could burn so brightly that it garnered too much attention. Unfortunately, that line had been recently crossed.
