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“Wind,” Rapp lied.
He’d saved Saad Chutani’s life and taken out the man’s main rival at the ISI, but Rapp still didn’t trust him. Like all Pakistani politicians, he was happy to ally himself with America when it benefited him. The moment it no longer did, though, he’d turn on his Western benefactor faster than the idiots in Washington could ever imagine.
“Is everything ready?” Rapp said.
“Yes. It’s just as we discussed.”
They rolled down the middle of the two forces, finally pulling up to a low stone building with a roof that looked like it was on the verge of collapse. Rapp stepped out of the vehicle, making sure not to make any moves sudden enough to startle one of the hundred or so soldiers aiming guns at him.
Two men came out of the building’s only door and an army major indicated for Rapp to put his arms up. He complied, allowing himself to be thoroughly frisked. When the soldier was satisfied, one of Chutani’s men went through the motions of repeating the process. The president didn’t want to give anyone the impression that he was too cozy with America’s CIA, an organization with approval ratings in Pakistan just below those of Satan.
They went inside, where the process was to be repeated by two more men. The first was recognizable as one of Shirani’s most trusted advisors, a squared-away soldier with an impressive physique despite being north of sixty years old. He did an even more thorough job, sliding his fingers along the inside of Rapp’s waistband and insisting that he remove his shoes so that they, too, could be inspected.
Chutani’s man was cut from very different cloth. He was in his early twenties and thin in a way that suggested mild malnutrition. His skin was blackened and marred by a lifetime under the Pakistani sun, but freshly cut hair and an impeccable uniform made him look respectable enough to pass as a young officer.
In fact, Raza Khan was an extremely gifted pickpocket that Chutani’s people had pulled from prison less than fifteen hours ago. He’d been given the choice of performing a small service in return for his freedom, or having his sentence changed from five years to death. Apparently, he hadn’t found the decision difficult.
Khan began to frisk Rapp, starting at the top and moving down as Shirani’s man looked on attentively. The young criminal lived up to his reputation and more. If Rapp hadn’t been expecting it, he wasn’t sure even he would have noticed the tiny Glock 39 slip beneath his shirt and into the waistband Shirani’s man had searched only moments before.
“Are we done?” Rapp said as Khan stepped away.
The pickpocket gave a short nod and opened a door at the back, motioning him through.
The room was windowless and completely empty except for the two men standing silently at opposite ends. President Saad Chutani was a tall, imposing figure with sharp eyes and a suit that was miraculously free of the dust that covered so much of his country. General Umar Shirani was shorter and had a gut held back by the straining fabric of his uniform. He wore the grand mustache favored by Pakistan’s military elite, and a prominent scar ran down one cheek—a souvenir from Pakistan’s 1971 war with India.
Neither of the men moved, clearly not willing to get any closer to one another than was necessary.
Shirani was the first to speak. “You’ve returned my country’s property?”
“Yes,” Rapp responded. “For what it’s worth.”
The soldier’s eyes narrowed as he tried to understand the meaning of Rapp’s words. “Is that another threat? Because if you don’t believe we can get—”
“General,” Chutani cautioned, “before we jump to
conclusions, maybe we should let Mr. Rapp explain.”
“I’d be happy to. That bomb’s a dud. There’s no fuel.”
“What are you talking about?” Shirani said. “You—”
“The canister that was supposed to contain the warhead’s fissile material is a fake,” Rapp said, cutting him off.
“This is your doing!” Shirani shouted, pointing an accusatory finger. “You stole our weapon and sabotaged it! Now you’re trying to blame the army. You want to discredit me. To discredit my leadership.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to, General? Don’t accuse me of things we both know I didn’t do.”
“My people saw no terrorists in Faisalabad. Just your people and your helicopter. You wonder why we move our arsenal on a regular schedule? Because of this. Because of the outlaw CIA, killing our people and trying to destroy our ability to defend ourselves.” The aging soldier turned to Chutani. “You made a grave mistake allying yourself with this man. The people of Pakistan don’t want our country to be run from Washington. We are a proud—”
Rapp rushed him, ramming a forearm into Shirani’s throat and driving him into the wall. The general had been a formidable warrior once but had spent his last twenty years sitting on his ass, a luxurious lifestyle that reduced him to slapping ineffectually in Rapp’s general direction.
Rapp used his free hand to take hold of the soldier’s hair and drag him to the floor. A moment later he had the Glock pressed against Shirani’s forehead.
“You . . .” the general stammered. “My forces are just outside. You can’t kill me.”
“Are you willing to bet your life on that?”
“You’ll die minutes after me. You won’t do it. Americans are cowards.”
