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THE wind had continued to strengthen and now seemed to be steady at fifteen knots, with gusts coming in above thirty. The darkness and the hiss of dust blasting the surrounding structures created a disorienting environment of sensory deprivation. It was all Rapp could do not to wander off the street and run into one of the buildings lining either side.
Laleh’s directions had been impressively detailed, but following them in the prevailing conditions was challenging. A set of headlights appeared at the far end of the street and approached. He shaded his eyes, memorizing every detail of the newly illuminated terrain—the bullet-ridden stone façades, the narrow alleys, the blackening corpses hanging from a disused power line.
When the vehicle got close, he turned toward it, raising a hand in greeting. The armed men in the back looked on suspiciously but then quickly recognized him as the American who had gained General Mustafa’s favor. The man who had defied not only the CIA but the infamous Mitch Rapp.
They shouted unintelligibly as they passed, saluting him with their assault rifles. Rapp continued along the street, navigating by mental map as his eyes readjusted to the darkness.
He ran a hand along the front of a building to his right, using his fingers to locate the alley he had seen moments before. It was the one Laleh had told him about, but it was less than five feet wide, creating an even deeper darkness. It took almost a minute, but Rapp found the door handle he’d been assured was there and used it to enter a building that smelled of charred wood. He ascended the stairs, aiming for a dim sliver of light bleeding around a door at the top.
Knocking turned out to be unnecessary. The door was pulled open and he was yanked inside. The man closing it behind him was immediately recognizable as Laleh’s brother Mohammed. The other four men in the room were armed and standing against the far wall. Weapons ranged from AKs to a Smith & Wesson SD40 pistol, and all were aimed at him.
“These are your men?” Rapp asked in Arabic.
“Yes,” Mohammed said, moving to take a position with them.
Rapp let out a long breath and squinted his swollen eyes against the glare of a single overhead bulb. Laleh’s other brother was there, still looking a bit shaken by the blow Rapp had delivered. The two men to his right were both thin and wearing glasses that looked fairly thick. Rapp had met hundreds like them in his time operating in the Middle East—secular intellectuals prone to endless political philosophizing but good for little else. The last man was a beast, nearly Maslick’s size, with a thick beard and eyes full of hate.
“All of them?” Rapp said.
Mohammed nodded.
So, two guys who looked like they used inhalers, one he’d obviously hit a little too hard, and one who was staring at him like he wanted to carve his heart out with a sharp rock. Outstanding.
“How did you learn to speak Arabic so well?” the big one said.
“My mother emigrated from Iraq in the fifties. She taught me.”
It was a reasonable cover story that explained both his dark complexion and his accent.
“You’re a liar. You’re one of the CIA men who has been killing our people for decades.”
Rapp shrugged and waved a hand in the general direction of the blacked-out windows. “What has the CIA ever done to you that can compare with this?”
The other men had lowered their weapons, but the big one talking kept his aimed at Rapp’s chest.
“Why should we help him?”
“We’ve already discussed this,” Mohammed said. “The Americans are the only people with the power to defeat ISIS and free our country. But they hesitate. Why, Gaffar? Because they see us squabbling endlessly among ourselves. They see no hope.”
Mohammed grabbed a rolled up poster-size piece of paper and spread it out on the floor. Rapp knelt next to him and immediately recognized it as a map of Al-Shirqat.
“We’re here,” Mohammed said, pointing to the northern part of the city while the others gathered around. He ran his finger toward the western edge. “The building housing the training facility you’re looking for is here.”
“Outside of town.”
“Barely. Perhaps half a kilometer. The Americans built it as a school but the instructors have all been executed. Now the building is used to hold girls being sold and used by ISIS. Three months ago, a group of new men came to live and train there. Eric Jesem was one of them.”
“How many men in total?”
Mohammed glanced at one of his bespectacled comrades, who answered in a voice quiet enough that it was difficult to hear.
“At first, maybe fifty. Most, including Jesem, left about a month ago. Some returned but most haven’t. Now our best estimate is twenty-three men.”
That made sense. Mustafa had sent teams, including the one Jesem had served in, to get the fissile material in Pakistan. A number of them had been killed; others had likely been posted to other positions within ISIS. The men who remained were the ones who had been chosen to carry out the next phase of the operation.
“Describe the building,” Rapp said.
“It’s primarily built of concrete, with two stories,” Mohammed said. “A fence surrounds it, but the gate was knocked down when ISIS took over and has never been repaired. One guard at the entrance. The children are kept on the upper floor at night. It’s accessed by a staircase at the back of the building. The men sleep in various locations throughout the ground floor.”
