“You will save my family?” Ashani gurgled.
“Yes,” Rapp said.
Ashani sighed but the sound was more a whistle of air leaking from a punctured tire than a proper exhale. “Ruyintan is with the missing missiles.”
“Where is he going?” Rapp said.
“Abbottabad. The missiles were intended to be used here. Against planes carrying diplomatic envoys. Now Ruyintan is taking them to bin Laden’s compound.”
“Why?”
“You.”
Ashani’s breath rattled in his chest.
Then, he was still.
“Bloody hell.”
Rapp turned from his latest failure only to confront another. The comment had come from the pilot. The man’s once-white uniform was now splattered with blood, but he seemed unhurt.
The woman he was crouching over was not.
Rapp bounded up the corridor and dropped to his knees beside Noreen. A dime-size entrance wound dimpled her skull just above her right ear. Noreen’s thick black hair almost obscured the small hole, but nothing could hide the hideous exit wound at the back of her head.
The CIA officer was gone.
CHAPTER 86
MIKE Nash stared out the Gulfstream’s oval window.
He might be a suit-wearing bureaucrat, but his mind still functioned like an operator’s.
Rapp was taking too long.
Much too long.
“Sir, ground control is asking for an update on our mechanical issue. We’re not going to be able to keep up this charade much longer.”
Nash turned from the Iranian plane to the pilot standing in the cockpit’s open door. Because his ruse of a visit to Pakistan was not just another diplomatic mission, Nash had requested and received pilots from the Agency’s Air Branch. These men and women generally had a background in military special operations aviation prior to joining the CIA and most if not at all had combat deployments under their belts.
Bottom line: the aviators were not easily excitable.
His current pilot was a perfect example.
While the man was dressed in the livery typical of an aviator, his eyes exhibited a hardness at odds with his plain black pants, white dress shirt, and captain’s shoulder boards. The man’s name was Derek Richardson. Nash had reviewed his personnel jacket and knew Derek was in his early forties, but the pilot’s full head of hair was mostly gray with only a scattering of the original black. Nash had seen this premature aging before and knew its source.
Combat.
“It’s Derek, right?” Nash said.
“Yes, sir,” the pilot said, nodding.
“You fly for special operations before the Agency?” Nash said.
Another nod.
“Army 160th?”
“Army, but a different unit.”
Nash understood the significance of Derek’s answer. The Night Stalkers might be the best-known special operations aviation entity, but they weren’t the only game in town.
Not by a long shot.
Derek had seen a thing or two before he’d joined the Agency.
“Thought so,” Nash said. “Here’s the deal—two Agency operatives just boarded that Beechjet. We need to give them time to do what they have to do without attracting the attention of prying eyes. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Derek said. “We need a reason to be here that’s serious enough to keep us from taking off but not so serious that ground control will spin up security, maintenance, or crash and rescue.”
“Exactly,” Nash said.
“Okay,” Derek said. “I can manage that for a bit longer, but we won’t be able to sit on this taxiway indefinitely. Ten minutes. Fifteen tops. After that, we’ll need to either taxi back to the general aviation ramp or take the active and depart.”
Nash didn’t like the pilot’s answer, but he accepted it. People with Derek’s résumé made the impossible seem routine. If the aviator thought they were near the end of their rope, Nash had to believe him. Nash was preparing to acknowledge Derek’s update when another voice carried through the cabin.
The copilot’s.
