No one survived Mitch Rapp.
“Besides,” Nash said, continuing his thought, “Rapp will see Afghanistan as the priority. FAIRBANKS needs to die, but Ruyintan is on an entirely different level. People who don’t know Mitch make the mistake of thinking he’s a vigilante. Rapp can certainly hold a grudge, but he’s not out for revenge. At least not anymore.”
Nash was absolutely correct, and Irene was surprised she hadn’t made this connection. Or maybe she had, but the evolution had occurred so slowly that she hadn’t dwelt on its ramifications. When she’d started with Rapp, their relationship was conventional, even if its outcome hadn’t been. She was the handler and Rapp was her asset. Put another way, Irene was the guidance system to Rapp’s smart bomb. While Mitch certainly had the latitude to improvise while operating in the field, he did not make wholesale changes to the mission.
Then.
This was not to say that Rapp had morphed into some sort of loose cannon. He had not, but neither was he just a trained attack dog. Irene had no problem with Rapp exercising operational initiative, but the politicians who oversaw the CIA’s clandestine activities often felt differently. This was especially relevant today. Two operations that had the potential to aggravate and embarrass the Pakistanis had just failed to achieve their intended results, one in spectacular fashion. While Rapp viewed the political fallout associated with his personal war on terrorism as only slightly more important than the price of milk, Irene knew differently. Senator Barbara Lonsdale had stuck her neck out for both operations.
This was not an insignificant act.
Senator Lonsdale had once been the opposition party’s leading CIA critic, but a series of brutal terrorist attacks in the nation’s capital had drastically changed her view of the intelligence organization. Three years before, suicide bombers and gunmen had attacked numerous civilian targets, including a DC eatery that was popular with the political crowd. The list of dead included seven senators and Lonsdale’s closest friend and chief of staff, Ralph Wassen.
Almost overnight, Lonsdale went from being a thorn in Irene’s side to one of the CIA director’s biggest supporters. Even though many in her political party seemed ready to throw the baby out with the bathwater, Senator Lonsdale’s commitment remained unwavering. While this bit of courage paled in comparison to the fortitude displayed by the spies Irene led, it was courage nonetheless.
As her nation’s spymistress, Irene accepted that she would be the recipient of political attacks. Attacks often levied by the very men and women she had taken an oath to serve. That was part of the game. But just because she was a convenient target didn’t mean she had to go quietly into the night. Senator Lonsdale had put her reputation on the line by backing the raid on the HIG compound and the hit on FAIRBANKS even though both would occur on Pakistani soil.
The least Irene could do was return the favor.
If Nash was right about Rapp’s intentions, he would put the FAIRBANKS operation on hold to focus on the Iranians. She viewed the assassination as delayed, not blown, but her political masters might not see things the same way. Providing Mitch Rapp room to maneuver was the best way to salvage both operations while proving to Lonsdale that her trust had been merited.
“Why Afghanistan?” Irene said.
“Ruyintan must have Quds Force operatives in-country,” Nash said. “That’s the only way he could have known about the ambush ahead of time. The operation took place in the vicinity of the Spin Ghar mountains, which are about fifty kilometers south of Jalalabad Airfield. Rapp will want to check in with our chief of base in J-Bad as well as the SOF folks headquartered at FOB Fenty. My money is on him catching the next flight to Kabul.”
“On the Saeed legend?” Irene said.
Nash nodded.
“We spent a long time building it. I didn’t understand at the time why Rapp was so particular about the details. Now I do. I don’t know if he could have articulated it then, but I think Rapp somehow knew that he’d need a legend capable of withstanding the kind of scrutiny that would allow him to do more than just waltz into a country and knock off a few terrorists. I think he was preparing for a deep penetration.”
The same thought had occurred to Irene.
Rapp’s ability to do what others couldn’t went beyond just the physical. Yes, the man seemed born to kill terrorists in the same way in which Eddie Van Halen had been born to play guitar, but it went further than that. Rapp possessed a sort of operational sixth sense that was hard to define and impossible to teach. He was more like a coyote who could spot a hunter’s trap than a chess master able to foresee an opponent’s strategy. Rapp had probably constructed the Saeed identity for a scenario exactly like this one. Her top operative was doing his part to turn their current setback into a win.
Irene intended to do the same.
“I think you’re right,” Irene said as she stood. “Send Scott Coleman and his team to J-Bad. I don’t know what Rapp has in mind, but I want to make sure we prestage any support he might need.”
“Got it,” Nash said, getting to his feet. “What about you?”
“I’m wading into the fray too,” Irene said.
Nash paused, a look of surprise on his face. “You’re deploying to Afghanistan?”
“Worse. The White House.”
CHAPTER 16
WASHINGTON, DC
“GOOD afternoon, Teresa,” Irene Kennedy said. “I need to see the president.”
President Alexander’s administrative assistant consulted her computer and frowned. “You’re a bit early, Doctor Kennedy. He’s still meeting with Ted.”
“I understand, but I need to see him. Now.”
Irene kept her tone polite, but firm.
“Of course,” Teresa said. “Go on in.”
Irene smiled her thanks, moved past Teresa’s small desk, and opened the door to the world’s most famous office. Irene didn’t envy the president’s assistant. In a town famous for the egos of its residents, Teresa served as the gatekeeper for the planet’s most exclusive calendar. Everyone who made it this far was convinced of their own importance and it often fell to Teresa to sort the wheat from the chaff.
Over the years, Irene had made it a point to never abuse the president’s standing instructions that she was to be provided with instant access when she requested it. Though she respected President Alexander, he was not the first commander in chief Irene had served and she was not unduly impressed with him or his office. Irene was not a politician, nor did she aspire to become one. This distinction separated her from 99 percent of the people who came to the Oval Office with intentions to curry favor with its occupant.
When Irene said she needed to see Alexander, Teresa waved her through.
But today was different.
Today, Irene almost wished she’d been refused access if only to have a few more moments to gather her thoughts.
This update was going to be a doozy.
Normally, Irene enjoyed her limousine ride from CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, to the White House. The SUVs driven by her protective detail employed the usual flashing lights as she traveled, but Irene wasn’t sure this actually helped her arrive at her destination any sooner. In a town full of important people, DC motorists weren’t always inclined to make way for yet another convoy of unmarked vehicles. Depending on traffic, Irene could usually count on being alone with her thoughts for between twenty and forty-five minutes.
Not today.
No sooner had her driver pulled out of the underground parking lot reserved for her and other select CIA executives than the limousine’s secure phone began to chirp. Irene answered and soon had a sense of how the rest of her day would play out. As her car rolled south through the checkpoint granting access to the George Bush Center for Intelligence, as the headquarters campus was officially known, toward the west–east–running Dolley Madison Boulevard, she considered turning around. The president needed to hear the update she’d just received, but more importantly, those words needed to be immediately followed by a plan of action.
