“What do you mean?” Alexander said.
“Besides your own, how many telephone numbers can you recite?” Irene said.
“My parents’,” the president said. “Maybe a couple of others.”
“Any of them cabinet members?” Irene said. “What about the leader of your Secret Service detail?”
Alexander shook his head.
“Exactly,” Irene said. “The contacts section of our cell phone serves the purpose that a Rolodex and good old-fashioned memory used to fill. But the courier’s phone didn’t contain a single name or number. Not one. And even if he had it encrypted on the phone somewhere we couldn’t find, he switches devices constantly. No one goes to this much trouble to remain anonymous unless they have something to hide. And this guy did.”
“ ‘Did’?” Alexander said.
Irene nodded. “We got our first break when a paramilitary officer tracked him to an internet café. They’re part coffee shops, part hangout joints, and depending on the part of town, sometimes a first step in the jihadi recruitment process. They’re located all over Abbottabad, but the courier drove to a town ninety miles away instead.”
“Did you catch the courier meeting with known Al Qaeda operatives?”
Irene shook her head. “He only used cafés without ties to extremist groups. Like his constantly rotating cell phones, our guy goes out of his way to remain clean.”
“Maybe he is.”
“The information in that document you’re reading says differently,” Irene said. “And before you ask, yes, at least one of the email recipients is a known Al Qaeda commander.”
The change in President Alexander’s expression would have been laughable were not the subject so serious. Irene’s boss had what a theater teacher had once termed a rubber face. His hazel eyes and open features could express a wide range of emotions that lent credence to his words.
In the profession of politics, this was an attribute.
In the world of espionage, less so.
“You want to do what, then?” Alexander said. “Send an Agency paramilitary team to take a peek inside the compound?”
Irene shook her head. “Getting a declared team in-country this quickly would attract attention from the Pakistanis. The ISI is an unreliable ally at best. At worst, elements within that intelligence organization are actively working to thwart us. Sending a standard paramilitary team to Islamabad without alerting the ISI is a nonstarter. We need a different approach.”
“Rapp?” Alexander said.
Irene shook her head. “I’m afraid Mitch is spoken for.”
“How so?” Alexander said.
“He’s running down the Iranian connection to the Afghanistan Chinook shootdown,” Irene said, raising a hand to forestall the coming flood of questions. “I’ll update you in full once I have the complete picture. All I know right now is that Mitch is off the grid and probably on his way to Kabul.”
At one time in his presidency, Alexander would have pressed for more details over Irene’s objections. Not anymore. After the devastating terrorist attacks on DC and the nearly catastrophic follow-up by the same jihadi cell, the president had changed his way of thinking. When politicians tried to keep Mitch Rapp on a leash, people died. Irene was hoping this wasn’t a lesson the president would have to learn twice.
“Then who do you want to send?” Alexander said.
“Two people,” Irene said. “I have a NOC who is uniquely suited for this mission, but they will need help.”
“What kind of help?”
“A distraction. The best way to keep the ISI from noticing what we’re doing is to give them something more interesting to watch.”
“Like what?” Alexander said.
“A delegation of spies.”
Alexander stared back at her in confusion.
Then, his eyes narrowed.
“You want to make an official visit to Pakistan?” Alexander said. “Now?”
“Not an official visit. Our Pakistani friends are holding a regional security summit. A number of countries are attending, including the Iranians. I think we should go as well.”
“I need you here.”
“Understood, sir,” Irene said. “That’s why I’m sending another executive in my stead. Someone who’s synonymous with the CIA in the public’s mind.”
“Who?”
“Mike Nash.”
CHAPTER 17
TEHRAN, IRAN
“IT’S done.”
Azad Ashani held the secure mobile to his ear as he leaned on his balcony’s intricately worked, wrought-iron railing and admired the view. Thirty years ago, he and his wife, Samira, had scraped together every rial to their name in order to make the down payment for this three-bedroom flat. Back then, Farmanieh was not the trendy suburb that it was today, but real estate had still been expensive. Located in the northern outskirts of Tehran, the suburb was full of shady, tree-lined streets, parks, and plenty of quiet neighborhoods. On a clear day, Azad could see the majestic Elburz Mountains, which guarded Tehran from the damps winds that swept south off the Caspian Sea. Best of all, his apartment was only a thirty-minute commute from his office at MOIS headquarters, located just east of Sanaei Street.
