Fools.
They were all fools.
A gaggle of clerics from the Guardian Council in their formal robes, the vice president of Iran in his Western-style suit, and the man who’d conceived this plot—a Quds Force colonel.
Originally brought into existence by the first Supreme Leader with the goal of safeguarding the resistance, Quds Force had become a nation within a nation. Ashani often thought of them as akin to the Nazis’ feared Schutzstaffel, or SS. Operatives answerable only to the Supreme Leader himself. That these fanatics were responsible for tonight’s demonstration and the scheme it supposedly validated came as no surprise.
That Iran’s ruling class was considering their plan was.
While Moradi’s former boss was not in attendance, tonight’s gathering included power brokers from across the Iranian government. This event was indicative of a seismic shift in Iran’s approach to the West. A shift Ashani suspected would prove to be the undoing of the nation he loved.
Where did that leave him?
“What I think about the program is immaterial,” Ashani said, choosing his words carefully. “I do not make policy decisions. I serve the Islamic Republic of Iran and the Supreme Leader Ali Hoseini-Nassiri.”
“Of course you do,” Moradi said with a smirk, “but what about the operation the Quds Force operatives are proposing? If you were the Supreme Leader’s advisor, would you counsel that such a venture was wise?”
Ashani would not.
Yes, what the Quds Force imagined had a chance of working, and yes, even he had to admit that their operational planning was impressive. But as the concrete tomb at the base of the cliff could attest, grand schemes often led to grand failures. The flames consuming the downed aircraft’s wreckage looked more like a funeral pyre than a victory bonfire.
“If the Supreme Leader desired my thoughts, I would provide them,” Ashani said, locking eyes with the cleric, “but my words would be for him alone.”
Moradi held his gaze for an uncomfortably long time before slowly turning away. As a career intelligence officer, Ashani prided himself on his ability to read people, but he couldn’t tell what the cleric was thinking.
“This is madness,” Moradi said, whispering the words. “Absolute madness. And no one can stop it.”
Moradi strode away before Ashani could reply, which was just as well, since he wasn’t sure how he would have responded. Yes, this was madness. If the Quds Force plot succeeded, there was a very real chance the Middle East would be plunged into a regional war. If it failed, the radioactive cavern at the cliff’s base would look like a playground in comparison to what the Americans would do to his country.
Ashani was in violent agreement with Moradi on the cleric’s first point.
Not the second.
There was someone who could stop this rush to madness. A man who terrified Ashani in a way that even the disease consuming him did not. Sometimes survival required a willingness to do the unthinkable. Ashani was a dead man, but perhaps his wife and daughters didn’t need to share his fate.
It was time to make a deal with the devil.
A devil known as Malikul Mawt.
The Angel of Death.
CHAPTER 1
FRIDAY, APRIL 29, 2011
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
“I’M taking this chair.”
The muscular Pakistani man grabbed the chair in question and dragged it across AstroTurf-coated concrete to the far side of the patio. He didn’t wait for a reply from the table’s occupant. The Pakistani’s companion, a pretty brunette, frowned at her date’s boorish behavior. Though the sun had long since set and the evening’s unseasonably muggy air settled on the shoulders of her robin-egg blue shalwar kameez like a thick cotton blanket, she still shivered.
Sunrise Café was a trendy spot, and its outdoor courtyard was much in demand. The patio was populated by white wicker tables and matching chairs adorned with plush red cushions. Potted plants surrounded the seating area and hung from wooden adornments while cooling electric fans provided a semblance of a breeze.
The breeze had not caused the woman’s shiver.
Something about the slim man seated alone at the far side of the café gave her pause. Though there was nothing about his manner to suggest that he’d understood what her boyfriend had said, or taken offense at her date’s rude actions, the woman could not shake her sense of unease.
The man had an olive complexion and thick, black hair that had begun to gray at the temples. He could have passed for a half a dozen nationalities, but his expensive linen slacks, tailored sport coat, and silk dress shirt worn open at the collar had a European flair. He hadn’t so much as looked up from his paper during the earlier interaction, but as if he could feel her gaze, he did so now.
The woman swallowed.
Though the man’s face bore no malice, his eyes made her stomach tremble. The black orbs stared through her, and she shivered a second time.
“Sorry,” the woman said, mouthing the word.
The man gazed at her for a beat longer.
Then, he slowly nodded.
“Sorry for what?” her date said. “Him? He’s nothing.”
The woman smiled at her companion as he settled into his chair. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said.
Her boyfriend was not right.
The man had gone back to his paper and a sense of calm settled over the patio, though the woman couldn’t help but think that it was the calm before a storm.
Mitch Rapp was accustomed to being underestimated.
