“You misunderstand me,” Rapp said. “It’s not your country I hate. It’s you.”
“What?” CYLONE said. “You said you weren’t interested in the American.”
“I said you were a fool for capturing him,” Rapp said. “You’re not equipped to hide him. I am. My organization has trafficked several captured Westerners.”
“Aid workers, journalists, and the occasional foolhardy tourist, yes. But not a Special Forces soldier.”
“Correct,” Rapp said, “which is why I was interested in this one. Now you want me to bid for the American? I saved your life.”
“For which I am grateful,” CYCLONE said, “but this is business.”
“I thought you knew who I represented?” Rapp said.
“He doesn’t, but I do.”
The comment came from the quiet man in the desert camouflage uniform. The one who spoke Arabic with a Persian accent. The man smiled as he spoke, but the gesture didn’t reach his cold eyes. The camouflage pattern, Persian accent, and confidence bordering on arrogance all pointed toward one conclusion—the man was Iranian.
Probably Quds Force.
To make things even more interesting, the Iranian looked familiar.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Rapp said before turning back to CYCLONE.
“But I am talking to you.”
While not particularly witty, the Iranian’s comeback demanded Rapp’s attention. Mainly because it was punctuated by the metal-on-leather whisper of a pistol sliding clear of its holster. With a sigh, Rapp turned to find himself staring down the barrel of a ZOAF PC-9 pistol. The Quds Force sidearm of choice.
Though Irene never seemed to believe him, this situation proved Rapp’s point.
Sometimes violence really did choose him.
CHAPTER 29
RAPP turned from the pistol-wielding Iranian to CYCLONE.
“What is this?”
To his credit, the HIG warlord looked surprised at the turn of events.
“Not sure,” CYCLONE said, “but my Iranian friend has exactly three seconds to explain himself.”
The HIG commander hadn’t added the expected or else, but Ferret Face and Fence Post still got the message. Both men orientated their AK-47s toward the Iranian in the calm, easy manner displayed by men who were intimately familiar with violence.
The Iranian didn’t waver, but the tip of his pistol trembled.
Slightly.
“I know this man,” the Iranian said.
“My name is Farid Saeed,” Rapp said, addressing the Iranian, “and I am in this country at the behest of Minister Ashani of the MOIS and Colonel Ruyintan of the Quds Force. I am quite certain that both of these men outrank you. Whatever bad blood you believe exists between us is trumped by their invitation. Lower your pistol and stand down. Now.”
“Your sectarian quarrels are not my concern,” CYCLONE said to the Iranian. “Mr. Saeed is my guest. He will be treated as such.”
American intelligence analysts too often painted the various armed factions in Afghanistan with an overly broad brush. While the groups were mostly united in their hatred for the West, their motivation differed. Case in point, while the Taliban and the remnants of Al Qaeda might be true believers in the cause of radical Islam, other jihadis adhered to Islam in a manner similar to the way members of New York’s Five Families professed their Catholicism. The mobsters might attend Mass, but they were not what anyone would call practicing Catholics. CYCLONE was a HIG warlord, but he also led a criminal enterprise. Judging by his efforts to auction the captured American, money, not Islam, was his primary motivation.
Rapp could work with that.
“Your guest is not Iraqi,” the Iranian said. “He’s American. An American known as Malikul Mawt.”
Rapp had earned the Angel of Death moniker while slaying terrorists in Iraq. Most days he was rather proud that the jihadis had christened him with the nickname.
Today was not one of those days.
“If this man and I have a history, it’s because I led my organization’s efforts to destroy his Shia militias,” Rapp said to CYCLONE. “One call to either of the Iranians I mentioned will put his suspicions to rest. Now, for the last time, tell him to lower his pistol.”
Since Rapp’s Saeed legend meant that he was Sunni, it made sense that members of his fictional organization would have crossed swords with the Iraqi Shia tribes backed by the Iranians. While much had been made of the struggle between militant Islam and the West, talking heads tended to forget that, prior to 9/11, Muslims had been killing each other with reckless abandon for decades. In fact, the longest and bloodiest war in modern Middle East history hadn’t involved either the US or Israel.
That honor belonged to Iran and Iraq and their eight-year war.
Rapp was unarmed and secluded in a hidden cavern, but the Iranian was outnumbered four to one. Six to one, counting the Saudis. Rapp also had the advantage of an airtight legend, a recent history in which he’d saved CYCLONE from captivity, and a sizable bank account. Bottom line, CYCLONE was a thug. The thing about criminals is they’re criminals.
At the end of the day, money talks and everything else walks.
“I do not know what Ashani or Ruyintan would say about this man,” the Iranian said, “but I do know what my own eyes tell me. The last time I saw him, he was as close to me as he is now. Except that, instead of talking, he was slaughtering my Hezbollah and Quds Force companions while attempting to save Irene Kennedy.”
“Who?” CYCLONE said.
“The director of the American Central Intelligence Agency,” the Iranian said. “Your companion is a CIA officer who is undoubtedly here to rescue your prisoner. He is the most dangerous man I have ever met. Letting him live is the equivalent of grabbing a cobra by the tail.”
