This time, Moradi’s delay wasn’t because he needed additional time to think. To the contrary, he’d had more than enough time to dwell upon what had just transpired. Moradi remained at the railing because he wanted to ensure he didn’t run into the Quds Force thugs on the trek down to his car. As he’d truthfully told Ruyintan, Moradi was no intelligence officer. His acting had taxed his meager abilities to their limits. Moradi needed time to regroup before braving another interaction with Ruyintan.
Or Ashani.
With a shudder Moradi considered how quickly their scheme was unraveling. Even now, Afghan Shia militiamen armed with the Iranian-modified shoulder-fired missiles and their Quds Force handlers were moving into preplanned staging areas. Far from using Mitch Rapp to interdict Ruyintan’s operation before the attacks could be launched, Ashani had only muddied the water. Thanks to him, the Americans knew that the Iranians were at least aware of the Afghan operation while Ruyintan had deduced that there was a traitor in the Iranian ranks.
Moradi wasn’t sure how things could get any worse.
Then he heard footfalls.
The gait and cadence of the footsteps suggested that they belonged to a single person. Moradi took this as a hopeful sign even as he reached into the folds of his clerical robes. Had Ruyintan meant him harm, the Quds Force officer would have acted while in the company of his protective detail. The bodyguards were fellow Quds Force operatives and therefore no stranger to murder.
This was something different.
Moradi’s fingers closed around the grip of a pistol holstered against his chest.
Billed by the manufacturer as a “Baby Glock,” the miniature pistol was easy to conceal and required very little skill to employ at close distances. In other words, the Glock 26 was the perfect weapon for a man like Moradi. With a deep breath to fortify himself, Moradi turned to confront the newcomer.
Death stared back at him.
Moradi’s stomach fluttered, and his heart accelerated as cold sweat popped out of his pores. This was not unlike the time he’d stumbled across a spider-tailed viper while hiking as a youth. The shocking realization that what he’d thought was a benign spider was actually a lethal serpent. On that day, the venomous reptile had been sluggish due to the cold and its strike had been halfhearted and ineffective.
There was nothing sluggish about the man standing next to him.
Moradi tried to speak, but his suddenly dry mouth meant that he had to swallow first. That might have been just as well. His obvious startlement was embarrassing, but it gave Moradi a moment to survey his adversary.
“Surprised to see me?” Rapp said.
Meeting the American in person was jarring. Perhaps the equivalent of coming face-to-face with a tiger after only seeing one in pictures. Rapp’s presence provoked a visceral fight-or-flight response, and Moradi struggled to keep his hands from shaking.
“Why are you here?” Moradi said.
“As opposed to chasing your countrymen across Afghanistan?” Rapp said.
Moradi stiffened as he realized that where they were having the conversation was just as dangerous as the topic the two men were discussing. Rapp wasn’t Moradi’s only source of peril. If the wrong person saw him talking with an American intelligence officer, Moradi’s interrogation would likely begin with torture and end with a bullet to the back of his skull.
“What do you want?” Moradi said.
“Details,” Rapp said. “What are your Quds Force friends planning and where are they now?”
Moradi was at the edge of a precipice.
He was not a traitor, but neither was he suicidal.
Contrary to what Ruyintan might believe, Moradi agreed with Ashani’s assessment that the American president did have red lines. Red lines that he would enforce. If the Quds Force officer succeeded, Alexander would respond to Iran’s provocation with overwhelming military force. Using airpower alone, the Americans had the ability to send the Iranian navy to the bottom of the Persian Gulf, destroy what remained of the Iranian air force, and turn Iran’s oil refineries into smoking piles of charred metal. To be sure there was no misunderstanding, the same fleet of attack aircraft and strategic bombers could also declare open season on Quds Force or MOIS officers operating in Syria and Iraq via pinpoint strikes on known Iranian compounds.
Then it would be a simple matter to let nature run its course.
Between Saudi Arabia, Yemen, and the United Arab Emirates, there was no shortage of Sunni powers tired of being antagonized by proxies funded by their troublesome Shia neighbor. Without its military might or the ability to generate cash through the sale of oil, Iran would be nothing more than a nation surrounded by enemies, with a stagnant economy and a civilian population roiled by unrest.
The Islamic Republic would not survive such a scenario.
But what choice did Moradi have?
The answer came in a flash.
He could delay.
Delay by giving Rapp enough to get the American out of his hair while buying himself time to consult with Ashani. Perhaps the MOIS operative had already developed a fallback plan to address his failure to meet with Rapp in Kabul. Or perhaps Ruyintan would get to the MOIS officer first. If that happened, Moradi had no doubt that Ashani would eventually confess.
To everything.
Quds Force interrogators were nothing if not persuasive. Either way, Ruyintan would realize that, thanks to Ashani’s leak to the Americans, his plan would no longer be tenable. The Quds Force officer would then be forced to call off the Afghanistan operation. While there was a chance Ashani would implicate him as well, Moradi was willing to run that risk. He’d already planted the seeds of Ashani’s duplicity with Ruyintan by fingering the MOIS officer as the source of the Saeed dossier. Now he just needed time for those seeds to bear fruit.
Delaying was Moradi’s only hope.
“I can’t tell you that,” Moradi said, shaking his head, “because I don’t know myself. It’s a Quds Force, not MOIS, operation. But I’ll keep digging. This is the best I can do.”
Rapp stared back at him.
The American’s black orbs seemed to be looking past Moradi’s flesh into the darkest parts of his soul. Moradi tightened his grip on the Glock. He was no marksman, but it would be a simple matter to rotate the pistol and fire through his robes into Rapp’s chest.
Moradi’s finger tightened on the trigger.
The American slowly nodded.
“Okay,” Rapp said. “I know you’re in a tough spot. Even though we’re never going to see eye to eye, I respect you as a fellow professional.”
In a turn of events Moradi would have never seen coming, Rapp offered a handshake.
