Protect and defend (35 page)

“Yes, you can.” The man handed the paper back. “All you need to do is read it and you will be free to leave with me.”

“Those are all lies. My country had nothing to do with the destruction of the Isfahan nuclear facility. We did not invade Iraq for oil, and we are not plotting to invade Iran to steal their oil.”

“I am not arguing with you.” The man said with his hands held up. “And when you are set free you can scream from the mountaintops that you were forced to read this statement at gunpoint.”

Kennedy knew there would be no taking it back. There were too many in the Middle East and beyond who thought it was true to begin with. Her reading this prepared speech would be used for decades to come as proof of America’s imperial ways. “I can’t read it.”

“You must, or they will kill you.”

There was something in the way the man said “kill you” that gave Kennedy concern. It occurred to her that the most logical move by her captors would be to kill her after she read the statement. With no denial by Kennedy it would go down as fact. “I’m sorry, but I cannot read that statement.” Kennedy sat down in the chair and folded her hands across her lap.

The man moved with great speed from behind the camera. He slapped Kennedy across the face three times, knocking the hijab off her head. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her head back. Looking down at her he yelled, “You have exactly one hour to change your mind, and if your answer is still no, I will leave you to your fate. Do you want that to happen?”

“No,” Kennedy answered.

“Twenty men!” he screamed. “They will line up to rape you for a week straight. Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“Then read the statement.” The man let go of her and handed her the piece of paper again.

Kennedy took it, looked down at the words, and thought of how the tape would be used against her country. She would be considered a traitor. She could never live with herself. Without having to think any further, she opened her hands and let the paper fall to the floor.

The man stepped away from the camera and help up a finger. “You have one hour to reconsider, and if your answer is still no, there is nothing I can do to help you.”

Ted Byrne stayed on the president’s left elbow, matching him step for step, which was not easy, considering he was almost a foot shorter. The debate had been as heated as anything Byrne had ever seen in his nearly twenty-five years of politics. He’d known Josh Alexander since he was a little tyke. Byrne had played high school football for Alexander’s father and had coached for the father after college. When Alexander looked at him with those same dead, serious eyes that his dad used to shoot him when he’d pushed an issue as far as he could, Byrne knew he’d lost the battle. It didn’t help that the majority of the National Security Council, as well as the Joint Chiefs, had sided against him.

Even so, Byrne felt so strongly that the president was making a mistake that he had to give it one more try. “Josh,” he whispered so no one else could hear, “I really think you need to sit on this one for an afternoon. Probably a whole day, but at least an afternoon.”

“Too late, Ted. They’re all up there waiting for me.”

“So give a brief statement like I said. A blanket denial. Then we can send others out to argue the details. Don’t lower yourself to the guy’s level.”

The president hit the steps that led from the basement to the first floor of the West Wing. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“I know you have and that’s why I’m trying to talk you out of it. That’s my job. When you’re about to run off a cliff, I’m supposed to stick out my foot and trip you.”

“I’m not in the mood for any jokes right now.”

“It never hurts to take a breath and collect yourself.”

“And sometimes he who hesitates gets his ass handed to him.” They reached the first-floor landing and the president stopped. A cortège of aides and advisors piled up behind him on the stairs. “If I had the time, we could sit here all afternoon and throw sayings back and forth at each other, but it comes down to this, Ted. If you don’t confront a lie, people will believe it. Now I’m done talking about this. Are you done?”

Byrne hesitated and then reluctantly nodded.

“Good.” The president turned and strode into the White House press room. Secretary Wicka and Secretary England joined him on the small dais, taking up positions behind him, one off each shoulder. The president placed both hands on the edge of the podium and looked out at the reporters and photographers. He made no attempt to hide the fact that he was not happy.

“I’m about to give you a lot of information. The press secretary is preparing briefing books for you. You may pick them up when I’m finished.” The president paused for a moment and consulted an outline that he had written on a piece of paper. “I’m sure by now you’ve all had an opportunity to review President Amatullah’s remarks. I am here to openly refute his two main accusations. The first, that a United States submarine sank the Iranian vessel
Sabalan,
is an outright lie. The U.S.S.
Virginia,
a nuclear-powered submarine, was in the vicinity and tracking the Iranian submarine
Yusef
as it proceeded through the Strait of Hormuz earlier today. The
Virginia
recorded the
Yusef
flooding her rear torpedo tubes and firing one torpedo against the
Sabalan.
That torpedo hit the
Sabalan
and sunk it. The
Virginia
reported this incident immediately, and followed the
Yusef
through the strait and into the Persian Gulf. The
Yusef
is now on an intercept course with the Eisenhower strike group, as is much of the Iranian navy. I have ordered the strike group to engage and sink any Iranian vessel that attempts to close within fifteen miles of the U.S.S.
Eisenhower.
I repeat, if any Iranian vessel attempts to close within fifteen miles of the aircraft carrier
Eisenhower
it will be engaged and sunk.”

Alexander glanced down and then said, “Knowing President Amatullah’s penchant for rhetoric and obfuscation, I feel it is my duty to provide hard evidence of what I have just told you. Against the advice of the secretary of defense and the Joint Chiefs, I am going to allow representatives from Great Britain, France, Russia, and China to review the contact tapes made by the U.S.S.
Virginia.
These tapes will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt to any naval officer with sonar experience that it was the
Yusef
that fired on and sank the
Sabalan
. In addition, I am offering to make the U.S.S.
Virginia
available for immediate inspection by representatives from Great Britain, France, Russia, and China. Upon boarding the
Virginia,
they will find that she is still carrying her full complement of torpedoes. I challenge President Amatullah to also make the
Yusef
available for inspection, although I doubt you will find him so accommodating. As to why President Amatullah would order one of his submarines to sink an Iranian frigate, I have my theories, but I will leave it up to you, the press, to try and get an honest answer from him.

“Now on to the second point of contention between our two countries. CIA Director Irene Kennedy did in fact have a meeting in Mosul this morning. It was with this man.” The president nodded to one of his aides and then gestured toward the flat-panel TV that sprang to life with a head shot of a bearded man in his mid fifties. “Iran’s Minister of Intelligence. In recent years Director Kennedy and Minister Ashani have met on several occasions to share information that would help combat terrorism. I directed Dr. Kennedy to sit down with Minister Ashani and discuss the possibility of our two countries restoring limited diplomatic relations. Upon the conclusion of this meeting Minister Ashani was escorted to his helicopter and is now safely back in Iran. Director Kennedy was not so fortunate.” The president gestured to his aide yet again, and a new photo appeared.

The photo showed charred vehicles and bodies littering a street. “This is Director Kennedy’s motorcade. After parting with Minister Ashani, Director Kennedy’s motorcade made it exactly a block and a half before it was ambushed.” A new photo appeared. It was of four men lying facedown on the street. Pools of dark red blood could be seen by each man’s head. “These were members of Director Kennedy’s security detail. They all lived here in the Washington area. All of them were married, and they all had children. I spoke with each of their wives over the past hour and offered my condolences.”

The president lowered his head and consulted his notes. “Eighteen men died in the attack on this motorcade. A secondary CIA security team was nearby and fought their way to the site of the attack in time to see Director Kennedy being forced into a car and driven away. The CIA security team took three prisoners.”

The president paused and the photos of three men appeared on the screen with their names and affiliations listed. “The man on the left of the screen is Ali Abbas. He is a senior member of the terrorist organization Hezbollah and has been in Iraq recruiting and arming terrorists for more than a year. The next man is Captain Rashid Dadarshi of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps.”

Gasps and murmurs erupted from the seated reporters. Alexander stopped until he had their undivided attention. “Captain Dadarshi has admitted that he received orders from his superior officers in Tehran to participate in the kidnapping of Director Kennedy. The last man is Corporal Nouri Tahmineh, also of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. All three of these men identified the next man,” a new image appeared on the screen of a man in a suit wearing sunglasses, “as the one who ran the operation. This is Imad Mukhtar, the head of Hezbollah’s Security Services and the mastermind behind the U.S. Marine barracks bombing, the U.S. Embassy bombing in Beirut, and many others. He is also believed to be behind numerous kidnappings and assassinations committed by Hezbollah over the past three decades.”

Several photos appeared showing Mukhtar and Ashani exiting the same helicopter from different sides. “These photos were taken this morning when Minister Ashani arrived in Mosul on an Iranian Army helicopter with Imad Mukhtar. Note the briefcase in Mr. Mukhtar’s right hand.” An enlarged image of the briefcase appeared and then, next to it, a second photo of an open briefcase filled with cash. “The photo on the right is the one that President Amatullah showed the world only an hour ago. President Amatullah claimed that Director Kennedy was in possession of this cash when she was supposedly caught meeting with an Iranian opposition group. I find it a bit too coincidental that Imad Mukhtar arrived in Mosul this morning carrying a briefcase that looks exactly like the one President Amatullah claims was found in the possession of Director Kennedy.”

The president stopped and shook his head sadly. After a long pause he said, “This might be humorous if it wasn’t for the fact that so many people have died today. I refuse to speculate what it is exactly that President Amatullah is up to, but I will not tolerate such brazen aggression. Director Kennedy is one of my closest advisors and the head of one of America’s most important national security agencies. I consider her abduction an act of war by Iran. I have directed Secretary of Defense England to put all U.S. forces at Defense Condition Three. I have also ordered the U.S.S.
Reagan
strike group, which is conducting operations off the east coast of Africa, to proceed at top speed to the Gulf of Oman, where she will join the
Nimitz
strike group already on patrol. Other assets are also being rushed to the region.

“I want to be very clear on something. I will not negotiate with terrorists, and I will not get drawn into a debate with a man who is so desperate to hold on to power that he would kill his own people in order to drum up support. I am giving the Iranian government two hours, and not a minute longer. If Director Kennedy is not released within that time, I will order offensive operations to begin against the Iranian military and the country’s leadership.”

The president took a second to look around the room at the shocked faces of the reporters, and then said, “That is all I have to say, for now.”

Rapp was seated on a metal folding chair. Next to him, lying on a stretcher, was a drugged-up Ali Abbas. The CIA interrogation team had arrived from Baghdad, and were busying themselves with the other two prisoners. Captain Dadarshi and Corporal Tahmineh had given up the location of three safe houses and the warehouse halfway to the Iranian border. An army unit patrolling near the warehouse was dispatched but found nothing. This did not surprise Rapp. A man like Mukhtar didn’t stay alive all these years by making mistakes. The Quds Force safe houses in the city were tempting though. Rapp had to fight the urge to head into the city and participate in the safe house raids. As much as he wanted to be on the street doing something, however, he knew he needed to stay put until they had some solid intel. The safe houses would no doubt be an intelligence boon, but they would not find Kennedy in them.

Rapp’s hope for that crucial piece of information was lying at his feet, and with each passing minute he became more doubtful that he would learn anything from Abbas. From Rapp’s prior experience sodium pentothal worked differently with each subject. The drug always elicited conversation, but not necessarily meaningful conversation. Typically, the more logical and ordered the person’s mind the better the answers. Conversely, the more scatterbrained or dim the subjects were, the more likely it was that they would string unconnected thoughts together like a radio stuck in scan mode. Five seconds on one subject and then on to the next. After twenty minutes with Abbas, Rapp was wondering if the man was clinically insane.

The terrorist’s train of thought bounced from one subject to the next, and the only common thread had to do with a comment Rapp had made about the seventy-seven virgins that were supposedly awaiting Abbas in paradise. Abbas had been rambling on and on about how he was not afraid to die. Allah had a special place for him. He would have his pick of the finest seventy-seven virgins. Rapp told Abbas is was too bad he wouldn’t be able to have sex with them. When Abbas asked why, Rapp told him because he was going to cut off his dick. This one comment sent the thirty-some-year-old terrorist into a fit of blubbering tears. Some twenty minutes later he was now trying to engage Rapp in a theological debate over whether or not his penis would magically reappear when he reached paradise.