Kennedy nodded.
“Well, you might not be familiar with this most recent development.” The doctor pointed to the screen at the front of the room, and a series of photos played out showing charred buses and grotesque, bloody bodies.
“These bombings have all been linked to the fundamentalist Palestinian group Hamas. Hamas has stepped up its attacks recently in an effort to derail the Middle East peace process. Hezbollah and Hamas have done very little to help each other’s causes.”
Kennedy looked down the long table and added, “That is, until recently.
Aziz and Harut have been looking for a way to continue their fight as things have calmed in Beirut. They found their opportunity after Israel assassinated Hamas leader Yehya Ayyash in 1996. Hamas turned even more militant, stepping up its efforts to drive Israel from the West Bank and Gaza Strip. In this most recent period, the Israelis have noted a marked increase in the sophistication of Hamas bombs and tactics. It is our belief that Rafique Aziz is responsible for this.” Kennedy paused and got ready to drop the bombshell.
“To make matters even worse, we have also learned that Saddam Hussein has offered to help fund some of the group’s actions.”
President Hayes shook his head slowly and scowled.
“It gets worse,” Kennedy continued.
“The stipulation that Saddam has put on the money is that it be used to attack the United States domestically.” Kennedy emphasized the last word.
The information caused Hayes’s left eyebrow to rise a half inch.
“Where did we get this?”
Kennedy looked to Stansfield, and the director of the CIA replied, “The NSA intercepted some communications, and we verified them through several of our foreign contacts.”
“That’s just great.” Hayes shook his head. Looking to Kennedy with dread in his eyes, he asked, “What else?”
“Two nights ago our man in Iran informed us of a probable ID on Harut, and earlier this evening he made a positive ID.”
The president folded his arms across his chest.
“Can we be sure your guy has the right man?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” answered Kennedy confidently.
Hayes looked from Kennedy to the map of Iran and then back. “I assume you didn’t interrupt my dinner plans just to tell me you may have found this fellow.”
“You are correct, Mr. President. We have been waiting for this chance for a long time. If we don’t grab him now, we may never get another chance.” Kennedy stopped to make sure the president understood how serious she was.
“General Campbell and I have put together a plan to grab Harut.” Kennedy changed the main screen. A second map of the Persian Gulf appeared, this one with a half dozen new markings on it.
Kennedy looked to General Campbell and nodded.
Campbell rose from his chair, and with his ramrod posture, he marched to the front of the room. Once firmly in position behind the podium, he started.
“Mr. President, Harut, like Saddam, never stays in the same place for more than three or four nights at a time. This is the first time in over a decade that we have been able to track his whereabouts for more than a day and be in a position to do something about it.” Campbell gestured to the map.
“We have two helicopters from the First Special Operations Wing that have left Saudi Arabia and are in the process of hooking up with the Independence, which is on patrol in the Persian Gulf.” The general tapped the spot on the map that marked the location of the nuclear-powered aircraft carrier.
“And over here”-the general moved his finger across the Persian Gulf to a spot just off the Iranian coast that was marked by a blue cigar-shaped object-“we have the USS Honolulu. As I’m sure you have already noted, she is no longer in international waters. Right now she is about two miles offshore and waiting for the orders to off-load her cargo.” While Campbell continued his briefing. President Hayes felt as if he were having an out-of-body experience. He had dreamt of this moment for years and loathed it. The idea of ordering U.S. troops into battle had no appeal, no mystique, no glory, and surely no satisfaction. People would die tonight because of the orders he gave. The enemy’s men for sure and possibly some of his own.
President Hayes listened to the general intently and tried to be objective. Hayes was a student of history and knew that to never use force was foolish. If he did not act tonight, it might someday cost the lives of Americans. Terrorism had to be confronted.
He could not pass on this decision.
IN THE IRANIAN seaside city of Bandar Abbas an elderly man shuffled down a dusty street in his dirty white djellaba, a simple robe like garment that flowed from his shoulders to his ankles. A brown turban covered his head and face; a pair of worn leather sandals, his feet. The wind blew in off” the Persian Gulf, and the night sky was filled with thick clouds.
The decrepit old man mumbled to himself in Farsi, the native language, as he went. Like so many things in life, appearances could be deceiving.
Underneath the ragged turban and djellaba was one hundred ninety pounds of solid, lean muscle.
Mitch Rapp, a thirty-one-year-old American, hadn’t showered in a week.
His deeply bronzed skin was covered with a film of dirt, and his black hair and beard were spotted with streaks of gray dye that made him look twice his age. During the late mornings and early afternoons, the American had slept in a tiny apartment. By afternoon and evening he roamed the streets with a brown canvas bag collecting discarded pop cans and bottles. While he played the role of street bum, he kept his posture slouched and his demeanor timid. But his eyes and mind were alert. He scanned doorways and windows and listened to conversations-waiting for a clue. Two days earlier he had discovered the telltale sign he had been looking for. Rapp was searching for a man, a man he wanted to kill.
His pursuit of this man had led him to some of the roughest and dirtiest cities in the Middle East, North Africa, and Europe. In the process Rapp had himself been shot, stabbed, and hunted, and every step of the way his quarry had managed to stay just out of his reach. Six months earlier, on a rainy Paris night, Rapp had had his chance and blown it. A moment of hesitation, of stupid indecision, had allowed Rafique Aziz to escape by the narrowest of margins. Never again, Rapp had sworn a thousand times. Next time he would pull the trigger-innocent bystander in the way or not.
Tonight, Rapp was determined to pick up the trail again.
Nearing the house he had discovered two days earlier, Rapp scanned the rooftops and windows for signs of sentries he might have missed on his previous visits. The smell of the salty air mixing with the open sewage heightened his instincts. He was on enemy ground, walking straight into the lion’s den. The streets he walked belonged to Hezbollah, one of several militant Islamic groups that dominated the underbelly of Middle Eastern politics. The terrorist group had killed thousands in their jihad-their holy war. This was their stronghold in the dirty seaside city of Bandar Abbas. Rapp had learned early in his profession that home was where his enemies were most vulnerable, where they were most likely to feel comfortable and let down their guard. Tonight he would come into their home-unannounced and uninvited.
Rapp adjusted his turban to conceal everything but his eyes. Then, he turned the corner and continued the shuffle of a man more than twice his age. Several doors down a man sat on a folding chair with an AK-47 resting on his lap.
Rapp mumbled to himself in Farsi, intentionally trying to alert the bodyguard to his presence. The bodyguard heard his approaching footsteps and aimed his gun in the direction of the noise. The babbling tramp appeared from the shadows, and the bodyguard relaxed, dropping his weapon back onto his lap.
It was his crazy late-night visitor, just another worthless vagrant.
As Rapp approached the bodyguard, he pulled his turban away from his mouth. Smiling, he flashed a set of fake rotten teeth and greeted the armed sentry as he shuffled past. The large man nodded and then leaned back in his chair, resting his head against the wall of the house.
