Vince Flynn - Protect And Defend

Alexander gestured at the one remaining chair and said, “Please sit.”

Kennedy set her briefcase next to the chair and handed her coat to a navy steward.

“What would you like this morning, Dr. Kennedy?”

“The usual, José. Thank you.”

The president pushed his plate of half-eaten eggs and sausage to the side and wiped the corners of his mouth with a white napkin. “Mitch was right about the bomb damage assessment report?”

“My experts,” England said, “concur, with one exception.”

Kennedy sat and asked, “What is that?”

“One analyst thinks the Israelis dropped a low-yield tactical nuke into the place.”

“Interesting. One of my people brought up a similar scenario last night. What led your analyst to decide it was a nuke?”

“Not so much evidence as plausibility. He says the other way is too complicated. Too many variables.”

Kennedy thought about it for a moment and asked, “How does he say the weapon was delivered?”

“That’s where his argument gets a little thin. Possibly a cruise missile.”

“Our satellites would have picked up a missile launch.”

“More than likely. He also thinks there is a good chance the Israelis must have developed a stealth bomber.”

Kennedy glanced at the president and then looked back at England. “Your people probably have a better handle on this than my people do. Do they think it’s that Israel developed a stealth bomber?”

“No,” England said emphatically. “I put the question out last night and all my experts are in agreement that they just don’t have the money.”

“They might not need as much money as you think,” Wicka said.

“How so?” the president asked.

“They have a history of stealing what they need. That’s how they developed their own nuclear weapons program. We did all the research, development, and testing and they came in and stole all of our data. They even stole nuclear materials from us to make their first bomb.”

The president looked at Kennedy. “Is this true?”

“I’m afraid so. It happened in the sixties. They stole approximately two hundred pounds of highly enriched uranium.”

“I agree it’s possible,” England said, “but it is still highly unlikely. Remember this attack happened in broad daylight. My imaging people went back and reviewed every airfield in the country. They paid special attention to the bases in the Negev. They came up with nothing. Every takeoff they discovered was corroborated by other tracking assets. It’s too big of a leap of faith to buy into the idea that Israel secretly developed a multibillion-dollar plane and then flew it during the day.”

“So you agree with Mitch’s theory,” Kennedy said.

“Yes.”

The president took a sip of coffee and then said, “And we’re all in agreement that Mitch’s plan could work?”

One by one the president’s three advisors agreed.

The president looked at Secretary of State Wicka. “You have any problem lying to the United Nations?”

Wicka beamed with amusement and then laughed. “If I was afraid of skirting the truth in that den of pathological liars, I would not be a very good secretary of state. What did you say Mitch called it? Creating an alternative truth.”

“Yes.”

“I like that. The UN runs on alternative truths. All of them self-serving, of course.”

“Wonderful.” The president turned to Kennedy. “What about your meeting with the Iranian intel chief?”

“It has been agreed to in principle. The details are being worked out.”

“Where will it take place?”

“ Mosul. That is where we have met in the past.”

The president glanced at Wicka. “Do you have any problems with this?”

“The State Department has no official and very few unofficial ties with Iran. I think this is the right move.”

Glancing at Kennedy he asked, “Have you heard from Mitch?”

Kennedy checked her watch. “He should be landing in Tel Aviv shortly.”

“You think they’ll give him a straight answer?” Wicka asked.

Kennedy thought it over for a second. “I’m not sure it will matter. They’ll love Mitch’s idea for the simple reason it will give them diplomatic cover. It’ll muddy the waters enough to give countries on the UN Security Council a reason to vote against whatever sanctions Iran asks for.”

“You honestly don’t think they’ll tell him?” Alexander asked in a surprised tone.

“Mr. President, they are a tough bunch. If anyone can get them to talk, though, it would be Mitch.”

The Gulfstream 5 landed at Ben Gurion International Airport, where it was met by a refueling truck. After the tanks were topped off, the pilots were directed to a dilapidated hangar far away from the commercial terminal. The CIA pilots eased the plane’s ninety-three-and-a-half-foot wingspan through the hundred-foot opening with great care and then shut the engines down. Mitch Rapp looked out the port side window and checked out the men who were assembled to greet him. They looked like misfits from some Cold War-era film about to handle a prisoner exchange at Checkpoint Charlie.

Rapp unbuckled his seat belt and stood. He looked over at Rob Ridley, who was about to get up. “Stay put.”

“Yeah, right.” The chief of the CIA’s Near East Division began to stand up.

Rapp put a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder and pushed him back down. “I’m serious.”

“We just finished a twelve-hour flight,” Ridley complained. “Are you out of your mind? I need to stretch my legs.”

“Yeah…well, if you get off this plane, I might have to break your legs. So stay put until I tell you otherwise.”

“I swear you were raised by a pack of wolves. Why do you always have to threaten violence?”

“Just sit tight. You know how secretive Ben is.” Rapp moved past Ridley and stopped next to Marcus Dumond, Langley’s resident computer genius and hacker extraordinaire.

Dumond looked up at Rapp and asked, “What’s up?”

“Sit tight until I’ve had a chance to talk to Ben. He doesn’t like strange faces.”

Rapp proceeded forward and lowered the stairs. He tilted his head to the right to get through the opening and moved stiffly down the short run of steps. Rapp was dressed in black dress pants and a loose-fitting, untucked Bugatchi short-sleeve shirt. His black Italian loafers hit the smooth concrete floor, and he started toward the director general of Mossad. With his thick stubble and shaggy black hair he looked more native to the region than the men he was walking toward. This was not his normal attire, but it allowed him to fit in. Too many security contractors flew into the region wearing 5.11 tan, tactical clothing, and SWAT boots. They stood out like a sore thumb among the locals, which in a way served as a deterrent. A kind of don’t-mess-with-me sign. I carry a gun, and I have the permission to shoot anyone who messes with me. The flip side of that was that it also marked them. Rapp didn’t want that. Where he was headed, he needed to blend in.

Rapp proceeded across the hangar toward Freidman, who was flanked by two huge men who looked as if they were waiting for Freidman to give them the okay to snap Rapp in half. Freidman himself was no wilting flower. He stood five feet ten inches tall and weighed at least 250 pounds. Set atop his bull-like shoulders and neck was a bald shiny head with heavy jowls. In his day he’d been known to do a lot of the heavy lifting himself. Now in his late sixties, he left that to men like the two standing next to him.

As Rapp neared, he said, “Ben, good of you to come out here and meet me.”

Freidman’s acerbic expression remained unchanged. “I think of you every day when I get out of bed.”