Vince Flynn - Protect And Defend

“That was close,” Rapp said.

“Don’t worry,” Stilwell mumbled. “That was one of ours.” He then rolled over and was back to snoring in less than a minute.

Rapp looked at the scenery as they hit the main thoroughfare for the airport. He asked himself for at least the tenth time if it was wise to bring Kennedy into this environment. The Iranians refused to meet at the airport, so a neutral spot within the city was agreed upon. They passed the bombed-out carcass of a car, and Rapp let out a yawn.

Stilwell looked over with his toothy grin and asked, “What’s the matter? You didn’t get a good night’s sleep?”

Rapp looked straight ahead and frowned. “I don’t know what was worse, the gunfire or your snoring.”

“My snoring. You spend enough nights here, you get used to the gunfire.”

“I’ll bet.” Rapp nodded thoughtfully and made a mental note to have Kennedy give Stilwell a commendation and a big fat raise. These guys in the field were never paid enough.

The Russian-made Hind Mi-24 helicopter came in fast and looped around the ruins of the ancient city of Nineveh. Ashani looked down at the crumbling Assyrian ruins and thought of his own country’s place in history. He didn’t remember all the facts, but he knew the capital of the Assyrian Empire had fallen approximately a thousand years before the prophet’s arrival. The Medians and the Babylonians had crushed the city and then in turn were conquered by Cyrus the Great. The days when the Persians controlled everything from the Mediterranean to modern-day India were long gone. Any hopes of ever attaining the prominence of his predecessors seemed impossible. Based on recent developments, they would be lucky if the once former empire didn’t contract further.

Ashani had felt for some time that the government was in a far more tenuous position than anyone would acknowledge. His fellow members on the Supreme Security Council were either too disconnected from what was going on or had surrounded themselves with sycophants who only told them what they wanted to hear. That was definitely the case with Amatullah. He had grown to believe his own propaganda and his ability to get others to believe it as well.

The debacle at the United Nations had stung. In addition to the entire issue being tabled by the Security Council, America ’s accusation that Iran was trying to cover up an internal revolt had gained some real traction. Foreign Minster Salehi’s weak counter-accusation that America had fabricated the information only seemed to worsen things. Salehi’s protest in the face of Secretary of State Wicka’s avalanche of information looked lame even to Ashani. The international press was running stories that for the first time since the revolution, questioned the ability of the government in Tehran to hold on to power. Protests were springing up in the northern provinces, and in Tehran his people were telling him the mood on the street was combustible.

The Supreme Leader was characteristically absent, choosing to focus instead on the religious well-being of the country. Ashani had his suspicions that the Supreme Leader was distancing himself from a sinking ship, giving Amatullah all the rope he needed to either save or hang himself. Ashani thought the Supreme Leader was trying to elevate his position of spiritual leader to such heights that he would be safe should Amatullah fail in rallying support from the international community and regaining control of his fellow Iranians. Several banks had been firebombed overnight. Amatullah put the security services on full alert and ordered them to arrest anyone at even the whiff of trouble.

The helicopter leveled out and began a slow descent toward a parking lot near the river. Ashani glanced to his right and looked at the back of Imad Mukhtar, who was looking out the starboard side window and talking on a cell phone. As if things weren’t bad enough, Amatullah was now taking counsel from Mukhtar. The head of Hezbollah’s paramilitary wing was a useful tool for certain things, but advising the Iranian president during this heightened crisis was not one of them. He was far too obtuse to be offering advice on such complicated matters. Even in the face of what had happened at the United Nations, Mukhtar had lobbied to launch attacks against Israel and America. When pressed by Ashani as to why, he proclaimed that guilty or not the two nations had benefited by the act and should be punished. Not getting anywhere with Ashani, Mukhtar directed his words at Amatullah, telling him that by striking back at the Jews and the Americans the Iranian people would see them as guilty.

“And if they decide to strike back?” Ashani asked yet again.

Mukhtar looked at him smugly and shook his head. “They do not want to fight us. Trust me.”

As Ashani thought back to the meeting late last night, he couldn’t shake the nagging sense that America would push back. Not a single member of the Supreme Council had any idea just how shaky their footing was. Ashani could feel the trouble in the wind. Civil disobedience was up. Greater numbers of women were wearing makeup and designer clothes that showed more skin than the clerics would ever tolerate. A crackdown was looming, and this time Ashani had a growing suspicion that it would send the people into a real revolt against the harsh policies of their government. Amatullah would do whatever it took to keep his blessed revolution rolling on. It was all he had. All he knew. He had invested too much time and effort to let it fail. Even if it was beyond saving.

Ordering him to bring Mukhtar on such a delicate mission was proof that Amatullah was desperate. The two men were up to something, and Ashani was sure that whatever it was, it would only make matters worse. Ashani was informed of this strange addition to his entourage only this morning. He immediately put a call in to the Presidential Palace to ask why. When Amatullah finally got on the line, he told Ashani that Mukhtar needed to talk to Hezbollah’s commander in Mosul. The man had very important information that the Americans had backed the entire MEK operation to sabotage the Isfahan facility. Ashani wondered what could have possibly developed after he had left the Presidential Palace at half past midnight. All night Amatullah had been holding firm that America had fabricated the evidence at the UN, which in his mind proved they had been the ones who had destroyed the facility with their stealth planes. Now, he was suddenly reversing course and claiming the facility was in fact destroyed by sabotage. None of it made any sense.

The helicopter set down in a nearly empty parking lot.

Mukhtar extended his hand to Ashani and said, “Remember. Allah favors the bold. He has great plans for us. That is why we survived the attack in Isfahan.”

“Allah is great.” Ashani exited the helicopter and approached his security chief, who had flown in the night before to coordinate protection with their people from Department 9000-the group that recruited, trained, and funded Shia insurgents in Iraq. Men from the local Shia militia were providing transportation and security to and from the meeting. All of them were wearing black hoods. Ashani greeted his security chief and then turned to an American whom he had met twice before.

The man from the CIA stepped forward and extended his hand. “Minister Ashani, thank you for coming all this way.”

“Mr. Ridley,” Azad said in perfect English, “you have traveled much further than I.” He shook the man’s hand.

“That’s true,” Ridley replied, “but we still appreciate you making the effort.”

“I appreciate Director Kennedy reaching out. Not talking only leads to further misunderstandings.” Ashani noticed Ridley looking over his shoulder. He turned and saw the back of Mukhtar. The terrorist was holding a large briefcase and walking hurriedly to the other side of the parking lot. Mukhtar stepped into a blue-and-white police SUV that was sandwiched on each end by police pickup trucks with heavy machine guns mounted in the beds. Policemen wearing black hoods were loaded into the back of the trucks.