Vince Flynn - Protect And Defend

“You may have been thinking about defending a piece of paper when you took your oath, but I was thinking about protecting and defending American citizens from the type of shit that just happened. I apologize for my language, Mr. President, but this is ridiculous. If they haven’t already started torturing her, they are going to shortly. And once that happens, sir, it is only a matter of time before she breaks. And when she does, we are screwed. She has a photographic memory. She knows every single spy and clandestine operative we have in the Middle East, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

“There are legal ways to do this,” Webber responded.

“This isn’t a court of law,” Rapp snapped. “We don’t have a month to wear these guys down by asking them the same question five hundred times and waking them up twenty times a night. We don’t even have a week. If I don’t get answers out of these guys in the next twenty-four hours, we are going to have to start recalling every clandestine operative the CIA has in the region, and if we still haven’t got her back a month from now, we’ll have to recall the entire Clandestine Service. Every spy who has ever worked with us will be in danger of being exposed and executed. Our intel will dry up faster than any of us can imagine, and we will be flying blind.”

England looked at the president and said, “I’m afraid he’s right.”

“Mr. President,” Rapp said in a pleading tone, “all I’m asking for is twenty-four hours. Just let me do my job and I promise you, I’ll find out who is behind this.”

President Alexander looked directly at England, who in turn looked at the attorney general and said, “Pete, I’d like to have a word alone with the president and Frank. Would you excuse us for a moment?”

The look on Webber’s face was one of dejection, but he understood. He flipped his leather briefing book shut with a snap and stood. He marched across the room and closed the heavy soundproof door behind him.

England knew the president well enough to anticipate what must be done. There was no need for further discussion. Alexander was the quarterback. Their job was to protect and shield him. Alexander had already communicated with his eyes how this thing should play out.

“Mitch,” England said, “you have twenty-four hours…no questions asked. Just cover your tracks.”

“I will.”

“And, Mitch,” the president said, “bring her back.”

“I will, Mr. President.”

“Even if she’s dead, Mitch, I want her back.”

“Yes, sir.”

The speaker phone made a clicking noise as Rapp disconnected the call from his end. The president was about to say something when the door opened and Secretary of State Wicka entered looking very hurried.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner, sir.” Wicka dumped her leather shoulder bag on the chair next to England and reached for one of four remote controls sitting in the center of the shiny table. “I’m afraid this situation has just gotten more complicated.” Wicka pointed the remote at the large plasma TV on the wall across from her. “Sir, al-Jazeera is reporting that one of our subs has just sunk an Iranian military vessel in the Strait of Hormuz.”

“What?” a shocked Alexander asked as images of a heavily damaged gray military vessel appeared on the TV. The president tore his eyes away from the TV and looked at England.

The secretary of defense was already reaching for the phone. “I’m on it, sir.”

Irene Kennedy lay on the dirt floor and tried not to move. She was wearing only her bra and panties, and was partially covered by an itchy wool blanket. A foul, canvas bag was tied around her head. Even though she desperately needed to go to the bathroom, she was not about to ask her captors. They had already savagely kicked her for attempting to sit up. The man who had been watching her didn’t bother to say a word. Just delivered a swift boot to the ribs. He didn’t need to. The message was clear. Stay put. If we want you to get up we’ll let you know. Kennedy’s inventory of her surroundings was bleak. She was almost certain they had her underground. The floor was dirt, and even through the filthy canvas bag she could smell the must.

The attack had been horrifying. Kennedy saw the vehicles in front of them get blown to bits, and then her own Suburban was hit. She wasn’t sure, but she thought the explosion might have knocked her unconscious. The next thing she remembered after the series of explosions was the vehicle filling with smoke. Her bodyguards on either side were yelling into their radios calling for help, but none came. She didn’t know if the doors had been pried open or if her bodyguards, gasping for air, had decided they had no choice but to abandon the armored vehicle. She had been grabbed roughly and slapped the second her foot hit the pavement. She remembered having the presence of mind to at least look calm. And then the man who had hit her forced her to watch as he shot three of her bodyguards in the head.

They had traveled no more than a block when she was shoved down onto the floor. The hood was placed over her head, and the men went to work with knives, cutting away her clothes. After that they bound her wrists, knees, and ankles. A few minutes later, she guessed, they pulled into a garage where she’d been transferred from one vehicle into the trunk of another, although, it was possible they had simply moved her to the trunk of the same car. She guessed that for a good thirty minutes the car drove around the city. She could tell by the motion and noise that they were stuck in traffic. At one point she heard the men in front arguing. They were talking in Farsi. They said something about roadblocks and having to abandon their original plan. Shortly after that they dumped the car. The men wrapped her in a blanket and moved her from the trunk to her current location.

One man had carried her over his shoulder, and she got the sense they had walked down several narrow flights of stairs. Every time the man hit a landing, he would turn and the hood on Kennedy’s head would brush against the wall. She’d heard an old door open with a creak and then she was dumped on the floor like a sack of fertilizer. Kennedy rolled onto her side and attempted to sit up. That was when one of her captors kicked her in the ribs and flipped her onto her back.

The pain of what she thought was most likely a broken rib was a bit of a blessing. It gave her something else to worry about. It had been nearly twenty-five years since she’d gone through her training at The Farm near Williamsburg, Virginia, but she remembered it very well. In fact one lecture stood out all too vividly in her mind. It was about the kidnapping of CIA Beirut station chief Bill Buckley in March of 1984. Buckley had been a Special Forces officer in the army before joining the CIA and was no wilting flower. One week after his kidnapping the first of dozens of CIA spies went missing. Buckley’s Hezbollah interrogators broke him and began selling the information to Syria, Jordan, Egypt, and other countries in the region. They brutally tortured him for more than a year and then hanged him. The CIA had managed to get their hands on some of the tapes Hezbollah had made of the torture sessions. The instructors at The Farm made Kennedy and her fellow classmates watch the tapes twice-once before they started their classes on interrogation and again at its two-week conclusion. Showing Buckley’s horrible experience was intended to make two simple points. The first was that everyone breaks. Even the toughest of the tough. All you can do is hold out as long as possible to give your colleagues time to move agents and operatives out of harm’s way. The second lesson to be learned was simple yet important-don’t get caught.