Vince Flynn - Protect And Defend

“He’s still at the mosque.”

“Do you have us on visual?”

“That’s affirmative.”

“What are you seeing at the mosque?”

“There’s still a group of maybe a dozen armed men out front, but there’s only two guys at the entrance to the madrasa.”

“Thanks for the info. Let me know if anything changes.”

It had been Stilwell’s idea to enter from the religious school that was adjoined to the mosque. That was where Imam Husseini kept his office and were he spent most of his time between prayers.

Stilwell was on his phone. “I will tell you when I get there. We’re about a minute away.” He listened to the other person for a moment and then said, “Faris, just stand on the fucking curb and wait for me. When we get there I’ll tell you what’s going on, and yes, I’m going to pay you a shitload of money. Just tell Husseini’s guy that you have someone who would like to sit down with his boss and discuss a large donation to the mosque. I’ll see you in a minute.” Stilwell stabbed the end button and put the phone back in his suit jacket. “Faris is a good man, but he can be real pain the ass.”

“Will they trust him?”

Stilwell nodded. “Faris has made a lot of money for a lot of people.”

Rapp stared straight ahead and asked, “What about this Imam Husseini?” Rapp was referring to the head Imam at the Great Mosque.

“What about him?”

“Can you trust him?”

“I told you, the only people I trust in this town are my Kurds, but”-he shrugged-“the guy is a whore, so if we show him enough cash, I think he might look the other way and stay out of our hair.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Stilwell winced. “Try not to kill him, Mitch. If you do, we’re going to have a whole lot of pissed-off Shiites on our hands.”

“At this point, I really don’t care how many Shiites I piss off.”

Stilwell was about to tell Rapp that was the kind of attitude that might get them all killed, but he decided to bite his tongue. The car turned hard left at a stoplight and then took the next right.

“There it is,” Stilwell said as he pointed. “Straight ahead on the left. One more block.”

The street was blocked with big concrete Jersey barriers to prevent suicide car bombers from getting any closer to the mosque. The sedan swung left and stopped in front of the main door of the madrasa. Two men were waiting at the curb, both in business suits. Stilwell quickly exited the car with a small attaché case and shook Faris’s hand. Faris in turn introduced Stilwell to Imam Husseini’s personal assistant. The three men exchanged brief pleasantries and then Stilwell motioned for Rapp to join them.

The Kurds piled out of the two vehicles and formed a loose circle around Rapp, Stilwell, and the other two men. Stilwell lifted the thin attaché case and popped the two clasps. He opened the case just enough for the imam’s assistant to get a glimpse of the cash.

Stilwell moved closer to the man and whispered, “The Supreme Leader would like to show the imam his appreciation.”

The assistant smiled knowingly and motioned for them to follow. Stilwell had told Rapp how Imam Husseini frequently traveled to Tehran; especially when ethnic conflict flared up within the city. The imam of the Great Mosque was a ripe target for the Sunni terrorist groups. The assistant opened the door and held it for his visitors. When he saw that the bodyguards were trying to follow, he shot Stilwell an extremely dissatisfied look.

Stilwell turned and motioned for the Kurds to stay put. This had been anticipated. If things got hairy inside, he would radio them for backup. Stilwell then handed Faris an envelope stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, and thanked him for arranging a low-key visit with the imam. Faris turned and left while the other three entered the building.

The assistant led the way down a wide hallway. Rapp and Stilwell followed a pace behind. Behind the closed doors students could be heard reciting suras from the Koran. At the end of the hallway was a stairwell that went down or up a half flight. Rapp noted a side entrance on his right as they went up the steps and straight ahead to another building that connected the madrasa to the mosque.

At the end of the hallway they turned right. Rapp saw a man up ahead standing guard in front of an office door. Rapp’s left hand moved to the hilt of his.45-caliber Glock. His movements were concealed under the black clerical robes. His index finger depressed the release on the holster and he drew the weapon. His right hand reached over to casually adjust the folds of the robe to make sure the gun was fully concealed. As they drew closer to the office door and the bodyguard, Rapp grew increasingly suspicious. The man was wearing the exact same boots as the two Iranian prisoners he had been interrogating and his tactical vest was also identical. The man was holding a black AK-74 across his chest. When they drew within ten feet, he stepped forward and blocked the door.

The assistant said something that Rapp didn’t quite catch. The guard shook his head in response and said, “I have to search them.”

“These are emissaries sent by the Supreme Leader.”

Rapp adopted the haughty attitude imams were known for.

The bodyguard was not intimidated. He stepped forward and motioned for Rapp to raise his hands. At that exact moment, Dumond’s voice came over Rapp’s earpiece.

“Mitch, we’ve got a call being made to the new number.”

Rapp began raising his arms and in clear unaccented English, replied to Dumond by saying, “Patch it through.”

The words spoken not in Arabic or Farsi, but Americanized English caused the bodyguard to pause for a second as his eyes and ears attempted to reconcile the diverging facts. Rapp pulled the trigger on the silenced.45-caliber Glock. The hollow-tipped bullet hit the man in his bulletproof tactical vest like a sledgehammer. He dropped his rifle as he stumbled backward two steps and fell. Rapp swung his cloaked arm around and brought it to bear on the assistant. He grabbed him by the back of the neck, and in Arabic hissed, “Do what I tell you and you will not be harmed.”

Rapp pushed him toward the door, past Stilwell, who was throwing a pair of white plastic flex cuffs on the gasping bodyguard. The assistant opened the door without having to be told, and he and Rapp spilled into the room. The imam was straight ahead, sitting behind his desk, frozen with a pen in one hand and the other draped on top of the desk. Rapp did a quick check to his left and right, and when he put his eyes back on the imam, he saw the gray-bearded man reaching for something under the desk. Rapp took aim and fired, sending a bullet thudding into the top of the heavy wood desk. Splinters flew and the elderly Husseini jerked backwards, rolling away from the desk in his chair. Rapp raised the pistol up above his head and brought it crashing down on the base of the assistant’s neck. The man’s legs turned to rubber, and he collapsed to the floor.

Rapp rushed around the desk and kicked the side of the imam’s leather office chair, sending him rolling across the wood floor and away from whatever it was that he had been reaching for. The chair skidded to a stop against a bookcase.

Rapp looked under the desk and found a gun set inside a small shelf. He left it there and moved to the imam while Stilwell dragged the bodyguard into the office and then went back for the rifle. “I’ve been told you’re a reasonable man, and I’m a little short on time. So I’m going to make this quick. I’ve got a briefcase with fifty grand in it. You tell me where you’ve stashed Imad Mukhtar and CIA Director Kennedy and the money’s all yours. If you don’t, I’m going to start by shooting you in the foot and then the knee. Both places that really hurt. So what’s it going to be…the money, or a bullet?”