The Survivor

CHAPTER 39

But, sir, I—”

“Shut up and listen!” Saad Chutani shouted.

Taj cradled the phone handset between his ear and shoulder as Pakistan’s president continued his rant. Of course it was necessary to provide the occasional frightened grunt or affirmation to indicate his rapt attention, but in reality he was scrolling through his email.

“I want this journalistic hack silenced, do you understand? I will not have distortions and lies spread by our newspapers.”

Four days ago, the Pakistani Taliban had attacked a girls’ school that Chutani heavily supported. In fact, he had personally attended its opening, hailing it as the foundation of a new Pakistan. There had even been champagne and an absurd Western-style ribbon cutting. Now it was a burned-out husk surrounded by the bullet-riddled bodies of young girls who should have been at home under the supervision of their fathers and brothers.

“Answer me, Ahmed!”

Taj frowned. He’d assumed the question was rhetorical and the fool would continue to shout endlessly while saying nothing of consequence. A gift all politicians had but that this one excelled at in particular.

“Sir, there was simply no question that the press was going to cover this incident. I have the article you’re concerned about in front of me and while it lays out the facts, I don’t find it disrespectful to you or your administration. It—”

“Not disrespectful? Can you read, Ahmed? It makes me look powerless. How could this have even happened? It’s your job and the job of the S Wing to control these events.”

It was an interesting choice of words. Not “prevent” but “control.” And indeed Taj did. He had personally planned and authorized the attack. It was all part of the delicate balance he was attempting to strike. While Chutani’s assassination — ostensibly by the Americans — needed to be an event that stoked Pakistan’s nationalism, the dead president couldn’t be too popular. He needed to be portrayed as a good man who wasn’t equal to the task. The people had to understand that Pakistan needed a stronger leader. Someone who could achieve the order that the democrats had so miserably failed to deliver.

“The death of Akhtar Durrani created a period of blindness, Mr. President. I assure you that his successor has now fully transitioned into his position. Making that transition completely seamless, though, was impossible and the Taliban knew it. They took advantage of the brief period of weakness.”

“Excuses!”

“I’m sorry,” Taj said, conjuring a hint of fearfulness. “I’m doing the best—”

“We have to deal with the reporter, Ahmed. Now. There’s nothing we can do about your incompetence in letting the attack succeed, but we can certainly shape the aftermath.”

“The article has already been published, sir. There’s no way to—”

“It’s emboldening the other media outlets!” Chutani shouted. “In the last two days, there have been two articles critical of my involvement with the American drone attacks, and a newscaster has come out publicly against secular education. Without consequences, there is no way to know what they’ll say next.”

Chutani wanted to impress the West with a free press just so long as it was entirely supportive of his administration. And when it wasn’t, he called the man he’d hired for his weakness, expecting him to suddenly transform into an assassin.

“What kind of consequences are you talking about, sir?”

“We don’t need a press like the Americans have, Ahmed. One that spews lies and distortions twenty-four hours a day in search of profits. Pakistan needs fair and patriotic media outlets dedicated to moving the country forward. This recent activity sets a dangerous precedent.”

Taj smiled. Of course, the politician wouldn’t give a specific order. He had to have deniability. Should the coercion of Pakistan’s newspeople become public, he would need Taj and the ISI as a scapegoat.

“Private media is dependent on advertising dollars, Mr. President. I’ll have my people speak to the companies that support these outlets and ask them whether it’s in their best interest to encourage this kind of journalism.”

There was a long, disappointed silence. Chutani undoubtedly wanted the man dead and Taj completely understood. After he had closed his fist around Pakistan, a man like this would watch his entire family die before being exterminated like the animal he was. However, now wasn’t the time to be pulled into something this controversial. He would need the Americans’ unwitting support during his rise to power, and the assassination of a journalist could jeopardize that support.

“I assure you, this will be quite effective,” Taj continued. “No media company can afford to be painted as unpatriotic, and a large number of their advertisers have significant ownership by the army and ISI. They’ll publish no more articles critical of you, and if we proceed carefully, I think we can coerce a retraction. Or at least a clarification that highlights the difficulties of stamping out terrorism and provides examples of how effective your administration has been thus far.”

“If this is your recommendation, I will accept it,” Chutani said, still unwilling to make demands that could be traced back to him. “But I expect results, Ahmed.”

There was a knock on his office door and a moment later Kabir Gadai entered.

“I think you’ll be quite satisfied,” Taj said, watching his assistant approach. “We should be able to resolve the situation without undue risk to you or your government.”

“Tomorrow morning, Ahmed. I want a briefing on your plan’s specifics tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll have my people schedule a meeting.”

The line went dead and Taj hung up the phone. “Our president can be quite the hysterical woman.”

Gadai smiled and took a seat.

“What news do you have for me, Kabir? Have you determined what was in the Rickman file that we released?”

“I believe I have, sir.” He held out a manila envelope containing a number of eight-by-ten photographs, and Taj began flipping through them. He recognized the city as London and two of the men behind the police barricade as being from MI6 and the CIA, but other than that, the images meant little to him.

“Those are stills from security cameras installed near the Iranian ambassador’s residence. Our resources say that he and his family were taken by Iranian security in the middle of the night. They’re being recalled to Tehran.”

“Was a threat made against him? This might have been done for his own protection.”

“That’s what we thought at first, too.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Do you see the man in the black coat? The one whose face is always turned away from the camera? We believe that’s Mitch Rapp.”

Taj spread out the photos in front of him and studied the man in question. It was difficult to determine detail but, in a strange way, that’s what made the images stand out. In the middle of London, during a well-lit police operation, there wasn’t a single definitive photo.

Taj leaned back in his chair and met his assistant’s gaze. “So, you’re saying that Kamal Safavi was on the CIA’s payroll?”

“It seems likely. Since this occurred, there’s been a huge increase in diplomatic traffic between Iran and the United States, including a reported personal conversation between the ayatollah and President Alexander. It’s the first direct communication between the two men that we’re aware of.”

Taj felt the perspiration break across his forehead. If he’d had an asset this highly placed, only one or two of his most trusted people would have known. Kennedy operated no differently. If Rickman had access to this level of intelligence, what else could be hidden in his files? What did he know about the Israelis? About America’s politicians and allies? Indeed, what did he know about Pakistan?

“It’s a massive blow to the U.S.,” Gadai said, sounding typically prideful. “The thawing of relations between Iran and America was one of the cornerstones of Alexander’s Middle East strategy. He hoped to build a Shiite bulwark against the expansion of Sunni — militias.”

“Don’t be too pleased with yourself, Kabir. The loss of Safavi has harmed America but if we’d had access to this information instead of being forced to release it, we would have had the tools to turn one of the CIA’s highest-placed assets. He was a well-liked moderate with political aspirations. Who knows how useful he could have been in keeping the Iranians in their place. This wasn’t a victory, it was an opportunity missed. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Yes, sir,” Gadai said, averting his eyes appropriately.

Taj needed to keep the young man’s arrogance in check, and highlighting the negative side of the situation was a good way of doing it. Having said that, it was admittedly difficult not to revel in this particular failure. A partnership between Iran and America would significantly extend the West’s influence in the Middle East. It was a natural alliance that had been made impossible by a powerful — but largely empty — animosity between the two countries. Now the flames of that fire would once again burn bright.

“The question I’m interested in, Kabir, is whether the file release got us any closer to finding the man who can decrypt the files.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Gadai said, recovering quickly from his reprimand. “My people were able to trace it even farther than they originally thought. Perhaps as few as two more releases will lead us to his location.”

“And the next one is scheduled for when?”

“Tomorrow.”

Taj nodded thoughtfully. It was difficult not to speculate what that dispatch contained. What damage it would do to the country that believed it had the right to rule the world.

“Unfortunately, we have no choice. You have my authorization.”