Protect And Defend

34

Rapp was wearing a loose-fitting pair of pleated black dress pants and a gray dress shirt that was untucked. He stood behind Stilwell looking down at one of the flat-panel monitors. The screen was split in two. The left half showed Kennedy. The right half showed Ashani. Their conversation was relayed via a pair of desktop speakers with reasonable clarity. As Kennedy had predicted, the dialogue was progressing without conflict. This should have reassured Rapp, but it didn’t.

Something didn’t seem right. He ran a hand through his thick, black hair and then scratched his beard. His eyes moved to a second monitor showing four separate shots of the street. The policemen at the north barricade looked tense and a bit jumpy. It was decided that they would not be told any specifics about the meeting. Especially that the director of the CIA was one of the two principles. The Iranian demand that no U.S. military personnel be involved with the security complicated things a bit.

The local police were the next best choice for crowd control. At least that’s what Ridley thought. Rapp was having second thoughts. The police seemed to be more concerned with what was going on inside the security perimeter than what was going on outside. Their job was to screen pedestrians and make sure no vehicles gained access to the block.

Fortunately, pedestrian traffic was sparse. The natives knew to stay away from the police checkpoints for the simple fact that they provided ripe targets for the fundamentalist suicide bombers. As Rapp was trying to get a read on the situation, two more police vehicles pulled up. They were pickup trucks, each with a.50-caliber machine gun mounted to the roof of the cab. Two.50-caliber heavy machine guns was a lot of firepower. The gunners were wearing flak jackets and black hoods, but beyond that they were standing fully exposed in the back of the pickups. It was the perfect job for a young recruit who would think himself invincible behind the heavy gun. In reality, though, they were ripe targets. In a gunfight they wouldn’t last long, standing and exposed like that. Any decent marksman could pick them off. Rapp noticed that the men handling the big guns also appeared more concerned about what was happening inside the security cordon than what was going on outside.

Rapp shifted his gaze to a picture of the men who were providing transport for Minister Ashani. They were parked directly across the street from the café and their American counterparts. As they were dressed in street clothes and wearing black hoods to conceal their faces, Rapp guessed they were either Quds Force or members of a local Shia militia. They were all holding AK-74s. He understood why the militants had to conceal their faces, but the fact that the police did as well spoke volumes about the lawlessness of the city.

Rapp tapped Stilwell on the shoulder and said, “Am I just imagining it, or does it look like the police and these guys in the hoods are itching to get in a gunfight with each other?”

“Nope,” Stilwell kept his eyes on screen, “you’re not imagining anything. It’s the same old story. Most of the cops are Sunni, and these guys in the hoods are Shia. They’re like Yankees and Red Sox fans, except they’ve hated each other for a lot longer.”

“Yankees and Red Sox fans don’t kill each other.”

“They might…if they had to live in the same city.”

Rapp didn’t like any of this. The last thing they needed was Kennedy getting caught in the crossfire between the Hatfields and the McCoys. “Can we trust these militia guys?”

“How do you mean?”

“How do we know they’re not going to start a fight?”

“We don’t.”

“Wonderful.”

“Mitch, the only people I trust in this town are my Kurds.”

Rapp looked down at all the cops. “Not even the police?”

“Least of all the police.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I sure the hell am. They’re one of the most corrupt groups in the damn city. If a fight starts there’s a better than fifty percent chance they’ll just run.”

“Then why are we using them?”

“Because we don’t have a lot of options.”

“Shit.”

“Mitch, it’s not as bad as you think. These guys have no idea who they’re protecting. All they know is they’re going to get a nice big cash bonus from us if this thing goes off without any problems.”

Rapp looked at the security monitor with renewed concern. He pointed at the screen and said, “Look at these two idiots. They’ve got those fifties pointed in the wrong direction.”

Stilwell checked out the screen and shook his head. “There is no such thing as muzzle discipline over here. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t have to tell some idiot to lower his gun. And they’re all walking around with the damn things chambered, safeties off, and their fingers on the trigger. Accidental discharges are as common as car wrecks…and they aren’t good drivers.”

Rapp swore to himself. An accidental discharge in a situation like this would likely result in a thousand plus rounds flying through the air in every direction. He walked over to the window and looked through a slit in the curtain down at the street. Rapp had a secure radio clipped to his belt and a wireless earpiece in his left ear. He touched the transmit button and said, “Mac, how are you feeling?” Rapp looked directly at Kennedy’s security chief who was blocking the entrance to the café.

“Just great,” he said sarcastically. “I’m surrounded by men in masks carrying bigger guns than mine who would love nothing more than to kill our boss. Other than that it’s a wonderful morning. The sun is out, the temp’s in the mid-sixties. I feel like I’m on vacation.”

“I know. It sounds like they’re wrapping it up. Irene’s gotten through all her main points. It shouldn’t be much longer, and then you guys can get the hell out of here and back to the airport.”

“I’m counting the seconds.”

“Hang in there.”

Rapp clicked the secure radio out of the two-way mode and looked to the far end of the street. Several of the cops were now milling about with Russian-made rocket-propelled grenade launchers resting on their hips.

“This place is fucking crazy,” Rapp mumbled to himself.

There was way too much unsecured firepower. Subconsciously, he brought his left hand up and touched the.45-caliber Glock 21 pistol on his left hip. Underneath his oversized gray shirt, Rapp was wearing level-three body armor with a ceramic chicken plate over his heart. The Glock was in a paddle holster with two spare magazines clipped to his belt. Rapp turned his attention away from the street for a moment and eyed the small arsenal Stilwell had assembled on the other side of the room. On the floor was a black composite case with two locking clasps.

Rapp walked over, knelt, and popped the two clasps. He lifted the lid and revealed his personal arsenal: a 5.56mm rifle with a suppressor, a spare.45, and a Glock 17 with a suppressor, all sitting in foam cutouts. The M-4 was made by Sabre Defense. It was a Massad Ayoob special broken down into a lower and upper receiver. Rapp assembled the weapon in a few seconds, screwed the silencer onto the end, and loaded it with a thirty-round magazine. He checked to make sure the safety was on, then chambered one of the.233 rounds, grabbed two spare magazines, and walked back to the window.

“Call the base,” he said to Stilwell, “and make sure the quick-reaction force is at the gate ready to move, and I mean locked and loaded, engines running.”

“Will do.”

Rapp clutched the grip of the M-4 and checked his watch. It was 11:17. He looked down at all the firepower on the street and couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. One misstep, by either group, and Kennedy and her detail would be caught in the crossfire. Rapp could hear Kennedy’s voice coming from the speaker behind him. His eyes narrowed as another police pickup truck joined the other two at the far end of the street. This one was carrying eight men, all in uniforms and black hoods. They piled out of the truck and moved off in pairs toward each corner of the intersection. Rapp swore under his breath and decided enough was enough.

“Mac,” Rapp said as he keyed the transmit button on his radio. “I think it’s time to wrap this thing up and get her back to the base.”

“I agree.”

“All right, get your guys ready to move. Minister Ashani goes first and then once he’s gone bring her out and hightail it straight back.”

“You want me to tell her it’s time to go?”

“That’s right. Just whisper in her ear that something urgent has come up. They broke the ice. Next time they can meet in Geneva where we won’t have to deal with all these crazy bastards.”

“Roger.”

Rapp moved his eyes from the front door of the café to the militia men and then the cops at the far end. The sliding glass door was already open. He took a step back so the muzzle wouldn’t stick out beyond the curtain and raised his rifle. With both eyes opened, he looked through the L-3 EOTech sight and centered the red dot on the head of the.50-caliber gunner on the far right. He guessed the distance to be about 140 feet. An easy shot. Rapp moved the sight from one gunner to the next and quietly said, “Just stay calm, boys. This will all be over in a few minutes.”

Someone who must have been an officer walked up to the two men manning the.50-caliber machine guns and started yelling and pointing in different directions. After a moment the men retrained their guns in the opposite direction. Rapp lowered his rifle and relaxed a bit.