Chapter 37
YOU what?”
“Dated Stan Hurley. Though I suppose calling what passed between us dating isn’t entirely accurate. To be more precise, we—”
“No need to elaborate,” Rapp said, holding up both hands. “I get the picture.”
“Familiar with the old codger, I see,” Victoria said with a knowing look. “Just as I’d suspected.”
“There aren’t many people who’ve practiced the profession of espionage over the last three decades who aren’t familiar with Hurley.”
“Quite so,” Victoria said, leaning forward, “but I dare say you’re more than just familiar with him. You have the look of one of his boys. You’re a killer, aren’t you, Mr. Johnson?”
Rapp said nothing.
“Come, come. There’s no need to get your knickers in a bunch. Partnerships are built on trust.”
“If you truly knew Hurley, then you’d know better than to ask that question,” Rapp said.
“Maybe, but you can’t blame a girl for trying.
Okay, Mr. Johnson, here’s how this is going to work.
I have a group operating in Iraq. We fund and train them.
In return, they provide us with intelligence and operational assistance on occasion.
They will vouch for your membership in their organization. ”
The British spy was full of surprises.
Though there was plenty of discontent in Iraq, Saddam Hussein dealt with threats to his rule with a ruthless efficiency.
Pockets of resistance still existed among the population, but after watching their countrymen die, most could be categorized as all talk and little to no action.
As such, he’d expected Victoria’s assets to be Hamas or Hezbollah operatives working in the more permissive environments of Lebanon, Syria, or perhaps one of the other Gulf States.
This was interesting.
“Are they Shia militants?” Rapp said.
In the bifurcated society that was the Middle East, most schisms were rooted in Islam.
Or more specifically, which strain of Islam the nation’s ruler and its people practiced.
Hussein’s Baathist party was an adherent of Sunni Islam, while more than half of the Iraqi population professed allegiance to the Shia sect, aligning them with Iran’s ayatollahs.
If the British were working with a resistance party in Iraq, it would make sense that they would be Shiite.
Victoria shook her head. “Kurds.”
The extraordinary amount of security that Victoria had employed for this meeting suddenly made a lot more sense.
The Kurdistan Workers’ Party had been battling for independence from Turkey since 1984.
While the Kurds operating in Iraq were distinct from this subgroup, the Turkish government could be forgiven for deciding this was a distinction without a difference.
“The PKK?” Rapp said, using the acronym for the Kurdistan Workers’ Party.
“Of course not,” Victoria said, frowning. “We don’t fund groups actively seeking to undermine a NATO ally. I’m talking about mountain Kurds from Zagros.”
Like most American boys, Rapp had grown up without giving much thought to the goings-on in the Middle East. He’d spent his childhood and teenage years perfecting his lacrosse stick skills and trying to impress pretty girls.
In college, his focus had remained essentially the same with two exceptions: his international business classes and his deepening relationship with Mary, the high school sweetheart he intended to wed.
On a cold December day, that changed.
After terrorists brought down Mary’s plane over Lockerbie, Scotland, Rapp dedicated himself to studying radical Islam and its cradle. This obsession turned into genuine scholarship after he joined the Orion team.
He knew all about the mountain Kurds.
“I wouldn’t have thought they’d be willing to jump in bed with another Western intelligence service.”
“After your lot hung them out to dry you mean?” Victoria’s smile took some of the sting from her words.
“The Kurds have a saying—no friends but the mountains. Did they take it personally when your president encouraged them to rise up and then refused to provide air support when Hussein sent tanks and gunships and gassed the rebellion with chemical agents? Of course. Were they surprised? In hindsight, no. They are nothing if not pragmatic. The Kurds have been fighting for their freedom for seventy years. I imagine they’ll continue to fight for another seventy.
When we offered aid, they were only too happy to accept. ”
Rapp understood Victoria’s sentiment, but he might have described the Kurds differently. Pragmatic had a nice ring, but it didn’t capture the sentiment of the Middle East nearly as well as another word.
Opportunistic.
“And you’re promising them what—a chance to overthrow Hussein?”
“Nothing of the sort. Their struggle is their struggle. Where we have common cause, our efforts can be mutually beneficial. Just like our joint operation.”
Rapp refrained from pointing out that the British and American governments had traditionally enjoyed what was termed a special relationship.
A recognition of their nations’ shared history, language, culture, and values.
In a way, Victoria’s candor was refreshing.
Special relationships and shared alliances were for politicians.
Victoria was a spy, and the world of espionage could ill afford such niceties.
“Okay,” Rapp said, “how’s this going to work?”
Victoria reached into the satchel at her feet, removed a folder, and handed it to Rapp. “Read and memorize this. Then destroy it. It’s printed on flash paper, so I’d recommend burning it, but the ink is water soluble. In a pinch, a good soaking will render it mostly unreadable.”
Rapp chose not to dwell on the word mostly.
He’d be burning the documents.
“I’ll probably be inserting into Iraq within days,” Rapp said. “The expedited timeline gonna be a problem for your assets?”
“I’m more concerned about you. You have the looks and I’m assuming the language abilities to blend in. But that area is desolate. A no-man’s-land. If things go astray, there will be no rescue. Are you prepared for that?”
Rapp didn’t immediately answer.
He’d been preparing for this moment almost from the instant he learned about Mary’s death.
Perhaps subconsciously at first, but after his recruitment to the Orion program, he’d thrown himself into his role.
Though Irene had never explicitly stated it, Rapp had known that hunting terrorists in Europe was never the program’s end state.
To land the really big fish, sooner or later he’d need to travel to where the terrorists felt safe.
To where they lived.
Hurley was a once-in-a-generation operative, but he would never pass for a native.
Rapp could.
But he didn’t say this to Victoria. The British spy might be framing her question as concern for his well-being, but she was a handler, and like agent runners everywhere, her primary allegiance would always rest with one group of her people.
Her assets.
Victoria was worried that Rapp didn’t have what it took, but not because she was afraid of losing him. She didn’t want to burn her Kurdish agents.
Rapp understood.
Irene felt the same way about him.
“I can do this,” Rapp said.
He tried to make his answer as sterile as possible. An honest assessment of his skills rather than a display of youthful bravado. This was harder than he’d expected. He knew he could pull this operation off for the same reason he burned with confidence every time he stepped onto the lacrosse field.
He could do this because he was born to do it.
Victoria stared at him for an uncomfortably long period of time. As if she could somehow look beyond his words to his soul. Every agent runner worth their salt developed an innate bullshit detector.
The British spy was employing hers.
After holding his gaze for what seemed like an eternity, Victoria slowly nodded. “You honestly believe that you can. I guess that will have to do.”
Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but he would take it.
“Okay,” Rapp said, getting to his feet. “Anything else?”
“Yes. If you’d be so kind as to give Mr. Hurley a message?”
Rapp gave the woman a wary look. “Sure.”
“Great. Please tell him from me that he can fuck off. Can you remember that?”
Rapp thought he could.