“He also bought his business.”

“At a steeply discounted price, I’m sure.”

Stilwell stopped in front of the massive portico. “These Sunnis have been screwing people for years. You’re not going to get any sympathy out of me.”

Rapp opened his car door and stood, taking in the full scope of the front of the house and the motor court. Massoud Mahabad had done very well for himself.

“Mitch.”

Rapp turned to see Massoud coming toward him down a walking path covered with crushed rock that looked as if it led to an orchard of some sort. The man stood five feet eight inches tall and Rapp figured he weighed over 200 pounds. He had mostly gray hair and was probably in his late sixties. He was wearing a short-sleeve Tommy Bahama shirt. Rapp began walking toward the man.

“Thank you for traveling all this way to see me,” Massoud said in perfect English as he extended his hand.

“If I had known you’d moved into this beautiful place, I would have planned on staying longer.”

“You are welcome to stay as long as you like.” Massoud took Rapp’s hand with both of his and smiled warmly. “I can’t thank you enough for what your country has done for the Kurdish peoples.”

“And I can’t thank you enough for your loyalty and support.”

“You are welcome.” Massoud looked over Rapp’s shoulder and said, “Hello, Rob. How are you, my friend?”

“I am good, Massoud. And how is your family?”

“Good. Thank you for asking. Although every time this one comes around I have to lock up my daughters.” Massoud looked at Stilwell. “They all swoon over him.”

Ridley shook Massoud’s hand. “I can have him castrated if you would like.”

“Yes, castration.” Massoud laughed heartily. “That would be very nice.”

After the laughing died down, Rapp introduced Dumond, and then Massoud led them through the house. He stopped several times to discuss artwork that he had purchased and pieces he was hoping to get his hands on. The place looked more like a small palace than a house. The interior walls were constructed of limestone blocks. The main staircase with its black iron banister dominated the left side of the entry hall. Antique tapestries and oil paintings covered the walls. They made it out onto the veranda just in time to see the sun floating on the western horizon. The entire city of Mosul lay before them with the long shadows of evening stretching toward them.

Indoor furniture and rugs had been moved outside and were waiting for them along with two butlers. Drinks were served and then appetizers. They all sat and Massoud worked his way around the group offering each guest a cigar from his humidor. As the sun went down, heat lamps were set up and ignited. After everyone had lit up, Massoud settled into his oversized chair and looked at Rapp with a devilish smile.

“You are aware of my hatred and disdain for that little peacock Amatullah.”

“Yes, I am,” Rapp replied.

“And you know I would love nothing more than to see him embarrassed.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Then I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Tell me more about your plans.”

Rapp set down his scotch and took a long pull off his Monte-cristo cigar. “I want you to think this through because there could be reprisals.”

Massoud grunted with disdain as he shook his head. “I am not afraid of the Iranian government or their cowardly Badr Brigades.”

“You know their history as well as anyone. They are not afraid to assassinate their enemies.”

“And I am not afraid to strike back. If what Stan has told me is true,” Massoud gestured at Stilwell, “and you have a chance to really embarrass that little bastard, to catch him in one of his lies, then I want to be involved.”

“What about the MEK and PMOI? Do you need to speak to them before you agree to this?”

“I could speak for the PMOI, but I won’t. The MEK I can and will speak for, and if I am right about what you would like to accomplish, the MEK is more believable.”

“I agree.”

“We will support any attempt to create instability within Amatullah’s administration.”

“Compensation?” Rapp queried.

Massoud adopted an uncomfortable expression and shifted in his oversized chair. “You have been very good to us.”

“And you to us,” Rapp replied.

“There might be some dealings you could help me with, but I don’t want to make this about that. We are allies. We will both benefit from this.”

“True.”

“Now tell me of your plan. I am very interested to hear more details.”

Rapp held up his glass to toast Massoud. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

Ashani checked his watch. If his driver made good time, they would avoid being late. The minister of intelligence popped the top off a small container of sedatives his doctor had given him and downed a few. Between meetings he had gone back to his office at the Ministry of Intelligence and checked in with his deputies. The get-together with Kennedy was set for the following afternoon in Mosul, where they had met the last time. Everyone was on edge except Ashani, which made him wonder if it was the pills. Ashani’s head of security was not happy about the rushed nature of the meeting. He wanted more time to do an advance review of the site. This did not come as a surprise to Ashani, since his security people by necessity were paranoid. He had to calmly tell them to stop sweating the details. The last thing the Americans would want right now would be to make matters worse.

Ashani’s security chief, Rahad Tehrani, told him it wasn’t the Americans he was worried about. It was the Mujahedin-e-Khalq. Tehrani explained that there had been a spike in MEK communications in just the last day and there were reports of civil disobedience in the northern provinces. Ashani wrote it off as the Kurds picking an opportune time to stir up trouble. Ashani assured Tehrani that he could relax, but inside he held some doubt. With every crisis the northern provinces were becoming increasingly bold in their defiance. The last thing they needed at the moment was to have to put down an insurrection.

As they neared the presidential palace the streets became choked with pedestrians and buses. Amatullah had sent his propagandists out into the city to foment an anti-American demonstration. Classes were canceled at the universities and free buses were provided. They were all headed for the old American embassy. Even though the Americans had been gone for more than a quarter century, Amatullah and the other revolutionary faithful still used the compound as a rallying point to preach against the Great Satan. They reached the gates of the Presidential Palace and entered the lush grounds. Ashani had no desire to see Amatullah for a second time in what was becoming a very long day, but he had learned in the past that a request from Amatullah was really a command.

Ashani was shown into a comfortable room next to Amatullah’s office for the viewing of Minister Salehi’s presentation to the United Nations Security Council. Brigadier General Sulaimani of the Quds Force was already there, as well as Golam Mosheni, the Vice President for Atomic Energy, and Major General Zarif, the head of the Republican Guards. Tea was offered to each man. Ashani said hello to everyone and took a seat next to Sulaimani on one of the leather couches. The big-screen TV was tuned to CNN. A man and woman were on the screen talking about the tension in the chamber between the Iranian foreign minister and the U.S. secretary of state.

Amatullah entered the room holding a glass of water. He was smiling from ear to ear. “I just spoke with Salehi. France, Russia, and China have all agreed to back our resolution. He said if we withdraw our language about the U.S., he thinks England will back it as well.”