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Rapp threw the lamp into a corner and went back into the bathroom to examine his face. No chance anymore of anyone differentiating his nose from Jesem’s. In fact, it was hard to recognize the thing in the center of his face as a nose at all. If he managed to survive long enough to get back to the States, Irene Kennedy was going to be writing a serious check to the Agency’s plastic surgeons.
He shoved some toilet paper in his nostrils to stop the bleeding and passed back through the door. The woman had made it to her knees and she looked up at him. The beating she’d just doled out had clearly done nothing to diminish her burning hatred.
“Do you speak English?” he asked, unwilling to reveal his language skills.
“If you touch me, I’ll kill you.”
Not only did she speak English, she spoke it pretty well.
“What do you say we call a temporary truce? Dinner should be ready.”
He retreated into the kitchen and came out with the Mexican chicken. She rose to her feet, but seemed unsure what to do. Undoubtedly she was wondering why she hadn’t been raped the moment she’d hit the bed.
“It’s drugged,” she pronounced.
He shoved a heaping spoonful into his mouth and then held the package out to her. She took a hesitant step forward and then snatched it from his hand. He watched as she wolfed it down like she hadn’t eaten in a week—which was probably the case.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I don’t have to talk to you,” she said, trying to get the last piece of chicken from the bottom of the container.
“You might want to think about your situation a little more carefully.”
“If you come near me, I’ll kill you.”
“You already said that. Tell you what. I saw a package of Asian beef in there. Answer a few simple questions and I’ll make it for you. Now, what’s your name?”
She backed away a few steps. “Laleh.”
“Are you from this area, Laleh?”
“Yes.”
“Where are we?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“What city? What country?”
Her eyes narrowed as though she thought she was somehow being tricked. “Al-Shirqat, Iraq.”
Rapp nodded silently. North-central Iraq. Dead in the middle of ISIS-held territory.
CHAPTER 36
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
U.S.A.
“YOU can go right in, Dr. Kennedy.”
“Thank you, Gloria,” she said, passing through a door that led directly into the Oval Office. Predictably, President Alexander was on the phone, but he stood and pointed to a chair in front of his desk. A small table next to it contained a steaming cup of tea.
She immediately recognized his conversation as a meaningless political strategy session and tuned it out. It was much more interesting to just watch the man as he twirled a pencil across the back of his knuckles and tried to hide his impatience.
Joshua Alexander was barely over fifty, but his brown hair was quickly turning gray. The dimpled smile and playful eyes that had so effectively ingratiated him with voters were still there, though. More importantly, he had proved to be something of a backroom realist. He knew what needed to be done to keep the country safe and while he tended to dislike being directly involved, he was often willing to look the other way. In the end, it was probably the best she could hope for from any politician.