WASHINGTON, D.C. • LAHORE, PAKISTAN
Five minutes after the meeting was over, the two CIA officials left the building from a door on the south side of the West Wing. The air was oppressive: heavy, warm, and still. Mountainous black clouds positioned directly overhead seemed to promise rain, although the sun still broke through occasionally, spilling yellow light over the dark pavement. The surrounding trees seemed completely immobile, frozen in anticipation of the building storm. The two men began crossing the pavement toward the waiting Town Car, which was tucked in between a pair of black Chevy Suburbans. All three vehicles were running, and as Harper and Andrews approached, a number of security officers broke away from their idle discussions and climbed into the armored SUVs, preparing for the short drive back to Langley. Andrews walked up to the Lincoln, and the driver’s-side window slid down immediately. He spoke a few words to the driver, unbuttoned his suit coat, and handed it in through the window. Loosening his tie slightly, he turned and walked back to Harper.
“Hot as hell out here,” he remarked, rolling his sleeves up over his thick forearms.
“Yeah, but it looks like rain, and we could use it.”
“I hate this town in the summer,” Andrews growled, looking up at the darkening sky. “The air is so damn thick . . . It’s like trying to breathe underwater.”
“August is just around the corner,” Harper pointed out. “The worst is yet to come.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Andrews said. He seemed to brood for a moment before nodding curtly toward the east colonnade. “Come on. Let’s take a walk. I need some air.”
Having no real say in the matter, Harper ignored the verbal hypocrisy and fell in beside the DCI. They walked along the curved road until they reached the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden, which lay just south of the east colonnade. They entered the garden on the west side, following the redbrick walkway between strips of bright grass and beds of colorful flowers. Although the East Wing was visible through the vegetation, they were largely blocked from view by boxwood hedges and small trees. Harper knew that a number of marines and Secret Service agents were posted outside the building, but they remained out of sight. In short, they had complete privacy. They had walked for nearly five minutes before Andrews finally spoke.
“Did you know that Andrew Jackson planted some of these personally?” He gestured toward a cluster of small, well-kept magnolia trees. “A different time,” he mused, more to himself than anything else. Still, Harper felt compelled to respond and muttered his agreement. They continued in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Andrews paused beside a neatly trimmed hedge of American holly. He loosened his tie a little more, then wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
“John, nothing about this situation makes sense,” he began, fixing his subordinate with a steady gaze. “The president made a good point in there. If they have her, why didn’t they show her on the tape? That would have made a much greater impact than words alone, and let’s face it: Brenneman might just pay them if it means keeping a tape like that out of the media. It’s one thing to know she was kidnapped by terrorists, but it’s another thing entirely to see it. It would be nothing short of a crippling psychological blow to the country.”
“Maybe she’s dead,” Harper said quietly, gazing absently at a bed of pink tulips. “Maybe she was hurt in the accident and died once they got her away from the scene. Maybe that’s why they can’t show her.”
Andrews winced. “Jesus, don’t say that. I don’t even want to consider the possibility.”
“But it is possible, Bob. You saw the digital images, and you read the transcripts of the witness statements. The rocket that hit her vehicle did an enormous amount of damage. I mean, her driver was killed by the impact alone, as was her detail leader. The damage was mainly limited to the front of the vehicle, of course, and she was riding in back, but that doesn’t mean much . . . There’s still a good chance she was exposed to the shrapnel.”
The deputy director paused thoughtfully. “On the other hand, if she was killed, they have no reason to keep that from us. They might as well take credit for it while the press coverage is still at its peak. That would at least pander to some of Saifi’s supporters, which could help bring in some additional funding and arms, maybe even the backing of a rogue state. Besides, even without Fitzgerald, they still have plenty of hostages to ransom.”
“I don’t know about that.” Andrews was skeptical. “We might pay him for Fitzgerald, but let’s face it: we’re not going to break with two decades of policy over twenty-seven civilians, especially since only twelve of them are ours to begin with.”
“The Germans paid him,” Harper pointed out. “When he took those hostages in Chad back in 2003, the government coughed up six million to get them back. You have to remember, Bob, Saifi has seen this work before. There’s no reason for him to think it won’t work again. At least, that’s where I fall on the issue, and for the most part, my people agree.”
“By ‘people,’ are you referring to Kealey and Kharmai?”
Harper caught note of the DCI’s tone, which had suddenly hardened. “Yes,” he conceded reluctantly. “Among others.”
“Where are they now?”
“You know the woman initially tasked with heading up the teams over there?”
The DCI furrowed his brow, thinking back to his earlier briefings.
“Something Pétain, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Marissa Pétain. Apparently, she has family in the area. Her parents have a house on the coast. Cabo de Palos, near Cartagena.”
Suddenly, the director’s face lit up with recognition. “Her father is Javier Machado.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He was before my time, but I know his history. An accomplished case officer with an impeccable record, as I recall.” He frowned slightly. “He had two daughters, I thought, both with the Agency.”
“That’s correct,” Harper replied reluctantly, not wanting to get into that particular story at the moment. “Anyway, he’s proving very cooperative, and that’s where they are at the moment. Safest place for them, really. Until we can give them something useful on Mengal, there’s no point in moving them around.”
“And the rest of the watchers?”
“Most have already left the country. Their documentation and cover stories were good enough to get them out on commercial flights out of Madrid Barajas, even with the heightened security. We’ll be moving the rest soon.”
A long silence ensued, after which Andrews brought up the president’s reaction to the events in Madrid. “He wasn’t happy, John, but it could have been worse. I don’t think he’s had time to really consider what it will mean for us—and him—if the Spanish government learns what actually took place on the ground.”
“Well, he doesn’t have to worry. They’re not going to find out.”
“Are you sure about that?” Andrews pressed. “Can you guarantee they won’t discover the truth?”
“You know I can’t,” Harper responded quietly. Another long silence. “The president wants Kealey and Kharmai to stay on, John, so that’s the way it will be,” Andrews said. “For now, anyway. But they will answer for what happened today, and you’d better make sure they understand that they’re walking a fine line. From what you’ve told me, as well as what I’ve read in their files, both have troubling incidents in their past. Frankly, their backgrounds don’t inspire a great deal of confidence. The only reason they’re involved at all is because you wanted it that way.”
“I understand that. But as you told the president, you can’t argue with what they’ve accomplished over the past couple of years.”
“Yes,” the DCI conceded reluctantly, “I did say that, and I meant it. But again, my patience is running short, along with my gratitude. Reel them in, John, or hand this assignment off to someone else. Even if it puts us further behind than we already are. We can’t afford another mistake. Certainly nothing like what happened today.”
Harper nodded and voiced his agreement, doing his best to appear reluctant. He didn’t want Andrews to know that he was harboring similar concerns. In fact, his concerns were far worse, since he knew much more about both operatives than the director did. Still, he wasn’t about to reveal the truth. The second he did, Kealey and Kharmai would be pulled out immediately, and they would lose their forward momentum. Like it or not, his best option was to let them see it through and hope for the best.
Andrews turned to begin making his way back to the cars, and Harper fell into step beside him. Thunder rumbled off in the distance, and the air seemed almost electric. As they walked, sprinkles started to spatter the path ahead, the first tangible sign of the forthcoming storm.
“One more thing,” the DCI said. “I’d like to devote some additional resources to Kashmir. I’m talking about personnel, hardware . . . whatever we can spare. Before long, the president is going to shift his focus back to that situation, and when that happens, he’s going to want some hard intel. You said six satellites were pulled from the NSA and the NGA to watch Mengal’s known places of residence?”
“That’s right. Six at last count. Obviously, they’re being run out of the NRO.” The National Reconnaissance Office was the primary government agency tasked with developing, building, and operating U.S. reconnaissance satellites. In the spring of ’99, Harper had been seconded to the office, where he had served as a liaison officer for nearly a year. It had been a relatively boring, albeit enlightening, experience.
“How many of those satellites were diverted from the areas of troop movement in Kashmir? I realize we still have the four 8Xs over the area, but what about the KH-12s? How many were taken off?”
Harper hesitated, then said, “All of them.”
Andrews shook his head in disbelief, but he was clearly resigned to the situation. “I don’t like it. Retasking those satellites does nothing but limit our flow of information. I shouldn’t have to rely on CNN for the latest developments. We’re supposed to be ahead of the game, and right now we’re playing catch-up.
“Still,” he added, after a brief moment of internal debate, “that is a secondary result of the president’s orders, so it’s out of our hands. The way I see it, the only way we can get back on track is to find the general.”
“That’s how it looks,” Harper agreed reluctantly.
“Then make it happen, John.” Andrews paused to wipe his brow once more, then turned to face his deputy. “Make Kealey understand. Kharmai, too. They need to find Benazir Mengal, and they need to do it soon.”
The Sheikh Zayed Postgraduate Medical Institute, so named for the famed sultan of Abu Dhabi, was one of several major hospitals in Lahore. It was a fairly well-administered facility, at least judging by the standards of the Islamic republic. When he’d first arrived in-country, Randall Craig had been surprised by the friendly, professional demeanor of the doctors and nurses who staffed the 286-bed hospital, though it had never occurred to him why this should be. He considered himself to be a reasonable person, a man open to cultures other than his own, but at the same time, he subconsciously harbored the same prejudices shared by so many of his fellow Americans. It wasn’t a conscious bias; rather, it was something that lingered just below his active thoughts, a vague awareness of his own place in the world. A sense of entitlement, based on his nationality. There was a natural order to things, he had always suspected, and while he’d never stopped to really consider this point of view, it seemed to him that, for better or worse, the rank of nations was much like a food chain and that, as an American citizen, he was parked right at the top. Regardless of whether this was actually the case, it was a comforting thought. Empowering, even. It was also a notion he found easy to reinforce in Pakistan, a country where the average citizen earned less than eight hundred American dollars every year. Of course, that sum went much further in the Islamic republic than it did in the States, but it was still a hard statistic to ignore. It was something that Craig had witnessed firsthand from the moment his flight had touched down in Rawalpindi. It never ceased to amaze him how the Pakistani people could make so much with so little. When he took in the poverty that surrounded him daily, he couldn’t help but wonder how this country had managed to become a nuclear power. Nevertheless, over the past couple of weeks, he had seriously considered cutting his work at Sheikh Zayed short. Ever since the announcement of the upcoming Israeli arms sale to the Indian government, the tension in the streets—particularly in the heart of Islamabad—had become nearly tangible. The abduction of Secretary Fitzgerald in Rawalpindi had brought things to a boiling point. In the end, though, he’d decided against leaving. Pakistan and India had engaged in conflicts before, he reasoned, and it had never really amounted to anything. Even the Kargil war in ’99 could hardly be described as anything more than a cross-border skirmish. Hardly worth fleeing the country over, he thought, especially since he was so close to leaving, anyway. It had been ten months since he’d departed the University of Washington for Sheikh Zayed on a yearlong visit, and he was more than ready to get back. In truth, the first of September couldn’t come soon enough for Randall Craig.
He left the locker room on the ground floor shortly after eight in the evening, pausing on the way out to examine his reflection over the sink. A former girlfriend had once described his face as “kindly,”
though Craig had no idea what in the hell that meant. His lantern lower jaw was completely concealed by a thick beard, which he’d worn as long as he could remember, and despite a fair degree of worrisome searching, he had yet to find a trace of gray in his light brown hair.
Overall, he was pleased with what he saw. At thirty-eight, he was still carrying more muscle than fat on his six-foot, four-inch frame, despite an appalling diet that consisted of two to three servings of McDonald’s a day. It was something he never remarked upon in the presence of his patients, even though few of them—including the very few who spoke fluent English—would have been able to decipher his strong Southern dialect, a remnant of a youth spent in the soft, wooded hills of Etowah, Tennessee. The fast-food chain had recently opened a few restaurants in Lahore, and though the closest was something of a drive from his apartment in New Garden Town, it was well worth the trip. He simply couldn’t abide the local cuisine, which typically seemed to consist of overcooked rice and some kind of rubbery, unidentifiable meat. Even the Pakistani version of McDonald’s was preferable to that.
Craig passed through the waiting area at a brisk pace, nodding to a few of his colleagues as he approached the front entrance. Before long he was making his way through the tightly packed parking area. As he approached his vehicle, he was startled by the sound of squealing tires to his right. He stopped, then took a quick, unconscious step back as a black van came to a sharp halt a few meters away. The driver’s-side door was flung open, and a young man jumped out. His hair was askew, arms flapping out by his sides. He looked extremely agitated, but despite his distracted state, he seemed to lock on Craig instantly.
“Doctor? Are you a doctor? I need help!” he shouted frantically. Half the words came out in fractured English, the rest in a language Craig recognized as Urdu. He’d made a genuine attempt to learn the various languages of Pakistan over the past ten months, but there were just too many. Urdu, Punjabi, Pashto, Balti . . . the list went on and on, and not one of them seemed to be common to all his patients. Despite his inner drive to succeed at all things, he could recognize a hopeless endeavor when he saw one. He’d finally given up back in January. As a result, he had no idea what the young man was saying. The only thing he caught was the word doctor.
“Yes,” he said quickly, taking a few steps forward. “I’m a doctor.”
Thinking fast, he uttered one of the few phrases he knew in Urdu.
“Kyaa aapko angrezee aatee hai? ”
The man seemed to freeze, but only for a second. “Yes!” he shouted triumphantly. “I speak English!” It was almost as if he was just realizing he had the ability. “It’s my brother. He’s badly hurt. . . .”
The man was babbling as he moved fast to the back of the van, reaching for the handle. “He was hit by a car. I saw it happen, but the car drove away before I could do anything. I didn’t want to wait for the ambulance. Please, help me. . . .”
Craig moved forward instinctively, despite the warning bells going off in the back of his mind. If he’d thought it through a little longer, he would have realized that it didn’t make sense. The emergencyroom doors were on the other side of the lot and clearly marked. A person arriving with a patient would naturally try to get as close as possible to those doors before getting out of a vehicle. Unfortunately, the truth dawned much too late. As the rear door of the van swung up, Craig moved round the rear of the vehicle to get a better look. He froze when he saw that the cargo area was empty, except for a spare tire and a few ratty blankets.
Suddenly, he was wrapped up from behind. The same man who had drawn him in was now holding him in place, or at least trying to. It was a near-impossible task, given that he was much smaller and lighter than the man he was trying to control, but he was strong and determined. Craig shouted for help and started to struggle, but just as he was about to break free, the right side of his head exploded with pain. He had enough time to realize he’d been hit with something hard before the blackness moved in, his legs collapsing beneath him. He slumped forward, his limbs turning to water. He heard a hissed command in Urdu, then sensed a shadow darting in from the right, a person moving forward to break his fall. Then the dark tide swept over him, clouding out all thought, and the pain gave way to nothing at all.