LAHORE
The flight had been rough, particularly the seven-hour stretch between Rome and Tashkent, the plane rocked hard by a highpressure front building over the Black Sea. From his seat near the back of the plane, Kealey had been in a position to see Pétain jump up from her seat on numerous occasions, practically sprinting to the bathroom each time. On each occasion, she’d returned to her seat looking decidedly queasy, her face even paler than usual, one hand pressed over her mouth as if to suppress what might come up. Normally, Kealey might have been amused by her slightly theatrical gestures, but he couldn’t help but notice the attention she was drawing from the other passengers. Each time she got up to run to the front of the plane, he wanted to drag her back by the hair. They weren’t even in harm’s way yet, and she was already doing things that people would remember. He would have preferred to leave her behind, of course, but that wasn’t anything new; he’d felt that way from the moment Machado had made his proposal. The proposal. That was what Kealey kept coming back to. Information and a direct link to Benazir Mengal for . . . well, for what? What the hell did Machado want? Kealey just couldn’t figure it out, and it was driving him crazy. He couldn’t see how bringing Marissa Pétain to Pakistan would benefit her father. There had to be some ulterior motive; after all, Machado was one of the Agency’s most celebrated operatives, at least within the small circle of people who knew about the things he’d done in his thirty years with the DO. What was the man’s angle?
Kealey was still thinking about it as the plane—a UZB Airbus A310300—landed with a slight jolt, slowed, and began taxiing toward the main building. After a few minutes, the plane stopped moving, and the seat belt light blinked off. As the passengers sprang out of their seats to dig for their cell phones, Kealey remained seated. He preferred to wait for the other passengers to disembark before leaving the plane himself, just as he preferred to wait for everyone else to board before doing so himself. It had nothing to do with tradecraft; he simply hated waiting in lines. Especially lines that weren’t going anywhere.
Once the last passenger walked down the aisle, Kealey stood and collected his carry-on. It contained nothing more than a change of clothes and a paperback novel, but it was better to have a carry-on than nothing at all, particularly on a long flight. It was one of the things that other passengers expected to see, and in the post-9/11 world, people—especially air travelers—had become remarkably aware of their surroundings. Not all of them, but certainly enough to justify the extra precaution.
Making his way through the Jetway, he entered the cool expanse of the terminal. Pétain was nowhere to be found, so—taking a guess—he located the nearest women’s restroom and stood where he could see who was coming and going. Before long she emerged, spotted him, and walked over. As she approached, Kealey could see that her legs were still shaky, her face pale.
“That was the worst flight of my life,” she groaned, adjusting the strap of her carry-on. Before they’d left Cartagena, she’d changed into beige linen pants, a black pin-tuck blouse, and plain white tennis shoes. Her face was framed by a brightly colored head scarf, the gauzelike material patterned in shades of violet and blue. The scarf she’d managed to dig up was more colorful than Kealey would have liked, but better than nothing at all, and they’d be able to pick up something less noticeable before long. Thankfully, the loose-fitting blouse did little to flatter her shape. Kealey was still wearing the charcoal T-shirt and dark jeans he’d put on nearly eighteen hours earlier.
“I kept thinking my stomach was empty,” Pétain was saying, “but then it would hit me again. I have no idea what was coming up . . . I just hope it wasn’t important, whatever it was. . . .”
They were making their way toward the baggage claim. Like their carry-on luggage, the bags they had checked were filled with the usual clothes and toiletries; they contained nothing that couldn’t be left behind in an emergency. The things he and Pétain needed—
money and passports—would be on their bodies at all times. It was the same for the rest of the team. Paul Owen, the Delta colonel seconded to the Agency for this particular operation, had already managed to secure a sat phone for Kealey’s use. According to Harper, the phone was waiting in a locker at the railway station, just east of central Lahore. The key to the locker was taped behind the toilet in a stall at the local Pizza Hut. The restaurant was located off Shahrah-iQuaid-i-Azam, a few kilometers southwest of the station. It would take a little running around to get the phone, but Kealey would have expected nothing less. Success, as always, hinged on precaution; it was the same for each and every operation. He wasn’t going to pick the phone up for a while, anyway; he wanted to meet with Machado’s fixer first.
The public telephone outside the main terminal, just past the taxi stand, Machado had said.He’ll call at 1:20 pm, provided your flight arrives on time. If you don’t answer, he’ll continue calling at twenty-minute intervals. Once you pick up, he’ll provide you with additional instructions.
Kealey could remember the Spaniard’s precise words, but that wasn’t the problem. It wasn’t what Machado had said that was bothering him, but what he hadn’t said. He’d never offered an explanation for his unusual terms, and he hadn’t volunteered how he knew Mengal to begin with. Something was very wrong with the whole scenario. Kealey knew that now, and he was torn. Part of him was saying that he should do the right thing: that he should go to the restaurant, collect the key, collect the phone, and make the call to Owen. From there, they could begin running surveillance on Mengal’s known associates.
At the same time, part of him was saying that Machado was not the kind of man to fuck around, that once he gave it, his word was good. Kealey couldn’t explain it, but somehow, he knew that if he did what was asked of him, Machado would hold up his end of the bargain. He felt sure that Machado could get them closer than surveillance could, and more importantly, it would happen much faster. As for the rest of it, Kealey agreed with Harper; once he found Benazir Mengal, he’d find Fitzgerald. The only question was what kind of shape he would find her in.
The afternoon air outside the terminal was heavy and damp, the sky like a grayscale image: flat, somber, and absent of anything bright. Perfect weather for a funeral, Kealey thought. He turned right after leaving the building, then started to walk, weaving his way through the small crowd of travelers, Pétain by his side. They had walked half the length of the terminal, passing a number of taxi stands and bus shelters, before Kealey stopped in his tracks, looking around in confusion. Catching his expression, Pétain said, “What’s wrong?”
He was still looking around. “I think we must have passed them.”
“Passed what?”
“The pay phones. We’re supposed to get a call from the man we’re going to meet.” Kealey checked his watch. “He should be calling right now.”
“Harper told you that?”
“Yes.” Pétain still thought that this lead had come through the Agency; she had no idea that her father had set it up, and Kealey wasn’t about to tell her the truth. He was about to say something else when he heard a phone ringing.
“Over there,” Pétain said, pointing toward the building. A few pay phones were lined up against the exterior wall, partially hidden behind a cluster of abandoned luggage carts, all of which were dented and scarred from years of wear and tear. A pale, balding, grossly overweight man in blue Adidas warm-ups had one of the phones pressed to his ear, and he was staring at the phone that was ringing. Clearly, he was thinking about picking it up, but before he could, Kealey jogged over, snatched up the phone, and turned his back to the other man.
“Hello?”
“Is this Kealey?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Kealey took note of the heavily accented voice and let his mind play over the possibilities. The accent didn’t mean much, at least not by itself. The Agency employed hundreds of foreign-born citizens, some of whom held high-ranking positions in the Operations Directorate. The man on the other end of the line might be an Agency operative, but somehow, Kealey doubted it. For one thing, if he was actively employed by the CIA, Harper would have brought him into the operation directly; there would have been no need for Machado’s secret offer of assistance.
And there was something else to consider. Javier Machado had been retired for fifteen years—too long to still have reliable contacts in the Agency. Kealey was willing to bet that the man on the other end of the line was an agent, someone Machado had used to generate intelligence and recruit other agents when he had been posted to Islamabad. Machado had never said as much, but it was clear to Kealey that the older man had spent some time in Pakistan; otherwise, he wouldn’t have had the connection in the first place. Besides, Pétain had told him as much the day before. When he had asked her about the head scarf, she had revealed more than she’d probably planned, including the fact that her father had spent time in the Pakistani capital.
“What about the daughter?” the man asked, as if reading Kealey’s mind. “Machado’s daughter. Is she with you?”
Kealey looked at Pétain, who was staring at him expectantly, hands propped on her hips. “Yes.”
“Good. Do you have money?”
“Yes.” Kealey had stopped in the arrival hall at the airport to change a few hundred dollars into rupees. “Where am I going?”
“Find a taxi and have the driver take you to the Queen’s Way Hotel. Don’t check in . . . Just walk south through the bazaar. When you reach the first road, take a left and head east. Eventually, you’ll pass a telephone exchange on your right, and then you’ll see a restaurant, the Bundu Khan. Go inside and ask for Nawaz, one of the servers. He will give you instructions from there.”
Kealey resisted the urge to lose his temper, reminding himself that he’d be taking similar precautions if he were in the other man’s shoes. At the same time, the fixer had to know that time was an issue.
“You understand that this is time sensitive, right? We don’t have all day to—”
“I understand perfectly.” The voice was clipped, impatient. “If you want to get to Mengal quickly, you will do as I say. These precautions are for my benefit, not yours.”
“Fine.” Kealey glanced up and saw that Pétain was fidgeting, clearly anxious to know what was going on. “We’re moving now.”
The other man ended the call without a word. Kealey dropped the phone back onto the hook, grabbed Pétain’s elbow, and began guiding her toward the curb. There was a line of taxis, and the vehicles were facing the other direction; he’d forgotten that they drove on the left in Pakistan. There was a short line of people waiting at the taxi stand, but it looked like the queue was moving quickly; they wouldn’t have to wait more than a couple of minutes. There was no one around to overhear them, so as they walked toward the taxi stand, Kealey repeated what the fixer had said. When he was done, Pétain looked uncertain.
“You said it was Harper who dug this guy up?” she asked.
“No, I said his name came through the Agency. Harper didn’t have anything to do with it, other than passing the name on to us.”
“But you don’t know his name,” Pétain said. Kealey looked at her, momentarily caught off guard. “Or if you do, it’s news to me. You haven’t mentioned it once.”
“Didn’t I? His name is Khan,” Kealey said, saying the first name that popped into his head. Where the hell did I hear that? he wondered briefly. Then it came to him; A. Q. Khan was the renowned scientist and metallurgical engineer who had almost single-handedly turned Pakistan into a nuclear power back in 1976. Kealey remembered seeing the name in Newsweek. “We’re going to meet him now.”
“Can we trust him?”
Kealey debated the question, and when he looked at her, his smile was gone. “I don’t see that we have a choice.”