FAISALABAD
Paul Owen and the rest of the 4-man team had been in place for most of the day, having arrived in Faisalabad early that morning. The Bukhari woman in Sharakpur Sharif had failed to pan out. In the twenty-four hours they had spent watching her, she’d left her apartment twice. On both occasions, she’d done nothing more than walk to a local café for coffee and baklava. She hadn’t spoken to anyone other than the clerk, and they had been unable to spot any watchers around her building. What clinched it for Owen, though, was not the woman’s movements, but her general demeanor. She was casual, unhurried, and entirely too relaxed to be involved on any level whatsoever. He had dismissed her two minutes after he’d seen her on the street, but they had stayed on her just to be sure. Finally, at ten the previous evening, he’d decided to strike her from the list, and they’d moved on to the vet.
They had been in the city for less than twenty-four hours, but Owen felt sure that their current target was just as innocent as the previous one. The veterinarian had left his home at six that morning, walking the half mile to his office on Circular Road, just south of the river. He had not left the building since, and the two men watching his house—Husain Manik and Mark Walland—had reported nothing unusual. When the storm had hit an hour earlier, his wife had emerged briefly to pull down some clothes from a line in the back garden, but otherwise, nothing was happening.
Owen sighed wearily as he leaned back in his chair. He was sitting in a crowded café, next to one of the large windows looking out to the street. Through the rain-streaked glass, he had a clear line of sight to the front of the vet’s office. The office was housed in an unremarkable two-story building constructed of granite and limestone. There was plenty of foot traffic going in and coming out of the building, but there was nothing suspicious in that, and Owen had seen nothing to indicate that the man had countersurveillance in place. He felt reasonably sure that it was business as usual inside the building, which meant they were wasting crucial time pursuing yet another useless lead. He shook his head angrily as he snatched his bottle of Orangina off the table. He’d been in place too long already; it was time to move. Making his way through the clamorous seating area, he stepped outside and hung a right. As he made his way east, weaving his way through the heavy pedestrian traffic, he thought back to the list of Mengal’s possible associates. They had crossed two names off the list, which left two more to go. Owen wasn’t holding out much hope for any of them.
All of the targets had verifiable links to Benazir Mengal, but despite that fact, Owen couldn’t help but feel that they were on the wrong track. The next few days would prove as much, he was sure, but this was one situation in which he’d be glad to be proven wrong. It had been four days since Fitzgerald’s abduction, and he could feel the time sliding away. With each passing day, she became more of a risk to her captors. Eventually, they would figure that out and decide to cut their losses, if they hadn’t done so already. Owen wanted nothing more than to stop that from happening, but he needed somewhere to start—something to work with. Otherwise, he was just as helpless as everyone else.
The unproductive time they’d spent in Pakistan was only part of the reason for his bad mood. Kealey was supposed to have checked in the previous day, and he had yet to make contact. Through Jonathan Harper, Owen had learned about Kealey’s actions in Spain—that he had ignored his instructions by leaving Kharmai behind and taking Pétain instead. He had then proceeded to ignore his orders on landing in Pakistan, and that was assuming he’d even arrived to begin with. None of it surprised Owen; he had worked with Kealey long enough to know that the man had an irritating habit of going his own way, but in the present situation, that kind of behavior was simply untenable. Too much was on the line for Kealey to make up the rules as he went, as was his usual mode of operation.
Owen was still thinking about it and getting angrier as he entered the Qaisery Gate, the main entrance to the eight markets. A number of people were huddled beneath the weathered concrete arch, obviously seeking refuge from the relentless rain. The humid air was redolent with cheap cologne and cigarette smoke, conversations echoing off the frescoed walls. Beyond the arch, steam drifted up from the warm, wet road. Owen was debating whether to take up another position on Circular Road or switch positions with Massi, who was watching the back of the vet’s office, when his cell phone vibrated in his right pocket. Pulling it out, he hit the TALK button and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Yeah?”
“Owen?”
The Delta colonel gripped the phone tighter when he heard who it was. “Kealey, is that you? Where the fuck have you been? I needed you here yesterday. I’m trying to get this done with three—”
“Where are you?”
Owen took a deep, calming breath and tried to restrain his temper, knowing it wouldn’t help matters to let it out now. “Faisalabad,”
he said tightly. “Where are you?”
Kealey didn’t bother to answer the question. “Can you talk?”
Owen didn’t even need to look around. There were people everywhere. He couldn’t take a step in any direction without bumping into somebody. As he started edging his way through the crowd, preparing to leave the gate on the south side, he said, “No, not really.”
“Then just listen,” Kealey said. His voice was low and edgy, and filled with something that Owen couldn’t quite place. Frustration, maybe? Or was it guilt? But neither possibility really made sense . . . It had to be something else.
“I’m somewhere east of Lahore,” Kealey was saying, “and I need you to get there ASAP. How soon can you move?”
Owen thought about it as he paused next to a vendor selling halal beef, chicken, and fried potatoes, his stand covered by a broad blue umbrella. “Forty minutes, give or take. What do you have?”
“Nothing yet, but it’s just a matter of time.”
Owen stopped walking and looked at the phone, trying to figure out the younger man’s angle. “I don’t understand. Why do you want me to move if you don’t have—”
“Look, I’ll explain later. Just get your people to Lahore as fast as you can.”
“Fine. Where do we link up?”
“I don’t know yet . . . I’ll call you back when I figure it out. Have you talked to Harper?”
Owen barely managed to catch the question, as something in the background was overlapping the younger man’s speech. To Owen’s ear, the nearly constant, high-pitched noise sounded a lot like someone screaming, but he quickly dismissed the thought, knowing it had to be something else. “Yeah, I talked to him earlier. He’s not happy.”
“Fuck him,” Kealey snapped. “I don’t give a shit how he feels. He’s got a lot to answer for when we get back. In the meantime, I need you to get your people moving. I’ll meet you on the other end shortly.”
“What about Pétain?”
There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. “Don’t worry about her,” Kealey finally said. “Just get moving. I’ll call you back.”
Owen started to ask another question, but the line was already dead. He swore viciously under his breath, prompting a sharp look from the halal vendor, but as he turned to head back through the gate, his anger started to dissipate. Instead, he found himself consumed by a deep-seated concern. As he began punching Walland’s number in on his phone, he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d heard in the background on Kealey’s end of the conversation. He had decided the sound couldn’t possibly be that of someone screaming, but given Kealey’s strange tone and his curt, strained reference to Marissa Pétain, Owen was no longer sure.
Either way, he was certain that the information Kealey had learned—
or was about to learn—had come at a steep price. The only question was how steep, but that, along with his many other questions, would be answered soon enough. For now, he had other things to focus on, not the least of which was getting to Lahore as soon as possible. After ending the call with Owen, Kealey lowered the phone and looked down at the man he knew as Fahim. The Afghan was pale. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and despite the rain, Kealey could tell he was sweating. It wasn’t a serious injury, but from the placement alone, the CIA operative could tell that he was in a great deal of pain. After he had pulled the gun away from Pétain’s knee, Kealey had fired a single shot into the Afghan’s leg, more to disable him than anything else. The round had gouged a considerable chunk of flesh from the outer part of his thigh. For the moment, that was all Kealey wanted. For this man, the real pain had yet to begin. He had not been able to pull the trigger on Marissa Pétain. He didn’t understand it, because it should have been easy. In fact, it should have been beyond easy. After all, she meant nothing to him, whereas Naomi meant . . . well, everything. He didn’t know why he had turned the gun on Fahim instead. He didn’t understand how he could have betrayed his own emotions—his own gut instincts—to that degree. It had not been a conscious decision, and to make matters worse, he believed everything Machado had said. On some level, Kealey knew what he had done, and he knew what it meant. By sparing Pétain, he had probably just condemned Naomi to death, but that was something outside his current realm of acceptance. He didn’t even need to push the thought away, because he could not fully appreciate its true meaning, just as he could not appreciate the consequences of his actions. It wasn’t the kind of thing he could bear to deal with. Not now. Not in this place, and maybe not ever.
As if reading his thoughts, the Afghan looked up at him. He was clutching his wounded leg, and his face was tight with pain. “You fool,” he managed to hiss through clenched teeth. “Do you know what’s going to happen now? Do you know what you’ve done?”
“Nothing compared to what I’m about to do,” Kealey assured him coldly. He could ask himself those questions, but he wasn’t about to take them from someone else, especially the man he had just put down. His fear for Naomi was already hitting him hard, and he knew it was just a matter of time before it completely crippled him. For the moment, though, he knew he had to maintain his composure—to set it aside. Otherwise, everything he had done so far would have been for nothing.
Pétain was still handcuffed to the transformer; Kealey could see her from the corner of his eye. Her legs—still intact—were curled up under her body, and her right hand was clutching her left arm, which was still pulled over her head. Kealey could feel her eyes on him, but he didn’t shift his gaze from the man lying at his feet. He crouched down so their faces were almost level.
“Listen to me, Fahim,” he began, straining to keep his voice even. Straining to force Naomi’s face out of his mind. Straining to believe she might still make it through, despite the fact that he had just betrayed her in the worst way possible. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen. Nothing has changed; helping me is still in your best interest. You’re going to supply me with everything you have. In Cartagena, Machado told me you have an exact location for Benazir Mengal. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“What else do you have?”
“Everything. Weapons, ammunition, surveillance shots . . . We’ve been watching him for days.”
“And are your people still watching him?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to make another call, and then I’m going to give you the phone. You’re going to start pulling them out. I want them gone by the time my people get there, and I mean gone. I don’t want them within five miles of that house. Then you’re going to call your driver. Is he still out there?” Kealey gestured toward the other side of the substation, which was blocked by a number of large transformers. The Afghan nodded tightly. “Good,” Kealey said. “You’re going to tell him to lie facedown on the road and stay that way until we come out. Tell him that if I see a gun in his hand when we walk out there, or if he isn’t flat on his face, he’s a dead man. Do you understand?”
“Why would I do all of that?” The Afghan’s voice was flat and resigned, despite the obvious pain of his wound. In spite of himself, Kealey could not help but admire the man’s resilience, but it didn’t change how he felt. He would make all the promises he needed to for now, but eventually, he was going to kill everyone who had forced him into this position, including the man he had just shot. “You’re going to kill me, anyway,” Fahim observed.
How clever you are, Kealey thought, a dark tide sweeping over his mind. He was quietly impressed by the Afghan’s foresight, but he could not let that show.
“You’re wrong,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’m not going to kill you. But even if you’re right, you have nothing to lose. If you cooperate, I might let you live, but if you don’t help me, then I no longer have any use for you.” Kealey paused to let the full weight of that statement sink in. “So what’s it going to be? Yes or no?”
It seemed to take a long time, but finally the Afghan nodded, grimacing with the pain in his leg. “Yes. I can get what you need.”
“Good,” Kealey said. “Now, where is Benazir Mengal?”
The Afghan started talking immediately, and less than a minute later, Kealey was punching in Jonathan Harper’s direct line. The deputy DCI answered immediately.
“John, it’s me. Listen, I—”
“Where the hell have you been?” Harper said. His voice was laced with fury he was beyond trying to control. “You were supposed to—”
Kealey cut him off with a few harsh words of his own, then launched into the story. It took a few minutes, but Harper gradually began to understand what he was being told. Once that happened, he stopped trying to interrupt and listened, with escalating disbelief, as Kealey explained what had just taken place. He remained silent until the younger man was done, and by that time, he had forgotten why he was angry to begin with.