ISLAMABAD
In his twenty-two-plus years with the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, Special Agent Mike Petrina had been charged with a wide range of duties. He’d couriered documents, investigated passport fraud, and protected senior U.S. officials in thirty-four countries on six continents. In that time, he’d witnessed some truly historic events, but he’d also experienced those rare, worrisome moments where the prevalent mood was downright hostile. Nosing a Suburban through a crowd of angry protestors could be dangerous enough, but that was a regular occurrence, and he’d endured far worse. In the fall of 2000, he had been standing a few feet away when Madeleine Albright first set foot on North Korean soil. He could remember the trepidation he’d felt when the first female secretary of state shook hands with Kim Jong Il, and he could recall—with crystal clarity—the plastic smile of the reclusive communist leader, as well as the icy stares of the North Korean soldiers standing guard. While the current situation wasn’t quite as bad as that, the mood in the room was undeniably tense, and it was getting worse by the minute. The wood-paneled press room of the presidential palace was filled to capacity with journalists and cameramen. Small, ornate chandeliers hung overhead, illuminating the crowd and the smiling portrait of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan. As far as Petrina could tell, Jinnah’s was the only smiling face in the room. Two polished lecterns were standing before the portrait, positioned less than 3 feet apart. Behind the lectern, to the right, was the Pakistani foreign minister, Malik Bokhari. The lean, angular Pakistani was dressed in a dark suit and red tie. To his left was acting Secretary of State Brynn Fitzgerald. From where he was standing, Petrina had an excellent view of both officials, as well as the crowd, and the collective tension was hard to miss.
“Madam Secretary,” came a voice from the crowd. Petrina instantly looked for the speaker and picked out Susan Watkins, the senior correspondent for CNN. The foreign minister had already finished his prepared remarks, as had Fitzgerald, and they had moved into the question-and-answer phase of the briefing. “I’d like to refer, if I might, to Israel’s recent decision to complete a major arms sale to the Indian government. I assume President Brenneman has had time to reflect on that announcement, and given the sensitive nature of such a transaction, I was wondering if he might have reconsidered his decision to—”
“Ms. Watkins, I’ve already addressed this,” Fitzgerald interjected.
“The president has no intention of interfering with Israel’s foreign affairs, and he’s made it clear to everyone that this is a situation that can only be resolved by dialogue between the affected nations.”
“By which you mean India and Pakistan.”
“Yes.”
“But surely he recognizes the international call for American engagement on this issue, especially since the United States is the largest exporter of arms to Israel in the first place, and now they’re selling off the very weapons we provided them with.”
Fitzgerald looked down and met the other woman’s insistent gaze, but to her credit, her diplomatic façade didn’t slip an inch. “I hardly think that’s a reasonable statement, Susan, and it’s also a fairly simplistic way of viewing this situation. Israel has a major domestic arms industry, and according to the documents I’ve seen, more than one hundred fifty million dollars of the proposed sale will be used to purchase the Hermes 180 UAV. The Hermes 180, of course, is an unmanned aerial vehicle manufactured by Elbit Systems Ltd., a company based in Haifa. So the Israeli government is well within its right to make that technology salable on the international market. And on a more general note, the proposed sale to India in no way violates Israel’s commitments to the United States on foreign arms sales. If you’ll recall, the standards I’m referring to were drawn up after Israel considered a lesser sale to China in 2004. In that case, there were issues involving the unauthorized sale of sensitive American technology, which doesn’t apply in this situation. And Israel signed a memorandum of understanding to that effect in 2005. To date, they’ve adhered to the letter of that agreement. So, to reiterate, we see no basis for disrupting this sale.”
“But isn’t it true, Dr. Fitzgerald,” Watkins persisted, “that the Pakistani defense minister sent a letter to the Pentagon asking the United States to reconsider its stance, citing the damage the sale would cause to regional security in South Asia? Mr. Bokhari, if you would care to comment on that also.”
Fitzgerald didn’t respond for a long moment. Her counterpart turned toward her, awaiting her reaction, and the cameras started clicking away. Petrina winced involuntarily from the sidelines. Although she had an excellent rapport with the diplomats and world leaders she’d met so far, Fitzgerald’s previous position hadn’t prepared her for this kind of exposure. When the cameras were rolling, the slightest hesitation could have disastrous effects, as it automatically fostered the impression that the speaker in question was concocting a lie. Petrina just hoped she had the presence of mind to realize that before she answered the question.
“I haven’t had the chance to examine that letter,” Fitzgerald finally said. “Nor am I aware of its exact contents, so I can’t—”
“But you are aware of its existence, correct?” asked another reporter.
“Yes,” Fitzgerald replied, her voice taking on a sharper edge. “And so is the president. But as I said before, he—”
“Dr. Fitzgerald, if I may,” her counterpart interrupted. Fitzgerald nodded once, reassuming her neutral expression.
“Of course, Mr. Bokhari.”
Malik Bokhari turned back to the reporter who’d posed the question. “It’s true that we have appealed to many American leaders on this matter, not just the president. In fact, President General Musharraf has personally reached out to several influential members of Congress. Obviously, we’re vastly concerned over Israel’s proposed arms sale to India, and the escalating number of soldiers on both sides of the Line of Control is a testament to the dire nature of the situation. Pakistan has no intention of provoking a conflict in the areas of Azad Kashmir, but any further attempts by the Indian government to increase its military readiness will be met in kind, and any incursion on territory controlled by Pakistan will be met with swift and harsh resistance.”
The silence in the room was deafening as the foreign minister paused to let these words sink in. “I’d like to emphasize the fact that Pakistan has not sought additional arms or munitions since this impending sale was made public. We have no desire to be seen as the aggressors in this situation, and we seek only a return to normal levels of readiness. However, we do not believe that this can happen until India demonstrates its goodwill by canceling the upcoming purchase.”
Bokhari paused and turned to Fitzgerald. “Do you have anything to add?”
“No, that’s all.” Fitzgerald appeared slightly shaken, but she offered a tight smile and extended her hand, which the foreign minister took. “Thank you for having me, Mr. Bokhari.”
“Thank you for coming, Madam Secretary.”
The press pool erupted in a flurry of questions as both speakers turned away from the crowd and walked to the rear of the room, where a member of Bokhari’s entourage was waiting to open the door. As Fitzgerald followed the minister through, Petrina closed the distance between them smoothly and adjusted the Motorola microphone/receiver system positioned in his right ear, which allowed him to communicate without the use of a PTT (press to talk) button. He was a little shocked by what had just transpired, as it was rare to hear such vitriolic remarks in a public forum, but he couldn’t dwell on the minister’s words. He still had a job to do, and he wouldn’t relax until the secretary was back on the plane and cruising at 35,000 feet. Brynn Fitzgerald’s first official trip as secretary of state had just come to a close.
“Edsall, this is Petrina. The briefing just finished. Where do we stand?”
There was a crackle of static over his earpiece, then the reply.
“We’re right on schedule. The flight plan is filed, and the plane is fueled up and ready to go. The route is in order.”
“Chase cars?”
“They’re in position. We’re waiting on you, over.”
“Good,” Petrina replied. He glanced over and saw that Fitzgerald was engaging in a few last-minute pleasantries with a member of the Pakistani Secretariat. “She’s finishing up in here. It could be ten. It could be twenty. I’ll let you know. For the moment, just have everyone hold their positions.”
“Got it, boss.”
Fifteen minutes later, Fitzgerald stepped out into the hazy afternoon air. The cameras were still rolling, the press pool having moved to the bottom of the stairs. The motorcade was waiting a few steps beyond the assembled journalists. The acting secretary of state smiled in her practiced way—she’d gotten the hang of that already—and turned toward the foreign minister, shaking hands with him one last time. Standing at Fitzgerald’s side was the U.S. ambassador to Pakistan, Lee Patterson. Patterson was a twenty-year veteran of the Foreign Service and a career diplomat. The tall, patrician Bostonian was one of the betterknown members of the diplomatic community, as he’d inherited a substantial fortune several years earlier. His 1 percent stake in Texas Instruments alone was worth nearly twenty-one million dollars, making him one of the wealthiest public servants in the world. Once the last polite farewells were out of the way, they descended the stairs side by side, surrounded by members of Fitzgerald’s permanent detail. As the head of that detail, Special Agent Mike Petrina walked directly behind the acting secretary of state, his watchful eyes shielded by a pair of black Ray-Bans.
As soon as they hit street level, the doors were pulled open on the waiting vehicles. Petrina waited until Fitzgerald and Patterson had climbed into the rear seat. Then he shut the door after them and climbed into the front.
“All set, ma’am?” he asked over his shoulder. The secretary of state broke off from her animated conversation with the ambassador. “Yes, we’re ready to go, Mike.”
“Would you like me to . . . ?”
She knew what he was asking. “If you don’t mind.”
Petrina pushed a button to raise the partition behind the front seats, giving the officials some privacy. Although the secretary of state had the same controls at her disposal, she always waited for Petrina to suggest their use. Fitzgerald’s unfailing courtesy was just one of the reasons he had come to not only respect, but genuinely like the acting secretary of state.
Turning to the driver, he said, “Let’s keep the speed above sixty once we hit the main road.”
The driver nodded once as Petrina relayed the instruction to the lead vehicles. Then he waited for the cars ahead to pull out of the compound. Soon they had left the presidential palace behind and were streaking down Constitution Avenue, toward Chaklala Air Base, where the State Department’s Boeing 757 was fueled and waiting. Formerly part of the U.S. Air Force’s fleet, the plane had been specially reconfigured to meet the secretary of state’s needs. Essentially, it was a less elaborate version of Air Force One, but for anyone accustomed to flying coach, the soft leather seats and surplus of legroom would have seemed impossibly luxurious. Petrina leaned back in his seat, ran a hand over his shorn scalp, and tried to relax. They had been in Pakistan for less than twenty-four hours, but his nerves had been stretched taut the whole time. Few countries could top the Islamic republic when it came to anti-American sentiment, and that attitude was largely responsible for the extreme security measures that had surrounded Fitzgerald’s first official visit. For starters, the press pool had been supplied with a false time of arrival; instead of arriving at midday, the secretary of state’s plane had landed the previous night under cover of darkness, with the running lights off and the interior shades drawn. A number of false convoys had been dispatched from the airport several minutes before Fitzgerald made the short trip to the diplomatic enclave in Islamabad, and police checkpoints had been set up throughout the city. Everything that could be done to ensure the secretary of state’s safety had been put into effect, but Petrina knew he’d feel more secure when they reached the air base, and he’d feel even better once they were wheels up. Judging by the elevated voices drifting through the thin partition, the person he was currently charged with protecting felt exactly the same way.
“Lee, what the hell just happened in there?” Brynn Fitzgerald demanded. She angrily brushed some lint from the sleeve of her navy pantsuit as she glared at the man sitting next to her. She knew that Petrina and the driver could probably hear every word through the thin partition, but she was beyond caring. “I thought you said they had tempered their position on this.”
“Well, that’s the impression I got when I met with the chief of protocol last week. He assured me that—”
“I don’t care what he told you.” The acting secretary of state strained to keep her voice at a reasonable level. “I was just blindsided in front of the pool, not to mention the foreign correspondents. Do you realize how bad that’s going to look when it airs? The president is going to be furious.”
Lee Patterson sighed and looked out his window, doing his best to avoid her incriminating gaze. “I don’t know what to tell you, Brynn. They obviously reconsidered their stance. Kashmir is an incredibly sensitive issue for them, okay? For all intents and purposes, they’ve been fighting over that land since 1947, and the recent military buildup is just part of the problem. There’s also a lot of posturing going on right now, and there was no way the Pakistanis were going to pass up the opportunity to make a powerful statement with you in the room. If you’ll recall,” he continued carefully, “I told you the press briefing was a bad idea when we spoke on Friday, but you—”
“Lee, we both know it wasn’t an option. I had to go on record with both sides. Otherwise, we might as well have canceled the whole trip.” Fitzgerald pushed out a short breath between pursed lips, then swept a strand of errant hair away from her face. “Look, I know it wasn’t your fault, but now that it’s done, we have to engage in some serious damage control. Any suggestions?”
Patterson turned slightly in his seat to face her as he gathered his thoughts. They had known each other for many years, but he’d never seen her as stressed as she was now. They’d first met as second-year students at Northwestern Law. In the years that followed, their friendship had been cemented through mutual respect, a shared political outlook, and the fact that they took genuine pleasure in each other’s company. That was as far as it went, though. Neither of them had ever sought anything more, and while Patterson was devoted to his wife of twenty-three years, he occasionally wondered about what might have been. At forty-eight years of age, Brynn Fitzgerald was still a very attractive woman. Although time had left its mark around her eyes and mouth, her stylishly cut reddish brown hair had yet to show a trace of gray, and her sea green eyes were just as bright and intelligent as they’d been when she was twenty-two and cramming for the Massachusetts bar exam.
Still, while she’d retained her sturdy good looks, Patterson could tell that her premature rise to the top was taking its toll. It was all a matter of timing, he knew; given another few years, she probably would have been offered the job regardless. Brynn Fitzgerald was one of the most accomplished women in government service. She had served on the boards of numerous Fortune 500 companies, and she’d earned honorary doctorates from no less than seven schools, including Harvard, Yale, and the University of Notre Dame. She was also a prolific author, having written or collaborated on five books since 2001. There was a lot about the woman to admire, Patterson thought, which probably explained why he hadn’t pursued her with greater effort. On some level, he found her very intimidating, and he knew he wasn’t alone in that respect.
“Well,” he finally responded, “it seems to me that the president’s main objection lies with dictating foreign policy to Israel. He really doesn’t want to do that, or even give the appearance of doing it. If we could block the deal by offering some kind of economic aid package to India, or by increasing aid to Israel directly, he’d be able to defuse the situation without losing face.”
“Maybe,” Fitzgerald said, without enthusiasm, “but unless we can stall delivery of the aid package until the end of the year, it still reeks of compromise. It doesn’t matter where it goes—Israel or India—the reason behind it will be extremely transparent.”
“Stopping this escalation is worth the political fallout,” Patterson countered. “After all, the stakes are huge. India and Pakistan have a combined troop strength of more than two million, and both countries have access to enormous troop reserves in the event of a largescale conflict. Those are facts that we can’t afford to overlook.”
“Not to mention the nukes,” Fitzgerald muttered. She had recently been briefed on both countries’ nuclear capabilities, and she knew how dire the situation actually was. According to the CIA’s latest estimates, Pakistan had somewhere between twenty-eight and forty-two weapons prepped for delivery, while India had between forty and fifty. Even if those numbers were off by 10 percent or more, the devastation that would result in the event of a nuclear exchange would be unthinkable.
“Exactly,” Patterson agreed. “This isn’t exactly a new scenario, you know. In 1999 a similar situation cropped up, and both countries went as far as to state that all military options were on the table.” The ambassador paused to let that carefully worded statement hit home.
“Brynn, you really need to sell some kind of interjection to the president. The deal has been on the table for months now, and the Israelis are ready to move. Once the money changes hands, we won’t be able to control what Musharraf does next. I mean, we won’t have any influence at all.”
“I’ll talk to him. You should know he’s really adamant on this, Lee, but I’ll do my best.”
“Good. And thank you.” Patterson felt some of the tension in his shoulders start to dissipate. As the U.S. ambassador to Pakistan, he faced strong opposition—sometimes outright antagonism—on a daily basis, and the events of the past few months had only made matters worse. He’d met the president on several occasions. Patterson knew him to be a stubborn individual, but the acting secretary of state was just as strong willed. If anyone could convince David Brenneman to change his mind, it was Brynn Fitzgerald.
“What about our missing tourists?” Patterson asked. He had been present only for part of the bilateral discussions. “What did they have to say about that?”
“ISI is putting in the resources, but as you know, ten of those people disappeared in mountainous areas during periods of bad weather, so there isn’t much chance they’ll be coming back.” The Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence was easily the most powerful of Pakistan’s three major intelligence agencies. For this reason, it was heading up the search for the missing Americans. “There’s no dispute that some of them were actually kidnapped, but there’s also a good chance that some simply got trapped in a snowstorm. Or fell into a crevasse. Take your pick. Most of them applied for climbing permits to begin with, which is something we should really have taken into account from the start.”
The ambassador nodded slowly, but he couldn’t disguise his unease.
“What are you thinking?” Fitzgerald asked.
Patterson took his time in framing his response. “Brynn, I’ve been here for nearly four years now, and I’ve seen just how deep the antiAmerican sentiment runs in the general population. I’ve done my best to change that, but I have to tell you, I’ve learned to expect the worst. So when I hear the Paks have concocted a story that covers all the bases, I can’t help but take it with a grain of salt.”
Fitzgerald permitted herself a brief smile, then caught herself and glanced away to lessen the blow. “I hear you, but it’s like you just said. You’ve been facing off with these people every day for the past four years, so you might not be the most—”
“I have nothing against the Pakistani people or their government,” Patterson interjected testily. “And I resent any suggestion to the contrary. I’ve—”
“Lee, I’m sorry.” Fitzgerald lightly gripped his arm and saw his expression soften immediately. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you’re biased against them. I know you better than that. I’m just saying that you might not be the most impartial observer. I mean, let’s face it. You’ve been on the firing line for years now. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy.”
“It hasn’t been easy, but you don’t have to placate me.” He leveled her with a steady gaze. “We’ve known each other too long for that. Just listen to what I’m telling you, okay? You have to have eyes in the back of your head around here. If they have the evidence, that’s one thing, but you can’t take anything at face value.” He hesitated briefly.
“I don’t want to overstep my bounds here, but you’re new to the job, Brynn, and sometimes it shows. It’s a whole different game when your name is on the letterhead.”
It wasn’t the best analogy, but she knew what he was getting at. There weren’t many people who could speak to her so candidly, but Lee Patterson happened to be one of them. “I appreciate the advice, Lee, and believe me, I depend on you more than you know. I realize this is a challenging assignment, but I’m glad you’re the one standing post. I mean that.”
“Thank you.” He grinned and shot a glance at his watch. “You know, it’s a shame you couldn’t stay for one more day. It would have been good to catch up some more, and there are plenty of people at the embassy who didn’t get the chance to meet you. It would have made for a nice little photo op.”
“I know, but I’m scheduled to meet with the president in the morning, and there’s no way he’ll let me push it back.”
“It was a good trip, though?” Patterson knew that Fitzgerald had visited numerous South Asian countries on her first official trip, including Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Bhutan, and India.
“It was . . . enlightening. As you just said, things are very different when you are given top billing. Everything seems a little more scripted, but I guess that’s just diplomacy at work. It was a productive couple of weeks, though, and that’s the main thing.”
Patterson grinned again. “So, in other words, you’re looking forward to going home.”
“Not as much as you might think,” Fitzgerald muttered. She looked out the window absently. The green-brown Margalla Hills could be seen in the distance, but she wasn’t focused on the passing scenery. Instead, she was thinking about her upcoming meeting with the president, as well as his probable reaction after the disastrous press conference she’d just departed. “In fact, I think I’d prefer to stay right here.”