RAWALPINDI
As Brynn Fitzgerald’s motorcade moved steadily toward his position, Benazir Mengal tossed his phone to one of his subordinates, then quickly relayed the news he’d just been given. As the young man dialed through to the other members of the team, Mengal pinched the tip of his nose and studied the road to the rear of his vehicle. By chance, he had been waiting on the exact route the Americans had decided upon. It was just one of three possibilities, but it comprised the shortest distance between the presidential palace and the air base, which made it the most likely choice. It was a fortunate coincidence, Mengal thought, as it allowed him to gauge the lay of the land one last time.
The iron truss bridge, which crossed a small gully filled with brush, small trees, and litter, was less than 100 yards away. The road beyond was lined on both sides by small houses and shops. It was a poor sort of place, a general air of neglect and poverty hanging over everything in sight. Airport Road was one of the major routes between Islamabad and its sister city to the south, Rawalpindi. As a result, both sides of the narrow road were occupied by pedestrians and people on bicycles, and there was a fair amount of vehicular traffic on the bridge itself.
“General?”
He turned to face his subordinate, who had the phone pressed to his ear. In his distracted state, Mengal had not heard it ring.
“Yes?”
“The motorcade just passed through a checkpoint less than a mile from here. It’s time for you to leave. The second vehicle is waiting.”
Mengal nodded brusquely. “The men are ready?”
The former soldier gestured toward the bridge. A heavy Nissan truck had just started to cross from the north, its bed covered by supporting poles and a thick canvas tarp. “They’re ready. We have a spotter in place. He’ll remain on the north side until the motorcade approaches, and then he’ll place the call.”
“Good.”
The subordinate shifted impatiently as Mengal stared at the approaching vehicle. The cars behind the slow-moving truck were honking incessantly, the drivers clearly impatient to get to the other side. Mengal felt no sympathy for the people delayed on the bridge; in fact, he was vastly reassured by the heavy traffic. It would require the motorcade to slow dramatically as it approached the crossing, making it an easier target. Once the first rockets were fired, the cars that were hit would serve as obstacles for the following vehicles, and the high number of civilian casualties would only add to the confusion. In short, it was the perfect place for an ambush. Mengal had seen it work before.
Still, the retired general couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had seized hold of him hours earlier. It was something he rarely experienced, but he believed in precedence. He believed in tactical decisions based on past success, and given what was about to take place, he couldn’t help but reflect on recent events in his country’s history. Troubling events that reeked of failure. Pervez Musharraf had miraculously escaped no less than three assassination attempts over the course of his presidency. Two of those attempts had come in 2003, and on one of those occasions, Musharraf ’s survival could be directly attributed to a jamming device that blocked all cell phones within several hundred meters of his motorcade. Through Naveed Jilani and his close relationship with the American embassy, Mengal knew that the vehicles in the embassy pool did not employ such devices. However, this was a minor detail, and one that didn’t concern him either way. Technology could be easily defeated; it didn’t count as a real obstacle. The former general was far more concerned with the human element of the secretary’s security. In Mengal’s mind, this was the most probable barrier to success. During his military service, he’d once attended a welcoming ceremony for President Clinton at Chaklala Air Base. He had seen the Secret Service in action. He remembered how alert they’d been, the way they moved in synchronous, rehearsed fashion. In particular, he recalled the way they had watched him with ill-concealed suspicion. It was almost as if, even then, they could see into the darkest corners of his mind. He had quickly realized they had a file on him, and since that incident, he’d come to appreciate just how thorough the Americans were. The secretary of state was protected by a different agency, Mengal knew, but her security would be just as vigilant. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected her permanent detail was composed of at least seven men. Probably closer to ten. He had superior numbers at his disposal, but the Americans held the advantage in so many ways. The agents were trained to the point where they reacted instinctively and correctly every time, and they enjoyed access to the best weapons money could buy.
Mengal’s men had all served under him at some point, and most had fought in the volatile Northwest Frontier Province. They were hardened combat veterans, and he was confident in their abilities. Still, there was a noticeable divide in terms of training and weaponry, a divide that could not be ignored. Then again, he had speed and surprise on his side, two essential elements of any successful ambush. Ironically, the Diplomatic Security Service also relied heavily on these elements, especially when moving a senior official in and out of hostile territory.
And this was hostile territory, at least as far as the Americans were concerned. There could be no mistake about that. Rawalpindi was home to army headquarters and a number of lesser military complexes, and Mengal knew the area like the back of his hand. It was a key advantage. He knew what would happen in the aftermath of the attack. He knew precisely where the police would set up their emergency checkpoints, and he knew which roads they would overlook. More importantly, he knew exactly how to find the small clearing where, in twenty minutes’ time, he was scheduled to meet a pilot assigned to ISI, a man who’d once served under him at the Mountain Warfare School in Abbottabad. A man who knew the meaning of loyalty. If all went according to plan, Mengal would be onboard when the helicopter lifted off, but he wouldn’t be the only passenger.
“General.”
Mengal turned to his left, where one of his men was gesturing insistently toward the waiting sedan. “Of course.” The general walked to the car and slid into the passenger seat. A man was already waiting behind the wheel. “Drive.”