Retribution (9781429922593)

by Hagberg, David

  “I agree. So what do we do?”

  “Just like I told Marty, stay out of McGarvey’s way.”

  “We can’t support him.”

  “No,” Page said. “But Otto will and so will Ms. Boylan, and I’m sure that Otto’s wife still has her connections. The real problem is the same as it has always been. There’s not much that we can do for him.”

  “One of these days he’ll find himself outgunned,” Patterson said gloomily. He got to his feet. “I’m getting too old for this.”

  “So am I,” Page said. “Let’s hope Mac isn’t.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  Ayesha walked up the gentle slope in the Islamabad Graveyard, past row after row of stones and tablets back to where her husband had been buried the morning after his death, as was Islamic custom. It was early evening. The lights of the city were behind her; only the lights of the PAEC General Hospital were visible up the hill from her.

  She’d parked her car at the side of the Faqir Aipee Road, just off the Kashmir Highway and had gone the rest of the way on foot. She was leaving for Germany later this evening, her packed bags in the car. It was possible that she would never be able to come home, and she wanted to say good-bye one last time to her husband.

  He had been a good man to her, never resenting her family’s fortune or her advice. In fact she believed that over the past several years, since the incident with President Musharraf, he had actually depended on her. And for that she felt the loss all the more keenly.

  But she did not cry. She’d been the only girl in the family, and she’d grown up tough, entirely capable of holding her own among men. Her father and uncles and brothers never cried, nor did she.

  She got to his grave site and stepped to one side of the simple headstone. He could have been buried in the military cemetery, but he’d once told her that he belonged here with the common people. He was no hero, nor would he ever be, so he felt it wasn’t right that he should be buried with soldiers who’d died on the battlefield. Nor did he want to be buried in the private cemetery where Ayesha’s people were laid to rest.

  So here he was. A common man: in fact one of the last to be buried in a cemetery hardly a half century old and already full.

  “He should not be here,” General Bhutani said behind her.

  She turned. “You startled me, General.” Two bodyguards stood a few meters away.

  “It wasn’t my intention, Ayesha. But he deserved a soldier’s burial.”

  “He wanted it this way, but not so soon.”

  “I agree. Too soon. And for the wrong reasons—still another affront to our dignity.”

  She looked again at her husband’s gravestone. “Why did you come here, at this particular time? Certainly not to visit the grave of a simple major?”

  If Bhutani took any offense at her tone, he did not show it. “I was told that you were leaving for the airport, and I wanted to talk to you in person—not on the telephone—before you left.”

  “You followed me?”

  “Yes. And I wasn’t surprised when you stopped here.”

  Bhutani and his family were crude, in Ayesha’s father’s opinion. Only a generation or two from simple mountain tribespeople. Lacking in manners and modern sensibilities. Perfect for the role of ISI director. And in many ways, in her estimation, exactly the same as McGarvey, the former director of the CIA. Violent men, devious, skulking around, peering into other people’s lives for some prurient interests in the name of national security. And she was sure that her expression showed her contempt, because his face darkened.

  “Why are you going to Germany? What’s there for you so soon after your husband’s death? The rug business?”

  “A vacation before we and India destroy each other over petty religion. I have a plane to catch. I don’t want to be late.”

  “It will be held if you are not on time,” Bhutani said, his tone harsh now. “Or not, if I have you taken in for interrogation.”

  “I don’t think you would want to do that, General Bhutani. The consequences might not be to your superiors’ liking.”

  “A risk I am willing to take in order to convince you that I am on your side. I know about Ms. Schlueter and the operation your husband hired her to run, just as I know about her part in the incident in Rawalpindi. She is back in Germany now, and I believe that you are joining her there, perhaps to avenge your husband’s death by continuing the mission.”

  “And which mission is that?” Ayesha demanded. Her heart pounded. Buffoon or not, Bhutani was powerful.

  “Retribution for the American raid at Abbottabad. Two have been eliminated; twenty-two remain.”

  “I would think that you would have your hands full spying on India to bother with something so insignificant.”

  “Not insignificant to some in our government who want to see such a thing happen. Of course your husband understood the delicate balance we have to maintain between ourselves and Washington and between us and our population.”

  “You didn’t support him.”

  “But we did, to the extent that was politically possible.”

  “He’s dead!”

  “He was a soldier; he understood the risks.”

  “Now you want me to take up the battle.”

  Bhutani smiled wryly. “Isn’t that why you’re flying to Germany tonight?” he said. “We can support you financially, and with intelligence information, but the actual operation will have to be carried out by whoever Ms. Schuelter hires. They’re expendable.”

  “As am I?”

  “Yes,” Bhutani said.

  Ayesha held her silence for a moment. She hadn’t expected the ISI director to be here, though what he was telling her was expected. But now that it was in her face, to some extent even more than the fact of her husband’s death, when she was on the verge of flying to Berlin, it was superreal for the first time. People were going die—possibly she herself.

  She glanced again at her husband’s grave. “What are my chances?”

  “I don’t know, but I expect they will be near zero for the entire mission unless you convince Ms. Schlueter to first take care of one thing.”

  “Mr. McGarvey.”

  “Yes. You must do everything within your power to eliminate the man, and my agency will supply you with money.”

  Ayesha looked at him. She was a businesswoman. “How much money?”

  “Unlimited,” Bhutani said. “Kill McGarvey.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Ayesha phoned Pam from the airport to tell her she was in Germany. It was midnight local time, and she asked for directions or for someone to pick her up.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Protecting my investment. Did you receive the money?”

  “Yes, and we’re making plans at this moment. Go home, Mrs. Naisir. Grieve for your husband. Help your family with their rug business and leave this sort of thing to me.”

  “You didn’t do so good in Rawalpindi.”

  “Because of the setup, which was your husband’s fault. I’m sorry, but you and I were lucky to get out of there alive, and I think you understand that. Go home.”

  “If you force the issue, I’ll send no more money. You’ll be on your own. In any event I have some other news for you, and a direct request from someone very important, but we have to discuss it in private.”

  “You have no idea how difficult you’re making the situation by coming here,” Pam said.

  “It’s your call,” Ayesha countered. “I can get a hotel room for the night and fly home first thing in the morning, in which case you’re going to gain some powerful enemies. Either that or you can come pick me up.”

  “What airline?”

  “Air Berlin.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” Pam said, and hung up.

  Ayesha finished her tea. Then she shouldered her carry-on bag and went down to the baggage claim area to wait at the doors, not at all sure exactly why she had come to Berlin, except that she wasn’t used to giving awa
y her money without maintaining some control.

  * * *

  Pam arrived in a beat-up red Mercedes that had to be at least twenty years old. Ayesha got in. “We have a lot to talk about,” she said.

  “We certainly do,” Pam said. “We’re meeting with my operators tonight, and they’re going to have some pretty tough questions about why you’re sticking your nose into this business. And they have the right to some straight answers because their lives are on the line.”

  “The situation in Pakistan right now is very tense.”

  “Your government can’t seriously be thinking about going to war over a worthless piece of real estate.”

  “Probably not, but our relations with the United States have weakened.”

  Pam glanced at her. “Who knows you’re here?”

  “General Bhutani.”

  “The director of the ISI?”

  “Yes, and he’s agreed that the service will pick up the cost of the operation. He made an offer of unlimited funding, but with one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “That we kill McGarvey before finishing with the SEALs.”

  * * *

  The abandoned warehouse in Spandau, Berlin’s industrial sector, had once housed the manufacture and storage of high-voltage transformers and heavy-duty electrical switches dating back to before World War II. For a time, after the wall had come down and the two Germanys had reunited, the sprawling and partially damaged facility had been used to temporarily billet and process the hundreds of thousands of internal refugees fleeing the former east zone.

  It had been closed down five years ago, and now only some Turkish, Polish, and Romanian squatters came and went. It was scheduled to be demolished sometime in the coming months. In the meantime the police never bothered with the place.

  Pam drove in through an open service door and parked at the foot of some stairs that led to what had been a foreman’s office overlooking the work floor.

  Two men armed with 9mm Uzi submachine guns waited just inside the door. Two others were spread out against the back wall of the room beyond three metal desks, a couple of file cabinets, and a large drafting table. Many of the ceiling tiles were down, and the floor was littered with debris and animal droppings. Only the background glow from the city penetrated the windows, many of which were broken.

  Pam explained that Ayesha had come not only with additional money but with instructions, which the four men didn’t want to hear. But they lowered their weapons.

  Felix Volker, one of the two at the door, looked Ayesha up and down. “Money’s good, but I’ll be fucked if I’ll take orders from some raghead broad.”

  “Then leave now while you still can, Herr Volker,” Ayesha shot back.

  “Son of a bitch, how do you know my name?” Volker demanded. He looked at Pam. “Is it you with the big mouth?”

  “No.”

  The general had given Ayesha a dossier on the men Pam Schlueter probably had working for her. He had gotten it from Ayesha’s husband, who had gotten it from Pam herself. “Herr Bruns,” Ayesha said to the other man just inside the doorway. “Herr Woedding, Herr Heiser.”

  “So you know our names, so what?” Woedding said. He was toying with the safety catch on his weapon, a wildness in his eyes, as if he were about to crack up.

  “The intelligence service of my country is pretty good. They’ve agreed to help with the first part of the mission, after which you would be on your own, except for the funding.”

  “Apparently it didn’t do your husband or the street muscle he hired any good. It got them killed.”

  “One man.”

  “Yes, Kirk McGarvey, the former director of the CIA, and once upon a time a pretty good shooter in his own right.”

  “He killed my husband, and we want him dead. Job one.”

  Woedding looked at the others. “Maybe we’ll kill McGarvey, as you wish, then take our money and run.”

  “We’d find you.”

  Woedding shrugged. “We’re pretty good.”

  “We have no gripe with the SEAL Team Six guys,” Heiser said. “They were just soldiers like us.”

  Nothing like you, Ayesha wanted to say, but didn’t. “With McGarvey out of the way, I can’t see you turning down the money.”

  “You weren’t specific,” Pam said. “How much money?”

  “Name your price, Frau Schlueter. We’ll double it.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Walter Page’s limousine was admitted through the White House West Gate a few minutes past six in the afternoon. He was met at the portico by John Raleigh, an aide to John Fay.

  “Good afternoon, sir. They’re waiting for you in the Situation Room.”

  Fay had called him at two requesting the meeting. He’d only said it had to do with the Kashmir situation but wouldn’t elaborate. Page had spent most of the afternoon in the Watch down the hall from his office where five analysts dealt with a constant stream of information coming from U.S. satellite assets and other intelligence resources from around the world.

  All he’d learned was that India and Pakistan continued to mobilize their forces along the border, but to this point there’d been no accidents, no exchange of artillery fire, as had been common for several years.

  The only disquieting facts were that both sides had a significant portion of their missiles fueled and made ready, and that a small contingent of Chinese military advisers had arrived in Islamabad early this morning.

  Raleigh left him at the open door to the Situation Room in the West Wing. The mood among the people around the long table was subdued. The president had not yet arrived, but his chief of staff was already seated, as were a stern-faced Fay, the secretary of state, the director of the National Security Agency, the director of National Intelligence, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the secretaries of Defense, Treasury, Interior, Homeland Security, the ambassador to the UN, and the attorney general. The thirteen, plus Page, constituted the majority of the Security Council.

  Most of the others looked up and nodded when he came in and took his seat.

  Madeline Bible, the director of National Intelligence, was seated next to him. She leaned over. “What’s this about the Chinese in Islamabad?”

  “I just got it myself, and our confidence is not all that high. I was going to ask what you’d heard and what your sources were.”

  The president came in and everyone rose. He swept to his chair and motioned them down. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. As you all know, the situation in Kashmir between Pakistan and India has ratcheted up overnight. I’m told that a shooting war has become a real possibility.”

  “I’m afraid that’s the conclusion my people have come to,” Bible said. “I’ve prepared a brief summary, which outlines the intelligence data we’ve collected over the past several months.” She passed copies of the thick spiral-bound report to the president and the others.

  “Give me the highlights,” Langdon said.

  “Until this morning I would have advised that the chances of an all-out conflict were less than twenty percent. Something under the normal level over the past several years. But we learned that a delegation of high-ranking Chinese military officers arrived in Islamabad this morning and met with President Mamnoon Hussain and his cabinet, including his military advisers. Though the exact content of that meeting is unknown, we must presume that the Chinese have offered their help in the form of advice, possibly of a strategic nature.”

  “No,” Page said out loud. “I’m sorry, Madeline, but that’s reckless.”

  She started to object, but the president held her off.

  “Walt?”

  “My people tell me that the Chinese may have sent a peace delegation. Zhang Wei and Xiang Pandi are with the group.”

  “I’m not sure I know the names.”

  “Intellectuals,” Dr. John Boettner, the secretary of state, said. “Doves. Peace advocates. They’ve argued in some of the journals that a nuclear war between Pakistan and I
ndia over Kashmir could easily spread east over the Himalayas into China.”

  “Words are cheaper than bombs,” Bible said.

  “It would be in their best interest to prevent a nuclear exchange,” Page said. “In addition I spoke with General Bhutani yesterday afternoon, and he assured me that there would be no war.”

  “That was an unauthorized contact, Walt,” Fay said.

  “My call was unofficial and was about another completely separate matter.”

  “Yes?” Fay prompted when Page didn’t continue.

  The president interrupted. “You have something of a personal relationship with the general, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been to Islamabad twice to see him, and we met again in New York at last year’s Global Conference on Intelligence Issues. When I spoke to him yesterday I couldn’t detect any stress in his voice.”

  “Were there translators?” Bible asked.

  “No, his English is adequate. But my people tell me that it’s difficult at best to lie in a language foreign to your own.”

  “I know some pretty good liars,” Bible said.

  I’ll bet you do, Page wanted to say, but he held his tongue. He didn’t like the woman, and it had nothing to do with her gender. She was a politician first, an intelligence director second.

  The president turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Bruce Ringers, who’d held just about every important post in the military since his graduation from West Point thirty-five years ago, including combat roles in Kosovo, the first and second Iraq wars, and briefly at the beginning of the conflict in Afghanistan. He and Secretary of Defense Matthew Koratich were close personal friends, and the secretary-chairman working relationship was better than any in history. Under the two men things were getting done—including the top-down reorganization of the entire military-industrial juggernaut.

  “What’s your assessment, Bruce?”

  “They’ve been there before, and each time they’ve backed off before things could go too far.”