State of Honour

by Gary Haynes

  “A perfect record and only a week to go. It had to be here, huh.”

  “That’s real helpful, Steve,” Tom said, unbuttoning his charcoal-grey suit jacket.

  But he’s right, he thought. Back home, the advance detail would have been thorough. Local extremists and publicity-seeking whackos monitored. Pipe-inspection cameras poked into every cranny. Storm drains checked for explosives. The dumpsters removed. Manhole covers bolted, the public trash cans sealed. Then, on the day of her visit, scores of local P.D. would’ve been on the periphery and tried and tested counter snipers on the roofs. All vantage points covered. Discarded bottles and lumps of loose concrete removed within an appropriate radius. The Belgian Malinois bomb sniffers would’ve swept every inch.

  “Corridor duty is as boring as those TV reality shows, ain’t it, Tom?” Steve said.

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  Tom watched Steve weaving his head in what appeared to be a figure of eight. “The hell you doing?”

  “My doc said it’ll help with my headaches. Relieves neck tension.”

  “Didn’t know you suffered from headaches,” Tom said, a little concerned that his friend hadn’t mentioned it to him before.

  “They started a couple months back. Sometimes when I wake up at night, it feels like I’m wearing a vice.”

  “Get it checked out again. You got a physical coming up.”

  “Sure I will, Tom.”

  A couple of seconds later, Tom coughed into his fist and gestured with his eyes. But Steve’s head was still animate. A stocky man with a weather-beaten face and short silver hair had entered the corridor from an elevator twenty metres behind Steve’s back. He carried a bundle of papers in a manila folder under his arm, and walked like an ex-military type. When the man’s footsteps became audible on the tiles, Steve stood ramrod straight. As he got closer Tom recognized him, and moved over to knock on the door before opening it.

  “Thank you, son,” he said. He turned to Steve, gestured towards the clear wire spiralling down from his earpiece. “That wire attached to an iPod, Agent?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s good,” he said as he disappeared inside.

  Tom closed the door, worried. He wondered if he’d missed something important in terms of the assessment. But the training his team underwent continually was based on repetition, the type that created confidence and long-term muscle memory. If an attack of whatever nature happened, be it a flung bag of flour or a multiple-armed assault, they would act instinctively, almost without conscious effort.

  Steve sniffed. “The paper shuffler thinks he’s a comedian.”

  “He’s a deputy director of the CIA,” Tom said, “and he ain’t here to tell Lyric a joke.”

  2.

  Linda Carlyle looked up as the heavy door opened, hoping her rising sense of unease didn’t show on her face. The dimly lit room was fifteen metres square, the few pieces of furniture functional rather than decorative. Sitting at an oak desk, she lifted a pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses off her aquiline nose. For the past forty-five minutes, she’d been speed-reading a departmental report she’d commissioned on the near-past disputes between Iran and Pakistan; all of which had stemmed from Islam’s major schism. While Iran was ruled by Shias, Pakistan was Sunni dominated. In the nineties, they’d backed opposing sides in the Afghan Civil War, and had sponsored sectarian terrorism in each other’s major cities. Now they were on the brink of a conflict that could ignite the whole region.

  “Good morning, Madam Secretary,” the deputy director said, walking towards her, his hand massaging the folded skin at his neck.

  “You’re not harassing my boys, are you, Bill?”

  “Sometimes I forget I swopped fatigues for a suit.”

  Forcing a smile, she said, “Take a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

  Deputy Director Bill Houseman, who had travelled to Islamabad with the secretary, together with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Under-Secretary of Defense, sat in a padded chair two metres from the desk and crossed his muscular legs.

  Linda closed the marble-coloured lever arch file and tapped a remote. The room lit up. “So let’s have it,” she said, switching off the antenna-like arc lamp she’d been reading under.

  “The switchboard operator just got a call. I think we should ask the head of your security detail to join us.”

  “I’d like to hear what you have to say first. Please continue.”

  “A threat has been made.” He clenched his teeth.

  “I see.”

  “The caller said the Leopards of Islam would ensure that the US Secretary of State never leaves Pakistan soil. We’re putting it down to a random individual. Low-level risk assessment.”

  “And why’s that?”

  Houseman cleared his throat, putting his hand to his mouth. “Because as a rule, the Leopards don’t make threats before an attack, ma’am.”

  “That makes me feel a whole lot better,” she said, shaking her head. “And the current situation here?”

  “The Leopards are launching fresh attacks in Karachi, Bahawalpur, Lahore. The list goes on. There’ve been three bomb attacks in Islamabad in the past twelve days.”

  “Is civil war on the cards?” she asked, fearing the worst.

  “We have reports that Shia elements of the army are joining the insurgency, so it’s a possibility.”

  “And the Leopards are definitely backed by Iran?”

  Houseman nodded. “No question. But the Sunnis brought it on themselves. The atrocities against the Shia minority were bound to result in an armed response.”

  “How serious is the Iranian threat?”

  Houseman drew in an audible breath through his nose and shuffled his buttocks a fraction. “Satellite images and drone feeds show that Iranian Special Forces have already made incursions across the border. And there are three divisions of the Revolutionary Guard massed just four miles from the largest of Pakistan’s five provinces–”

  “Balochistan.”

  “That’s right. Our analysts believe that Iran is planning to occupy the port of Gwadar and help themselves to the huge resources of natural gas in the province if Pakistan becomes a failed state.”

  “They’re hoping to take advantage of the chaos,” Linda said, leaning back in her chair and arching her fingers.

  “They are, ma’am. But if the Iranians come over the southern border in force, the Pakistanis, despite their internal problems, are likely to go to war. They regard the Iranians as apostates.”

  “It’s a mess.” She massaged her temples with her thumbs and forefingers.

  “My view is we back Pakistan with muscle and–”

  “That’s a decision for Congress.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Houseman said, nodding.

  “Thank you, Bill. Send the agent in, will you? The tall one with the buzz cut.”

  Houseman got up, said, “May I speak freely?”

  “You may.”

  “Don’t go to the children’s hospital this morning. Frankly, I don’t think it’s worth the risk; however small.”

  He has a point, she thought.

  Pakistan had been a Frenemy for years. But the new Prime Minister had requested her visit to discuss the possibility of the US taking temporary possession of Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal if matters got worse. Although they’d been distributed over the country for security reasons, they’d been brought back to Islamabad in recent weeks. They were safe for now. But if the Pakistanis refused to allow them into US custody, her brief also extended to ensuring that the likelihood of them being used if the Iranians came over the border in force was zero.

  This, she had to admit, was the real reason for her visit. Houseman knows that, too, she thought, which is why he’s advising against the trip to the hospital.

  But, she said, “The president wants to show solidarity with the new regime on the issue of opposition to extremist acts of terrorism, if nothing else. Those children are their vict
ims. I will ensure that the head of my security detail speaks with your people before we leave. Is there anything else, Bill?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, barely able to conceal his concern.

  Tom saw the door open. The deputy director came out, scowling.

  “Is everything all right, sir?” Tom asked.

  “Just peachy.” He gestured behind him. “The secretary would like to see you.”

  He put the folder under his arm and straightened his tie before strolling off towards the elevator, taking a call on his cellphone after a few steps.

  Tom moved through the door left ajar and saw the secretary standing in front of the desk, a neat, navy-blue box in her hand. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair was tied back with a flesh-coloured scarf. The scarf was a concession. Flowing hair was easily grabbed. Curtailing the possibility of that kind of embarrassing incident just meant one less thing to worry about. She also wore a ballistic pantsuit, as he’d asked her to, together with her specially made jewellery, a gold pendant shaped like a pear and a heavy emerald ring. The pantsuit was a pale hue of cameral. Soft body armour that could withstand a round from a handgun. The impact of the bullet was eradicated by a net of multilayered woven fabrics, which dispersed the energy over an extended area. Pure physics. He’d seen videos of Americans down in Columbia being shot at in their ballistic suits from close quarters. Something he wasn’t about to divulge. It was useless against a round fired by a high-velocity rifle.

  She smiled and stepped forward holding out the blue box. “I’d like you to have this.” She handed it to him.

  Tom opened the box. Inside was an expensive silver watch, an Omega with a large face studded with diamonds.

  “I’ve had it engraved,” she said.

  Tom took it out, turned it over. He read the inscription: To Tom with heartfelt gratitude. Linda G. Carlyle. US Secretary of State.

  “Thank you,” he said, feeling a little embarrassed by her gift.

  “I just want to tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done.”

  “It’s been an honour, ma’am. But I still have a week before I leave the detail.”

  “I know. I just wanted to give it you today… Oh, and I should tell you that a threat has been made,” she said, clearly doing her best to sound mundane.

  “A threat. Why wasn’t I briefed?” he asked, his jaw muscles flexing.

  “It’s not serious. An anonymous phone call to the embassy just a minute ago. The CIA will brief you before we leave this morning.”

  “I’d like you to reconsider your visit to the hospital, ma’am.”

  The faint lines on her forehead deepened. “The president gets ten threats a day. He got fifty on the morning of his inauguration. Where would we be if we succumbed to them all? Ensconced in a bunker at Fort Bragg, I imagine.”

  “But, ma’am—”

  “No, Tom. My mind is made up.”

  He looked down at the watch. “This is very generous.”

  “Don’t ask what the G stands for. I never use it, and no one knows apart from my parents. Don’t ask about my birth certificate, either.” She feigned a laugh.

  His head snapped back up. “I’ll get you safely home, ma’am,” he said. “I promise.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  3.

  Tom sat in the front passenger seat of the third MSD SUV, feeling agitated. The convoy was doing a steady sixty-five along the eight-lane highway leading from the embassy, police outriders front and rear. They were ten minutes behind schedule. The secretary had had to take an urgent call from the president on a secure landline. Sitting directly behind Tom, the safest place from a protective viewpoint, she discussed the speech she’d give to the army generals at Parliament House right after her visit to the hospital. The speech writer had a retro moustache and a servile tone, a skinny guy whom Tom considered a hindrance.

  After they’d agreed on the final changes, the secretary said, “The president wants the visit to the hospital cut to twenty minutes tops.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tom replied.

  “That means no press questions.”

  “Understood.”

  “He mentioned the threat.”

  Tom turned around in his seat. “If the agreed procedure is followed, your exposure will be minimal, ma’am.”

  She nodded, slowly.

  Tom double-checked that her seat belt was fastened securely, that the doors were locked and the windows closed. He ran through the various evacuation scenarios, depending on the nature of the attack and which vehicles might be taken out. She’d be plunged into the footwell. The driver would employ a full bootlegger’s turn or resort to ramming. They played out like video games in his head, priming him for a potential en-route ambush.

  Next, he tested his push-to-talk, or PTT, radio. The PTT button was inline and ran between the radio connection and the earpiece. It could be used either via the button or as a voice-activated unit, providing a handsfree facility. The destinations they’d be travelling to today had codenames. The hospital’s codename was Cradle. He used them to communicate with his team, checking their radios were functioning in the process. Satisfied, he focused on the pre-planned arrival procedure. He’d alight first, opening the passenger door. The agents in the vehicle behind would form an open-box formation around her as she entered the building.

  Check.

  The Faisal Children’s Hospital was a few miles from the Saudi-Pak Tower, a contemporary landmark known for its Islamic tile work. Nineteen floors high, the tower was visible from the tinted windows of the SUV. Tom worried that the hospital was outside the so-called Blue Area, the commercial centre of Islamabad. Together with a couple of his team, he’d walked the route the day before, liaising with a group of ISI operatives, the Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence, the main Pakistan security service.

  The lead operative had been called Awan. He was a beefy six-footer with leathery skin, who wore a sombre suit and black necktie.

  “The road has been checked for IEDs. The hospital is clean, at least in terms of bombs,” he said, his wide face breaking into a crooked grin.

  “What about all these people?” Tom asked.

  “This isn’t the West. If they do not work, they do not eat.”

  The street and those surrounding it lacked the Blue Area’s greenery and modern architecture. The hospital abutted run-down buildings on either side. Brick-built retail stores with whitewashed residential accommodation above. Opposite, bland concrete apartment and office blocks rose three storeys to flat roofs. They cast an unbroken shadow over a line of flimsy stalls, selling reams of brightly coloured cloth, second-hand cellphones, fruit and vegetables and halal meat on hooks.

  “I don’t like it,” Tom said.

  “Then tell her not to come,” Awan replied, shrugging.

  Ignoring him, Tom said, “Your men ready for tomorrow?”

  “As I told you on the phone, apart from yourselves, ten armed operatives will mix with the crowd. There will be fifty-two policemen. On the roofs, a team of snipers.” He pointed up to the sky. “And a police helicopter with elite commandos onboard.”

  “Have the hospital staff been screened?”

  “They were screened when they were employed. They’re all well-educated Punjabis. Our problems come from frontier hills people. Shia illiterates.”

  Tom pinched his nose. “The main exposure is when the secretary leaves. A two-minute delay while she does her goodbyes to the official line-up,” he said, knowing that a couple of Grey Eagle drones would be monitoring the scene from above.

  “Everything will be okay, Mr Dupree.”

  Tom had wished he could’ve believed him.

  He stood half a metre behind the secretary now, just to the right of her shoulder, his sense of unease unabated. The walls of the hospital ward were painted an insipid yellow. It was cramped with twenty small beds a fraction more than a body-width apart. If it had AC, it had been turned off. The competing smells of disinfectant and stale sweat
were equally pungent. He figured the authorities were intent on making the experience both unpleasant and memorable.

  A bearded doctor, with black bags hanging in folds like a bloodhound’s, explained to the secretary in detail the nature of each of the children’s injuries and what could and could not be done. Tom thought he looked like a coke addict, or a guy who drank a bottle of Jack a day, but put his jaded appearance down to a dedicated man who didn’t sleep much. He watched the secretary listen attentively, and speak with each child in turn via a government interpreter before moving sullenly to the last bed.

  The undefined nature of the threat had left Tom feeling even more paranoid than he would’ve been normally in such circumstances. Beside the bed, a young female nurse with exquisite feline-like eyes, and a mouth so naturally generous that no amount of collagen could replicate it, checked a saline drip. Tom slid over to her and eased a ballpoint pen from her hip pocket stealthily, placing it onto a window sill just out of her reach. Two separate attempts on the life of President Ford had been by women who’d looked like grade-school teachers, and a pen was as deadly as a stiletto. His antennae were up.

  “The Leopards have no regard for human life,” the doctor said. “Young or old. No matter.”

  The bed was occupied by a small boy who was almost completely cocooned in bandages. With his wide-eyed stare and lack of visible skin, he resembled a fragile hybrid. The secretary bent over the bed and said a few words. As she went to touch him the doctor spoke.

  “Please no. Ninety per cent burns.” He shook his head to emphasize that death was certain.

  The secretary lowered her hand, looked close to tears but managed a closed-mouth smile. Tom fought the urge to wince.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but we’re due at Parliament House in thirty minutes,” a female aide said, bending towards the secretary.