Warlord: An Alex Hawke Novel

by Ted Bell

  “Most states have an army. Pakistan’s army has a state. The country’s leaders operate at the army’s pleasure. And their ability to control their own nuclear arsenal is the most frightening nuclear challenge facing the West today.

  “Pakistan is the only nuclear state on earth with a powerful military insurgency in its very midst. We know for a fact that the combined forces of the Taliban and al Qaeda, now grown immensely strong under a single command and known as the ‘Sword of Allah,’ definitely have aims to take over the country by force or intimidation, and the insurgents most assuredly want to acquire the bomb.”

  Thorne paused a moment and turned his gaze toward each person in the room to ensure he had their undivided attention.

  “It is hardly reassuring that the Pakistani government has veered between a dictatorship that has supported both the United States and the Taliban simultaneously, and now has a democratic leadership known chiefly for its corruption and ineptitude.

  “An urgent new wave of intelligence has recently been flowing through MI6, MI5, CIA, and the Pentagon. Taliban and al Qaeda forces along the northern Pakistan-Afghanistan border are focusing anew on the Holy Grail of terrorism that eluded them before 9/11. They are unswerving in their determination to acquire either the secrets to the Pakistani bomb…or the bombs themselves.”

  Hawke held up a hand.

  “It’s been over a year since Sword of Allah struck Heathrow. Perhaps American Predators have beheaded the leadership, Monty?” Hawke asked.

  Thorne paused a moment before replying. “It’s true we’ve succeeded wildly with the drones. Many key leaders have been killed. But I think they’re stronger than ever. I think their influence is growing around the world. They have Iranian funds, Russian funds, cells around the world, and now, someone at the very top who has considerably more brainpower than Osama bin Laden. Sheik Abu al-Rashad.”

  “Nevertheless, Monty, Alex is right,” C said. “At least we, I mean Five and Six, seem to have driven this Sword of Allah underground here in the United Kingdom.”

  “Perhaps that is true,” Thorne said, but Hawke got the distinct feeling Monty didn’t mean it.

  “So. Where are we?” C said.

  “I must tell you. Two things keep me awake at night. One, recent intelligence concerning the steadfast efforts to infiltrate the labs and put sleepers inside the nuclear arsenal storage facilities at Islamabad.”

  “And the second?” C said, patience wearing thin.

  “And, two, the rising internal threat levels against our own population and infrastructure. And, finally, this new ‘Real IRA’ rising up in Northern Ireland and their recent threats to the Prince of Wales and the Royal Family itself.”

  “Good Lord,” Trulove muttered. “A plateful.”

  “Yes. When the world’s biggest threat looks more like loose nukes escaping Pakistan rather than launched nukes out of Russia, all of our old Armageddon avoidance tricks go out the window. The world has suddenly become a far more dangerous place, I’m afraid.”

  There was no disagreement.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  SIR DAVID SAID, “I BELIEVE ALEX Hawke has a question.”

  “Monty,” a thoughtful Hawke said, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin on it, “it might be helpful to describe explicitly a ‘day after’ scenario for us. To be clear, could you tell us exactly what, precisely, happens the day after a nuclear weapon goes off in a major British or American city?”

  “Good question, Alex. There is a 90 percent probability the weapon will have come out of either North Korea, the old Soviet arsenal, or Pakistan’s arsenal. If I had to guess, I’d definitely say Pakistan. But, once you figure out the guilty party, then what? Launch a nuclear strike against a quasi ally for something that country’s president probably didn’t even know was missing? When he’s still sitting on a ton of nukes? Not happening, Alex. Which leaves us only one option: find a way to lock down Pakistan’s nuclear storage facilities. Find out where the holes are and close them. And do it now, before it’s too late.”

  C turned those crafty blue eyes on Alex. “And that, my Lord Hawke, is your next mission.”

  “And when do I depart?”

  “As soon as humanly possible. I’ll need time to organize logistics at the other end. A week at the outside. I know you wish to continue with your investigation in Northern Ireland. You’ve got a week, maybe less if I can speed things up in Islamabad.”

  Hawke sat back and silently regarded his boss, deeply conflicted by what he’d just heard. He craved this new mission, literally hungered for the great game now going on in Pakistan and Afghanistan.

  Still. He had sworn a solemn oath to Charles, and he believed he was on the right track after Mutton Island. Not to mention the conversation with McMahon. To abandon all that now would be tantamount to—

  “Alex? Did you hear what I just said? You’ve got perhaps a week before you depart.”

  “Yes, sir. I know. It’s just that I’m still concerned about my efforts on behalf of the Prince of Wales, sir. Congreve and I are, well, we are quite confident we have made significant progress—but a week may not be sufficient.”

  “Alex, with all due respect, you do not work for the Prince of Wales. You work for MI6. And that means me. And it means investigating and stopping internal and external threats to our entire country such as those presented by this ‘Sword of Allah’ that Montague is so rightfully concerned about. There are literally hundreds of men and women whose sole responsibility is the safety and security of the Royal Family. They’ve rather proven themselves fully up to the task over the centuries. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand all that. But I promised His Royal Highness that—”

  “Alex. If you don’t mind. I think we should save this discussion for a private meeting, don’t you?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “You’ve met Mr. Dakkon, Alex?”

  “I have. We chatted briefly while we were all waiting for you. Sir.”

  C shot him a look for that one, but continued, “Mr. Dakkon is a veteran CIA Arabic linguist and field agent on loan to us from Washington. He has served for the last ten years, operating undercover both in Pakistan and the Hindu Kush mountains of Afghanistan. He will be your assist on this assignment. If you have any questions about Mr. Dakkon’s intel qualifications, you are free to call your friend Director Kelly at Langley.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  “You are probably wondering about the loss of his right arm. He will not tell you what happened but I will. He was captured by al Qaeda fighters in Kabul. He was subjected to severe torture. The enemy demanded to know the location of an American forward operating base in Helmand Province. He refused to give it up and some bloody butcher took his arm off at the shoulder with a sword. They left him for dead in the desert. They’ve come to regret it.”

  “I admire your courage, sir,” Hawke said, looking the man in the eye.

  “Alex, Mr. Dakkon has spent the last five years of his life infiltrating the army under control of the most powerful Taliban commander in northern Pakistan. Sheik Abu al-Rashad. Al-Rashad, a longtime enemy of al Qaeda, is widely believed to be the mastermind behind the Sword of Allah’s terror operations worldwide. Abdul here has risen very high in Sheik al-Rashad’s estimation and has gained his complete confidence. Isn’t that correct, Abdul?”

  “He looks upon me as the son he never had, sir,” Dakkon said, proudly, but with modesty.

  “That relationship has recently produced a good deal of very critical intelligence, all of which is included in your briefing books. It concerns Sheik al-Rashad’s ultimate plan to overwhelm the security forces surrounding the nuclear facilities at Islamabad airport and secure Pakistan’s weapons of mass destruction for his own use. Thus, taking over the country. That’s the bad news.”

  “And the good news?” Hawke asked, suddenly energized by the prospects of this new mission. He’d been simmering. Now he was on full boil.

&
nbsp; Dakkon said, “The Sheik has many rivals in this race to acquire Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal. Both within opposing factions of the Taliban, al Qaeda, and ISI, Pakistan’s intelligence service. There have been numerous attempts on his life by the opposition. He is somewhat constrained by this array of enemies.”

  “America’s new president, Tom McCloskey, and the Pentagon are very anxious to ensure that Sheik al-Rashad not win this race, Alex,” C said.

  “Why is that?” Hawke asked.

  “Because we know the Sheik is a very smart man, with enormous economic resources,” Trulove said. “He is for sale, as are many of those government officials responsible for the security of the arsenal. Dakkon has just informed me that rumor has it, many of the guards who control access to the warheads and trigger devices may be receiving massive sums from al-Rashad. Or he may be holding the guards’ family members hostage. Presumably under threat of death unless they comply with his wishes.

  “We cannot rule out the possibility that he has, or will have, access to nuclear devices. These weapons would simply disappear as guards on the Sheik’s payroll look the other way. We can’t control what happens politically in that country. But we can put a lot of heat on Sheik al-Rashad.”

  “Is this hard evidence, Mr. Dakkon?” Hawke asked.

  “Only rumor, but rumor is the political currency of Pakistan. We are not aware that any weapons have fallen into his hands. Nor are we sure that they haven’t. We need to find out.”

  Thorne added, “If you and your team discover the Sheik is secretly looting the nuclear arsenal, both the British and American governments are prepared to step in and take control away from the corrupt Pakistani government.”

  “Hence a slightly safer planet, Alex,” C added, taking a leisurely puff.

  Montague Thorne said, “Which is where Miss Karim’s expertise with nuclear weapons comes in, Alex. She will be joining you and Mr. Dakkon on your visit to Islamabad to inspect the storage facilities for Pakistan’s nukes. And she will be with you on your trek up into the Hindu Kush to confront Sheik al-Rashad. It will fall to her to ensure that any stolen weapons end up safely in our hands. Once we’ve decided what to do with them, she will oversee that process.”

  “Question, Mr. Dakkon,” Hawke said.

  “Abdul, please.”

  “Abdul, where is the Sheik located?”

  “He moves around. He’s constantly fighting skirmishes both with Pakistan’s anti-Taliban militia and with rival factions both within the Taliban and al Qaeda. But he has a heavily fortified central base of operations deep inside an anonymous mountain high in the Hindu Kush. That’s where we’re headed, after Islamabad.”

  “How do we get up into the mountains?” Hawke asked.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Alex,” Sahira said. “Camels, right?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “No one likes camels. Especially you. It was written all over your face.”

  “I like camels,” Abdul Dakkon said, a big white smile suddenly appearing.

  “Why?” Hawke asked, unable to comprehend how anyone could stand the foul-tempered, noisy beasts.

  “I like the way they smell,” Abdul said.

  Hawke laughed.

  “Well, I suppose I’ll have to give them another go, Mr. Dakkon.”

  Dakkon said, “The trails we’ll be taking in the mountains are about two feet wide in places. One misstep and you’re looking at a few thousand feet of air before you hit the ground. Camels and horses don’t make missteps. That’s why I like them. And we’ll be using a great many mules to transport food, water, and weapons.”

  C stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. “Thank you all for coming. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming days. Alex? Let’s have a nice cup of tea and talk about Ireland, shall we?”

  “Lovely,” Hawke said, his mind already somewhere else.

  “Have a look at this first,” C said, handing him a folded piece of paper. “Delivered anonymously to the Ambassador to the Court of St. James at Winfield House last evening. The American ambassador personally brought it over to me this morning. It’s why I was a bit late.”

  Hawke opened it, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the familiar scrawled signature beneath the single sentence:

  THE CHILDREN WILL DIE FIRST.

  THE PAWN

  “Good Lord. Wills and Harry. Has the Prince of Wales been informed?”

  “Of course. Look here, Alex, I appreciate your feelings in this matter of threats to Prince Charles. But I have spoken to him at length about the necessity of your leaving as soon as possible for Pakistan. Your mission is to counter a very real threat to our entire nation. He understands completely. I assured him Ambrose Congreve would remain on the ‘Pawn’ case until your safe return. At which point you could, if necessary, resume your involvement. Do I make myself crystal clear?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Very good. Now tell me about Northern Ireland. I understand there’s progress.”

  “We found human remains. Possibly from the girls who went missing that summer, presumably victims of Smith. Ambrose is still there with his former partner on the Mountbatten case, a man named Drummond. The two of them are quite determined to put this case to rest. Should they succeed, we will have taken the first step toward identifying the killer. We also have startling new information about a third suspect in Lord Mountbatten’s murder, a man named ‘Smith,’ which may or may not prove out. Either way, we’ve got the scent. The bone in our teeth. And, possibly, the Pawn himself.”

  “Well done,” C said thoughtfully.

  “Thank you, sir,” Hawke said, stunned at perhaps the first and only time the man had ever paid him a compliment.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  PARIS, AUGUST 1997

  SMITH SAT STOCK-STILL IN THE SEMI-GLOOM, transfixed by the flickering black-and-white image of the famous woman on the monitor. It had been years since his triumph at Windsor Castle. Oh, he’d had some minor opportunities to plunge yet another stake into the Royal heart of Britain, and he had even taken advantage of a few.

  But tonight?

  Tonight would be the result of patience and incredibly meticulous planning. And it would be cataclysmic, a world-shaking event that would rock the Royal Family back on its heels like nothing he’d done since Mountbatten’s murder. It would shake them, and their bloody nation, to the very foundation.

  And, best of all, it would be the perfect opening act leading to his grand finale. His final day of reckoning with his implacable enemy. The epic culmination of his life’s work, the realization of his childhood dreams of total vengeance. The penultimate penalty to be paid.

  An eye for an eye.

  He saw that she was just finished dressing, suitably chic for a late-night Paris rendezvous. Now, leaning into the gilt mirror above the bureau, applying her lipstick, she smacked her lips together a few times and essayed a smile. Happy with the result, she picked up a crystal flute of champagne.

  Eyes shining, she raised the glass to herself.

  She had not looked better than at this moment, he thought, not in years. But that pained, haunted look he’d seen in her eyes during the bad times remained. She looked like what she was, a woman on the run, in search of peace.

  Four flatscreens stood atop his room’s faux Louis XIV desk, bathing the tiny bedroom in cool, phosphorescent blue. An hour earlier, he had tapped into the hotel’s CCTV security camera system: three of his monitors were broadcasting alternating live feeds directly from various areas inside the building. The hotel’s front and rear entrances, the guest and service elevators, the employee entrance, and the foyer directly outside the white and gold double doors of the hotel owner’s suite on the floor above.

  It was not called the Imperial Suite for nothing. An exact replica of Louis XIV’s rooms at Versailles, it was the single-most expensive hotel room in all of Paris.

  This fourth screen had a real-time feed, but the feed emanated from inside the doors
of the Imperial Suite. He could toggle views from either of two hidden cameras. His engineer had done well. One downward-view camera inside the ceiling-mounted living room fire sensor, the other a rotating lens, swiveling 360 degrees inside a lightbulb in the master bedroom’s chandelier. Images from the opulent bedroom now captured his rapturous attention.

  He wore a headset with a lip mike so he could communicate quietly and instantly with a colleague currently waiting in the Place Vendôme outside the ridiculously expensive hotel.

  “Any time now,” Smith said softly into the mike. “She just finished dressing.”

  “That’s too bad. How much longer?” the man on the motorcycle said. “The natives are getting restless out here.”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes maximum. I see Dodi’s cars are already waiting outside the hotel’s front entrance.”

  “Just arrived. His black Range Rover HSE and his father’s black hotel Mercedes.”

  “That could change. Keep your eyes open.”

  “Say the word, sir.”

  “Stand by.”

  The voyeur returned his attention to matters at hand. He had to smile at his all too predictable reaction to the partially dressed woman on the screen: damp brow, pulsing heart, the hint of an erection announcing itself.

  Highly trained in the key indicators of human behavior, he should have expected his own involuntary reactions to the subject, of course. She’d always had this effect on him. She had this effect on everyone; the whole damn world was at her feet, so why should he be exempt from her charms? Still, such feelings were a bit disconcerting at this moment in time, all things considered.

  The woman, still a fresh-scrubbed, dewy-eyed beauty at thirty-six, was sporting a healthy tan from a week’s yachting off Sardinia. She stood peering at her body in the gilt mirror over the bureau. Satisfied, she slipped her slim tanned arms inside a short black frock coat. Smoothing it down over hips hugged by tight white Versace jeans, she leaned again into the mirror inspecting her makeup, puckering her lips, a new string of pearls swinging from her neck—