by Isaac Hooke
Ethan lifted Kashif's long shirt and grabbed a magazine from the harness the dead man wore underneath. He reloaded the P7 and slowly shoved it between Kashif's lifeless arm and torso, poking the barrel out the backside.
Hammad must have noticed because he fired again.
Ethan squeezed the trigger three times.
Hammad stopped shooting.
Ethan gazed past the body. Hammad lay motionless on the other side; three red blooms marred the fabric at his chest.
Ethan clambered to his feet and gave each man a final headshot. The balaclavas they wore over their faces made it easier, psychologically at least.
Just like shooting burlap.
By that point he was covered in sweat from his exertions, and he wiped his forehead. Karachi was a very hot city in the summer.
He snatched the backpack from Hammad's body and fished out his clothes. Unfortunately, Hammad had mixed Ethan's attire with those of the dead CIA agent, so his were now bloodstained. He considered taking the clothes from Hammad or Kashif instead, but their outfits were in even worse shape.
Ethan donned the baggy white trousers called shalwar. He pilfered the inside-the-waistband holster from Kashif's body and clipped it into place, then slid home the P7. He pulled the knee-length white kameez shirt over his head, flinching as the fabric rubbed the back of his skull.
He gently touched that tender area with one hand, invoking more pain. The hair was matted there, and when he pulled his fingers away, the skin was coated in sticky red plasma.
He glanced at his midsection. The P7 wasn't visible at all. The only problem was the difficulty in drawing the weapon.
A young Pakistani in a cerulean shalwar kameez abruptly wandered around the apartment building.
The Pakistani paused, staring, absorbing the scene in front of him.
Ethan must have made quite the striking impression, dressed in those blood-splattered clothes, with three dead men at his feet, because the Pakistani promptly turned around and left.
Smart man.
Ethan put on his open toe sandals and retrieved the final item—his cellphone—from the backpack, then hurried from the quiet area.
Despite the headache, he felt lucid. A dangerous deception on the part of his brain. Oftentimes after head trauma, the victim would feel fine, but meanwhile blood would be pooling between the dura mater and the skull, slowly crushing the brain from the inside, eventually resulting in death by epidural hematoma. He had to get the injury looked at as soon as possible. That meant getting out of the slum.
He walked with a limp—it still hurt to put weight on the ankle. The flesh where Kashif's boot had struck was raw, with the skin peeled right off.
He rounded the crumbling apartment and stepped onto the main pedestrian zone, where it was business as usual. Children played in the shade on broken tricycles. Passers-by strode between hawkers who sold goods from wooden-wheeled carts. The locals all acted like they hadn't heard any gunshots, though they obviously had. And though he had blood-matted hair, and red stains on his clothing, and a pronounced limp, no one looked at him twice. Spats between gangs were common in Lyari. The residents had learned to glance the other way.
That area of Lyari didn't have pour-flush toilets connected to the sewage system, so locals often dug holes outside their houses for defecation purposes. As he avoided one such hole, Ethan spotted a Pakistani crouched beside another across the way, relieving himself on the street in front of everybody else.
Karachi. A city of extreme dualities. Located on the Arabian sea, it was once dubbed the Paris of the Middle East for its many cultural institutions and attractions, which included high-end restaurants, exclusive night clubs, luxury hotels, and white-sand beaches. It had a thriving middle class whose members were employed in the textile, pharmaceutical, steel and automobile industries.
Unfortunately, with its metro population pegged at a staggering twenty-three million, it was also a city bursting at the seams. There were more than five hundred katchi abadis—the Urdu word for slums—crammed between the rich neighborhoods. The squatters in these slums accounted for over forty percent of the city's population.
He passed small, square houses made of flimsy, hastily constructed concrete and brick. Many had adjoining lean-tos made out of wood and tin. Two Pakistanis were finishing a new concrete house at that very moment: steeped in perspiration, they were rubbing the parge coat smooth with sand-filled sacks. A few dilapidated apartments completed the scene, with more squatters on the rooftops.
Like most people, he kept to the shade as much as possible, trying to avoid the scorching heat of direct sunlight. Because of that, he passed fairly close to a wooden power pole. A spidery mass of wires dangled from the lines, where residents had hooked on their own connections to steal power. Kunda, the locals called those connections. Under the pole, some kid was eating leftover chicken biryani from a dirty, flattened paper carton—obviously it had been discarded on the sidewalk. The kid was seated dangerously close to one of the exposed wires.
There was an eighty percent chance that the line wasn't charged—the rampant use of air conditioners to combat the heat had placed undue stress on the electrical grid, causing widespread failures.
Ethan dragged the carton away from the boy, thinking the child would follow it. Instead the kid simply sat there, blinking stupidly, apparently accustomed to people stealing his food. With a sigh, Ethan grabbed the boy by one foot and slid him from the wires, and then returned the carton to him. The boy continued eating as though nothing had happened.
There were more heartbreaking scenes as he wended his way through the slum: Pakistanis laughing as they kicked a stray puppy; an old woman beating a child for no apparent reason; a young girl begging a street vendor for water only to be shoved to the dirt.
He spotted a Pakistan Ranger patrol and ducked into a side alley while the soldiers passed. The armed men would very likely detain Ethan for questioning if they spotted his bloodstained clothes.
After the patrol had gone, he was about to return to the street when a man in a red shalwar kameez leaped in front of him.
The man held a knife.
"Give me your money," the would-be thief said in Urdu.
Ethan took a step back, drawing up the knee-length hem of his shirt, revealing the P7 holstered inside the waistband of his shalwar.
The man's eyes bulged slightly when he saw the pistol, then he turned right around and ran back into the street.
Ethan limped onward.
When he reached the vehicular traffic of Tannery Road, he felt safe enough to use his cellphone. It was a newer model, which he had been hesitant to use in the slum, not wanting to attract further attention.
Karachi had 4G via the popular yet unfortunately named Zong mobile carrier, enabling him to use Sunodos, a custom, secure Voice over IP app written by the NSA. Unfortunately, most quarters of the city had only 2G coverage or worse, the current neighborhood included. Under 2G, the data transfer rate was so slow that VoIP was basically useless.
He tried to check the temperature on his phone. After two minutes it finally updated. Thirty-six degrees Celsius. Almost body temperature. Hot, true, but nothing like the ridiculous extremes of a week ago, when the mercury had hit forty-five, the highest since 1979. Over two thousand had died across Pakistan from the heat wave, as well as zoo animals and countless livestock. Ethan had seen the bodies of dead men left lying in the street where they had fallen. Compounding the crisis were the failures of the electrical grid, and the fact that it was Ramadan—many people refused to drink, instead observing religious fasting from dawn to dusk.
The road traffic in Pakistan was left-handed, thanks to a history of British colonial rule, so he walked on the right side of the street in the direction of the oncoming vehicles. There were smooth depressions in the road where the asphalt had melted and re-solidified. He spotted several men sheltering lethargically in the shade beneath a nearby overpass.
After four blocks, he finally obta
ined a 3G signal.
He immediately launched Sunodos and scrolled to Sam's name.
"Ethan," Sam said. "I wasn't expecting to hear from you quite so soon." Even with 3G, the coverage was poor: jitter scrambled random syllables in her words, digitally warping her voice so that she sounded like a pop star singing into a vocoder.
"I've been compromised," he said.
"Say again?"
"I've been compromised." Though he emphasized the last word, he kept his voice low, keenly aware of passers-by. English was rarely heard in these quarters.
"Compromised? How?"
"Apparently Zahid was a CIA asset," Ethan said.
"Damn it. I wish they'd be more open about who they have in the field."
Ethan kept quiet as he walked by a shifty-looking individual. "You can't really blame them. We withhold the same information. For the safety of the assets."
"You're right, obviously. But still."
"Maybe the Al Qaeda cell was wrong about him," Ethan said. "Let's just say, they don't operate the tightest of ships down here."
"Maybe. What happened?"
"The sleeper cell members took us behind an apartment building in the Lyari slum and attempted a summary execution. The CIA asset is dead. As are the Al Qaeda operatives."
"I'm calling you in," Sam said. "Are you hurt?"
"Head trauma. Probably minor, but I'll need to get it looked at."
"I'll have a doctor meet you at the safehouse. I want you there ASAP."
Ethan smiled grimly. "I'm already on my way."
2
By the time Ethan reached the safehouse—an apartment building in a middle-class area—his limp was basically gone, and he only felt the occasional stab of pain from the ankle. His headache, however, had only worsened.
Someone had left the building's front lobby open so he went directly inside. Though he wanted to rest his ankle, he decided to forgo the elevator as he was too worried the power would fail while he was inside.
He took the stairs to the fourth floor. After knocking twice on room number fifteen, a short, balding Pakistani answered. Though the man wasn't much to look at, his eyes shone with genuine intelligence.
"How is grandmother?" Ethan said in his terrible Urdu.
Upon hearing the code phrase, the Pakistani leaned out the door to check if anyone else was in the hall, then promptly let him in.
The first thing Ethan noticed was how oven-like the apartment felt. And he thought it had been hot outside...
"The doctor is waiting for you," the host said, beckoning toward a side room.
Ethan was relieved to find the window open in that adjacent room, not that it helped much. He wearily approached the doctor, who was seated on the bed.
Ethan plunked himself down beside him and the man proceeded to shine a pen light into each eye, and then asked him a long series of questions.
"What happened? Did you lose consciousness? Experience disorientation? Loss of memory? What city are we in? What day is it? Month? Year? On a scale from zero to six, how bad is your headache? Neck pain? Nausea? Blurred vision?"
After that, the doctor examined the head wound itself. He checked Ethan's neck for tenderness and range of motion. He made him touch the tip of his nose five times. He had Ethan remove his sandals, made him balance on each foot in turn, and then walk in a straight line. Ethan's ankle pain flared up slightly at that point, but he managed to complete the test.
"Well, you are fine," the doc eventually told him. "You have a scalp wound, and perhaps a very minor concussion. Come to the kitchen. I will help you clean the wound."
Not entirely sure how much he trusted the water quality, or the doctor, Ethan placed his head under the tap and let the man wash away the hair and other detritus. When finished, the doctor patted his hair dry with a towel.
"Carefully rinse your hair in the shower with soap and water," the man said. "You can begin to use shampoo after two days."
Next he washed and bandaged Ethan's ankle, and then led him back to the bedroom. Ethan sat in the room's only chair.
"Take two acetaminophen tablets tonight and get lots of sleep." The doctor opened his medicine bag and handed him a twenty-five tablet strip of Panadol—Pakistan's Tylenol. "Tomorrow I want you to rest, too. Don't do anything that involves too much mental concentration."
"So basically you're telling me not to think too much," Ethan said.
The doctor smiled. "Should be easy for a man like you, right?"
Ethan forced a smile. "Funny."
"I will return to check on you in the morning."
"All right." Ethan got up.
"No, you stay," the doc said. "There is someone else who wishes to see you."
Ethan was genuinely puzzled. "Someone else?"
The Pakistani doctor nodded and left the room.
The original host entered a moment later with a laptop and a thick antenna, similar to that found on a SINGCARS or sat-phone. He placed the laptop on the nightstand, and set the thick antenna on the windowsill. A long cord linked the antenna to the laptop.
The host departed, leaving Ethan alone with the portable computer.
Ethan moved from the chair to the mattress. Though the bed looked lumpy, and the sheets were an off-putting dirty brown, he wanted nothing more than to lie down. Instead, he wearily unlocked the laptop, launched the secure video conferencing application, and logged in.
The "incoming call" icon appeared immediately. Ethan plugged in the provided earbuds and clicked accept.
Ethan had expected Sam but another individual greeted him instead: a man with a clean-shaven face, short-cropped hair, and pale skin. He wore a prim suit.
"Oh. The shrink." Ethan recognized Regis Bridges, Ph.D., an English psychologist Sam employed. Ethan usually visited him in person once a year, after his annual physical. He and Regis didn't get along too well.
The psychologist grinned. "Good to see you, too. You've attained a new scar since our last appointment."
Ethan instinctively touched the ugly bite mark on his right brow, located just above the eye, where a former Russian Spetsnaz had nearly torn off a chunk of his face. "Is it that noticeable?"
"Nothing a skilled make-up artist couldn't conceal, I'm sure." On the screen, Regis leaned forward slightly. "And I can't even see the little nick you obtained in Syria."
Regis was referring to the perforating gunshot wound Ethan had taken in his left bicep while crossing over to Kurdish territory in Kobane, Syria. He had worn a sling for three months, withering the muscle. The bicep had only recently returned to its former size, thanks to the impromptu curls he'd practiced at every opportunity. The entrance mark on the outside of the arm was an almost unnoticeable pale line, while the exit scar on the inner bicep was a sunken, jagged circle.
"Okay great," Ethan said. "I'm glad my scars meet with your approval. But I don't get it. Why are you calling me? I have another six months till our regularly scheduled appointment."
Regis shrugged. "The Swan told me I should ping you." That was Sam's codename—Black Swan in full. The title was often perverted by hostile intelligence agencies; the Russians liked to call her the Black Widow, for example.
"This is her idea?"
"For the most part. She worries about you, you know. As do I. But shall we begin?"
"I have a killer headache right now," Ethan said. "And all I want to do is lie down. Long day, you know?"
"I understand. I won't take up too much of your time. So what happened today?"
"Classified, bro," Ethan said.
"Did you kill someone?" Regis guessed.
"Like I said, classified."
"And how did that make you feel?" Regis said.
Ethan felt his eyebrows draw together. "What the hell, doc? I said I wanted to sleep." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "And why would you ask me how it felt? I didn't admit to anything."
"Well, I saw your left eye twitch right when I inquired as to whether or not you killed someone," Regis said. "That's a sign,
to me, that you did. So I ask again, how did that make you feel?"
Ethan exhaled deeply. "Doing my job. Didn't feel a thing. Can I go now?"
"Are you sleeping okay at night?"
"Perfectly," Ethan lied.
"Have you had any troubling dreams lately?"
"None." Ethan said flatly.
"No night sweats? No waking up, screaming into the dark?"
"Nope."
"No other symptoms of post traumatic stress?"
"None whatsoever." Ethan kept his voice as disinterested as possible.
"No visions of children?"
Ethan hesitated for a half second. He hoped the psychologist didn't notice. "No visions."
Regis regarded Ethan intently for a moment. "You do know if I deem you unfit for duty it is well within my power to have you suspended. Indefinitely."
Ethan held Regis' eye on the screen. "I told you, I'm fine."
Regis nodded, but looked skeptical. "Very well. I will give you a pass. For now. I'll see you in six months, and I hope to see an improvement in attitude if nothing else. Until then, ta-ta. If you need anything, you know whom to call."
"Not you."
Ethan closed the laptop, removed the earbuds, and lay down. He didn't bother to go underneath the covers. In his bone-weary state, he hardly noticed the lumps in the spring mattress. He prayed there weren't any bed bugs.
The host abruptly came into the room and set a glass of water on the nightstand.
"For the Panadol," the host told him.
Ethan dismissed him with a weary wave.
He forced himself upright when the man had gone and groped for the Panadol box. He missed and the tablet strip fell to the floor.
Cursing, he reached down and retrieved the strip. Stars dotted his vision. He propped himself up on one elbow and pressed four tablets into his hand.
"That should be enough." He palmed the tablets into his mouth, replaced the Panadol box, and then guzzled the glass of water.
Ethan lay back and shut his eyes. His entire face pulsed in time to the oven-like heat. His temples, and the back of his head, throbbed in painful counterpoint.