by Mark Terry
“Stay inside until it’s over. Are the police there yet?” Watching the TV screen, it didn’t look like the Pakistan cops had begun breaking things up. Maybe because it was focused on the U.S. Embassy. In the past, when it focused on Tarkani, the cops or the army broke things up pretty quickly.
“The embassy staffers have our instructions and SOPs, Dale.”
“I know, but—”
“You worry too much.”
“No,” he said, teeth clenched. “I don’t. If I could get you out of the embassy right this second, I would. These things sometimes get out of hand and you know it.”
As he watched, the police riot cops moved in. The reporter ducked. The camera jostled in a dizzying jumble. A cloud of what Hutchins was sure was teargas hit the crowd.
Sherwood was at his side, studying the screen. His scowl said it all.
“I’ve got to go, honey.”
“You be careful.”
“I will.”
She clicked off and Sherwood said, “She okay?”
Dale nodded. He watched the action unfold, the cops in their khaki pants, gray sweaters, and blue berets swinging batons. The Pakistani riot gear was different than that in the U.S., their helmets having wired plates like a catcher’s mask. But the approach was the same: quell reaction quickly and brutally.
Sherwood said, “Timing’s interesting.”
“Protesting the U.S. election?”
Sherwood shrugged. “What’s going on, Dale?”
Dale shot his boss a look. Sherwood glowered at him. “Something’s up. Where’s Frito?”
“Checking something out.”
“Like what?”
Dale glanced around the unit and gestured to his boss’s office. “Something we need to keep under wraps.”
Sherwood frowned before leading him into his office and shutting the door. Sherwood slammed down in his chair and said, “You got a problem with some people in the office?”
“No, but this investigation into Kalakar took an odd hop from the U.S. side.” He told Sherwood about the men in the photograph with Kalakar and how one of them was General Bilaf Sharif.
Sherwood scratched his jaw. He focused on the TV playing in the squad room for a moment. “Sharif’s been very, very vocal about U.S. presence here. And he’s probably Tarkani’s biggest internal opponent.”
Dale nodded. Sherwood tapped his fingers on his desk, thinking. “Right. As soon as you find out something else, let me know. But I think I’ll make a call or two to Washington, let them know that things might be a little weirder than we thought.”
“We’ve got to be careful.”
Sherwood nodded, but his hand gestured to the TV playing images of a riot around the U.S. Embassy. “Let’s start carefully putting together a report on Sharif and everything we know so far.”
• • •
Derek snuck up behind O’Reilly’s car, not even sure if she was awake. He was a little surprised she’d waited for him, if indeed that was what she was doing. He tried to make his approach obvious, but she didn’t seem to be aware of his presence. Maybe she was asleep. He lightly tapped on the window and she jumped. Yeah, he thought. She’d fallen asleep.
She rolled down the window and said, “You waited long enough to come back.”
“And here I am.”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
He stepped back so she could climb out of the car. She studied him. “I assume you’re intending on breaking into the house.”
“I was hoping your superior skills with a lock pick would come into play here.”
With a sigh, she leaned back in, rummaged through her Go Pack and pulled out her lock picks. They walked to the front door and within minutes they were in.
“It would sure be embarrassing if Connelly showed up here with a warrant while we were inside,” Derek said.
“Shut up.” She turned on a light and they looked around the house. Derek pointed to a school photograph of Malika Seddiqi. “That’s her.”
“So now all we need to figure out is the connection between her and Kalakar.”
First they did a quick run through the house to make sure they were alone, then Derek took the master bedroom and O’Reilly started in the kitchen. There was a desk in one corner of the master bedroom, the bottom right drawer used as a filing cabinet. Derek sat and went through everything he could find. The first clue was a group of check stubs that indicated John Seddiqi was employed by Los Angeles International Airport. That in itself was enough to interest Derek, but Derek couldn’t know what Seddiqi did there from a check stub.
He continued searching and finally found a copy of a license showing that Seddiqi was an air traffic controller.
Derek settled back in the desk chair, staring off into space. O’Reilly appeared at the door. “I’ve got his cell phone number. If he and his wife, whose name is Ghazala, by the way, are out and about, if we’re still on speaking terms with our bosses we might be able to get a track on the phone.”
Derek rubbed his chin. “That’d be good. I’ve got a question for you. Does anybody have a clue what was in that storage unit in Culver City?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
Derek looked around the room. He waved a hand. “What would Kalakar need an air traffic controller for?”
“Seddiqi’s an ATC?”
“Yeah, at LAX.”
O’Reilly frowned. “That’s—you think Seddiqi was providing some sort of flight information to Kalakar?”
“I wonder.”
“But why?”
Derek shrugged. “The worst-case scenario is he intends to shoot a plane out of the air.”
“You’re—what about the little girl?”
“I don’t know. Leverage?”
O’Reilly blinked. “We don’t have much evidence.”
“Babe, we don’t have any evidence. But I think I’d better call Secretary Johnston and report in.”
CHAPTER 61
Secretary James Johnston was still in his office when the call came through from Derek Stillwater. Derek was more than an employee, he was a friend, and Johnston had been worried about him. He always worried about Derek when he was in the field. There was no denying Derek’s overall success rate, but the price he paid for that success was steep, and there was almost always fallout and blowback from his actions. Johnston had plans to retire when the new administration came in, and he was concerned that this latest operation of Derek’s was going to tangle them up in after-action investigations for months. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Johnston had loosened his tie, but was otherwise as ramrod straight and businesslike as ever. He had just finished touching base with the remaining START team in New York City, which was following leads on what everyone hoped would be the final attempted terrorist attack in this group’s plan.
“Derek. What do you have to report?”
“What do you know about loose MANPADs?”
Johnston closed his eyes for a moment. MANPADS were an acronym for Man Portable Air Defense Systems, which was military jargon for shoulder-launched antiaircraft missiles. “I hope like hell you’re joking.”
“I wish, sir. But the fact is, this is nothing more than a guess.”
Johnston felt a little bit of weight lift off his shoulders. A little, but not all. He respected Derek’s intuition. “I’m not aware of any missing MANPADS in the U.S. That doesn’t mean there aren’t others from other countries. God knows Russia hasn’t kept track of their hardware terribly well. As you probably know, they’ve even indicated they’d lost about ten thousand of them back in the eighties and nineties. But getting them into the U.S.? Very tricky.”
“What about if someone in the international film business were to arrange one as, say, a movie prop, or something like that?”
Johnston was silent a second. He said, “I think you’d better tell me everything. And I mean everything.”
Once he was off the phone, Derek leaned back in the passenger seat and lo
oked at O’Reilly. “DHS has a special office looking at MANPADS. Johnston’s going to call them in right now. He’s also going to see about tracking Seddiqi via his cell phone.”
“We could go to LAX and try to intercept him on his way there.”
Derek nodded. He glanced at his watch. “Unless you have a few brilliant ideas, I need a couple hours sleep.”
“Let’s head over to LAX and check into a motel for a couple hours.” O’Reilly turned the key and fired up the engine.
Ghazala Seddiqi followed her husband into the Super 8 Motel near LAX. She was exhausted, but most of that exhaustion came from terror. It felt to her as if the walls were closing in and her world was crumbling around her. She did not know what she or her husband might have done to bring Allah’s disfavor on them like this. Did Allah really want her daughter to die?
She sent out a small prayer begging for mercy, asking Allah to care for her daughter.
John set his duffel bag down on the bed and turned to her. There was something in his expression she had never seen before. She believed her husband was, ultimately, a good man. Like many in the Muslim world, they had been appalled by the attacks on September 11. Like many in the Muslim world, they had been shocked when the United States invaded Iraq. As a conservative Muslim, Ghazala knew that Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda did not have any particular relationship with Saddam Hussein. Hussein was from a different sect and was entirely too secular.
The United States’ own actions in Iraq kicked open a door for al-Qaeda. The U.S. responded to the death of three thousand innocents on September 11 by destroying the lives of thousands and thousands of Muslim innocents in Afghanistan and Iraq, by forcing their way into Pakistan life and politics. It was heavy handed and shortsighted and it had forced a war where perhaps none had been needed.
Like many Muslims around the world, Ghazala and John had friends and relatives who had been killed or whose lives had been turned inside out by the U.S. invasions. It was this alone that had made John cooperate with his cousin’s request to host and help Kalakar.
If only they had known how badly that decision would turn out.
John said, “I think you are very brave.”
His words shocked and confused her. “What? What are you talking about?”
“I have been thinking about what Kalakar wants. What he plans to do. He says that if I provide him the information he wants, he will let Malika go unharmed. I’m not sure I believe him.”
Ghazala felt her breath catch in her chest. “But—”
Her husband held up a hand, not commanding her silence, but requesting it. “Hear me out. I can’t not give him what he wants. If this is a negotiation, I can’t hold back the information or he’ll kill her. I’m certain of it.”
Ghazala felt frozen.
“So we need to change the conditions of the negotiation. So I want you to know that I think you are very brave. Because I’ve been thinking and I need you to do something. It will be very difficult and you will have to be strong. For Malika. For me. But I think you are.”
“What? What do you want me to do?” She felt and heard the fear in her voice, bordering on panic.
“In a couple hours I can go into the tower. I’ll be able to figure out which route Governor Stark’s plane will be taking. Then I can give Kalakar the GPS coordinates he wants.” John hesitated, licked his lips. “But before I call him, I’m going to call you. He won’t get the coordinates from me. He has to get them from you. And you won’t give them to him until he releases Malika to you.”
His words frightened her so much she shook. It was a gamble, but also she saw it was the only way. The only leverage they had over Kalakar was the GPS coordinates. John, who she understood was indeed a very smart man, maybe a brilliant man, had been thinking. He was maybe not strong or brave—though she hoped he would be strong and brave for their daughter—but she did not doubt his intelligence.
John had plans to utilize those GPS coordinates to make sure they got their daughter back.
He reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a Thomas Guide. “I have a pretty good idea of where Kalakar will need to be. Not completely though. But I’ve been paying attention to the weather and I have a good idea which route the governor’s plane is likely to take.” He flipped the Thomas Guide open on the room’s cheap desk and pointed. “We’ve got to make sure we get you there with plenty of time. So I think you should leave here in the next hour. I can catch the shuttle into the airport from the motel and report to work. But we have to work out exactly what you need to do.”
She nodded her head.
John reached out and cupped her face. Voice soft, he said, “I love you, Ghazala. And I am so sorry for what has happened. I’m doing my best to get us out of this and to get Malika back safely.”
“Perhaps,” she said softly, “we should just call the police or the FBI.”
He shook his head. “I thought about that. But their priority will be to capture Kalakar, not to get Malika back safely. That’s our priority.”
She nodded, fighting back tears.
“Can you be strong? For Malika?”
She nodded again.
“Good.” He kissed her lightly, then dipped into the duffel bag again. He brought out a gun. It was the small revolver—she thought it was the Smith & Wesson .38 he had bought two years ago after someone had tried to carjack him on the way home from work. It had been an ugly, terrifying incident of random violence, all too common in Los Angeles, and he had bought the gun to keep in the car and in the house, although she hated it and was afraid of it.
“I want you to take this,” he said. He looked into her eyes. “And if you have to, use it.”
CHAPTER 62
Ghazala Seddiqi drove away from her husband into the gloom of a Los Angeles predawn. When he had kissed her goodbye there had been a finality to it that made her chest ache. Was it because she feared what was going to happen in the next few hours? Or was it because his commitment to Islam and his assistance to Kalakar had driven a wedge between them that she wasn’t sure could be removed? How had they come to this horrible place in time?
Although John hadn’t said so, she understood how precarious and dangerous things were for them right now. The authorities were looking for Kalakar. They were, for some unknown reason, looking for Malika.
Malika!
A sob seeped from her mouth and she clutched the steering wheel with hands slick with sweat, hoping, praying, begging Allah for her daughter’s safe return. Her fear was so great it was almost paralyzing. What she needed to do was move, but she felt like she was frozen, strapped down by her fear for her daughter.
Clicking on the overhead lights for a moment, she double-checked the directions John had written out for her. She knew them by heart, they were engraved in her memory, but she kept checking to make sure she hadn’t misread them or had forgotten some small but important detail. Even this early in the morning traffic was heavy, which is why she left so early. Getting lost would be fatal.
John was convinced the governor’s plane would be coming in from the northeast. She was to drive north on the 405 and pick up the 10 in West L.A., travel east through Mid-City, South L.A., and Pico Union, picking up the 110 around Echo Park and Elysian Park, eventually finding California Route 2 and an entrance to Angeles National Forest.
She was to purchase an Adventure Pass at a ranger station and proceed to one of the parking lots he had picked out. John had said, “It’s here that you’ll meet Kalakar and trade Malika for the coordinates. Call me when you get there. I’ll call you if Kalakar contacts me before then.”
Ghazala had felt overwhelmed by it, but he assured her he had a plan, although he hadn’t shared it with her. His holding anything back now made her temper flare and she had demanded he tell her what he intended to do. He had shaken his head and told her it would all depend on Kalakar’s reaction and the eventual flight direction the ATC gave the governor’s plane as it came into LAX. Then he had held her tight and whis
pered that he loved her and was counting on her, that Malika depended on her.
John had told her he wished he could be there instead, but he had to be able to verify the GPS data.
She had to trust John. Now all she needed to do was drive.
The airport security guy who was dealing with Derek and O’Reilly was named Trevor Lottke and Derek thought he was a dick. It’s possible he wasn’t, it was just that Lottke was totally unimpressed with their credentials, their story, and them. He had a bald head that reminded Derek of the moonrise, skin the color of ash, and about twenty-five too many pounds under his belt.
“I need you to run that by me again,” he said. “You think somebody’s going to try and shoot down the governor’s plane as it flies into the airport. That what you’re saying?”