“Only the target was now in Pakistan.” Waleed followed with a question. “Was that a bad thing, Selim?”
“Yes, Father. Your problem was obvious. Fariq turned a military scrimmage into a political problem. The Americans wanted vengeance. You had to find a way to bring opportunity out of crisis. A great problem, indeed, and events were being forced upon you.”
Waleed chuckled, a deep rumble in his stomach. “Ah. When that fool of a village leader rejected my invitation to buy the prisoners, he did me a favor by narrowing my options. Things became clear just as the slow settling of ripples makes a pool of water as smooth as mirrored glass.”
“And you had me contact Jim Hall to provide the coordinates of the village. For a million American dollars.”
“Correct.” Waleed sat back and put a hand on each knee, ever the teacher. “And what is the lesson to you?”
Selim was dressed casually today, but there was nothing informal about this discussion. “Without question, Fariq deserved to be executed, and the fact that his hometown suffered dearly is on his head. That left you, my father, to deal with the prisoners. Again, you turn to Jim Hall of the CIA. What is that old saying, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?”
Waleed was nodding vigorously now. “Jim Hall and I have known and worked with each other for many years. He was a field agent when I was directing the supply mules ferrying money, equipment, and information from the CIA to wherever they wanted it to go. But we both recognized that no matter what was going on between America and the Taliban, our friendship could be of immense value in the future. The passing years have proven that we were correct. I hope that you are investing time and effort into grooming your own future sources of intelligence from other countries.”
“I am, Father. I thank you for these lessons.”
Both men stood, then embraced. “Then back to Islamabad with you, my boy. Rid me of these American prisoners. You have my instructions. Please tell my old friend Jim Hall hello from me and find out what he really wants. I trust you to make it work. Do not use any form of telephone to report back to me.”
The son bowed to his father and left the room.
ISLAMABAD
PAKISTAN
“T HIS WAS AN INCREDIBLY precise incision,” the Pakistani doctor observed after a brisk examination of the wound on Jake Henderson’s arm. “Few surgeons could have done any better.”
“She cut off my tattoo.” Henderson was on clean sheets in a medical clinic. “Sliced the edges and pulled it right off. It hurt like hell.”
The doctor was small, with precise and birdlike movements. “Well, I am most certain that it did. Consider yourself lucky, Mr. Henderson. That woman had experience with a blade and apparently also a knowledge of the human body. The damage could have been a lot worse.” He applied some salve to the soggy area, bandaged the wound, and gave Jake a shot of antibiotics.
“You seen this kind of thing before, Doc?”
“Yes. Some of the tribal people are quite brutal.” He returned his implements into his small case. “However, you are the only survivor.”
Javon Anthony spoke from the adjoining bed. “Can you tell us anything about what is going on?”
The doctor moved to him and put on a blood pressure cuff, timed it, then used a stethoscope to listen to his heart and lungs. As he ran his hands over Javon’s limbs, he said, “You are a strong and healthy young man, Mr. Anthony. A few bruises, but nothing else is wrong with you. I expected some broken bones.”
Javon gave a bitter laugh. “Except for being prisoners and expecting to be killed at any moment.”
“You must think us to be monsters.”
“Pretty close, Doc. Pretty damned close.”
The doctor stood and pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his white coat. “I understand. Really, I do. Just remember that in wars, monsters come in all shapes and sizes and wear all sorts of uniforms.”
Anthony let the comment slide. “So where are we? Can you at least tell us that?”
“For the time being, you are in my private clinic on the outskirts of Islamabad. My job was to judge your health and chances of recovery. As I have said, you are both fine. I will tell the people in charge of you that I recommend a full day of rest here. You will remain handcuffed to the beds. I have treated you with respect, so please do not cause a ruckus. Beyond that, I do not know. As God wills.”
He checked the handcuffs linked to the metal hospital bed frames, then left the room.
“He spoke good English, for a raghead,” said Henderson.
Anthony gave the chain a jerk. It rattled without giving any indication of looseness. “He probably attended medical school in England, Jake. Not everybody over here rides a camel.”
“So let’s escape!” Henderson swiveled upright and into a sitting position. “Get out of here, Javon. I feel good enough to make a run for it. You tell me what to do and we’ll do it.”
Anthony pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Bet your soul that they have guards right outside the doors and windows, Jake. Compared to what happened to us in the first twenty-four hours after our capture, we have it pretty good right now. Best not to rock this particular boat too hard.”
“I don’t understand,” Henderson said, helping himself to a cup of water on a small bedside table.
“Makes two of us. Listen up: Islamabad is the capital city, which means there are plenty of Americans around town, and an American embassy in the diplomatic quarter. If things suddenly go bad, I want you to try to get there. Never mind me. Just go.”
“I won’t leave you, Sarge.”
“It might be our best hope. I might be able to create enough of a diversion to help you get away. You reach the embassy and they will know I’m still alive and come get me.”
“What kind of diversion?”
Sergeant Anthony rolled slightly to one side and raised his right hand. In it was a glittering sharp scalpel he had stolen from the doctor’s bag. Jake Henderson said, “Awwright.”
12
BAGRAM AIR BASE
K YLE S WANSON AND L AUREN Carson ran at an easy pace, padding along side by side on a track that was part of the base exercise facilities. Hall declined the morning run to make some last-minute arrangements before they all headed over to Islamabad.
Lauren wore a lightweight Washington Redskins jersey, loose black nylon sweatpants, and dirty shoes that were coming apart at the seams from so much use. She did three miles every day. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail that swished as she ran. Kyle was in shorts and a Red Sox T-shirt. He doubted if anyone noticed him.
“CIA agents are supposed to be low-key and invisible. You don’t exactly blend in with the woodwork,” he joked. “Every guy on the track is going to trip over their own feet staring at you.”
She laughed and shook her head, making the ponytail bounce even more. “Can’t help that,” she said. “Jim taught me to do just the opposite. Since I can’t really hide my looks, I play it to my advantage. Being just a pretty dumb blonde is good cover. Nobody takes me seriously.”
“Until it’s too late.”
“Yeah. Men can be pretty dumb.” They finished the rest of the first quarter mile in silence, finding a rhythm in the run.
“Well, you are pretty.”
Lauren shot him a flinty sideways look, then changed the subject. “Jim says you’re rich. So why do you do this work if you have a lot of money?”
Kyle looked over at her with a flash of annoyance. “I live on my Marine salary, Lauren. I was lucky enough to fall in with some good folks, and we did some crucial and timely weapons development. Everything I did had Corps approval. The company has allotted me a small ownership stake and invested all of my shares in a trust. They never even let me see a statement. I don’t want to know.”
“That doesn’t answer the question of why continue with this killing people stuff if you can get out and live in comfort.” Their pace was comfortable, and neither was breathing hard.
“I like my job,” he said. This was not exactly the kind of conversation he’d had in mind when he asked if she wanted to come along for the jog.
They finished the first mile. “Tracks are boring,” she said. “Can we run on the streets?”
“Better not. You attract too much attention. Let’s stay in the Spec Ops area.”
“I’ve never killed anyone,” she said with a sudden honesty, a serious comment that surprised him. “Does it bother you afterward?”
“You have to deal with it mentally at some point,” Swanson replied. “If you ever have to pull a trigger, remember that your target was a danger and posed a threat, sometimes a major threat to others, even to your country. That is not some personal saddle to lug around for the rest of your life.”
“How many have you killed, Kyle? Jim says you’re the best.”
“It isn’t a numbers game, or some shooting competition with paper targets, Lauren.” His voice was edgy. “I never kept score.”
“Humh.” They ran around the track again without speaking. Then she said, “Know what I think? I think it is some kind of competition for you. Jim says that with Kyle Swanson, what you see is what you get, that you are Mr. Incorruptible because you don’t have to care about money, and you don’t have to care about right or wrong because you work for that weird Task Force Trident unit that answers only to the president. So what do you care about? You care about being the best, ol’ Numero Uno.”
Swanson picked up the pace, and so did she. “You are sounding like a psychiatrist with that kind of crap, Agent Carson. Don’t try to dissect me.”
She ignored his comment. “You’re like an NFL linebacker who cannot wait to get into the game. All your senses point you to the action, and only then, with some game-saving tackle at the goal line, only then is Kyle Swanson a happy man. How’d I do?”
“I’m not on your couch, shrink.”
She looked over with a teasing grin, reached out with the flat of her hand, and slapped his butt. “Wanna be?”
* * *
P RETTY ? T HAT ’ S ALL ? H E thinks I’m just pretty? Lauren, appropriately yucky and aching after the long run, stomped back to a tentlike VIP barracks for women.
On the plus side, there was a feeling that she might have eventually been able to outdistance Kyle today. Maybe he was still not up to his maximum workout because of that wound he had suffered in Saudi Arabia; he might be still recovering. Perhaps he wasn’t Superman after all. That did not mean she was not intrigued by him. That was about the only good thing she could think of at the moment.
She found a private shower stall, shucked off her sweaty clothes, and turned on the hot water. Liberal handfuls of shampoo and conditioner were needed to slosh the clinging dust from her hair. This was one dirty place. She switched the water to a blast of cold.
As Lauren dried off with a thick towel, she found that she was not only miffed at Kyle Swanson, but she was also peeved with Jim Hall. Not long after she went to work at the CIA, they had almost inevitably become lovers, although it did not last a very long time. Neither wanted an office romance to derail a career. They ended it by mutual agreement but over the years had remained close, and they still occasionally slipped between the sheets, comfortable with each other. It wasn’t really a thing, but now Jim seemed to be pushing her away, making no effort to fight for her, to keep Kyle from making any moves. It was as if Jim were clearing her from his life. If he did not want her around anymore, why didn’t he just say so?
She brushed and flossed her teeth, sat on a bench, and slowly rubbed skin lotion on her hands and body. Why wasn’t Kyle being more aggressive? Didn’t he find her attractive? In the few hours they had known each other, she had already done everything but plead for some sex. He thinks I’m just pretty! I was in the Miss America Pageant, for God’s sake! She had an emergency need to go check herself in the long bathroom mirror and was relieved to see that she had not turned into a troll with big zits on her nose.
She slid into a blue bra and panties and a little robe, then spent some time giving her hair some serious brushing, followed by a bit of makeup, staring at her reflection all the while. Why doesn’t anybody want me? The clean dark suit and gray blouse were waiting in the garment bag, with her low heels, and when she put it all on, she immediately perked up. It was her CIA all-business costume. A little more lip gloss, spinning around to look at the back view, and she declared herself ready to return to the Spec Ops office.
Both of the bastards were there, standing beside a wall map, talking to the two crewmen of the ghost plane. None of them gave her a second glance. She growled a soft order to herself to stop pouting. Men can be such assholes. At least someone had loaded the Mr. Coffee with a fresh packet of Dunkin’ Donuts brew, so she poured a mug and walked over to the group. She could pretend to look at maps, too.
Jim Hall finally noticed she was alive. “Wheels up for Islamabad in an hour, Lauren,” he said.
“You look nice,” said Kyle.
Nice!? That’s all?
13
ISLAMABAD
K YLE S WANSON , J IM H ALL , and Lauren Carson rolled through the wide avenues of the capital city in the comfort of a black SUV, with a CIA driver up front. The air-conditioning flowed with a cool insistence that pleased Lauren, who was handling the logistics for the trip. The laptop in her briefcase was a one-mission personal computer that contained the access codes for a ten-million-dollar blind bank account that had been set up for expenses, probably including bribes, before they left Langley. With details on her mind, she was in full business mode and paid little attention to the men around her, but having come out of the blandness of Bagram, she was surprised at the showcase buildings sliding past them on Ataturk Avenue.
The capital of Pakistan was a metropolis that had been carefully designed to show important foreigners that the country was more than just a collection of dun-colored buildings and tin-shack slums. No doubt there were slums on the outskirts and narrow back roads stacked with filth, but there were few signs of open rebellion or reminders of war. This was a city of diplomacy, of business, of deals.
Jim Hall had been here many times and knew exactly where they were going and what they were going to do, so he just drummed his fingers in time with a tune running through his head.
Swanson had taken the front passenger seat and stayed silent for the entire trip, watchful and wary as he began preparing himself mentally for the job ahead. He would be fighting somewhere in these beautiful streets soon, kill or be killed, and there was no such thing as too much information. Where others saw bright, clean buildings, Kyle Swanson saw the shaded alleys between them and the dark windows that stared back at him like blank eyes.
He and the driver were the only ones carrying weapons. Hall decreed, as a matter of spook protocol, that he and Lauren could not walk into an expensive hotel room to meet a valuable contact with weapons on them.
“Screw that,” Swanson said and checked out the.45 ACP pistol that he had requested before leaving Afghanistan. Since they had arrived in the ghost plane, customs officers had given them a quick wave through; then the heavy CIA SUV took them away. Swanson wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and a lightweight tan sports coat. He stuck the pistol into the back of his belt, which forced him to change position in his seat. “What else do we have in this wagon?”
“My personal handgun, a street-sweeper shotgun clamped beneath the front seat, and an Uzi under a panel in the rear. Smoke grenade and extra ammo in the glove box.” The driver turned smoothly off Ataturk and onto Aga Khan Road. “Plus, this buggy is pretty much bulletproof. Safe, but lousy on mileage.”
He maneuvered slowly through the double blast barrier and came to an easy stop in the broad driveway of the Islamabad Marriott. Nice address, Kyle thought. Not far away was the office of Pakistan’s president.
Lauren adjusted a sheer black scarf to cover her head in respect for the Muslim tradition, although it did little to conceal her beauty. They entered throu
gh tall glass doors and were into the spacious ground-floor lobby, a quiet hive of activity. Diplomats, businessmen, political figures, and hangers-on of various stripes were gathered in clumps around the chairs and sofas on the rich carpets. The faces were all friendly. A plump banker was in a large chair, speaking with a general from some African nation, who was in full gilt dress regalia. On another sofa, a British journalist interviewed a Japanese builder of computers. There was just enough noise in the lobby, with enough occasional laughter coming from the nearby restaurant, to cover the appearance of the three Americans. They were sized up as just another business team in from the States, and although the woman was gorgeous, the men were forgettable. With aimless chatter, they worked their way through the islands of conversation.
Their shoes made no sound as they moved across the thick carpets and knotted rugs, reached the bank of elevators, and went up to a floor of private suites. The hotel staff had made certain that for this one hour, all other rooms along this hallway would be empty of other guests. Hall stopped before the door of Suite One, opened it, and stepped inside.
* * *
“M Y GOOD FRIEND !” S ELIM stepped forward and extended his hand. “It is good to see you again, Jim Hall. My father sends his best wishes and regrets that he cannot be here today.”
Hall shook the hand and gave the younger man a pat on the shoulder. “Selim. You are the very image of your honorable father when he was a young firebrand. It is good to see you, too.” He introduced Lauren and Kyle in turn, and the dark-haired Selim was as stylish as a European in acknowledging them.
Swanson broke the mood, sensing trouble. “This is your contact, Jim?”
Hall grinned sheepishly. “Not quite. He represents his father, whom I have known and worked with for years. We cannot be seen together in public, so Selim is our go-between. Good at the job, too.”
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