Against All Enemies mm-1

by Tom Clancy

  Five minutes. Ten. Nothing. Not a soul. Between the blood and body parts strewn across the water like some ungodly stew, it was a safe bet that the sharks had come. And quickly. That, coupled with the injuries of the other survivors, may have been too much for them.

  It took another half-hour before Moore spotted the first body rising up on a wave like a piece of driftwood. Many others would follow.

  More than an hour passed before an Mi-17 appeared in the northwest sky, its twin turbines roaring, its rotors whomping and echoing off the hillsides. The chopper had been specifically designed by the Soviets for their war in Afghanistan and had become symbolic of that conflict: Goliaths of the sky slain by slingshots. The Pakistan Army had nearly one hundred Mi-17s in their inventory, a trivial detail Moore knew because he’d been a passenger aboard them a few times and had overheard a pilot griping about how he was stuck flying a Russian pile of junk that broke down every other flight and that the Pakistan Army had almost a hundred flying junkyards.

  Slightly unnerved, Moore boarded the Mi-17 and was flown with Kayani to the Sindh Government Hospital in Liaquatabad Town, a suburb of Karachi. While en route, the flight medics administered painkillers, and Kayani’s wide-eyed grimace turned to a more peaceful stare. It was sunrise by the time they touched down.

  Moore stepped out of the hospital’s elevator on the second floor and ducked into Kayani’s room. They’d been at the hospital for about an hour now. The lieutenant would have a nice battle scar to help him get laid. Both men had been severely dehydrated when they’d come ashore, and an IV drip had been jabbed in the lieutenant’s left arm.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Kayani reached up and touched the bandage on his head. “I still have a headache.”

  “It’ll pass.”

  “I couldn’t have swum back.”

  Moore nodded. “You got hit hard, and you lost some blood.”

  “I don’t know what to say. Thank you is not enough.”

  Moore took a long pull on the bottle of water given to him by one of the nurses. “Hey, forget it.” Movement in the doorway drew Moore’s attention. That was Douglas Stone, a colleague from the Agency, who stroked his mottled gray beard and stared at Moore above the rim of his glasses. “I have to go,” Moore said.

  “Mr. Fredrickson, wait.”

  Moore frowned.

  “Is there a way I can contact you?”

  “Sure, why?”

  Kayani looked to Stone and pursed his lips.

  “Oh, he’s okay. A good friend.”

  The lieutenant hesitated a few seconds more, then said, “I just want to thank you …somehow.”

  Moore used a tablet and pen on the tray table to scribble down an e-mail address.

  The lieutenant clutched the paper tightly in his palm. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Moore shrugged. “Okay.”

  He headed out into the hallway, turned, then marched forcefully away from Stone, speaking through his teeth. “So, Doug, tell me — just what the fuck happened?”

  “I know, I know.” Stone had deployed his usual calming tone, but Moore would have none of that, not now.

  “We assured the Indians that the rendezvous would be clear. They had to cross into Pakistan territorial waters. They were very concerned about that.”

  “We were told the Pakistanis were taking care of everything.”

  “Who dropped the ball?”

  “They’re telling us their submarine commander never received any orders to remain at the pier. Somebody forgot to issue them. He made his usual patrol and thought he’d sailed into some kind of engagement. According to him, he sent out multiple challenges without response.”

  Moore snickered. “Well, it’s not like we were looking for him — and when we did see him, it was already too late.”

  “The commander also reported that he saw the Indians taking prisoners on their deck.”

  “So he was ready to fire on his own people, too?”

  “Who knows.”

  Moore stopped dead in his tracks, whirled, and gaped at the man. “The only prisoner they had was our guy.”

  “Hey, Max, I know where you’re coming from.”

  “Let’s go swim three miles. Then you’ll know.”

  Stone removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Look, it could be worse. We could be Slater and O’Hara and have to figure how to apologize to the Indians while making sure they don’t nuke Islamabad.”

  “That’d be nice — because I’m headed there now.”

  1 DECISIONS

  Marriott Hotel

  Islamabad, Pakistan

  Three Weeks Later

  Lieutenant Maqsud Kayani’s solution to repay Moore for saving his life came in the form of an invitation for an introductory meeting between Moore and Kayani’s uncle, Colonel Saadat Khodai of the Pakistan Army. Upon his arrival in Islamabad, Moore found the lieutenant’s intriguing e-mail in his inbox. Kayani’s uncle, the same man who had orchestrated their helicopter rescue, had confided in his nephew his ongoing battle with depression triggered by a crisis of personal ethics. The e-mail did not disclose the exact nature of the colonel’s crisis, but Kayani stressed that such a meeting might benefit both Moore and his uncle immeasurably.

  Over several weeks of meetings and extensive verbal sparring, Moore came to suspect that Khodai could identify key Taliban sympathizers within the Army’s ranks. He drank liters of tea with the colonel, trying to convince him to disclose what he knew about the Taliban’s infiltration and exploitation of the country’s northwest tribal lands, most particularly the region known as Waziristan. The colonel was reluctant to commit, to cross the line. Moore was frustrated. It was a major stumbling block, the crux of their impasse.

  The colonel was not only concerned about the possible ramifications to his family, but he now found himself up against his own deeply held personal convictions to never speak out adversely or otherwise betray his fellow officers and comrades, even though they’d broken their oath of loyalty to Pakistan and his beloved Army. His conversations with Moore, however, had ultimately brought him to the abyss. If not him, then who?

  Then one evening the colonel had called Moore and said he was willing to talk. Moore had picked him up at his house and driven him to the hotel, where he would sit down with Moore and two of Moore’s colleagues. They pulled into the guest parking lot.

  Khodai had just turned fifty, and his thick, closely cropped hair was woven with streaks of gray. His eyes appeared worn and narrow, and his prominent chin was dappled by a quarter-inch of snow-white growth. He was dressed in civilian clothes, simple slacks and a dress shirt, but his military boots betrayed his office. His BlackBerry was tucked tightly in its leather case, and he nervously twirled it between his thumb and middle finger.

  Moore reached for his door handle, but Khodai raised a palm. “Wait. I said I was ready, but maybe I need more time.”

  The colonel had studied English in high school and had then attended the University of Punjab in Lahore, where he’d earned a BA in engineering. His accent was thick, but he possessed a wide vocabulary, his tone always impressive and commanding. Moore could see why he’d risen so quickly through the ranks. When he spoke, you couldn’t help but gravitate toward him, and so Moore relaxed, removed his hand from the door, and said, “You are ready for this. And you’ll forgive yourself. Eventually.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  Moore raked errant locks of hair out of his eyes, sighed, and answered, “I want to.”

  The man grinned weakly. “The burdens you carry are at least as heavy as mine.”

  “You assume a lot.”

  “I know an ex-military man when I see one. And given your current office, you have seen a lot yourself.”

  “Maybe. The question for you is — which burden is heaviest? Doing something? Or doing nothing?”

  “You’re still a very young man, but I daresay wise beyond your years.”

  “I know where you’re c
oming from.”

  He hoisted his brows. “I have your promise that my family will be completely protected?”

  “You don’t have to ask again. What you’re going to do will save lives. You understand that.”

  “I do. But I’m not just risking myself and my career. Both the Taliban and my colleagues are ruthless. Relentless. I’m still concerned that even your friends won’t be able to help us — despite all your reassurances.”

  “Then I won’t reassure you anymore. It’s your choice. We both know what happens if you don’t go up there. That’s at least one outcome we can predict.”

  “You’re right. I can’t sit by anymore. They will not dictate how we operate. They can’t strip us of our honor. Never.”

  “Well, let me remind you that the offer to bring your family to the U.S. is still on the table. We can better protect them there.”

  He shook his head and rubbed the corners of his eyes. “I can’t disrupt their lives. My sons are in high school now. My wife was just promoted. She works right there in the tech center next door. Pakistan is our home. We’ll never leave.”

  “Then help us make it better. Safer.”

  Khodai glanced up, faced Moore, and widened his eyes. “What would you do if you were me?”

  “I wouldn’t want the terrorists to win by doing nothing. This is the most difficult decision of your life. I know that. I don’t take this lightly. You have no idea how much respect I have for what you’re about to do …the courage it takes. You’re a man who wants justice. So, yes, if I were you, I’d open that car door and come up to meet my friends — and let’s restore honor to the Pakistan Army.”

  Khodai closed his eyes, and his breathing grew shallow. “You sound like a politician, Mr. Moore.”

  “Maybe, but the difference is I really believe what I just said.”

  Khodai offered a faint grin. “I would have thought you had lived a life of privilege before entering the military.”

  “Not me.” Moore thought a moment. “Are you ready, Colonel?”

  He closed his eyes. “Yes, I am.”

  They got out and crossed the parking lot, heading up the ramp, beneath the broad awnings, toward the hotel’s main entrance. Moore’s gaze surveyed the road, the lot, even slid along the rooflines of the buildings across the street, but all seemed quiet. They passed the cabdrivers, leaning on the hoods of their cars and smoking quietly. They nodded to the young valets loitering near a small lectern and a box mounted on the wall, within which hung dozens of keys. They moved inside, past the newly constructed bombproof wall, and past the security checkpoint, where they were X-rayed for bombs and weapons. Then they shifted across ivory-colored marble tiles that gleamed and stretched out to the ornate check-in counters, behind which stood dark-suited concierges. A bearded man in a white cotton suit played a soft melody on a baby grand piano positioned off to their left. There were a few people at the counter, businessmen, Moore thought. Otherwise the hotel was quiet, tranquil, inviting. He gave Khodai a curt nod, and they crossed to the elevators.

  “Do you have any children?” Khodai asked as they waited for the lift.

  “No.”

  “Do you wish you had?”

  “That seems like another life. I travel too much. I don’t think it would be fair. Why do you ask?”

  “Because everything we do is to make the world a better place for them.”

  “You’re right. Maybe someday.”

  Khodai reached out and put a hand on Moore’s shoulder. “Don’t give them everything. That’s a decision you’ll regret. Become a father, and the world will become a different place.”

  Moore nodded. He wished he could tell Khodai about the many women he’d been with over the years, the relationships that had all become victims of his careers in both the Navy and the CIA. The divorce rates varied, but some said that for SEALs the numbers reached as high as ninety percent. After all, how many women could marry men they would barely see? Marriage became more like having an affair — and one of Moore’s ex-girlfriends suggested that’s exactly what they do. She wanted to marry a man while continuing her relationship with him, only because he provided her with the humor and physical thrills that the other man could not, while the other guy provided financial support and an emotional cushion. With a husband in the forefront and a Navy SEAL on the side, she’d have the best of both worlds. No, Moore wasn’t willing to play that game. And, unfortunately, he’d bedded too many call girls and strippers and crazy drunken women to count, though in more recent years his life had become a hotel bed with just one pillow ever used. His mother still begged him to find a nice girl and settle down. He laughed and told her that the settling-down part was impossible, which in turn made finding the girl impossible. She’d asked him, “Don’t you think you’re being selfish?” He told her that yes, he understood that she wanted grandchildren, but his job asked too much of him, and he feared that being an absentee father would be worse than not being a father at all.

  She’d told him to quit. He told her he’d finally found a place for himself in this world, after all the pain he’d caused her. There was no quitting now. Not ever.

  He wanted to share all of those thoughts with Khodai — they were kindred spirits — but the bell rang and the elevator arrived. They stepped inside, and the colonel seemed to grow paler as the doors shut.

  They rode in silence to the fifth floor, the doors opened, and Moore quickly spotted a man silhouetted in the stairwell door frame at the opposite end of the corridor — he was a Pakistani operative from ISI (Inter-Services Intelligence). The cell phone plastered to the agent’s ear reminded Moore to reach into his own pocket for his smartphone so he could call the others and tell them they were nearing the door, but then he realized he’d left the phone down in the car, damn it.

  They reached the door, and Moore knocked and said, “It’s me, guys.”

  The door swung open, and one of his colleagues, Regina Harris, answered and invited Khodai into the room. Douglas Stone was with her as well.

  “Left my phone down in the car,” said Moore. “I’ll be right back.”

  Moore started off down the hallway, and now he spied a second agent at the elevators. Smart move — the ISI now controlled the foot traffic for the entire fifth floor. The elevator man was a short, scruffy-faced dude with large brown eyes and was talking nervously into his phone. He wore a blue dress shirt, brown slacks, and black sneakers, and his features seemed more rodent than human.

  When the man spotted Moore, he lowered his phone and started back down the hall, toward the stairwell, and for a second this puzzled Moore. He walked a few more steps, then froze and whirled toward the room.

  The explosion tore through the hallway, heaving up a chute of flames and a mountain of rubble that cut off Moore from the elevator and knocked him flat onto his rump. Next came the smoke pouring out of the room and billowing in thick clouds down the hall. Moore rolled onto his hands and knees, gasping curses as his eyes burned and the air grew thick with the stench of the bomb. His thoughts raced, taking him back to every reservation the colonel had mentioned, as though all of those doubts had manifested themselves in the explosion. Moore imagined Khodai and his colleagues being ripped apart, and that image drove him onto his feet and toward the now-empty stairwell—

  After the bastard who’d run off.

  The chase left no time to feel guilty, and for that Moore was thankful. If he paused, even for a second, to reflect on the fact that he’d convinced Khodai to “do the right thing,” only to get the man killed because of his team’s lapse in security, he might break down. And that was, perhaps, Moore’s greatest weakness. He’d once been described in an After-Action Report as “an immensely passionate man who cared deeply for his colleagues,” which of course explained why a particular face from his Navy SEAL past never stopped haunting him, and Khodai’s sudden loss only reminded him of that night.

  Moore burst into the stairwell and spotted the man charging downward. Gritting his tee
th, Moore raced after him, using the railing to take three and four stairs at a time and swearing over the fact that his pistol was still down in the car. They’d been permitted to use the hotel as a meeting place, but both hotel security and the local police had been adamant about their weapons: None would be allowed inside the building. There’d been no room for negotiation on this point, and while Moore and his colleagues had access to a number of weapons that could bypass security, they’d opted to honor the request, lest they risk an already tenuous relationship. Moore had to assume that if the man had made it past the ISI security checkpoint, then he wasn’t armed. But Moore had also assumed that their hotel room was a safe meeting place. They’d chosen one of the four vacant rooms on the fifth floor that faced the street so they could observe comings and goings of guests and traffic patterns. Any abrupt changes were early clues that something was about to happen, and they liked to call that an early-warning system for the astute. While they hadn’t had access to a bomb-sniffing dog, they had scanned the room for electronic devices and had been using it for a few weeks without incident. That these thugs had managed to get explosives inside was infuriating and heartbreaking. Khodai had passed through screening with no problems, thus Moore had to assume the man had not been wired …unless of course the security checkpoint itself was a fake, the man there working for the Taliban …

  The little guy kept a blistering pace, hit the first floor, and burst out of the stairwell door, with Moore about six seconds behind him.

  A couple of breaths later and Moore was out the door, swinging his head left toward the main lobby, then right toward a long hall leading off to the spa, gym, and rear parking lot nestled at the corner of a large wooded area.