“Maybe,” Fitzgerald said, without enthusiasm, “but unless we can stall delivery of the aid package until the end of the year, it still reeks of compromise. It doesn’t matter where it goes—Israel or India—the reason behind it will be extremely transparent.”
“Stopping this escalation is worth the political fallout,” Patterson countered. “After all, the stakes are huge. India and Pakistan have a combined troop strength of more than two million, and both countries have access to enormous troop reserves in the event of a largescale conflict. Those are facts that we can’t afford to overlook.”
“Not to mention the nukes,” Fitzgerald muttered. She had recently been briefed on both countries’ nuclear capabilities, and she knew how dire the situation actually was. According to the CIA’s latest estimates, Pakistan had somewhere between twenty-eight and forty-two weapons prepped for delivery, while India had between forty and fifty. Even if those numbers were off by 10 percent or more, the devastation that would result in the event of a nuclear exchange would be unthinkable.
“Exactly,” Patterson agreed. “This isn’t exactly a new scenario, you know. In 1999 a similar situation cropped up, and both countries went as far as to state that all military options were on the table.” The ambassador paused to let that carefully worded statement hit home.
“Brynn, you really need to sell some kind of interjection to the president. The deal has been on the table for months now, and the Israelis are ready to move. Once the money changes hands, we won’t be able to control what Musharraf does next. I mean, we won’t have any influence at all.”
“I’ll talk to him. You should know he’s really adamant on this, Lee, but I’ll do my best.”
“Good. And thank you.” Patterson felt some of the tension in his shoulders start to dissipate. As the U.S. ambassador to Pakistan, he faced strong opposition—sometimes outright antagonism—on a daily basis, and the events of the past few months had only made matters worse. He’d met the president on several occasions. Patterson knew him to be a stubborn individual, but the acting secretary of state was just as strong willed. If anyone could convince David Brenneman to change his mind, it was Brynn Fitzgerald.
“What about our missing tourists?” Patterson asked. He had been present only for part of the bilateral discussions. “What did they have to say about that?”
“ISI is putting in the resources, but as you know, ten of those people disappeared in mountainous areas during periods of bad weather, so there isn’t much chance they’ll be coming back.” The Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence was easily the most powerful of Pakistan’s three major intelligence agencies. For this reason, it was heading up the search for the missing Americans. “There’s no dispute that some of them were actually kidnapped, but there’s also a good chance that some simply got trapped in a snowstorm. Or fell into a crevasse. Take your pick. Most of them applied for climbing permits to begin with, which is something we should really have taken into account from the start.”
The ambassador nodded slowly, but he couldn’t disguise his unease.
“What are you thinking?” Fitzgerald asked.
Patterson took his time in framing his response. “Brynn, I’ve been here for nearly four years now, and I’ve seen just how deep the antiAmerican sentiment runs in the general population. I’ve done my best to change that, but I have to tell you, I’ve learned to expect the worst. So when I hear the Paks have concocted a story that covers all the bases, I can’t help but take it with a grain of salt.”
Fitzgerald permitted herself a brief smile, then caught herself and glanced away to lessen the blow. “I hear you, but it’s like you just said. You’ve been facing off with these people every day for the past four years, so you might not be the most—”
“I have nothing against the Pakistani people or their government,” Patterson interjected testily. “And I resent any suggestion to the contrary. I’ve—”
“Lee, I’m sorry.” Fitzgerald lightly gripped his arm and saw his expression soften immediately. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you’re biased against them. I know you better than that. I’m just saying that you might not be the most impartial observer. I mean, let’s face it. You’ve been on the firing line for years now. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy.”
“It hasn’t been easy, but you don’t have to placate me.” He leveled her with a steady gaze. “We’ve known each other too long for that. Just listen to what I’m telling you, okay? You have to have eyes in the back of your head around here. If they have the evidence, that’s one thing, but you can’t take anything at face value.” He hesitated briefly.
“I don’t want to overstep my bounds here, but you’re new to the job, Brynn, and sometimes it shows. It’s a whole different game when your name is on the letterhead.”
It wasn’t the best analogy, but she knew what he was getting at. There weren’t many people who could speak to her so candidly, but Lee Patterson happened to be one of them. “I appreciate the advice, Lee, and believe me, I depend on you more than you know. I realize this is a challenging assignment, but I’m glad you’re the one standing post. I mean that.”
“Thank you.” He grinned and shot a glance at his watch. “You know, it’s a shame you couldn’t stay for one more day. It would have been good to catch up some more, and there are plenty of people at the embassy who didn’t get the chance to meet you. It would have made for a nice little photo op.”
“I know, but I’m scheduled to meet with the president in the morning, and there’s no way he’ll let me push it back.”
“It was a good trip, though?” Patterson knew that Fitzgerald had visited numerous South Asian countries on her first official trip, including Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Bhutan, and India.
“It was . . . enlightening. As you just said, things are very different when you are given top billing. Everything seems a little more scripted, but I guess that’s just diplomacy at work. It was a productive couple of weeks, though, and that’s the main thing.”
Patterson grinned again. “So, in other words, you’re looking forward to going home.”
“Not as much as you might think,” Fitzgerald muttered. She looked out the window absently. The green-brown Margalla Hills could be seen in the distance, but she wasn’t focused on the passing scenery. Instead, she was thinking about her upcoming meeting with the president, as well as his probable reaction after the disastrous press conference she’d just departed. “In fact, I think I’d prefer to stay right here.”
CHAPTER 6
RAWALPINDI, PAKISTAN
The Suburban carrying Brynn Fitzgerald and Lee Patterson was the fifth vehicle in the motorcade making its way from Aiwan-eSadr, the presidential palace at the top of Constitution Avenue, to the air base south of Islamabad. Four cars back, Naveed Jilani, the senior assistant to the Pakistani chief of protocol, was doing his best to disguise his rising tension. He was waiting on the phone call that would seal the commitment he’d made two weeks earlier, and while he didn’t regret his decision, his sense of personal conviction wasn’t doing much to relieve his physical discomfort. He knew that what he was presently feeling was only to be expected, that the cold sweat running over his skin was completely natural, along with the tight ache in his chest and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. When the call finally came, the shrill tone caused him to jump in his seat. Lifting the phone to his ear, he recognized the gravelly voice on the other end immediately.
“Naveed, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“I assume Mirza is with you.”
Jilani instinctively glanced to his left, where Ghulam Mirza, the chief of protocol, was studying his schedule for the following day.
“Yes.”
“Which car are you in? The last?”
“No.” Jilani paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He could tell that Mirza was listening to his end of the conversation, which was only making him more nervous. “That is much too late. I think we should move
it up a couple of hours.”
“The third from the last vehicle?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Good. Now, the secretary of state. Which car is she in?”
“I think it’s the fifth number in the book,” Jilani said. He glanced out the window for the tenth time in as many minutes. Although he had not been informed of the motorcade’s specific route, he made the trip to Chaklala Air Base dozens of times each month in the course of his duties. He knew all of the roads by heart, and he had already figured out which route they were going to take. It was simply a process of elimination. “I can be there by ten. Unfortunately, I have prior obligations. Call Bashir if you need someone to sit with her.”
There was a pause as the other man interpreted. The crude code had been decided upon at the meeting in Peshawar. Jilani had just stated that the secretary of state was in the fifth vehicle. He’d also informed the general that the motorcade would cross a narrow bridge on Airport Road in approximately ten minutes. Jilani didn’t know the specifics, but he knew that armed gunmen were waiting on the road in question, as well as on two other frequently used routes from Aiwan-e-Sadr to the air base.
“So she’s in the fifth car,” Mengal repeated. “Are you certain? Because there’s no room for—”
“I’m certain.” Jilani froze involuntarily, his hand like a stone around the fragile plastic. It was the first time he had ever interrupted Benazir Mengal, and for a second, he felt something close to blind panic. “Forgive me, I didn’t—”
“I understand.” The older man’s voice had dropped to a dangerous murmur. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure, Naveed, but you’ve done well, and I’m grateful for your loyalty. Remember, when you hear the first rocket, put your head down and stay very still. You have nothing to fear. My men are well trained, and they won’t miss. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”
“No, that is all.”
“Then good-bye, my friend, and good luck. Asalaam aleikum. ”
“Yes, wa aleikum asalaam.”
The phone went dead in Jilani’s ear, and he lowered it slowly to his lap. His mind was blank, and it was some time before he realized that the chief of protocol was asking him a question.
“Who was it, Navi?”
“A personal call, jana¯b.” Jilani avoided his superior’s curious gaze as his mind kicked back into gear. For the first time, he found himself wondering just how much his life was worth, given the circumstances. He could not think of a single reason why the general’s people would make the effort to spare him when the attack started, and this realization—the fact that he was completely expendable—was deeply unsettling. “My wife’s brother. Parveen has been ill for some time, so her doctor scheduled some tests at the hospital. We’re waiting for the results now.”
The other man removed his glasses, his thin lips creasing into a frown. “That explains a great deal. You’ve been very distracted over the past few weeks.”
“Forgive me, but—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mirza said, waving away the apology. “I just hope it isn’t serious. Your wife’s illness, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t be too concerned, jana¯b.” Jilani averted his eyes once more and tried to stop his hands from trembling. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
CHAPTER 7
RAWALPINDI
As Brynn Fitzgerald’s motorcade moved steadily toward his position, Benazir Mengal tossed his phone to one of his subordinates, then quickly relayed the news he’d just been given. As the young man dialed through to the other members of the team, Mengal pinched the tip of his nose and studied the road to the rear of his vehicle. By chance, he had been waiting on the exact route the Americans had decided upon. It was just one of three possibilities, but it comprised the shortest distance between the presidential palace and the air base, which made it the most likely choice. It was a fortunate coincidence, Mengal thought, as it allowed him to gauge the lay of the land one last time.
The iron truss bridge, which crossed a small gully filled with brush, small trees, and litter, was less than 100 yards away. The road beyond was lined on both sides by small houses and shops. It was a poor sort of place, a general air of neglect and poverty hanging over everything in sight. Airport Road was one of the major routes between Islamabad and its sister city to the south, Rawalpindi. As a result, both sides of the narrow road were occupied by pedestrians and people on bicycles, and there was a fair amount of vehicular traffic on the bridge itself.
“General?”
He turned to face his subordinate, who had the phone pressed to his ear. In his distracted state, Mengal had not heard it ring.
“Yes?”
“The motorcade just passed through a checkpoint less than a mile from here. It’s time for you to leave. The second vehicle is waiting.”
Mengal nodded brusquely. “The men are ready?”
The former soldier gestured toward the bridge. A heavy Nissan truck had just started to cross from the north, its bed covered by supporting poles and a thick canvas tarp. “They’re ready. We have a spotter in place. He’ll remain on the north side until the motorcade approaches, and then he’ll place the call.”
“Good.”
The subordinate shifted impatiently as Mengal stared at the approaching vehicle. The cars behind the slow-moving truck were honking incessantly, the drivers clearly impatient to get to the other side. Mengal felt no sympathy for the people delayed on the bridge; in fact, he was vastly reassured by the heavy traffic. It would require the motorcade to slow dramatically as it approached the crossing, making it an easier target. Once the first rockets were fired, the cars that were hit would serve as obstacles for the following vehicles, and the high number of civilian casualties would only add to the confusion. In short, it was the perfect place for an ambush. Mengal had seen it work before.
Still, the retired general couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had seized hold of him hours earlier. It was something he rarely experienced, but he believed in precedence. He believed in tactical decisions based on past success, and given what was about to take place, he couldn’t help but reflect on recent events in his country’s history. Troubling events that reeked of failure. Pervez Musharraf had miraculously escaped no less than three assassination attempts over the course of his presidency. Two of those attempts had come in 2003, and on one of those occasions, Musharraf ’s survival could be directly attributed to a jamming device that blocked all cell phones within several hundred meters of his motorcade. Through Naveed Jilani and his close relationship with the American embassy, Mengal knew that the vehicles in the embassy pool did not employ such devices. However, this was a minor detail, and one that didn’t concern him either way. Technology could be easily defeated; it didn’t count as a real obstacle. The former general was far more concerned with the human element of the secretary’s security. In Mengal’s mind, this was the most probable barrier to success. During his military service, he’d once attended a welcoming ceremony for President Clinton at Chaklala Air Base. He had seen the Secret Service in action. He remembered how alert they’d been, the way they moved in synchronous, rehearsed fashion. In particular, he recalled the way they had watched him with ill-concealed suspicion. It was almost as if, even then, they could see into the darkest corners of his mind. He had quickly realized they had a file on him, and since that incident, he’d come to appreciate just how thorough the Americans were. The secretary of state was protected by a different agency, Mengal knew, but her security would be just as vigilant. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected her permanent detail was composed of at least seven men. Probably closer to ten. He had superior numbers at his disposal, but the Americans held the advantage in so many ways. The agents were trained to the point where they reacted instinctively and correctly every time, and they enjoyed access to the best weapons money could buy.
Mengal’s men had all served under him at some point, and most had fought in the volatile Northwest Frontier Provi
nce. They were hardened combat veterans, and he was confident in their abilities. Still, there was a noticeable divide in terms of training and weaponry, a divide that could not be ignored. Then again, he had speed and surprise on his side, two essential elements of any successful ambush. Ironically, the Diplomatic Security Service also relied heavily on these elements, especially when moving a senior official in and out of hostile territory.
And this was hostile territory, at least as far as the Americans were concerned. There could be no mistake about that. Rawalpindi was home to army headquarters and a number of lesser military complexes, and Mengal knew the area like the back of his hand. It was a key advantage. He knew what would happen in the aftermath of the attack. He knew precisely where the police would set up their emergency checkpoints, and he knew which roads they would overlook. More importantly, he knew exactly how to find the small clearing where, in twenty minutes’ time, he was scheduled to meet a pilot assigned to ISI, a man who’d once served under him at the Mountain Warfare School in Abbottabad. A man who knew the meaning of loyalty. If all went according to plan, Mengal would be onboard when the helicopter lifted off, but he wouldn’t be the only passenger.
“General.”
Mengal turned to his left, where one of his men was gesturing insistently toward the waiting sedan. “Of course.” The general walked to the car and slid into the passenger seat. A man was already waiting behind the wheel. “Drive.”
CHAPTER 8
RAWALPINDI
Special Agent Petrina absently tugged on the credentials still clipped to his suit jacket as he glared through the windshield of the armored Suburban. It was called “forward orientation,” and it was one of the first things he’d learned at the evasive-driving course he’d attended twenty years earlier. There had been additional courses since then—for obvious reasons, DSS agents underwent constant training, even to the point of relearning fundamental tasks—but the general principles remained the same. The reason behind forward orientation was as simple as it was obvious: looking as far forward as possible allowed one to identify potential threats before they became a real hazard. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much help at the moment, as they were hardly moving at all. They’d been able to maintain a high rate of speed along Islamabad’s broad avenues and boulevards, but traffic had slowed dramatically over the past few minutes. The road ahead was lined with cars, and beyond, Petrina could make out iron support beams towering over the traffic. Pedestrians and people on bicycles were streaming by on either side of the motorcade, but people on foot weren’t much of a danger to the heavily armored vehicles. Petrina was more worried about the beams in the near distance, which could only belong to a small bridge. With this realization, his dark mood grew darker still. Bridges were natural choke points. Typically, they were avoided at all costs; it was a maxim of any protective detail, and it should have been caught by the advance team.
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