The other man came back a split second later. “She’s in the barn. I repeat, Fitzgerald is in the barn. I just got a positive ID, over.”
For a split second, the words didn’t register. Kealey had known she was on the grounds, but it still came as a shock to hear it confirmed. For a moment, he wondered how Massi had caught sight of her. Then he remembered that the operative had begun adjusting his position two hours earlier, once it became clear they didn’t have a good view of the barn’s main door. It had taken Massi the whole two hours to move a scant 30 feet, but the payoff had been more than worth the time-consuming adjustment.
“Kealey, do you copy?” Massi asked impatiently. “I repeat, do you—”
“I copy,” Kealey said. “Stand by.”
Kealey was thinking hard as he peered through his scope. He watched the Algerian terrorist move toward the house, leaving the barn door open behind him. A few seconds later, he disappeared from view, and Kealey heard the distant sound of a door slamming shut. Once Saifi was inside, the two guards behind the house returned their attention to the dark field in which Kealey and the rest of the team were lying in wait.
Making his decision, he powered up the sat phone, dialed Harper direct, and waited impatiently for the satellite to make the connection. Once he had the deputy DCI on the line, he quickly relayed the new developments.
When he was done with the thirty-second explanation, Harper said, “Thank God she’s there.” Kealey could hear genuine relief in the other man’s voice, as well as a sudden surge of voices in the background. Kealey suddenly wondered if he was on speakerphone.
“What kind of shape is she in?”
Kealey hadn’t asked before, so he put the question to Massi, who answered promptly. Then he got back with Harper and said, “She appears to be unharmed. She’s secured to a chair—we can’t see how—
and it looks like they’ve erected some kind of film set. Massi can see cameras, portable lights, and a flag in the background.”
“But she’s still in one piece?”
“Yes.”
There was a long delay, the only sound that of the rain, the distant rumble of diesel engines, and the slight hiss of the satellite connection in Kealey’s ear. He could almost hear the argument that must have been going on in the Situation Room. Finally, Harper said, “We need to know more, Ryan. Can you get closer without being spotted?”
“Probably not,” Kealey said impatiently. “Look, John, we’re right there—”
“I know. You want to get her, and we will. Just maintain your position. The assault team lifted off from Bagram an hour ago. ETA is thirty-five minutes.”
“No, we need to get her now. We can do it. We have the advantage on all fronts. These guys are not—”
“Hold your position, Ryan. That’s an order.”
“Fuck.” Kealey muttered the expletive under his breath, but he wasn’t trying to hide his anger; Harper would have caught it over the line. Slightly raising his voice, he acknowledged the order, then ended the call.
Less than five seconds later, he heard Owen’s voice in his ear.
“Kealey, what’s happening?”
Kealey relayed what Harper had said, then checked with each operative to make sure they were all on the same page. That done, he returned his attention to the back of the house. Through the nightvision scope, the green-tinted guard beneath the tree was incredibly clear; magnified, his head was about the size of a small pumpkin. All it would take was one gentle squeeze on the trigger, Kealey thought. It was incredibly tempting. Owen, Walland, or Massi would drop the second guard a tenth of a second later, and then they’d be down from ten hostiles to eight, a very manageable number. . . . Kealey pulled his eye back from the glass and took a deep breath, shaking it off. His finger had actually been tightening on the trigger, as if of its own accord, and now he made a conscious effort to move it outside the trigger guard. The urge to fire was overwhelming. She was right there, less than 100 feet away, and the enemy had no idea they were being watched. It would be so very easy. . . . He took another deep breath and wrapped his right hand tightly around the plastic grip of the rifle. Part of him wanted Mengal to try something. Part of him wanted the guards to spot the surveillance. Part of him wanted to end it now, but he forced himself to relax, knowing that Harper was right; it just wasn’t time. All they had to do was hold on for another half hour, and then it would be done.
CHAPTER 41
SIALKOT
From the moment Benazir Mengal first laid eyes on Said Qureshi’s home, he had been holding out possibilities for the barn. It was a fine two-story structure, built with the same fieldstone Qureshi had used on the house, and topped with the same slate roof. The only thing it was missing was windows, but for Mengal, that was part of the building’s appeal; after all, he didn’t want to advertise the things he was planning to use it for. There was a solid oak staircase against the north wall, which led up to a hayloft, but otherwise, the ground floor was completely empty, which made it ideal for the film set. As far as sets went, it was extremely crude, but that was fine by Mengal. No one who watched the tape would be worried about the quality of the production. The tripod-mounted camera was bracketed by a pair of portable halogen lights and centered on a white flag bearing the symbol of the Salafist Group for Call and Combat. The oval-shaped symbol depicted an open Koran resting on a wall of gray stone, which was topped by a turquoise sky. The Koran was framed by a sword and an AK-47, and directly above the open book, a sun bearing seven rays seemed to illuminate the glorious teachings of the prophet Muhammad. There were also scrolls bracketing the central image. The banner beneath the wall marked the name of the group, and the banner above the Koran read, “And fight on until there is no more tumult or oppression, and there prevail justice and faith in Allah.”
It was, Mengal thought, a thoroughly ridiculous symbol. Almost as ridiculous as the aims of the group itself, but using the flag was better than the alternative, which was to face the camera himself. It was the same reason he had recruited Saifi in Algiers. When he had first arranged the interview with Saifi in the Algerian prison, he had, for the most part, explained exactly what he intended to do, leaving out only the specific identity of his target. In return for Saifi’s promise of assistance, Mengal had offered him freedom, which he could arrange through his friends in the Algerian government, as well as money and arms, everything Saifi would need to rebuild his faltering terrorist network in North Africa. He had also promised the Algerian center stage in the attack on the motorcade, the kind of attention that would guarantee instant fame, equating him with the top figures in international terrorism—Carlos, bin Laden, and Abu Nidal—virtually overnight.
Saifi had leaped at the opportunity, which wasn’t surprising, Mengal reflected, given that the alternative was another twenty years behind bars. So far, the terrorist leader had proved reliable, but there was something about his manner that Mengal found distinctly unsettling. Qureshi had caught it as well, and while Mengal had deflected the surgeon’s concerns, they had secretly added to the doubt he was already feeling. Mengal had very few moral qualms; he would gladly kill Fitzgerald if and when the time was right. The Algerian, on the other hand, was unpredictable, and that made him dangerous. Mengal had been careful about this; he’d never left his hostage alone with the Algerian, and now, as he glanced at the man whose freedom he had arranged for eight weeks earlier, he saw a perfect example of what had piqued his concerns to begin with.
The Algerian was standing to Mengal’s right, next to one of the portable lights. He was staring intently at Fitzgerald, who was bound to a chair in front of the flag. Fitzgerald, in turn, was staring stubbornly down at her lap, her battered face contorted with pain. At first, she had refused to speak into the camera, and Saifi had been eager—perhaps overly eager, Mengal reflected—to elicit her cooperation. Still, her bruised, bloody appearance did little to deter the Algerian’s interest. Saifi’s expression was constantly shifting and hard to decipher, falling so
mewhere between lust, admiration, and pure hate. His eyes were slightly too open, his mouth fixed in a permanent smile. His gleaming white teeth were constantly visible, it seemed, fixed in the center of a tangled black beard, and his hands, with their long, spidery fingers, were wrapped in the folds of his robes. Mengal had to speak his name several times before he turned, and even that was unnatural. His head was the only thing that moved, swiveling slowly as if it were mounted on a fixed platform.
“Go and get the American doctor,” Mengal instructed quietly, leveling his gaze on the bridge of the man’s nose. He could not meet the Algerian’s eyes: he was worried the man might see his concern and mistake it for fear. “Get him and bring him here.”
“We’re going to use him?” Saifi asked in Arabic, one of their several shared languages.
“Yes.” It was a decision Mengal had been weighing for the past several hours. They had already performed several takes using only Saifi and Fitzgerald, and it just wasn’t working. They needed something more to get the message across, Mengal thought. They needed something that would leave an . . . impact on the American government, and the secretary of state herself was not expendable. At least not yet.
“And what of the surgeon?”
Mengal considered briefly. Balakh Shaheed, his top lieutenant, had locked Qureshi in his surgical suite several hours earlier, and he saw no reason to bring him out now. For the moment, Craig would suffice.
“Leave him. Just get the American.”
The Algerian nodded, then pushed open the heavy door and stepped out. A minute later, a sudden crackling noise brought Mengal back to reality, and his eyes moved to the opposite side of the large room, where his two-way radio was resting on a rough wooden table. As he walked over to pick it up, he crossed in front of the barn door, which was still hanging open to the rain and the warm night air.
“I’ve got Mengal,” Massi said suddenly. “He’s inside the barn. He just passed the door. I guess he was on the north side of the building . . . I couldn’t see him before.”
“Got it,” Kealey said. “You see a weapon?”
“Negative,” Massi said, “but I can’t see the whole room. He might have it leaning against a wall or something . . . We’d better assume he’s got one close.”
“Roger. Everyone get that?” Kealey asked.
In the order they had decided on earlier, the other members of the team reported in the affirmative, their voices scratching over Kealey’s earpiece.
“Good,” Kealey said once they had all checked in. “Maintain your positions. Massi, if he picks up a gun, you know what to do.”
“Roger that,” the other man said calmly. No one queried the order, and they didn’t have to ask for clarification. Massi was the only one with a clear line of sight, and if Mengal approached Fitzgerald with a weapon in hand, the former USAF combat controller was going to take the shot, regardless of the consequences. It was a weak excuse to initiate engagement, and if it went bad, it would never hold up. Nevertheless, they had all agreed to take the opportunity if it presented itself. None of them were inclined to wait for the assault team, but neither were they willing to blatantly violate their standing orders, especially given the stakes.
“Where’s the Algerian?” Owen murmured over the net.
“I have no idea,” Kealey muttered back. He had been wondering the same thing. Saifi had been inside the house for nearly two minutes, but he’d left the barn door hanging wide open, which seemed to indicate he would be returning shortly. He should have been back by now, Kealey thought, but maybe there were more hostages in the house. Maybe Saifi was preparing to bring them out to the barn, or maybe they were already dead . . . There was no way to tell.
“So what do we do?” Manik asked.
“Hold your position,” Kealey repeated. “Just stay where you are. Massi, anything?”
“Negative. He went back to the north side of the building . . . I can’t see him.”
“Okay. Keep your eyes open. Let’s see what’s happening here,”
Kealey said.
Randall Craig was lying awake on the narrow bed, his hands clasped over his stomach. Ever since his abduction, his thoughts had been coming nonstop, so fast he feared his head might explode with the pressure. Over the last few hours, though, things had changed. His mind had been blank, almost as if he had slipped into a meditative state. He was struck by the irony; the end was drawing rapidly near, and yet he was becoming less and less concerned with the thought of escape. Simply put, he was mentally and physically exhausted, almost to the point that he no longer cared. At the same time, sleep was out of the question. He was caught in a strange limbo that was draining his body and mind with each passing minute. As a result, he didn’t hear the footsteps in the hall. Nor did he hear the key as it scraped in the brass latch. The first time he was aware of the man’s presence was when the door swung open, revealing a tall, slender figure framed in the doorway. Craig immediately swung his feet to the floor, then stood to face the Algerian. The man didn’t move into the room; instead, he merely stared at Craig and smiled.
“Doctor. It’s good to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
Craig looked at him warily. “I’m fine.”
“Good. If you don’t mind, the general would like you to step outside. He has something to show you.”
Somehow, Craig was able to maintain his neutral expression, though his knees nearly gave way when he heard the word outside. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed, but he didn’t reveal what he knew: that this was the end. He had seen them carrying the camera equipment into the barn, and he knew what was coming. Jesus, he thought to himself, they’re actually going to do it. Somehow, he was astonished by the possibility, even though he had known it was coming all along. He was suddenly struck by the same vision he’d seen the day before. He could see himself sitting in front of the camera, bound to a chair, with the obligatory flag tacked up behind. He could see the blade coming down, and he wondered if Fitzgerald would be forced to watch, if she would witness his final moments along with the rest of them.
He knew what was coming, but somehow, he managed to maintain his composure. Nodding dutifully, he stepped past the Algerian and walked down the hall. He was watching the whole time, taking everything in; with the end so near, his vision seemed unnaturally sharp. There was an armed guard at the end of the hall, and as he passed the open living room, he saw another man concealed in the shadows, standing next to the grand piano. Clearly, they’d thought he was going to run from the room. They’d been prepared to stop him, but as he passed the two men, he saw them relax, their shoulders drooping with the sudden release of tension. In their eyes, Craig was the threat, and the threat had just walked past.
Too soon, he thought to himself. He had to wait until he was out of the house, and then he would run. He probably wouldn’t get more than 10 feet, but he had to do it; there was no other choice. No one was going to help him. He briefly wondered where Qureshi was, then cursed himself for caring. After all, the surgeon had put him here. By giving his name to Mengal, he had sealed his fate. Were it not for Qureshi, Craig would still be working at the hospital by day, watching old movies by night, and anxiously waiting for the day he could fly back to Seattle, with a few good stories under his belt and another gold star to stick on his resume.
Fuck you, Said, Craig thought, the anger flaring up to engulf the fear. He was lashing out at the most convenient target for reasons he didn’t understand. Subconsciously, he was building up his nerve for what he was about to do.Fuck you. I hope they do kill you, and I hope you see it coming, you traitorous little bastard. . . . He was nearing the end of the hall. Sweat was pouring down his face in fine rivulets. His damp shirt was clinging to his torso, and his feet were mired in invisible mud. The door was just a few feet away, and once he stepped outside, there was no turning back. . . .
“Who the hell is that?” Walland asked, his voice cutting over the static. Kealey shifted his aim, peered throu
gh his scope, and watched as a tall, pale man came out of the house, the Algerian trailing a few steps behind. “Is that a hostage?”
“Got him,” Owen announced, ignoring the question. “Saifi’s right behind him.”
“That’s a new face,” Manik reported. “Doesn’t look like he’s armed . . .”
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