Black Skies (4 page)

D
an Morgan pulled his Mustang into the garage of the Hampton Building in downtown Boston and went to the lowest level of the garage, to a northeast corner far from any stairwell or elevator. He got out, locked his car, and walked to an unassuming plain off-white door in the concrete wall, with a simple key card reader mounted on the wall next to it.

He swiped his card and was admitted into a pitch-black room. Once the door was closed, fluorescent lights came on, revealing a small chamber, all in concrete to match the parking lot, with a reinforced steel door ahead of him. He opened a breaker box next to the door, then unfastened the breaker panel via a hidden latch. The panel swung open to reveal a retinal and fingerprint scanner. He laid his hand on the panel then put his eyes up to the scanner. The machine beeped, and the door unlocked.

Morgan shivered as he entered the air-conditioned environment. There was a short, brightly lit corridor, wood-paneled and carpeted in a way that seemed to call for ambient Muzak. The corridor led to the top of a staircase which in turn led down into the War Room. The vast chamber, with its long conference table and walls lined with monitors, had three corridors going off into the various recesses of the facility, which took up several levels and the entire breadth of the building under which it had been built. There were offices, debriefing rooms, living quarters complete with kitchen and gym, and even an engineering lab for their genius-in-residence, Eugenia Barrett. This was the heart of Zeta Division, where everything came together. And above it all, opposite the big screen, up a curving flight of open steel and glass stairs, overseeing everything, was Diana Bloch’s office, suspended from the ceiling and closed off by glass walls that could become opaque if she wanted them to.

Half a dozen people occupied the War Room. Of these, Morgan only knew three well. At the table engrossed in something on his laptop was Lincoln Shepard, their computer security wiz, pale like he rarely, if ever, saw the sun, with permanent red eyes, his blond hair standing up at every angle like he had just gotten out of bed, wearing jeans and a rumpled red T-shirt with some sort of old video game character on it.

Standing next to him and looking on his screen was Karen O’Neal, a lean, petite half-Vietnamese woman of about thirty, dressed, as usual, professionally but always, Morgan noted, with a casual flair. Talking at the foot of the stairs to her office was the capo herself, Diana Bloch. She was an impeccable woman, always dressed like she was going to meet the President, hair in a tight bun and always bearing an expression of steely professionalism. She was with Paul Kirby and a woman he did not recognize. The operation had grown significantly in the past year, and gave them a good deal more resources while still keeping the team small and agile. It had been a good year for them.

“Morgan.” Bloch had spotted him, and was walking toward him. As she drew closer, Morgan noticed that her hair was not as precise as it had seemed, and she had bags under her eyes. “What took you so long?” He opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t let him, cutting in with the terse, clipped tone that she adopted whenever she was in a hurry. “Never mind, I don’t care. Kirby,” she said to the analyst who had followed her over, “fill him in. I need to check in with our contacts in Washington. Oh, and Morgan,” she added, “this here is Louise Dietz. She’s new. I’ll let you make your own introductions. And don’t go easy on her. She may be shy, but she knows what she’s doing.” Bloch walked off in the direction of Lincoln Shepard and Karen O’Neal.

“So, this is Louise Dietz,” Kirby repeated, barely raising his eyes from the file he had in his left hand, waving his right in halfhearted introduction. Paul Kirby was one of the newcomers. His head was large and oval, with a receding hairline that only accentuated the effect, a thin pointed nose and small eyes that gave him a vaguely weasel-like aspect. He was meticulous and precise, which was in itself an asset in his work, but tended to rub Morgan the wrong way.

“Nice to meet you,” said Dietz, shaking his hand, trying to hide her nervousness. She was slightly taller than Morgan, but she still had the body language of a scholar, quiet and introverted, with shoulder-length brown hair and plain clothes in muted colors that said that she groomed and dressed to be presentable but to call as little attention to herself as possible.

“Dietz does criminal psychology and profiling,” Kirby said.

“Terrorism, mostly,” she said. “I wrote my PhD thesis on Haider Raza.”

“Well, you should feel right at home, then,” said Morgan, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s a trial by fire, of sorts,” she said with a half smile.

“Hell of a first day.” He turned to Kirby. “What did I miss?”

“Come on, walk with me. What do you know?”

“Only what was on the radio,” said Morgan as they walked down a corridor, with Dietz following. “The Secretary of State’s motorcade attacked in Islamabad. At the airport. Apparently there were explosions, and the Secretary of State is missing, but they’ve not been generous with the details. Whatever else there is, it’s not being broadcast to the public.”

“In here,” said Kirby. He turned into an office and Morgan followed. It was a medium-sized office, windowless like the rest of Zeta, but with bright, yellow lights designed to mimic sunlight—something to do with making people more alert, according to Barrett. A printer, a scanner, and two monitors were neatly aligned on a desk that stood against the wall. He sat down on a leather-upholstered office chair, and motioned for Dietz to sit beside him.

Morgan pulled up a chair on the other side of Kirby. “We’ve got some preliminary surveillance footage,” he said. “It came in through our CIA contact, from the team they have in place at the airport.” He pulled the video up on the screen, black and white and jerky, showing a line of black cars moving along the tarmac toward a large airplane—Secretary Wolfe’s convoy. “It’s not exactly high-definition video.”

“Not going to be easy to see anything useful in these,” said Morgan.

“We might be able to get some better quality video from the local press, but for now, this is what we have. Watch. Here’s when the first rocket hits.” The rocket itself was a blurred blip on a single frame of video. Following that there was a bright flash of white on the lead car, which resolved itself into flames in about two seconds. “And the next.” A few seconds after that, there was another flash—the third car was hit. “As you can see, this isn’t a random attack. They knew which cars to hit, and which to spare.”

“That spells leak,” said Morgan.

“Maybe,” said Kirby. “But I prefer to have all the facts before coming to a conclusion like that.”

Morgan turned to Dietz. “What’s your professional opinion?”

She stammered, drawing her hands to herself in alarm. “S-successful terror attacks tend to show a great degree of planning, but I think you’re right in this case. The video seems to show that they have information they shouldn’t be privy to.”

“We’re working on getting a list of people who had access to the details of the Secretary’s protocols from the Diplomatic Security Service,” said Kirby. “We’re also getting regular updates from our contacts in the CIA, NSA, and Pakistani intelligence. I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t let them do the heavy lifting on this.”

“Not unless you want to make sure it’s done right,” said Morgan, still eying the video. A member of the Secretary’s security detail had gotten out of the car and was taken out by a sniper.

Kirby ignored him. “No one has yet claimed responsibility, but—”

“But there’s a name on everyone’s mind,” said Morgan. “Haider Raza. Do you think he’ll claim the attack?”

“That’s
assuming
he didn’t take the Secretary just to extract whatever he could get out of him,” said Kirby testily.

“Actually, information is probably not the reason they abducted him,” broke in Dietz. She seemed to be surprised by her own boldness. She opened her mouth to continue speaking but faltered. She started up again, animatedly now. “The Secretary of State is at too high a level to have information immediately useful to a terror cell. He might know about general strategies, and maybe they get lucky if he has knowledge of a surprise attack, but mostly it would be useless to Raza. Usually, terrorists prefer targets that provide a tactical advantage. Commanders out in the field who will know about particular troop positions and movements—that kind of thing. With the Secretary of State, it’s more likely that they will have demands.” She cast her eyes down, as though she suddenly remembered she was supposed to be shy. “At least that’s what I think.”

“I think you’re gonna do fine here,” said Morgan, impressed. “In any case, I wouldn’t want to be in the poor bastard’s shoes.” Then, to Kirby, “So what can I do?”

“For now?” said Kirby. “Look at the tapes, and whatever else comes in. We could use expert eyes on everything we’ve got. That goes for you too, Louise. Plus, you want to know whatever you can if you’re called on to spring into action. Meanwhile, we’re working on getting our own man on the ground. Bloch tells me you know him. Guy named Cougar.”

“You could say that I do,” said Morgan. Code Name Cougar was Peter Conley’s alias in the field.

“Is he good?” asked Kirby.

“Almost as good as I am.”

P
eter Conley had not taken his eyes from his laptop computer as he traveled on the Cessna Citation X that had brought him from Yemen, where he’d been touching base with Zeta assets on the ground, looking into Raza’s possible sources of funding. Updates came in constantly, compiled in real time by people at Zeta from their key people in various intelligence agencies.

Conley knew he looked incongruous in the luxurious aircraft, wearing his khaki shirt, denim, and sneakers, but he wasn’t the type to dress up when he could avoid it. He certainly had no time to enjoy the amenities that the aircraft boasted—it was a loan from a Yemeni businessman friendly with Zeta—except maybe the wide, comfortable leather seats. And yet even those beckoned him to sleep, something he was craving after a few recent sleepless nights, but that was out of the question. The work he had to do now was too urgent.

From the bar fully stocked with the most expensive alcohol in the world, he only drank water and one cup of coffee on boarding. He barely looked twice at the statuesque, bored-looking blonde who was serving drinks—he wasn’t rich enough to warrant the all-smiles treatment. Normally, he’d be planting the seeds that would get her to come back to his hotel room at their destination. Ruefully, he thought, casting a quick glance in her direction, there’d be no time for that today.

Instead, Peter Conley kept his eyes on the pictures of the site of the attack, which were already circulating in the intelligence community—official cars spewing heavy smoke, the ground strewn with dead bodies, blood darkening the tarmac, and the airplane, whose flames reached up to twice its own height. Two hours into his four-hour flight, the sun was already low in the sky, and the people on the ground had only begun to sort out all the evidence.

The President appeared on TV and made the official announcement to the nation. Conley followed the closed captioning, the video on silent. The speech was short and dry, stating that the Secretary of State had been abducted by unknown terrorists, and that the entire US Intelligence community was mobilizing en masse in response to the crisis.

New information was coming in at a trickle, and nothing much worth noting, so he spent most of the rest of his time on the plane catching up on the latest developments of the major players in Pakistan. He struggled to keep awake as time ticked by slowly, until something came up on his screen. A video, taken by a member of the press that had been near the airplane when the convoy was approaching. It showed the cars coming near, and then jolted from the explosion on the airplane.

The videographer took cover, the camera bucking wildly as he ran, but then he turned back to the scene. It focused on the attackers’ Jeep—the closest one, then another, off to the right. It showed as they pursued the Secretary’s car and mowed down several of the Diplomatic Security Servicemen. Some of them shot back, however, managing to take cover from sniper fire near the burning airplane. As the attackers left their Jeep to take the Secretary, two were shot as they ran toward the car, then a third straggler was shot going back. It cut off a few seconds after they disappeared out of the airport. Conley watched the video carefully, again and again, taking note of every detail, as the sun dipped in the sky and evening approached.

The Cessna touched down on a private airfield outside Islamabad. The main airport had been shut down following the attack. Conley knew it had taken significant connections to secure even this landing—if he’d been less lucky, he might have ended up in Peshawar or Nowshera, both at least an hour and a half away from the Pakistani capital.

Harun Syed, a local asset with whom Conley had worked before, was already waiting for him on the edge of the runway. They embraced like old friends. Conley had this effect on people, an ability to make people like him almost instantly, which was one of his greatest advantages as a field operative. They walked together to Harun’s car, an ugly, boxy silver Daihatsu, and set off on the congested N5 National Highway toward the airport.

“So, what is the word?” asked Harun, in English. He was a balding man, almost forty, with a handsome, friendly face, a close-cropped black beard and thick eyebrows that almost met in the middle.

“You tell me,” said Conley. Harun worked for the FIA, the Pakistani version of the FBI, in their counterterrorism division. His working with Conley was tacitly condoned by his superiors, as Conley made sure to supply them with morsels of valuable intelligence from time to time—the kind that was mutually beneficial to share, of course.

“Our headquarters is in a panic,” said Harun “The Americans are breathing down our necks. Accusations are flying free. They think our government had something to do with the abduction.”

“And did you?” Conley asked. Harun’s lips grew taut and he tightened his grip on the wheel.

“Do you think I would stand silently by as my country committed suicide by doing this? No, Cougar. There is no great government conspiracy.”

“That you know of,” Conley pushed.

“I would know of it!” he exclaimed. “Look, we are giving you Americans free rein to conduct your investigations in our country. We want to know who did this as much as any of you. We have nothing to hide.” Harun looked forward, fuming at the suggestion.

Conley sighed. It was no use alienating him. “I’m sorry, Harun. I had to ask.”

“Of course you did,” he said. “You’re an intelligence asshole, just like me.” He laughed, the tension between them dissipating.

“Not as big an asshole as you, though,” said Conley, chuckling. “How is your wife?”

“A mother, and I a father!” he said with pride. “A little girl. Na-jiya.”

“That’s great news, Harun. Congratulations!” He patted the Pakistani on the shoulder. “We need to celebrate.”

“After the mission,” he said.

“And what is the mission?” asked Conley. “I thought you were just dropping me off.”

“What am I, your driver?” said Harun. “Not a chance. I am coming with you. You are stuck with me, my friend.”

They passed rows of palm trees along the darkening road. Then Harun asked, all the energy and enthusiasm gone, “Do you think there will be war?”

“If they find any evidence that someone—and I mean
anyone
at all—in your government was involved in this, all bets are off. Next year’s an election year, and hawks win elections. Rhetoric’s going to fly high, and candidates are going to try to one-up one another. All politics is going to be pushing the President to war. At the very least, heads will have to roll.”

“Supposing there
is
someone in the government involved,” Harun said grudgingly, “it is entirely likely they would be protected by certain powerful factions in our nation.”

“Then let’s make sure we do our job right,” said Conley.

It was night by the time they arrived at Benazir Bhutto International Airport. They elbowed their way past the press, national and international, many of whom had camped out outside the airport. They kept a respectful and prudent distance from the cordon of armed guards, whom Conley and Harun approached. Harun flashed his identity and spoke quietly to the guard, then motioned for Conley to approach.

“Someone’s coming to admit us to the scene,” said Harun. “Let’s see if your people managed to get you a ticket inside.” It was several minutes before the contact appeared, a heavyset, dark bearded man with a stiff, suspicious face. He and Harun exchanged a few words in Urdu, identifying themselves. Then the man said, looking at Conley, “And who is the American?”

“Peter Brewer, CIA Counterterrorism Center,” he said, flashing his ID for that particular alias. He used his real first name—common enough not to give him away—in order to avoid blowing his cover. A person’s reaction to his first name is deeply ingrained, and could be enough to tip off an enemy to the false identity.

“Naseer Awan,” said the man. “FIA. Come with me, I’ll take you to where the Americans are coordinating.”

“I didn’t schlep all the way out here for you to tell me what I can see on a computer screen,” said Conley. “Roger wants eyes and ears that he trusts on the ground,” he said, referring to the head of Counterintelligence by his code name.

“I’ve already given the CIA man the tour,” he said. “Your people are setting up in there. You can coordinate with them, and they can give you the information you need.”

“I don’t play well with others,” said Conley. “And I’m not here to work with the other suits.”

“All right, all right,” Awan said, waving his hand for them to follow. “Whatever you say. Come in, I can show you around.”

They walked toward the site of the attack. The air grew acrid with suspended smoke as they approached, and Conley’s eyes watered. He heard intermittent coughing around them, and felt the tickle in his own throat. The fire from the airplane was still smoldering, and the tarmac was blackened in various spots. Enormous floodlights lit up everything, while dozens of men bustled about, scouring every inch of the area. Awan led Conley and Harun through the scene.

“Here is the Secretary’s car,” he said. It was in largely good shape, structurally, but for the broken window on the passenger’s side and the back door, which was bent where it had been forced open. The front seats and passenger’s-side window, however, were covered in blood.

“They came prepared,” said Conley, pointing to where the Secretary’s door had been pried open. The thick metal had been bent. “Hydraulic tools. These guys knew exactly what they were doing.” He turned to Awan. “Have you found where the snipers were located?” asked Conley.

“Two spots along the roof,” said Awan. “We found the mats they left behind. Nothing significant, apart from their locations.”

“How’d they get up there?” Conley asked.

“Surveillance showed they got in dressed as maintenance workers. You can check that out with your people.”

“Do you have any idea if they got any inside help?”

“All airport personnel have been taken aside for questioning,” Awan said, pissy at the implication. “As you see, gentlemen, there isn’t too much here,” he said. “You can wait for forensics. They will be able to tell you more. Meanwhile, the surveillance video has already been turned over to all investigating agencies, including the CIA.”

“Can I talk to the survivors?” asked Conley.

“They have already been removed to the embassy,” said Awan. “Speak to your own people if you wish to have access to them.”

“How about the attackers?”

“We’ve laid them out over here. Come on.” Morgan and Harun followed him a few dozen feet where two bodies lay on the ground in open body bags. They were young men, one bearded and the other clean-shaven. Their clothes were simple, typical for the city and well worn.

“No identification, of course. No personal effects, except cheap digital watches. We are running them through every database we have. I believe the CIA is doing the same.”

“Where’s the third?” asked Conley.

Awan looked at him suspiciously. “Where did you hear about a third?”

“I saw video of the abduction,” said Conley. “Three men were left behind. Do you know where he is?”

“He was alive,” said Awan. “He was sent to the hospital.”

“That wasn’t in the field reports,” said Conley. “Why wasn’t this shared with the other agencies? Having a living witness would have—”

“He died,” cut in Awan. “On the way. In the ambulance.”

“Was he gravely injured?” asked Conley.

“The first people on the scene did not think so,” said Awan. “He did not go in the first ambulances, which were reserved for the victims, specifically those more gravely injured. But perhaps it was worse than they thought.”

Conley frowned. Important as victims were, having one of the attackers alive in their hands could lead them to the people behind this—and to the Secretary. “Do you know where his body was taken?” he asked. “I’d like to get a picture and an autopsy report.”

“That information will be shared with the agencies in time,” said Awan.

“Maybe I can get a head start if I—”

“I have things to do now if you don’t mind, gentlemen. I suggest you check in with your people and ask them for whatever you need from now on.” Awan walked away, motioning to an investigator who was leaning over the Secretary’s car.

“So what do you make of it?” asked Harun once Awan was out of earshot.

“The attacker. The one who survived. I’m not buying the story on his death. There’s something about it . . .”

“Do you think Awan was lying?”

“I don’t know.” Conley rubbed his chin between his thumb and index finger. “But someone is. There was one living person left here who could tell us who was behind this. One key to finding the Secretary. And that person conveniently died before anyone got to interrogate him.”

“You are grasping at straws, my friend,” said Harun. “There is no significance to his death. Just a man who took a little longer to die than the rest.”

“Say what you like, Harun, but I’ve got a hunch. How many people to an ambulance in the city?”

“Islamabad? Could be three, I don’t know, but for an emergency like this? It is probably just the driver and a paramedic.”

“Then we need to find them,” said Conley. “Yesterday.”

“That’s a lot of work for a hunch,” said Harun.

“I’ve been at this a long time, Harun. You know what it’s like when you get that feeling. Like you just
know
you have a lead. You
know
which way you need to go.”

“It will take hours, Cougar. And these are hours we cannot spare.”

“If I’m right, then we have even less time to track them down,” Conley insisted. “The Agency boys have the other bases covered. Look, you can argue with me, but I’m gonna do this.”