The Fourth Horseman (18 page)

A pair of embassy security officers in civilian clothes were checking the passengers according to a boarding list.

“Travis Parks,” McGarvey told the men. He handed one of them his passport.

“We understand your mission, Mr. Parks, but Ambassador Powers isn’t particularly pleased that you’re along for the ride,” the officer said. He checked McGarvey’s well-traveled passport closely before handing it back. “Will you be a part of our detail?”

“I’m just going over as an observer. I’ll try to stay out of everyone’s hair.”

“Do that,” the officer said.

Hefting his single bag McGarvey went up the stairs and inside the plane a steward directed him to a rear section of the cabin that contained general business-class seating for thirty-two staffers. Most of the seats were taken and the staffers looked up with curiosity, some with a little animosity as he stowed his bag in an overhead bin and took a seat in the last row across from the galley.

No one said anything to him, and once he was seated the other passengers went back to their conversations or to their laptops or telephones.

He phoned Otto. “I’m aboard, but it’s a little frosty.”

“Powers talked to you yet?”

“Probably not till we’re airborne.”

“I suppose it would be stupid of me to tell you not to annoy the man. He could send you back, no matter what Fay has to say about it. When he gets to his embassy he’s the boss.”

“I’ll go in the front door and right out the back soon as we get there.”

“To the Presidential Palace?”

McGarvey had thought quite a bit about what his first moves would be once he got in country. His target was the Messiah, but first getting to General Rajput and the Shahid of the TTP who’d taken up residence in the palace would probably be necessary.

“What’s the latest on Haaris?”

“As of an hour ago he was still in London.”

“In the hotel?”

“He had lunch at a pub in Notting Hill and then drove down to Charing Cross, where he parked in the station lot, and from what I was just told he’s taking a leisurely stroll along the river. But he’s being very careful with his tradecraft, almost as if he were trying to hide in plain sight even though he’s already been made.”

“Whatever moves he makes, tell Boyle to stay out of his way.”

“He already burned one of Boyle’s people at the airport, and in fact had the agent drive him to his hotel.”

“Whatever happens I want Tommy himself to stay away from Haaris. They’re old friends and I don’t want anything to interfere with Dave’s plans. And tell Boyle that if Haaris makes contact and wants to get together to beg off. I want to give him all the room in the world.”

“Sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,
kemo sabe
: what if we’re wrong, and Dave Haaris is not the Messiah?”

“Then we’re wrong. Still leaves the Messiah, whoever the hell he is,” McGarvey said. “Are your programs making any progress identifying the voice?”

“Sometimes they’re going around in circles. It’s almost as if the speaker disguised his voice that was inputted to the device. Maybe like adding a Southern accent, or an Indian accent, that was then altered. We may get to the false accent he used, but it might not tell us anything we can use. Could be he’s smarter than us.”

“Or thinks he is.”

*   *   *

They departed around four in the afternoon. The flight plan would take them to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany for refueling, and a layover, before they started their second leg to Islamabad. Touchdown was scheduled for eight in the morning.

A half hour later a steward came back with the drink cart, and McGarvey was told that there would be no alcohol service on the flight in respect for the Muslim tradition. He had a coffee instead. Still no one else bothered to speak to him or even look his way.

At six when they were well out over the Atlantic the same steward came back. “Ambassador Powers would like to see you in conference section,” he said.

McGarvey went forward to where Powers was seated at a small table. No one else was with him, and when the steward withdrew he pulled the curtain.

The ambassador, unlike his namesake father, was a short, stoop-shouldered man, slight of build. His face was square, his eyes deep-set, and he looked like a scholar, like a professor of history in some Northeastern school. He motioned for McGarvey to sit down.

“I argued against taking you along. The CIA chief of station is a capable man and runs a very tight operation. We don’t need a rogue operation out of the embassy. Not now, not under the present circumstances.”

“You mean of course the beheading of Pakistan’s president, the detonation of a nuclear device and the top Taliban terrorist in the Aiwan.”

Powers was vexed. “Don’t presume to tell me my job, Mr. Parks.”

“Nor should you try to tell me mine, Mr. Ambassador. We both have difficult assignments.”

“What exactly is yours?”

“To observe.”

“You work for the CIA, therefore in Pakistan you work for Mr. Austin. I want no mistake about that.”

McGarvey took out his sat phone and called Walt Page’s private number.

“You can’t use a telephone while we’re in the air,” Powers said.

McGarvey put it on speakerphone when Page answered.

“You must be in the air now, and I assume that you’re sitting across from Ambassador Powers, who has read you the riot act.”

“Something like that. He wants to put me under Austin’s umbrella.”

“Actually I want your Dr. Parks to leave my delegation as soon as we touch down at Ramstein,” Powers said. “We don’t need another spy just now. Diplomacy is the best defense for a situation that has spun nearly out of control.”

“I can call John Fay.”

“Secretary Fay is not in charge on the ground, I am.”

“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Ambassador,” Page said. “I’ll telephone the White House. Dr. Parks is working on a presidential mandate. I’ll call back.”

Powers sat forward. “For goodness’ sake, wait just a minute now,” he said. “There’s absolutely no reason to take this any further.”

“I’ll stay out of your way, Mr. Ambassador. You have my word on it,” McGarvey said. “I fact I won’t even be staying at the embassy.”

“In heaven’s name, where do you expect to go? I need to know what my staff is up to.”

“I’m not on your staff.”

Powers blustered for a moment or two.

“What’s your pleasure, Travis?” Page asked.

“I think that Ambassador Powers and I will come to an understanding, Mr. Director,” McGarvey said. He ended the call and got up. “I’m just hitching a ride to Islamabad. Once we’re there I’ll disappear. It will give you plausible deniability. You never knew who I was or even why I was on your flight.”

Before Powers could reply, McGarvey went back to the aft section, where he stopped at the galley to talk to the stewards. He did not raise his voice nor did he whisper.

“I’ll have a cognac. I think a nice Rémy will do. And with whatever you’re serving I’ll take a split of Dom if you have it, Veuve Clicquot if need be. But it damned well better be cold.”

McGarvey turned to go.

“Sir, we have our orders,” one of the stewards said.

“Am I going to have to shoot you?” He smiled.

PART

THREE

The Operation

THIRTY-THREE

The flight to Pakistan went without incident. They were directed to the military side of the airport, where they were met by an honor guard of Pakistani army, air force and navy at strict attention as Ambassador Powers came down the stairs.

A black Mercedes limo and five white vans were parked at the end of a long red carpet, the drivers also waiting at attention.

Powers and several of his top aides were met by Prime Minister Rajput, who was dressed in his army uniform.

No civilians had gathered for the arrival, but the fact that Rajput was in uniform was not lost on one of the men who had been seated just in front of McGarvey. “The general is making his point,” the man said to his seatmate. “Whatever else is going on here between the Messiah and Taliban, the army is still in charge.”

“They’re the ones with their fingers on the nukes,” McGarvey said, getting up and taking his bag from the overhead bin.

The two field service officers glared at him as he made his way to the front of the aircraft. Two men whom he’d not noticed earlier were waiting at the main door as others on Powers’s team left the plane.

The taller of them stepped forward to block McGarvey from leaving. “A word if you please. Dr. Parks. I’m Bob Thomas.”

“We don’t want any trouble,” the other man said. They were both young and well built, with the no-nonsense attitude of ex–Special Forces.

“Sounds good to me.”

“Mr. Austin asked us to escort you to the embassy, where he’d like to have a word before you leave Pakistan,” Thomas said.

“I’m surprised he didn’t come out here himself to meet the ambassador. But I suppose he’s a bit busy trying to figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Are you armed?” the second officer said.

“I don’t think it’d be very smart for an American to be running around Pakistan without some protection. Unless you guys were sent out to act as my bodyguards.”

“We’ll have your weapon,” Thomas said.

“No,” McGarvey said.

The man stepped forward. “We were instructed to take it, sir.”

“I don’t think you guys really want to have an incident here and now. Lots of people out there would take notice.”

A dozen foreign service officers were backed up in the aisle waiting to get off, but none of them said a word, waiting for the little drama to play out.

The limo carrying Powers and two of his top aides pulled away, escorted by two Hummers in the lead and two in the rear filled with armed Pakistani Special Forces troops.

“What say we just hitch a ride to the embassy,” McGarvey said. “I’m carrying a personal message for Ross from the director. And once he has it I’ll be out of your hair. No trouble. Promise.”

“Yes, sir,” the taller of the two said. “We’ll hold you to your word.”

*   *   *

The run into the diplomatic section of Islamabad went without incident. Life in the city had gone back to normal. No evidence of the disturbances over the past week were visible, nor were angry crowds lining the highway with protest signs. Traffic was heavy, but no one seemed to be in a hurry, no one seemed to be angry. No one honked their horn.

“It’s almost spooky,” one of the FSOs commented.

“Like the city is holding its breath waiting for the shoe to drop,” another one said.

“How long has it been like this?” McGarvey asked his minders.

“Ever since the Messiah took over,” Thomas said. “The place was under martial law until the parliament named General Rajput as acting PM and he lifted it.” He glanced at McGarvey. “It looks peaceful, but no one thinks it’s going to last. It’s why Mr. Austin didn’t want someone from Langley coming over here with an attitude, and carrying.”

“They invited us back.”

“The diplomats. Not us. Ever since Lundgren went missing we’ve been keeping a low profile.”

“Was he the one caught in the nuclear incident?”

“He was out there, and we haven’t heard from him since.”

“What about you guys? Is the ISI dogging you? Or are you being left alone?”

Thomas hesitated for just a moment. “If they were on us, I’d understand it; we’ve always had our rat packs. Twenty-four/seven, usually four teams rotating. In and out of the embassy, to and from our quarters, restaurants. Christ, even if we had to take a dump someone was always watching. But not in the past couple of days. Same with the British embassy staff, the French, Germans, Italians, everyone.”

“Unless they got better and no one has made them,” McGarvey suggested.

“I wish it was that simple,” Thomas said. “At least we’d know what to expect. But trust me, Parks, no one is following us. It’s one of the reasons Mr. Austin wants you to go back home. If you create an incident there’s no telling what the ISI will do. It’s like walking across a field of broken glass with bare feet: the wrong move and it’ll be a bloody mess.”

*   *   *

Powers was already inside the embassy, his limo and the four military escort vehicles gone when the five vans pulled up and their escorts left. Two marine guards at the main entrance stayed out of sight as much as possible, only opening the gate electrically when the drivers radioed ahead.

Thomas and the other escort brought McGarvey into the embassy past the security desk and up to the third-floor rear, where the CIA maintained a suite of offices under the guise of the American Information and Cultural Exchange Section.

Chief of Station, Pakistan, Ross Austin, alerted that they were on the way up, was waiting at the open door to his office, his jacket off, his collar open, his tie loose, sleeves rolled up: the pose of a man, who looked like a Packers’ linebacker, obviously deeply at work. He was a career intelligence officer who hoped one day to raise to at least a deputy director slot. His mentor was Marty Bambridge and at forty Austin fashioned himself after the DDO—pinch-nosed, disapproving, feigning surprise whenever something was set before him. But despite all of that the scuttlebutt was that he was a damned fine COS.

But, and it was a very large
but,
in McGarvey’s thinking, Ross Austin, like many chiefs of station,
was
the CIA in Pakistan. He was not only bright, he knew Pakistan and its government and especially its secret intelligence services better than just about anyone—other than Dave Haaris. At the very least he deserved the truth.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he told Thomas and the other officer, and motioned for McGarvey to join him.

Austin’s office was a mess of files, maps, newspapers and the translations of dozens of Pakistani magazines and television and radio broadcasts. He went behind his desk and McGarvey sat across from him.

“I talked to Walt Page last night, and he asked me to at least hear you out before I sent you away. I have an aircraft standing by to take you to Turkey—Incirlik—right now. Talk to me, Parks.”