The Fourth Horseman (26 page)

“Not directly,” Page admitted.

“Just understand, Mr. Director, that Bambridge and Susan Kalley are best buds. Talk to the president.”

FORTY-SEVEN

In the last hundred meters before the ceremonial front gate to the Secretariat, Haaris felt like Jesus Christ himself—or more like Lawrence of Arabia strutting in his costume. Arms outstretched to either side, he picked up the pace, so that he and the mufti were practically running. The crowd fell mostly silent and those in front respectfully parted for them.

Two armed guards swung open the iron gates at the foot of a shallow rise up which a paved driveway made its way through a stand of trees to the Secretariat’s main entrance.

Haaris suddenly stopped and turned to face the crowd that stretched down Constitution Avenue for as far as the eye could see. Now there were absolutely no sounds.

“My dear people,” he shouted theatrically, though only the people at the head of the mob could possibly hear him. He felt strong, even invincible.

All of America’s nuclear might had not stopped the 9/11 attacks from happening. Nor would her awesome power be able to stop him in time.

“The TTP’s mufti has come with me to this place to form Pakistan’s new government. A government of peace. A government to serve the people. A government to feed the poor, to heal the sick.”

Haaris was aware that the mood of the mufti beside him and the crowd stretched in front had immediately begun to change. Some of the people seemed confused. He looked at the mufti and smiled, then he turned back to the crowd.

“We will be a government of
Islami qanun
,” he shouted—sharia law, which meant actual legislation that dealt with everything from crime, to economics, to politics, as well as hygiene, diet, prayer, etiquette, even fasting and sex. All of it based on a strict interpretation of God’s infallible laws versus the laws of men.

Sharia was the real reason many Muslims gave for the jihad against the West. Until sharia was universal there could be no peace with the infidels.

Haaris meant to give it to them—or at least the promise of it—for the next two days. In his estimation the righteous attacks of 9/11, in which fewer than three thousand people had died, had not gone far enough. If they had, the backlash would have been even more severe than it had been. More terrible than the killing of bin Laden.

Had the plan been bolder the West would have shoved Islam back to the dark ages.

It’s what they wanted and Haaris would give it to him,
insha’ Allah
—God willing.

“Read the Quranic verses and follow the examples of our dear Muhammad set down in the Sunnah,” Haaris cried. “Be one with Allah, be one with us!”

The mob roared, and Haaris felt not only all-knowing, all-powerful; he also could feel his sanity slipping away bit by bit.

He started up the driveway, the mufti at his side.

“Did you mean all of that?” the Taliban spokesman asked.

“Of course, didn’t you believe me?” Haaris asked. “And I will require your help as well as the help of the military, the same as in Quetta.”

The mufti did not answer.

*   *   *

McGarvey heard the roar of the crowd as did Rajput, and the prime minister got up from behind his desk and went to the window. “He’s here and he’s brought someone with him.”

“Who is it?” McGarvey asked.

“I don’t know,” Rajput said. His phone rang and he answered it. “Yes,” he said. “Bring them up.”

“If you had to guess who’s with him,” McGarvey pressed, though he was just about sure who it was.

“Guessing is not needed. The Messiah has brought a representative from the Taliban, almost certainly the TTP, as I suspected he might whenever he turned up here.”

“To form a government with you?”

Rajput smiled, though it was clear he was concerned: something else was in his eyes, at the corners of his lips. “I imagine they’ll propose forming a triumvirate.”

“Will you go along with it? Will the parliament and the military?”

“Do you still insist on your interview, Dr. Parks, even though it has been revealed that you are nothing more than an analyst for the CIA?”

“I’m not an analyst for the CIA,” McGarvey said. “I’m a journalist.”

“With First Amendment rights.”

“Exactly.”

“Mr. Austin was lying.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Rajput asked.

“I’ll ask him if he’ll sit for an interview,” McGarvey said. “In the meantime, will the ISI be willing now to work with the Taliban? Could be an interesting partnership.”

“Indeed,” Rajput said. “Do you still wish to interview the Messiah?”

“It’s why I came to Pakistan,” McGarvey said.

“Then it will be so,” Rajput said. “But we have an old saying here that is the same as in the U.S.: Be careful what you wish for; you might just get it.”

*   *   *

Haaris and the TTP mufti were escorted up to the top floor of the Secretariat, where the armed guards left them in the broad corridor that led down to the PM’s office. Rajput’s secretary stood at the open door to the anteroom. A fair number of clerks and other functionaries had gathered at their office doors and in the far end of the corridor, but none of them said anything.

“Peace be upon thee,” Haaris said, raising his right hand as he and the mufti moved down the corridor.

Someone responded, “And peace be upon thee, Messiah.”

The secretary nodded. “Messiah, Mufti Fahad.”

“We’re here to meet with the prime minister,” Haaris said.

“He’s expecting you, sir,” the secretary replied, and he stepped aside.

Haaris was the first into the anteroom, the mufti just at his elbow. He stopped short. Rajput, in an ISI uniform shirt, the collar open, sleeves rolled up, stood at the tall doors to his office. Beside him was a man Haaris had never seen, but it was obvious that he was an American. His presence was unexpected, but there was nothing in Rajput’s expression to indicate who the man might be or if he was a possible problem.

Rajput met Haaris in the middle of the room and they embraced.

“Who is he?” Haaris whispered close in Rajput’s ear.

“You’ll see,” Rajput said, and they parted. He held out his hand for the mufti, who took it after brief hesitation. “Old enemies meet in peace at last.”

“It has been a long time coming,” the mufti said.

“Too long for Pakistan’s sake. But now we will put everything right.”

“Should I know this gentleman?” Haaris asked, indicating McGarvey.

“He is Travis Parks and among other things he claims to be an American journalist here for an exclusive interview with you,” Rajput said. “Probably with the three of us.”

“Among other things?” Haaris asked. His artificial voice no longer sounded strange in his ears. Nor did his Pashto.

“The CIA’s chief of station at the embassy claims that he is a CIA analyst who wants to trade information for asylum here. But his credentials as a writer pan out.”

The mufti was visibly affected. “The CIA is here?” he demanded.

“And why not,” Haaris replied. “Assuming he’s not armed.” He switched to English. “Mr. Parks, it was very inventive of you to find me.”

“I merely had to follow the crowds, sir,” McGarvey said.

“And now that you’re here, what do you want?”

“I’m a journalist, but the mufti believes otherwise. He believes that I work for the CIA. I do not.”

“Very well, you will have your interview,” Haaris said. “But, Mr. Parks, it will be a two-way interview. An exchange, shall we say, of ideas and ideals. Do you agree?”

“Of course.”

FORTY-EIGHT

McGarvey was made to wait in the anteroom for nearly a half hour while Haaris and the TTP spokesman met with Rajput. There’d been no hint of recognition in Haaris’s eyes when he’d come face-to-face with McGarvey, exactly what Mac wanted. If Haaris had seen through the disguise it would have been impossible to get anywhere near him. But if he was pushed by a journalist, or even someone else from the CIA, he might start making mistakes, especially if there was validity to the two-day timetable suggested by the imposter in London.

It was a double-edged sword for all of them. In the first place, McGarvey knew that Haaris wanted publicity. He needed his identity as the Messiah, and not as a high-ranking CIA operative, to be rock solid around the world—especially in London and Washington. The man could not afford to create a panic. For now he was all about peace and cooperation between the government and the Taliban.

On the other hand, if he suspected that McGarvey was a CIA spy here to gather information, Haaris would be caught between a rock and a hard place; he’d want Mac to report back to Washington that the Messiah was really a voice of stability in the region, and yet the presence of a CIA spy meant someone at Langley might suspect Haaris’s real identity.

For McGarvey’s purposes, he wanted Haaris to have some serious concerns, not necessarily that the CIA had sent an operative here, but that its purpose was to out him and then either reel him back home or assassinate him.

The prime minister’s secretary answered a string of telephone calls with the same reply: “I’m sorry, but the prime minister is in conference at the moment and cannot be disturbed.”

But it was in English, for McGarvey’s benefit: the government of Pakistan was going on as normal, there was nothing to worry about.

The telephone rang again and the secretary answered it. “Yes, sir,” he said. “They are ready for you now, Dr. Parks.”

McGarvey went into the office, the secretary closing the door softly behind him.

Three ornate armchairs had been set up in a semicircle across a low table facing a plain office chair. Rajput and the mufti sat on either side of Haaris. This was to be more of an inquisition than an interview.

He took his seat, facing them. “Thank you, gentlemen, for agreeing to this interview on such short notice, but the events of the past few days have been nothing short of stunning. My readers would like to know more.”

“I’m sure they would,” Haaris said. “Your telephone was taken from you downstairs, a curious device, from what I’ve been told, protected by a very serious password. I’m assuming that you record your interviews on it. Would you like to use one that the prime minister is willing to provide you?”

“Thank you, sir, but it’s not necessary. I have a very good memory.”

“As you must in a profession such as yours. How may we be of assistance?”

“May I see your face, sir?”

“There is no need for it at this time,” Haaris said.

“Can you tell me something of your background? Experts I have spoken with tell me that yours is a Pashtun accent but with a strong hint of a proper British education.”

“It is true I am Pashtun and it is also true that I was taken to England as a young man, where I received a first-class education.”

“Do you still hold a British passport?”

“Yes, as well as a Pakistani one.”

“May we know under what name?”

Haaris laughed softly, and for just an instant McGarvey thought he recognized it. “‘The Messiah’ will suffice for now; it is the people’s choice.”

“One definition of the word is a zealous leader of a cause,” McGarvey pressed.

“I think that the people had in mind the deliverer they’d hoped for.”

“A deliverer of what?”

“Not
of
what but
from
what,” Haaris said. “From the strife that has torn this country apart for most of its history. Before we can expect to be at peace with the world we must first be at peace with ourselves.”

“Does that include India?”

Rajput bridled, but Haaris held him off with a gesture. “Especially India.”

“And the U.S.?”

“I wasn’t aware that we were at war with your country,” Haaris said. “I rather thought that we were partners in the war against terrorists.” He looked at the mufti. “A war that has gone on entirely too long, at a cost so dear it hurts us all.”

“Peace, you say,” McGarvey said. “That was begun with the beheading of Pakistan’s properly elected president, and the suicide or possible assassination of the prime minister?”

“Both of them were corrupt,” Rajput answered. “We have proof that both of them were siphoning aid money, for their own purposes, that we were receiving from the U.S.”

“Wouldn’t it have better suited your purpose to arrest them and place them on trial?”

“No,” Haaris said. “Pakistan was in dramatic trouble; a dramatic solution was needed to get the people’s attention.”

“By ‘dramatic trouble,’ are you referring to the nuclear event near Quetta? It’s thought that perhaps the Taliban hijacked a nuclear weapon that was being moved and somehow set it off.”

“We’re investigating that possibility. But there have been other attacks, as you well know. Attacks on the military headquarters, the killing of innocent citizens. Suicide bombers. Tribal warfare along the border with Afghanistan. The list is long.”

“Why do you think that the U.S. ordered the strikes against Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal? And why has it been kept out of the press? There must have been many casualties on both sides.”

None of the three men seemed to be affected by the question. But Haaris took a long time to answer.

“I’m told that you may be a journalist, but that the CIA’s chief of station here claims that you are a rogue CIA analyst who’s come to trade information for asylum.”

“He’s wrong,” McGarvey said.

Again Haaris took his time in responding. “I expect he might be, but I don’t know his reasons, except that you are probably an NOC, perhaps even freelance. But here to do what, exactly? Something beyond your orders, making you a rogue operator but of a different sort than he suggests?”

“Have you heard of a man by the name of David Haaris?”

If any of them reacted, it could have been Rajput, but the changes in his expression and demeanor were so slight as to be scarcely noticeable.

“No, is it significant?” Haaris asked.

“General Rajput certainly knows him. They’ve worked together for several years, from what I was told.”