The Fourth Horseman (31 page)

The line went dead.

There was no lock on the door, so McGarvey wedged a chair against the handle, and holstering the pistol went to the windows, which like those at the CIA were double-paned and likely flooded with white noise. But unlike at the CIA the windows were not sealed; unlatched, they swung open.

The building was constructed like a ziggurat, each lower floor jutting out from the one above. McGarvey climbed out and hung full length for just a moment before he dropped the fifteen feet or so to the roof below. Looking over his shoulder as he ran, he tried to spot someone watching him from a window, or perhaps from the roof above, which bristled with antennas and satellite dishes. And he half expected to come under fire.

But he reached the edge of the roof. The drop here was about the same as from the fourth floor. Many of the offices were lit, the glow reaching through the windows.

Picking a spot between windows, he hung over the edge again and dropped. He landed off balance and fell hard on his side. A stab of pain in his right hip when he got up nearly caused that leg to buckle, but he reached the wall and flattened himself against it.

He waited there for just a couple of seconds before he took a quick look through the window beside him into a large space broken up into cubicles, most of which were manned. As far as he could tell from the brief snapshot, no one was coming to investigate.

Favoring his right leg he dropped to the roof of the first floor, and despite the intense pain rolled to the wall, again between windows. He had a much harder time getting to his feet. Some of the windows were lit on the second floor, but the office he looked into was dark, the only light coming from the open door to the corridor.

Half hobbling, half running, he got to the edge of the roof and without hesitation dropped the last fifteen feet into a line of bushes just as a jeep came up the driveway and suddenly came to a stop.

McGarvey got to his feet as a slightly built man in uniform, three sergeant stripes on his sleeves, came through the bushes, a Kalashnikov rifle at the ready.

But he was totally surprised. He said something in Punjabi, but then caught the two pips of a lieutenant on Mac’s shoulder boards and started to stiffen.

McGarvey lurched forward, grabbed the sergeant in a headlock and before the man could cry out, broke his neck. It took nearly thirty seconds before the sergeant finally lost consciousness.

Taking the rifle Mac pushed his way through the bushes and got into the jeep. No alarm had been sounded yet because of the phone call or because someone had spotted him making his way across the roofs, but the silence wouldn’t last much longer. And once it did happen, the entire ISI compound would go into immediate lockdown. At that point getting out would become unlikely.

He propped the rifle on the passenger seat so that he could get to it instantly. Someone came on the radio and barked an order. Almost instantly a one-word reply came back.

The main access road swung around the north and south sides of the main building to the front gate, but a much narrower lane headed west off the south road down a long row of tall, slender cedars. The parade field stretched off to the right, and a row of smaller buildings that could have been barracks for the enlisted men lay to the south. Nothing moved anywhere, and only the brilliantly lit headquarters gave any indication that something out of the ordinary was going on. Pakistan was in what some of the local media were calling a “welcome crisis,” to counter the Western media’s tagline of a “velvet revolution.”

Passing a broad paved driveway that led from the barracks to the parade ground, where troops could march up for review, he had to turn left at the end of the driveway to the back gates, less than fifty feet away.

He pulled up at the double-chain-link fence topped with razor wire. An inner gate opened onto a no-man’s section a little longer than a troop transport truck, which was blocked by the outer gate. Vehicles coming in or out would be trapped between the two gates until a positive ID could be made.

A uniformed sergeant came out of the guardhouse, a Kalashnikov rifle slung over his shoulder. Behind him another enlisted man stood at the open door. He had a sidearm but no rifle in hand.

The sergeant said something as he approached, but five feet away he suddenly stopped short and reached for his rifle.

McGarvey pulled the Beretta and shot the man center-mass twice.

The guard in the gatehouse reacted, but McGarvey was out of the jeep and to the doorway as the man was grabbing his sidearm from its holster.

Mac pointed the pistol directly at the guard’s head. “Open both gates.”

The guard didn’t respond, though McGarvey was sure that he understood English by the look in his eyes.

“Now, or I will shoot you,” Mac said.

The guard turned to the left to reach the two green levers for the gates, but instead he slammed the palm of his hand into a large red button and immediately a klaxon broke the early morning air.

Mac fired one shot into the side of the man’s head, and as the guard went down, McGarvey shoved his body aside and swung both green levers.

The two gates began to open as Mac jumped into the jeep and drove forward.

Just inside the no-man’s-land the second gate, less than half open, began to close.

Mac accelerated, the front right fender of the jeep catching the leading edge of the gate, knocking it just far enough so that he could get through.

Even more lights came on all over the ISI compound as McGarvey hauled the jeep around the tight corner to the left and onto the service road, and fewer than a hundred yards later turned right on what he thought was an empty Khayaban Highway.

A car, lights on its roof, suddenly passed and then turned directly into his path, leaving him no choice but to run off the road.

FIFTY-SEVEN

McGarvey drew the pistol as Pete jumped out of the red Mercedes and ran back to him, a look of intense relief on her face. Searchlights stabbed the air behind them and more sirens started up.

“Are you wounded?” Pete demanded as McGarvey grabbed the Kalashnikov and struggled to get out of the jeep.

“I banged up my leg getting out,” he said, almost collapsing.

Pete took his arm, put it over her shoulder and helped him to the cab as Thomas jumped out. Between the two of them they got him in the backseat and Pete climbed in beside him.

Thomas made another U-turn on the still-deserted highway and two blocks away turned onto a side road that led into the Rose and Jasmine Garden. Following even narrower roads he wound his way into the deeper woods to the east. From here they could just make out the highway.

“We can’t stay here long,” Thomas said. “But as soon as the search widens we’ll take a chance on Club Road. I know a couple of shortcuts to get us to my place in Rawalpindi.”

“Otto’s going to crash the ISI’s mainframe,” McGarvey said. “Soon as he does it they’re going to know for sure that I’m CIA and all hell is going to break loose.”

“He’s already done it once, and he’s going to shut them down even longer just as the morning shift shows up,” Pete said. “It’ll play hell with their security routines.”

“Thanks for picking me up, guys, but what the hell are you doing here, Pete? I told you to stay home.”

“Like I would.”

Mac was vexed, but without her he wouldn’t have gotten more than a few blocks before he’d have had to ditch the jeep and make his way on foot. “Thanks, to both you and Milt.”

“Otto’s going to set up a SEAL Team Six extraction for us up to Jalalabad, but not until tonight. In the meantime we’re going to go to ground at Milt’s place.”

“They’re not going to come to me until they’re sure that you managed to escape,” Thomas said. “But then they’re going to call up all of their assets.”

“Time for you to come home,” McGarvey said.

“I’ve been thinking the same thing lately. And despite what the local media is reporting, most people are nervous about suddenly being pals with the Taliban. Everyone is sure they were responsible for the nuclear explosion outside of Quetta, and that maybe more of the bombs are still missing.”

A jeep, its siren blaring, passed by on the highway, followed immediately by a pair of open troop-transport trucks filled with helmeted soldiers.

“That took longer than I thought it would,” Thomas said. “No one wants to accept responsibility.”

“Soon as they find the jeep they’ll figure I’m on foot and they’ll send helicopters to look for me,” McGarvey said.

“And this’ll be one of the first places they’ll look,” Thomas said, slamming the car in gear.

Headlights off, he followed a footpath that snaked through the woods, the lower branches of the trees scraping against the sides of the car. They came out behind a group of buildings, among them a maintenance shed. A campground was off to the left. A driveway around front led up to Club Road just above a cloverleaf that connected it with Murree Road. Both were major highways during rush hour, which would begin in less than an hour.

Back to the west two helicopters were rising from the ISI compound as Thomas turned south onto the broad road, passing around the cloverleaf, and then speeding up.

“Did anyone spot you this morning?” McGarvey asked.

“A couple of truck drivers, but no one saw us when we picked you up, I made sure of it,” Thomas said.

McGarvey looked out the rear window as one of the helicopters dipped low over the campground and set up what looked like a search pattern. For now they had a little breathing room. But it wouldn’t be long before the search expanded.

“How far to your place?” he asked.

“About ten K from here,” Thomas said. A blinding light from above swept over them. “Down,” he shouted.

McGarvey grabbed Pete’s arm and dragged her with him to the floor, the pain in his hip like a lightning bolt to his system.

Thomas slowed down, stuck his head out the window and waved.

The Aérospatiale Alouette III helicopter swung to the driver’s side of the car, and flying sideways about twenty feet up, kept pace. Someone said something in Punjabi over a loud hailer.

“They want to know who I am,” Thomas said
. “Gohir,”
he shouted in Punjabi. “But police call me the Fox.”

The crewman said something else.

“They’ve ordered me to pull over and stop,” Thomas said. “They mean to search us.”

“Do it,” Mac said. “But be ready to get us out of here.”

“Right.”

McGarvey switched the Kalashnikov’s fire-selecter lever to full automatic. “Stay down,” he told Pete as he rose and began firing directly at the cockpit canopy.

The pilot swung hard to the left, exposing the tail section and fuel tanks.

Mac let the rounds walk aft, hitting the crewman perched in the open doorway, who’d managed to get off a few rounds of returning fire, and punching holes in the fuselage, finally hitting the fuel tank and turbine.

The chopper spun farther left, its nose dipping when a fireball rose out of the engine and a split instant later a bang shattered the early morning air and the machine disintegrated as it hit the ground.

Thomas accelerated away.

“Is everybody okay?” McGarvey asked.

“Jesus,” Pete said. “I’m fine.”

“Milt?” McGarvey asked, checking the magazine. It was empty.

“As long as they didn’t get a chance to use their radio, we should be okay. But take off the uniform shirt or at least get rid of the epaulets, and Pete, cover your hair. We’re coming up on a residential and business section and there’s bound to be people up and about.”

Mac pulled off the sweat-stained shirt, noticing some blood on his chest, and removed the epaulets, name tag and unit patches from the sleeves.

Without a word Pete wiped the blood away with her scarf before she covered her hair.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” McGarvey said, putting the shirt back on.

*   *   *

The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten as they drove through a rat warren of narrow streets, many of the vendors in the small shops and sidewalk kiosks opening up already. Pedestrian traffic here in the northern section of Rawalpindi was heavy, as was vehicular traffic on the main roads, all of it picking up with a vengeance that wouldn’t let up until well after dark.

Down one lane paved with cobblestones they stopped at a tall metal gate. Thomas passed back his keys to Pete. “Open it for me, please,” he said softly. “This is home.”

Pete jumped out, went around to the gate and undid the heavy padlock. She swung the gate in, and Thomas drove through, parking in the narrow space in front of a three-story hovel. Laundry hung drying outside the open windows on the second and third floors. Several bags of garbage were piled in a corner.

Pete closed and locked the door.

“Be it ever so humble,” Thomas said, and he slumped forward.

McGarvey managed to grab his shoulder and pull him back before he hit the horn. Blood had poured down his side and covered the seat.

Pete immediately returned, and between them, they managed to get the barely conscious Thomas out of the cab and to the front door of the house.

“Wafa,” Thomas said softly.

The door was unlocked, and half carrying, half dragging Thomas into what had been a spotlessly clean front room, they stopped short. This room and what they could see of the living room through a beaded archway had been ransacked. A woman, her dress hiked up to her waist, her underwear torn away, lay dead. Her throat had been slit, blood pooling like a halo around her head.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Haaris could not remember the last time he had slept, and though he was weary, at this moment he wasn’t sleepy. In fact, his mind felt as sharp as it ever had; the feeling was surreal, almost as if he were on a crack high.

Today was the day it would begin. All of his planning over the past five years was coming to fruition. His name and his high position within the CIA, and even more deliciously, his close relationship with the president of the United States, would strike a blow against the West that would be worse than a thousand 9/11’s. The very foundations of American prestige around the world would be diminished, as would those of her closest allies, the British—all the bastards at Eton who had used him so hard and who now were in positions of power in Whitehall.