The two vans were nearly a mile away from the apartment building in the Layari District of Karachi. Any closer and the word would pass like brushfire through the neighborhood, and their quarry would be long gone through the labyrinth of streets.
Storey had to give the Pakistanis credit. Where Americans would have staked out the building using digital cameras with lenses powerful enough to watch Mars, thermal imagery, cellular intercepts, and parabolic microphones, the immeasurably poorer Pakistanis sent a teenager door to door selling stolen radios. He came back with the plan of the whole building and a profile of every apartment. The radios probably had been stolen, and confiscated—Pakistani cops didn’t bring home a big paycheck. But it was a lesson in resourcefulness that Storey took to heart.
Lee Troy was sitting with his head halfway out the open window. Up in front, with the unit commander, was the SIG liaison, a CIA officer named Jim. Only one thing was certain—his name was not Jim. He was listening to the radio traffic through an earpiece.
Another Pakistani teenager was hanging out near the apartment building. He had a simple push-button beeper in his pocket to pass signals.
Storey hated not being able to read while waiting. Using night-vision goggles would leave him blind from eyestrain before the end of the first chapter.
He tapped Troy on the shoulder. Troy squinted to see what his partner had in his hand. It was a deck of cards. “Want to play some hearts?” Storey asked.
Troy’s laughter rocked the van, drawing puzzled looks from the Pakistanis and one of general annoyance from Jim the CIA guy.
The two of them had driven up from Washington to Dover Air Force Base in Delaware, catching a C-141 jet transport to Karachi. The plane carried military officers, civilian contractors, and spooks from various intelligence agencies. The Pakistani government insisted that no U.S. military were in the country hunting for Al Qaeda and Bin Laden. Which was true, on its face. The military personnel had all been removed from the active duty rosters, a process known as “sheep-dipping,” and were officially working for the CIA or various private contractors that were little more than a post office box, fax number, and e-mail address.
Everyone on the plane was wearing civilian clothes. Storey and Troy blended in among them wearing polo shirts and khakis. Ironically enough, attracting a lot less attention than flying commercial on diplomatic passports. Don’t make it more complicated than you have to was one of Storey’s rules. On air force planes the seats always face toward the rear. Disconcerting, but safer in case of a crash, something the airlines never publicized. After they buckled themselves in, Storey followed the routine Delta Force had adopted to endure long intercontinental flights and remain fresh on arrival. He donned an eye mask, noise-canceling headphones, and popped a very potent Halcion sleeping pill. As he settled back, Troy tapped him on the shoulder.
“You think this intel’s going to be any good?” Troy asked. “Or another dry hole?”
“Rule number one,” was all Storey replied. His first rule was that, on operations, you always acted and spoke as if you were under electronic surveillance twenty-four hours a day.
“Okay, okay,” said Troy.
He was talking a little too loudly. Probably because the iPod was still plugged into his ears. Storey reached out and plucked the unit off Troy’s equipment vest, turning down the volume. While he was doing that he scanned through the playlist for the first time. He kept scanning until his finger got tired, because he couldn’t quite believe it. Every song was by the Grateful Dead. A twenty-seven-year-old black Deadhead from Maine. He was starting to get a little handle on why the SEALs thought Troy was weird.
The hearts game had attracted onlookers. “No poker?” said Lieutenant Gauhar, the platoon leader.
“No, sir,” said Storey, who had served as the interpreter of American cultural myths before. “Hearts.”
“Texas hold-’em!” announced one of the havildars, or sergeants, farther back in the van.
“What do you guys know about Texas hold-’em?” Troy demanded.
“From the telly,” said Lieutenant Gauhar, in that wonderful pronunciation that was half British and half all its own.
It made Troy think, and not for the first time, that at least half of the USA’s problems with the rest of the world were caused by the export of American TV and movies. It was amazing how many foreigners took them seriously. Then, to his annoyance, Storey began dealing poker to the Pakistanis. You could take the guy out of special forces, but you could never take the green beret off the guy—always trying to make friends with the locals. Every SEAL’s least favorite mission was Foreign Internal Defense—teaching foreign militaries.
The Pakistanis insisted on playing for cigarettes. This forced nonsmoker Troy to throw in all his pocket change, declining to bet the items of his equipment that the Pakistanis shrewdly had their eyes on. He didn’t lose much, due to their tendency to go all-in on every hand. He quickly suspected they did it only because they absolutely loved the act of pushing in their stack and the sound of saying, “All-in.” After which they’d laugh delightedly.
“Stand by,” ordered Major Shaykh, the element commander.
The two vans pulled out, negotiating the narrow streets as fast as possible without risking blowouts on potholes or debris. And there were a lot of potholes and debris.
Everyone was buckling up their helmets. The van side door was opened to allow a quick exit.
At that hour there wasn’t a sign of life in the building. Until, that is, the van squealed to a stop and eight men in black pounded up the stairs. The other van covered the back.
The Pakistanis were used to using a battering ram, because explosives cost money. But just as there were walls around every private home in Karachi, every door was made of steel. A ram would have meant that everyone in the apartment would be wide awake long before the door gave in.
Having worked with them before, Storey had brought along a quantity of flexible linear-shaped charge, triangular strips of plastic explosive inside a V-shaped sheathing of soft lead to focus the cutting charge.
The Paks were brave men and handled explosives with Islamic fatalism, putting the matter in God’s hands. They’d already primed the charge and hooked up the firing system in the van. But they had too much pride for Storey to ever consider saying anything about it.
He did make sure that he and Troy were around the corner when the door was breached. Both were carrying their SOPMOD carbines just in case everything went to shit and they had to shoot their way out of the neighborhood. They knew the intelligence for the raid had come from an informer. Whether it might be a planned setup to ambush some Pakistani special forces and Americans was anyone’s guess.
Storey had a finger pressed against each earplug when the door blew. They all swept into the apartment in a surreal mosaic of flashlight beams—you could see what was in the path of your light, and then on-and-off strobing views of everyone else’s.
No flash-bangs. Storey was moving at a low crouch because the Pakistanis were all carrying AK-47s, and there was little hope the apartment walls would contain those Russian 7.62mm short rounds.
The constant in such situations—a woman screaming. An AK opened up with its distinctive deep bap, bap, bap. Storey dropped to the floor and found himself face-to-face with Troy. It was always the same story in combat. If you weren’t shooting or being shot at, the sound of gunfire was a mystery that had to be solved. Moving toward the sound might be a mistake, but not moving toward it might also be one. Neither Storey nor Troy moved a muscle except to cover the nearest doorways with their weapons. You were just as dead if your own side shot you by mistake.
Shouting in Urdu. Even the bilingual resorted to their original language under stress. The back-and-forth shouting clarified the situation, and the leaders soon got control of it. Then the call, “Clear, clear, clear,” coming from each room.
“If they don’t mention it, don’t ask about the shooting,” Storey said to Troy. The Pakistan
is were prideful men.
“Yeah, well, I’m not all that curious either way,” Troy muttered.
It turned out that while clearing a room one of the assault team saw shadow and furniture that looked exactly like the outline of a man holding a rifle. Storey was sympathetic. These things happened when the adrenaline was pumping. The Pakistanis didn’t have the money to shoot ten thousand rounds of practice ammunition a week, not to mention a multimillion-dollar computerized shooting house to fire it in. These guys were up against it for real every week, and sometimes it really was better to be safe than sorry.
“In here,” someone called in English. Illuminated by several flashlight beams, Kasim al-Hariq was lying on the floor, handcuffed in his underwear. One of the assault element was brandishing the pistol he hadn’t used.
“Just like a little lamb,” Troy said to Storey.
“The older guys all go like that,” said Storey. “The young ones die fighting. These bastards just send the kids out to die.”
They were soon backed up by the two truckloads of regular Pakistani police who’d been assigned the mission of securing the area. All of them held under virtual guard so no one would be tempted to make a phone call and earn himself some extra money.
The Special Investigation Group agents had a very thorough search technique. They ripped out all the walls, ceiling, and floor, and broke up every piece of furniture. The commandoes left right away with their prisoner, Storey and Troy with them. The tenant, his wife, and three small children, all Pakistani citizens, were left in the custody of the Special Investigation Group.
A sullen crowd had gathered outside, held back by the police, so everyone pulled his balaclava over his face. Kasim al-Hariq would be taken to a nearby military base, the headquarters of the Pakistani Army’s Fifth Corps. A brief hearing would be held to confirm that he was not, in fact, a citizen of Pakistan. And then he’d be given a quick heave-ho into the arms of the CIA.
They were granted entry to the base after crashing British-style salutes from immaculately uniformed gate guards. Just the sight of them did Storey’s military heart good.
But waiting outside the headquarters building were about twenty Pakistanis in civilian clothes carrying AK-47s. Civilian clothes but military bearing.
“Uh-oh,” said Troy, retrieving his rifle from under his seat and automatically checking the chamber.
Major Shaykh was looking concerned. Jim the CIA man said, “What the hell . . . ?”
“Inter-Services Intelligence,” said Storey.
Major Shaykh turned in his seat, and Jim said, “How do you know?”
“I’ve met that guy before,” said Storey, pointing out the obvious leader, the only one not carrying a weapon. “Colonel Khan.”
“Know him good?” Jim asked warily. “Or know him bad?”
“Well, not good,” said Storey.
“Stay in the van,” Jim ordered, as he and Major Shaykh got out to deal with the situation.
The commandoes, sensing the situation as all good soldiers did, also got out to back up their officer.
“Not good, eh?” said Troy.
“We had a little run-in,” said Storey. “The ‘full cooperation’ he was giving us was bullshit. We kept getting sent out on wild-goose chases.”
From his tone, Troy could tell a lesson was coming.
“The question always is,” said Storey, “is the intel bad or are you getting fed bad intel? And is the guy feeding you bad intel on his own, or is he carrying out policy? You almost never, ever learn the answers to those questions. So Ricky Silva and I ignored Colonel Khan’s intelligence and cut loose from the boys he had minding us. He didn’t like it. Tried to get us thrown out of the country, and he ended up getting spanked.”
“What was the mission?” Troy asked.
“Rule number one,” said Storey, glancing down at Kasim al-Hariq handcuffed, gagged, and blindfolded on the floor of the van.
“Okay,” said Troy, “so you’re not on his Ramadan card list.”
“Not hardly.”
The discussion going on outside the van was obviously heated, though they couldn’t hear it. Jim the CIA man was gesturing angrily, and Colonel Khan had a cold little smile on his face.
“ISI wants our prisoner,” said Troy.
“Good,” said Storey. “Now tell me why.”
“ISI runs guerrillas into Kashmir to fight the Indians,” said Troy. “Where do you get radical Islamic fundamentalists willing to die fighting jihad against the infidel Hindus? Al Qaeda. Senior Al Qaeda like this”—he cocked a thumb down at al-Hariq on the floor—“you figure he’s dealt with a few ISI agents back in the day. Pretty embarrassing when he starts coughing up his life story to the interrogators.” Now he pointed his thumb out the windshield. “So are these guys working for themselves, or the government?”
“You’re thinking good,” said Storey. “But you’re still thinking like an American. These studs aren’t working for themselves, not standing up to the CIA and the Special Services Group. ISI is a government unto itself, though the president’s trying to get control of it. This could be ISI on its own, or ISI with the support of a faction in the government or military. There’s lots of little empires in a country like this. But here’s what you do: forget about all that. Leave it to the generals and the politicians. You worry about keeping them from getting your prisoner, because Major Shaykh is a soldier and he’s outranked. And they’re all blowing off the CIA.”
“Imagine that,” said Troy.
Jim had broken off from the discussion, and was angrily punching numbers into his cell phone.
“Hook your phone to your PDA,” Storey ordered. “When we get close enough, without making a show of it take Colonel Khan’s picture and transmit it to the operations center. And then ignore the ‘what the fuck?’ message they send right back.”
“Why am I doing that?” Troy replied. He wouldn’t have asked the question if he hadn’t thought Storey had time to answer it.
“Because the general on duty might not have any balls.”
“Fair enough. I’m assuming you don’t want me to shoot anyone unless you do first.”
“You’re reading me just fine,” said Storey.
On their way over to the argument, Storey put a hand on Jim’s shoulder, interrupting his call. “Make the call from the van,” he said. “And stay with the prisoner.”
Jim immediately opened his mouth to say something, but before that happened Storey very calmly interjected, “I’ve got it.”
Just then, with the kind of timing you can’t buy for any amount of money, Jim finally got his connection. He stomped off toward the van, talking at a rapid rate.
Troy was seriously impressed. He’d seen SEAL master chiefs, the very best, who had that gift. A quiet but firm, nonconfrontational way of getting people who outranked them to do exactly what they wanted. You had to have that calm-in-the-storm attitude. And a major reputation as an operator didn’t hurt either.
The conversation was being held in Urdu, but it didn’t take a linguist to figure out that Colonel Khan was reaming Major Shaykh’s ass, and the major was giving him the old “yes, sir, but . . .” every time the colonel paused for breath. The commandoes and ISI were into Mexican standoff mode, each backing up his leader and putting out that “I’m ready” body language. And he and Storey were walking right into the spot Troy would just as soon they’d rather not be, smack dab in the middle between the two sides. If someone fired a round, even by accident, it was going to end like all Mexican standoffs did.
Storey pulled his balaclava back off his head as they came up. His attention attracted, Colonel Khan squinted into the early morning sun. He had a full beard, cut short, and an aquiline nose that was nearly as long and narrow as his face. It took him a moment; then he made the connection. “Ah, Sergeant Edward, back in Pakistan again. But without Sergeant Richard, I see.” Then the bonhomie was gone. “This is a Pakistani national matter, on Pakistani territory. You have no authority
here. And you may tell your young partner that your other colleague is already calling your consulate for help.”
“Oh, he’s not calling the consulate, sir,” Storey replied, utterly congenial. “He’s just sent your name and photograph to the Pentagon operations center. And in a minute or two they’re going to be calling the Ministry of Defense in Islamabad wanting to know what you’re doing.”
Troy held up the Personal Digital Assistant to show the colonel his likeness captured. Not a flattering shot, either.
Colonel Khan wasn’t the screaming kind of officer. He was the type who got icy and cutting when he got mad. And he was furious. “As I told you, Sergeant, this is a Pakistani matter. Your presence is not required here.”
“Yes, sir, you did.” Storey took out his own satellite phone. “We’ll be over at the United States Government van, which is United States territory manned by United States diplomats, keeping Washington briefed on what’s going on. And if you try to take the prisoner we’ll have a major diplomatic incident with both our governments listening in—in real time.”
Storey turned and showed the colonel his back.
The argument rose again behind them.
“We just going to wait here?” Troy asked, knowing that Storey had seriously exaggerated the speed of the process. They might very well starve to death before the U.S. and Pakistani governments resolved the situation.
“Hell no,” said Storey. “Give people too much time to make up their minds, they may not decide things your way. And Pakistani officers got tons of pride. Even if Colonel Khan gets ordered to back off, if he thinks his honor’s insulted he may start something anyway just to satisfy it. We’ll make our move while everyone’s attention is elsewhere.” He hopped into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and immediately shifted into reverse.
Threat Level Page 8
