“Yes, sir.”
“Meanwhile, complete your field report and have it on my desk by noon.”
“Yes, sir!”
“You’ve done good work, Davi. But be on guard against those who may disagree.”
THE DRIVE to Rawalpindi had been nerve-racking, but Bolan and Gorshani had pulled it off without a hitch. They took turns driving, but Gorshani did the shopping, bought the gasoline, and handled any situations that required a dialog in Urdu or Pashto.
The easy part was getting lost among the city’s three million inhabitants. Bolan stayed close to Gorshani, slouching in his peasant garb and headgear to reduce his height, and spent as much time as he could inside their stolen car. Aided by the days of stubble on his cheeks and jaw, the sun on Bolan’s olive skin had made him dark enough to pass a cursory inspection.
Gorshani found it hard to settle down, after their battle on the mountain, but he listened well enough when Bolan told him that nervous attitude could get both of them killed. He proved to be a decent actor, overall.
But he was adamant about remaining in his homeland after Bolan finished his one last job and left.
“I’ll find some way to manage it,” he said, when Bolan told him for the third time that it was a reckless, suicidal plan.
“They have your name, now,” Bolan had reminded him. “Somebody in Sanjrani gave you up. That means the state police and military have your house, whatever was inside it—everything. It’s why we had to ditch the SUV.”
“I can’t blame anyone for that,” Gorshani said.
“That’s not my point. Forgive them if you want to, but you can’t forget. You can’t pretend that everything’s gone back to how it was two days ago.”
“Before you came,” Gorshani said.
“Don’t even try guilt-tripping me,” Bolan replied. “You volunteered. Al-Bari and the rest were sitting on their mountaintop for years.”
“Of course. And now they’re gone. I think my country’s leaders will decide it is a good thing.”
“Good or bad,” Bolan said, “they’ll still want someone to answer for the soldiers.”
“But, when your work is completed—”
“Nothing will have changed,” Bolan said, cutting through the wishful thinking. “You’ll have the same rulers in place who let al-Bari come here in the first place. And your name will still be on Islamabad’s most-wanted list.”
“You ask me to abandon everything.”
“You have abandoned everything. It’s gone. Who do you think answered the phone at your apartment when you called last night? A burglar? Someone from the community welcome committee?”
“They will change their minds,” Gorshani answered stubbornly. “I will allow the dust to settle, as you say, and—”
“The dust will settle on your grave if they get hold of you. You’re living in a fantasy if you think otherwise.”
“You do not know my people, Matt.”
“I know they’ve spent two days working overtime to kill us. Now, you’re saying all will be forgiven if you wait a little while. It doesn’t track.”
Gorshani remained silent.
“Look, I’m not saying that you have to settle in the States. Maybe the Agency can set you up some kind of deal in India or Afghanistan. It won’t be home, but you’ve worn out your welcome here.”
“Again, I have to disagree.”
Bolan was tired of arguing the point. “It’s your call,” he agreed reluctantly. “But help me find our man before you stick your head inside the noose, all right?”
“With pleasure.”
“Are you sure about the home address?”
“It’s classified, of course. But, yes, I trust my source.”
“You said it’s near a school?”
“Correct. The Gordon College, off Liaquat Road.”
“Not a restricted neighborhood?” Bolan inquired.
“Our car should not be stopped,” Gorshani said. “Though if we were walking on the street, perhaps we would be questioned.”
“We should look for guards, though.”
“Under the present circumstances, certainly.”
It was nearing dusk, but they had some time to spare.
“Let’s make a pass,” Bolan said, “then hang back and give him time to come home from the office.”
“If I’m wrong, and we are stopped…”
“I’ll handle it,” Bolan said.
Hoping that, if they were intercepted, it would by a military operation, not police.
Some rules he wouldn’t break at any price, including his life, or his driver’s.
“I suppose,” Gorshani said, “the good news is that they will not expect us here.”
“Let’s hope not,” Bolan said.
But he was always ready for the absolute worst-case scenario.
It was the only way he’d stayed alive this long.
ARMY HEADQUARTERS in Rawalpindi was located south of the Lei Nala River, sprawling over several square miles bounded by Taimur Road on the north and Sarwar Road on the south. Landmarks on the outskirts of the complex included a medical college and a slaughterhouse, a Christian clubhouse and a squalid shantytown, plus the gleaming offices of Citibank and American Express.
Rawalpindi was all things to all men.
Brigadier Bahaar Jadoon left his office at half-past seven o’clock on a wearying day, exhausted from jumping through hoops to please his superiors. Jadoon believed that he had finally put their worst fears to rest, but it was possible that some of them would call throughout the night with fresh concerns.
Mostly about themselves.
As Jadoon had expected, no voices had been raised in anguish at the violent passing of Akram Ben Abd al-Bari or his aides. His superiors’ chief concern was that al-Bari and his men had died in Pakistan, after so many years of stern denials that al Qaeda had any foothold there.
Offsetting that concern, as he had told Raheem Davi, had been the way they had died. It provided America with no concrete proof of the event. And furthermore, if evidence did surface, politicians in Islamabad could claim al-Bari and his men had been killed by Pakistani troops.
For half a dozen of them, it would even be the truth.
As for Hussein Gorshani and the missing foreigner, he was content to let them stay missing, if they had common sense enough to disappear.
Jadoon’s rank qualified him for a driver. His chauffeur was a fresh-faced havildar newly promoted, the chevrons still bright and stiff on his sleeves. The young man snapped to attention as Jadoon approached his staff car, executing a crisp salute before he opened the brigadier’s door.
Dusk was still a half hour away as they drove north along Murree Road, then west on Taimur Road to reach the north-south artery of Gawal Mandi Road. From there, it was a crawl through Gawal Mandi to a bridge spanning the Lei Nala, and across Liaquat Road to the Naya Mohalla district where Jadoon resided.
His home was on the small side, but the neighborhood was quiet, peaceful and well patrolled. Most days, there were no beggars on the streets, and Jadoon normally had few concerns about security.
This day, of course, was different.
It would have seemed peculiar for an officer of Jadoon’s rank if he had not assigned soldiers to guard his home during such troubled times. Accordingly, he had selected four men—the bare minimum, for such a detail—to stake out his house and watch it through the night, and perhaps into tomorrow.
After that, Jadoon reasoned, it would be safe to drop the pose and go back to business as usual.
He had expected some sense of relief over al-Bari’s death, but now that it had actually happened he felt an urge to shout and dance with joy. Jadoon had lived under al-Bari’s thumb so long, he had become accustomed to the numbing borderline depression that accompanied incessant fear of ridicule, disgrace, arrest and prison.
All that had been obliterated within a few brief, violent moments. And the most delicious irony of all was that it appeared al-Bari had done
it to himself.
A true fanatic to the end, Jadoon thought. Perhaps afraid that if he had been arrested, he would have been coerced into exposing crucial secrets of al Qaeda.
And quite right, too.
Al-Bari, in a cage, would ultimately have to have been released or placed on trial. In either case, the CIA, Mossad and Britain’s MI-6 would have all been clamoring for custody, prepared to use whatever means necessary to unlock the secrets in al-Bari’s head. Nothing but the Apocalypse would have ever set him free, once he was locked away. What better way to die, from a zealot’s viewpoint, than to kill himself and take some of his enemies along with him?
Praise Allah for small favors, Jadoon thought.
One of Jadoon’s guards waited at the curb outside his home. The driver would have called ahead to warn the soldiers he was coming, have them on alert and looking sharp when Jadoon stepped out of his car. What would his neighbors think, seeing soldiers and guns around his house for the first time?
Jadoon dismissed the question as irrelevant.
It made no difference what they thought.
Jadoon thanked his driver, returned the havildar’s salute without enthusiasm and brushed past the guard on the sidewalk. The guard saluted him, as well, then turned his scrutiny back toward the quiet residential street.
There would be two more soldiers in the backyard, which overlooked a semiwild ravine, and one—perhaps another havildar—on roving duty to make sure the others did not fall asleep through the long night ahead.
Jadoon would leave the back door open for them, granting access to the kitchen and the lavatory. Coffee and a toilet were the basics, and would be considered luxuries in portions of the North-West Frontier Province where so many other soldiers had been killed over the past two days.
All finished now, Jadoon thought, as he let himself into his house.
He could forget about the past—or the worst parts of it, anyway. He could erase the memory of one grim indiscretion that had bound him to al-Bari and the other bastards, as a kind of slave to their demands. That was behind him now.
It had occurred to Brigadier Jadoon that in the weeks and months ahead, other spokesmen for al Qaeda might surface to whisper a reminder of his crimes—jerk on the leash and bring him back to heel. It was a possibility, of course, but having finally tasted freedom, Jadoon was not inclined to give it up without a fight.
He would demand to see the evidence, brook no refusal. He might surprise the blackmailers next time.
Assuming that there was a next time.
On the brighter side, perhaps the proof of Jadoon’s debt had lived only within al-Bari’s mind—or buried in the cavern where he’d died.
Jadoon was determined to be kept well-informed, if excavation at the site resumed. Until then, he was free.
A cause to celebrate.
Jadoon moved toward his study, where he kept a few wine bottles locked away from prying eyes. Allah would certainly forgive him in this instance, he believed, for having just a sip of alcohol.
Or maybe two.
He had not felt so free in ages, and was not about to let the feeling slip away just yet.
HUSSEIN GORSHANI parked his stolen car on the campus of Gordon College, where he was fairly sure it would be overlooked for the night. And though he did not have the proper parking decals, Gorshani deemed a citation more likely than a tow-away.
In any case, if they returned and found the car missing, they could acquire another one without great difficulty.
If they were alive.
Matt Cooper’s work in Rawalpindi struck Gorshani as an afterthought, perhaps something conceived in haste, but he could see the logic to it, if he tried to think like an American. Bahaar Jadoon had certainly worked on al Qaeda’s behalf. What was the point of killing off Akram Ben Abd al-Bari and the rest if Cooper left their greatest ally in the army standing by to serve another group of terrorists?
They had established that Jadoon was under guard. A quick drive past his home had settled that. One soldier on the street, for show, and Cooper reckoned that there had to be several more stationed around the property to cover all approaches.
At the rear, they found that Jadoon’s small lot overlooked a rugged gully overgrown with weeds, saplings and wildflowers. A fence guarded the brigadier’s backyard against invasion by wild animals or tramps, but it would not keep out determined prowlers.
Cooper carried most of their weapons in a duffel bag, leaving Gorshani with only his pistol tucked under his belt, in the small of his back. Gorshani wished he had a silencer to fit it, but he compensated by repeating Cooper’s orders in his head: you’re backup, this time. Stay clear, if you can.
It seemed absurd, after all that they’d been through together since Cooper dropped out of the sky, but Gorshani meant to follow those instructions.
If he could.
So far, nothing about his mission with the tall American had gone according to plan. Instead of simply guiding Cooper and translating local dialects, Gorshani had been sucked into the midst of bloody action against soldiers and terrorists alike.
And, based on their behavior toward the common people of his homeland, was there really any difference between the two? He had to wonder.
They found the weed-choked gully just as dusk descended upon the city. Pausing while light traffic passed, they left the pavement and scrambled down a slope that crumbled underfoot, until tall grass and tumbleweeds surrounded them, scraping against their trousers, tangling around their boots.
“Watch out for snakes,” he warned Cooper.
“Will do.”
Despite Rawalpindi’s teeming population, wildlife still inhabited some portions of the city, and this gully seemed ideal for kraits, cobras, even the dreaded Russell’s viper.
It would be the crowning irony, Gorshani thought, to have a lowly reptile kill him after all he had survived of late, dealing with lethal human beings.
But they met no snakes along the way. Cooper found his mark and cautiously began to climb another dirt embankment, some three hundred yards from where they’d entered the ravine. Standing below and watching him, Gorshani recognized the fence that ringed Bahaar Jadoon’s backyard.
So, here we are, he thought.
And doggedly began to climb.
THE BACKYARD GUARDS were easy. Bolan found them smoking on a patio behind Bahaar Jadoon’s house, underneath a yellow light designed to ward off flying insects. Trusting in the light to spoil their night vision, he cut the chain-link fence instead of scaling it—less noise—and tied the flap open with twists of wire to make it simpler for Gorshani, bringing up the rear.
When he was thirty feet from contact, still outside the pool of yellow light that bathed the patio, he drew the black Five-seveN pistol. Even with its fully loaded magazine, the gun weighed barely a pound and a half, thanks in equal part to its plastic grip and the fact that its twenty 5.7 mm rounds weighed only half as much as standard 9 mm Parabellum cartridges.
Recoil was likewise reduced from the typical niner, despite the 5.7 mm’s powder load, which enabled the bullets to penetrate Kevlar. Also, like the military M-16 projectiles, they were designed for maximum internal damage without a hollow point round’s expansion or the explosive fragmentation of a frangible bullet.
Bolan thought he heard Gorshani entering the yard behind him, but the lookouts didn’t seem to notice. They were busy whispering about something apparently very enthralling, distracted from the last assignment they would ever have.
The soldier on the Executioner’s right posed the greater danger, with an AK tucked under his arm, while his companion wore his rifle slung, its muzzle pointed toward the ground. It was a sloppy attitude, and this time fatal.
Bolan squeezed the pistol’s trigger twice, producing two muffled coughing sounds, and watched the sentries crumple to the ground where they stood. The takedown had made some noise, particularly the weapons rattling on the patio, so Bolan waited, frozen, to confront any response.
&nb
sp; It took a moment, but he soon heard another soldier coming from the south side of the house, pushing through shrubbery and calling out what sounded like a question. The new arrival didn’t shout, taking care not to disturb his boss inside unnecessarily, but the tone was unmistakably urgent.
No response came from the dead men.
A noncom wearing chevrons on his sleeve burst into view on Bolan’s right and skidded to a halt on the grass. He saw the bodies first, then swung around toward Bolan’s shadow-shape beyond the light, but never had a chance to focus on his killer.
Bolan fired another nearly silent round and dropped the sergeant of the guard before he had a chance to reach for his holstered sidearm. By the time the Executioner’s third spent cartridge hit the ground, Gorshani stood beside him, scanning the three corpses for a latent sign of life.
One sentry left, but Bolan guessed that he was stuck out front until someone relieved him. Nothing that had happened in the backyard would have reached his ears, or else the fourth man would be lying with his comrades, leaking blood and brains.
The house was Bolan’s next challenge.
With military guards in place, would there be an alarm? He checked the sliding glass door that gave access to the patio and saw no evidence that it was wired. That didn’t prove it wasn’t, but he would have to take a chance.
He gambled that the sentries on the patio would not have been encouraged to relieve themselves in the brigadier’s yard. With that reasoning, Bolan tested the sliding door with his free hand and felt it move along its runners.
Seconds later, he was standing in the air-conditioned house, feeling the sweat chill on his skin. Gorshani entered behind him and stepped to his left. They kept a wall at their backs while they studied the room.
It was some kind of parlor, with chairs and a sofa arranged for a simultaneous view of the yard and the king-size TV set. Bolan didn’t know what kind of programs an Islamic brigadier enjoyed, but whatever his viewing pleasure, Jadoon had seen his last broadcast.
Bolan followed a dim light, entering the parlor, then proceeded into a kitchen, where a stocky man wearing a T-shirt and boxers sat at a smallish round table, spooning ice cream from a carton. His back was turned to Bolan, but it hardly mattered. Bolan didn’t know Jadoon’s face, hadn’t seen his photograph or read his file.
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