by Ted Bell
“I’m prepared to go, sir, tonight if necessary.”
“I knew you’d say that. I’m booking military transport for you, Sahira Karim, and Abdul Dakkon. You’ll land at Shamsi, a top-secret U.S. Air Force base in Pakistan, thirty miles from the Afghan border. It’s used primarily for launching the Predator drone missiles that observe and attack al Qaeda and Taliban militants on the Pakistan side of the border with Afghanistan. South Waziristan. Your operation will be based at Shamsi Air Force Base with the full cooperation of the USAF, the CIA, and the Marine Corps.”
“I’d no idea the Yanks even had a base in Pakistan.”
“No one does. That’s why this whole operation must be conducted with absolute secrecy throughout its execution. The idea that Washington, or London, are running military operations, covert or otherwise, from Pakistani territory is, well, a hugely sensitive issue in that predominantly Muslim country. Both U.S. and Pakistani governments deny Shamsi’s very existence.”
“I understand, sir.”
“You’ll be fully briefed tomorrow. Identification of the location and identity of the warlord in possession of that weapon is mission critical. You leave for Pakistan in forty-eight hours. Are you completely comfortable with your team?”
“I’d like to add two men, sir, both of whom would be invaluable to me in this operation.”
“Who are they?”
“Both Americans. Stokely Jones, former U.S. SEAL, and a man named Harry Brock, CIA field agent.”
“I’ve seen both names in your past reports. I wholly agree. I want you to have them and absolutely anything else you need to find this weapon, neutralize it, and bring whoever was responsible for this lapse in security to light.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will. And that, Alex, has always been good enough for me.”
FIFTY-ONE
SHAMSI AIR FORCE BASE, PAKISTAN
THE MAMMOTH C-130 HERCULES TRANSPORT TOUCHED down at 3:15 in the morning, local time, its four huge engines howling as the reverse thrusters kicked in. The pilot braked hard enough to make the smoking tires screech like wounded banshees. The C-130 normally requires five thousand feet of runway to operate. The short Shamsi landing strip, used primarily for launching Predator drones, didn’t even come close. The USAF pilot, Captain Alex Hufty, had strained against his harness as the end of the tarmac hove into view.
Hufty had been dealing with a 25-mph crosswind, which certainly added to the excitement in the cockpit. He was rapidly running out of runway.
“Shit,” Hufty said, stopping just one word shy of the universal word every pilot used when they realized they’d run out of luck and altitude at the same moment.
“Next stop, sand,” he heard his copilot mutter while he struggled to land the behemoth with about five hundred feet of paved surface remaining. The airplane slammed down hard, bounced once or twice, rocked, shuddered, and, finally, was still.
In the frigid belly of the beast, Alex Hawke stood up, stretched, and gathered his gear as the ramp was lowered to the runway. He’d popped a couple of Ambien shortly after takeoff and, surprisingly, they’d worked. Surprising because he’d been sleeping on a thin foam sleeping mat, the only thing between him and the ice-cold aluminum floor at thirty thousand feet.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Hawke looked around at his team and said, “welcome to Pakistan. Please be careful removing items from the overhead bins, as items may have shifted in flight.”
“Nice landing,” Harry Brock grumbled, getting to his feet. “Sweet.”
Hawke looked at him and forced a grin. “Harry, if that landing is the worst thing that happens to you or any of us in this godforsaken place, I will personally kiss your arse in the department store window of your choosing.”
“What the fuck, Alex? I was just saying.”
“And one more thing, Harry. I know your fondness for the thoroughly exhausted F-word knows no bounds. So here’s the deal. You don’t say it in front of the lady here, right? Find another four-letter word for the duration of this mission.”
“Like what?”
“Cuss would work. Four letters. Means cursing.”
“Cuss?”
“Yeah. Like ‘What the cuss?’” Hawke said.
“Or, like, ‘Cuss you, mothercusser,’” Stoke said, laughing.
“Exactly. Try that, okay, Harry?” Hawke said.
Harry, no slouch when it came to taking Alex Hawke’s temperature, wisely decided to keep his mouth shut after that little exchange. Instead, he helped Sahira with her gear and then slung his own backpack over his shoulder. Brock and Sahira were the first to make their way down the wide ramp at the plane’s tail, followed by Stokely Jones, Abdul Dakkon, and Hawke himself.
It was bone cold in the desert and the white stars in the blackness above the mountain range looked sharp enough to prick your finger. There was a convoy waiting for them, six Pakistani army vehicles, including three troop carriers full of soldiers and an armored personnel carrier. All parked in formation about a hundred feet away. Heavily armed Pakistani Army soldiers had already formed a perimeter around the C-130, and others were guarding the convoy.
Indian territory, Hawke thought, gazing out at the distant mountain range.
A burly American officer, a colonel, and another officer, Pakistani, strode across the tarmac from the operations building standing next to a large hangar. Inside the brilliantly lit interior, Hawke saw two sleek F-16 Fighting Falcons. Pilots called them “Vipers” because they resembled viper snakes. But also in honor of the Battlestar Galactica starfighters. Techs were mounting various missiles, bombs, and pods under the fighter jet’s wings. And another crew was rolling out a Predator missile drone for launch.
“Commander Hawke?” the American officer said, making it a question.
“I’m Hawke,” Alex said, walking toward him.
“Welcome, Commander. I’m Colonel Kevin Balfe, United States Air Force. I’m the nonexistent CO here at this nonexistent air force base. This gentleman is Captain Mahmood Shah of the Pakistan Army, who will be in charge of getting you and your team safely to the quarters in Islamabad arranged by Mr. Dakkon.”
“A pleasure, sir,” Shah said, and Hawke shook hands with both men.
“Judging by our method of transportation, Captain Shah, we should be safe enough,” Hawke said, looking at the convoy. He’d expected a couple of Toyota Land Cruisers or something similar. Apparently not.
“We will make every effort to convey you safely to your destination, Commander. All of the comms equipment, food, water, and weapons MI6 requested are in the last truck. My men and I are happy to see you. We deeply appreciate your presence here. Under the present circumstances, of course.”
“Of course.”
“As you will soon see, this is no longer a stop-start battle of wavering ideals, Commander Hawke. It is now, without any doubt, a battle to the death for the very soul of Pakistan. You understand this?”
“I understand completely, Captain,” Hawke said.
“You’ll be traveling through Zazi territory en route, Commander,” Captain Balfe said. “These are the guys responsible for 80 percent of the terrorist attacks in this region. Zazi’s desert commandos have been on the offensive ever since we took out their leader, a warlord named Baitullah Mehsud with a Predator drone at the end of last summer.”
Hawke turned to Captain Shah. “Captain, when Baitullah Mehsud was killed, who seized ultimate control of his armies and operations? I’m going to say a name. Sheik Abu al-Rashad.”
Shah was dumbstruck. “How do you know this name?”
“It doesn’t matter. But I do need to know the answer to my question.”
“Sheik Abu al-Rashad is today perhaps the most powerful man in Pakistan. Every Taliban and al Qaeda leader in our country falls under his overarching command. If the government and the country falls, it will fall to him.”
“That’s all I needed to know. Thank you.” Hawke had been engaged in counterter
rorist operations long enough to know that the primary first step was knowing precisely who the enemy was.
A FEW HOURS LATER THE CONVOY was rolling through the endless desert when the armored personnel carrier Hawke and his team were riding in came to an abrupt stop. Hawke was sitting just behind and below the man in command of the vehicle.
“I thought I heard an explosion. What’s happened?” Hawke asked.
The man driving said, “One minute, I’m getting information in my headphones right now, sir. It sounded like an IED.”
“Cuss,” Harry Brock said.
Two or three minutes later, the driver said, “The lead vehicle, a troop carrier, was taken out by an IED, Commander. Two of our soldiers killed, four wounded. It could have been much worse. Captain Shah informs me that the wreckage is being cleared and that troops are fanning out looking for the Zazi bombers. We are to proceed to our destination as soon as he gives us the ‘all-clear.’”
“I feel like I’m on CNN,” Harry said.
“You wish,” Stoke said.
Everyone was silent for a few long minutes and then the APC driver said, “Our men have located the bomber’s escape vehicle out in the desert and have called in its location to Shamsi AFB. They are launching a drone now.”
A second or two later, the APC started rolling again, and three hours later the sun had risen. They were driving through the heart of Islamabad, en route to the hotel where Abdul Dakkon had booked them each a room. Hawke had come to think of the man as a one-armed magician. There was literally nothing he could not accomplish, no detail he had not considered, and the answer to every question was a big smile and an “Absolutely, sir!”
“What can you tell me about the hotel?” Hawke asked Abdul.
“The Punjab Palace? Well, first of all, sir, it is not a palace.”
“No? What is it?”
“A Holiday Inn, sir. Renovated last year, with a new sign out front. I am sorry I cannot offer you the Marriott, sir. It was the only four-star hotel in Islamabad, but it was totally destroyed by a truck bomb.”
“I remember that. Our thought at MI6 was that the bomber had intended to blow up President Asif Ali Zadari’s residence a block away but was frightened off by the security cordons and so drove into the Marriott instead.”
“This is absolutely correct, sir. But the Punjab is now slowly acquiring the same clientele, the same atmosphere. You may recall Rick’s Café in the movie Casablanca, sir. That’s what it is like. A neutral ground for the media, American diplomats, warlords, drug lords, peddlers of nuclear weapons, technology, and perhaps a few who fall into all those categories. The commodity in the Punjab is information, sir. In Pakistan, information is power. And power is a daily life-and-death struggle.”
“Sounds like we should spend a lot of time in the bar,” Harry said.
“It’s not at all a very bad idea, sir,” Abdul replied, peering out through a gun port. “No bars, but there are cafés, and a restaurant. Here you can get black-market whiskey in brown bags. I believe we are pulling over to transfer your team to the hired cars. We are near the Punjab now, it will only be a short ride from here. Ten minutes with no traffic.”
The Punjab Palace was an undistinguished slab of 1970s architecture, and certainly no palace, Hawke thought as he climbed out of the car at the entrance. No different from any of the countless anonymous “business” hotels in every part of the world. The only difference was that in this one, the primary business was weapons of war and terror. There were security barriers out front, but they didn’t look like they could stand up to a teenage martyr with a truck full of explosives and a death wish.
Hawke’s team looked exactly as they should look, a bunch of travel-weary Western journalists. Each one had a plasti-coated “Press” ID card hanging from around the neck, each with a different news-gathering organization. The CIA had provided everything. Passports, driver’s licenses, cash, even the clothing on their backs. Four large black nylon duffel bags containing weapons and gear for each of them were removed from the two hired cars.
A Punjab porter, obviously on Abdul’s payroll, immediately loaded the bags onto a rolling cart. He and Abdul then took the bags to the rear entrance of the hotel. Dakkon had explained to Hawke that by avoiding the metal detector inside the revolving doors at the lobby entrance, Dakkon could personally deliver the “luggage” to their various rooms using the service elevator near the kitchen. “The guard at the rear is a friend of mine,” Abdul said with a smile.
Hawke said, “Abdul Dakkon, little friend of all the world.”
Dakkon lit up. “Kim! By Rudyard Kipling. My most favorite book, sir!”
“Mine too,” Hawke said, clapping his new friend on the back.
Once everyone was checked in, Hawke suggested they all go to their rooms and get some real sleep and a hot shower and meet in the restaurant at seven that evening. He told Brock he had a few details to iron out and suggested the two of them go to the lobby coffee shop for a quick breakfast. Hawke instinctively sat facing the hotel entrance so he could keep an eye on anyone who came through the door.
He knew you minded your back in a country like this, especially when you suspected your movements were being compromised by a rat in the cupboard. A few minutes after they sat down, Abdul Dakkon joined them, giving Hawke a thumbs-up, his mission accomplished.
“Listen, Harry,” Hawke said once they’d all ordered coffee, “you don’t look so good.”
“I don’t?”
“You look peaked.”
“What the cuss does ‘peaked’ mean, anyway?”
“Pronounced pee-kid. Sickly. You look sick. Let me take a look at that knife wound you got. Lift up your shirt.”
“Jesus,” Harry said, pulling up his violently colored Hawaiian aloha shirt. The wound was still puffy and red, looked like about twenty stitches to Hawke, healing normally.
“I think it’s infected, Harry, you might have picked up a staph infection in the emergency room, happens all the time.”
“Staph? That’s not good, is it?”
“Nope. Fatal unless you get on some powerful antibiotics in a hurry. I think we’d better get you to an emergency room. Abdul, where’s the nearest hospital? I was there a while back.”
“Quaid-e-Azam? The International Hospital?”
“That’s the one. Have you got your car here?”
“Yes, sir. It’s valet parked. Full tank of gas, oil topped off and—”
“Let’s go,” Hawke said, throwing some money on the table. He was halfway across the lobby when some Pakistani “player” swung through the front doors, a self-important entourage in his wake, armed to the teeth, all of them simply ignoring the loud screeches of the metal detector. Hawke smiled. You just didn’t see this kind of stuff at Claridge’s.
“IT IS BRAND-NEW, SIR,” ABDUL said as he swung his Toyota into the hospital entrance. “The most modern hospital in the country. The people here are very proud of it.”
“I can see why,” Hawke said.
“Sorry, sir, the outdoor parking lot is full. We will have to use the underground parking garage.”
Abdul exited the lot and circled the entire building, looking for the underground entrance.
“I can’t seem to find the entrance, sir. It must be somewhere.” He was clearly embarrassed at this turn of events.
“You would think,” Harry Brock said from the backseat.
Hawke said, “Maybe there is no underground garage, Abdul.”
“Oh, no, sir. There was a big delay in construction. I read about it in the papers. Something about the structure of the underground garage. Load-bearing walls. I remember that clearly.”
“Okay, let’s just get Mr. Brock to the ER and then we’ll go park the car anywhere we can. Okay with you, Harry? If we just drop you off? We’ll come back for you shortly.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever works. I am starting to feel kind of sick.”
FIFTY-TWO
ABDUL DAKKON SAID, “THERE IS a VIP
section on one of the very top floors of the main building. If Sheik Abu al-Rashad truly is a patient here, sir, that is most assuredly where we shall find him.”
“Good. We’ll start there. Drive around to the main entrance, please. I need to speak to Reception for a few moments before we have a good look around the property. I’d like you to wait at the curb. I don’t imagine I’ll be too long.”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely. No problem.”
Hawke walked straight past the two armed security guards and entered through the revolving doors. There was a newsstand in the lobby and he picked up a copy of this morning’s International News, crossed to the reception desk, showed his press ID card, and asked for the VIP floor. The receptionist carefully examined his credentials, then gave him the floor number and pointed to a single elevator with yet another armed guard.
The doors opened on a small but extraordinarily lavish reception room. Quite empty of visitors. Behind a black granite semi-circle sat a very officious looking middle-aged woman. Sullen and sallow-faced, she did not look promising. Her black hair was pulled back severely, forming a slightly lopsided bun. Formidable, Hawke thought, attempting to disarm her with a smile.
“Yes?” she said before he could open his mouth to charm her.
“Good morning, madame. My name is Lord Alexander Hawke. I’m here from London on holiday and wanted to pop in and say hello to an old friend of mine. I think he is a patient here.”
Without a word, she spun around to her computer keyboard.
“Patient’s name?”
“Sheik Abu al-Rashad.”
She typed it in.
“Sorry, no one here by that name.”
“Sorry, I should think he would definitely be here on the VIP floor.” Hawke had his eye on the surveillance camera, indiscreetly mounted in one corner and swinging back and forth through a ninety-degree angle. He’d have to make his moves accordingly.
“I’m quite sure he would be. If he were a patient in this hospital. Which he is not.”
“Not here then, is he? Well, that’s certainly a shock. Has he been here recently at all? As a patient, I mean. I’ve been told he’s quite ill.”
