Locked On

by Tom Clancy

  Seconds later a loud explosion blew smoke, roofing material, and wood into the air on the other side of the brick chimney. While the last of the bits of debris rained back down, Clark and Chavez ran across the roof to the fresh opening and looked in. As soon as the smoke cleared, they saw Caruso pushing a chest of drawers across a wooden attic floor below them. When he had it below the hole, Clark helped Domingo down on top of it. Chavez quickly turned back to help his partner down.

  A crack from a pistol fifty feet behind Clark caused Chavez to duck instinctively as he took hold of Clark’s arm. He felt a jolt go through the other man’s body, and John Clark spun around, then fell into the hole in the roof. Chavez and Clark fell off of the chest of drawers and onto Dominic Caruso.

  “Shit!” shouted Chavez. “Where you hit, John?”

  Clark was already struggling to his feet. He winced in pain, raised a forearm to show that his dirty sport coat was covered in blood. “It’s not bad. I’m fine,” he said, but both Caruso and Chavez had been around firearms long enough to recognize Clark was in no position to know how badly he’d been hurt.

  Even with this, Caruso had the presence of mind to worry about the cops above them on the roof. Quickly he reached into his backpack and pulled out a flash-bang grenade, he pulled the pin and lobbed it out into the direction of the men approaching. He thought it likely that French police officers would not recognize the device, at least not instantly, and they would have to entertain the possibility that they were being fired on by the fleeing gunmen.

  The Americans needed to buy a few seconds’ time to make their way downstairs, and the grenade did just that. It exploded next to the chimney with an earsplitting boom.

  Clark led the way out of the attic, down a flight of stairs, and onto a circular staircase that spiraled down to ground level.

  Chavez spoke tersely into his mike: “Jack, we’re coming out, ground floor of an apartment building, about one hundred yards northwest of the Hôtel de Sers. Thirty seconds.”

  “Roger that. I’ll be there. Sirens approaching from the Avenue Marceau behind me, and George V is full of heat.”

  “Whatever,” Chavez said as he and his two colleagues rushed down the stairs. That was a problem for sixty seconds from now; he couldn’t worry about it just yet.

  All three Americans flew out of the door of the apartment and onto the street. Jack and Sam were there in the maroon Galaxy with the side door open. The three fell inside just as the first police cars skidded around the corner and into the street from behind them. Driscoll helped Clark into a seat and immediately began assessing his bloody arm.

  Even though the police were fifty yards back, Ryan didn’t floor it; he had the presence of mind to drive normally as he headed toward Avenue George V. They passed a language school and a restaurant where the waiters were just setting up bistro tables on the pavement for the lunch service. Several men and women on the sidewalk stared at their car as they passed; perhaps they’d come outside to investigate the origin of the sirens, then heard or saw the ruckus on the roof and then the men pouring out of the apartment. But so far, no one on the street had raised an alarm.

  Jack knew he couldn’t drive onto Avenue George V in front of him; it was crawling with police and a roadblock had likely already been set up. Instead he drove slowly toward it, watched his rearview mirror until the police cars behind him began stopping on the street in front of the apartment, and only when he could wait no longer, he jacked the wheel to the left and turned into the one-way traffic pouring off of the Rue Magellan.

  Certain that at least some of the parked police cars had seen him, he punched the accelerator now as he leaned toward the windshield to take in as much of the road in front of him as possible. The cars on the street shot toward him; he wove left and then right to avoid the oncoming traffic. Within seconds he made a right on the Rue de Bassano, found himself on a second street traveling in the wrong direction, but he kept going, faster and faster. A last-second reaction to avoid a taxi sent Ryan and the rest of the team up onto the narrow sidewalk; they scraped a pair of parked cars as they shot through passersby diving into doorways or out into the street to avoid the dented minivan. At an intersection Ryan avoided a group of employees standing in front of their Russian restaurant, and he pulled back onto the street, crashed through a neat line of bicycles for rent, then passed the Louis Vuitton flagship store as he pulled out onto the wide Champs-Élysées.

  For the first time in a minute and a half he found himself driving in the same direction as traffic. Also, for the first time in several minutes, the men did not hear the shrill squawking of police sirens right behind them.

  Jack reached up to wipe sweat from his forehead, but his rubber mask got in the way. His hairline was soaked with perspiration, so he slicked back his dark hair to get it out of his face.

  “Where to now?” Ryan asked the men behind him.

  Clark’s voice was gravel, broadcasting to the vehicle the pain the ex–Navy SEAL was in at the moment, but his voice remained strong. “Safe house,” he said. “We’re going to need a new ride. Can’t pull into the airport driving the most wanted vehicle in France.”

  “Roger that,” said Ryan, and he punched a button on the GPS that would lead him to the safe house. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay,” said Clark.

  But Sam Driscoll had been checking Clark. He applied pressure to the wound as he leaned forward into the front seat. “Get there as fast as you can.”

  Adara Sherman stood inside the doorway of the Gulfstream with an HK UMP .45-caliber submachine gun held in one hand behind her back. She watched a four-door sedan pull to a stop on the tarmac, saw the five men climb out and approach. Four of them carried backpacks, but John Clark had his arm in a makeshift sling under his blue sport coat. Even from a distance she could see his face was ashen.

  Quickly she’d scanned the airport grounds, determined the coast to be clear, then rushed back inside the aircraft to grab medical supplies.

  On board she bandaged Clark quickly, knowing that a customs official would be on his way out to see them off. While she helped him get a clean jacket on, the other men changed into clean suits and ties that had been ready for them in the Gulfstream’s coat closet, but only after stowing their clothing and gear in the stash compartment below an inspection panel in the floor.

  Within minutes a female customs agent climbed aboard. She opened two of the businessmen’s briefcases and glanced inside and then asked the bearded gentleman if he wouldn’t mind opening his suitcase. This he did, but she didn’t look past the socks and gym clothes. The older gentleman reclining on the couch in the back was not feeling well, so she did not disturb him other than to see that his face matched the passport handed to her by one of his younger employees.

  The female customs official finally checked the pilot’s paperwork, thanked everyone, and was seen out the door by the flight attendant. The door shut behind her, and within seconds the aircraft was taxiing out of the yellow customs square on the ramp.

  Captain Reid and First Officer Hicks had the wheels up in five minutes. While they were still on their takeoff climb out of Paris airspace, Sherman had stopped the bleeding from Clark’s arm. Before the aircraft reached ten thousand feet she had an IV line in the top of his hand and an antibiotics drip moving slowly into his bloodstream to stave off any infection.

  As soon as Country turned off the seat-belt light in the cabin, Chavez rushed back to check on his friend. “How is he?” Chavez asked, a worried tone in his voice.

  Sherman poured antiseptic into the wound now, examining the holes as the clear liquid cleaned the blood away. “He’s lost a fair amount of blood, he needs to lie flat for the flight, but the round went through and through and he’s moving his hand okay.” She looked up at her patient. “You’ll be fine, Mr. Clark.”

  John Clark smiled at her. With a weak voice he said, “I had a feeling Gerry didn’t hire you to pass out peanuts.”

  Sherman laughe
d. “Naval corpsman, nine years.”

  “That’s a tough job. You were deployed with the Marines?”

  “Four years in the sandbox. I saw a lot of wounds worse than yours.”

  “I bet you did,” John said with a nod of understanding.

  Caruso had headed alone up to the galley. He returned, stood over everyone who was kneeling over Clark. In his hand was a crystal highball of Johnnie Walker Black Label scotch. He addressed Sherman. “What do you think, doc? Can I give him a dose of this?”

  She looked Clark over and nodded. “In my professional opinion, Mr. C. looks like he needs a drink.”

  The Gulfstream flew over the English Channel, leaving French airspace just after eleven a.m. at a cruising altitude of thirty-six thousand feet.

  17

  Even though he looked every second of his sixty-nine years, Nigel Embling was no pushover. At six feet, four inches and two hundred fifty pounds, he retained considerable brawn to go with his fertile brain. Still, within one second of opening his eyes, he recognized his predicament and raised his hands to indicate he would put up no fight.

  He’d awoken to guns in his face, flashlight beams in his eyes, and shouts in his ears. Though startled and worried, he did not panic. As a resident of Peshawar, Pakistan, he knew well that he lived in a city rife with crime, terrorism, and government and law enforcement thuggery, so even before he’d forced the cobwebs of sleep out of his mind he was already wondering which of these three he was waking up to this morning.

  Clothes were thrown to him, and he struggled out of his nightshirt and into the ensemble offered by the gunmen, and then he was shoved to his staircase, down the stairs, and toward the front door.

  Mahmood, Embling’s young orphaned houseboy, knelt on the floor with his face against the wall. He’d made the mistake of rushing one of the armed men who’d kicked in the front door. For his bravery Mahmood received a boot in his chin and a rifle’s butt in the back. He was then ordered to kneel and face the wall while Embling was collected from his bedroom and allowed to dress. In Urdu tinged with a phony Dutch accent, Embling shouted at the young gunners, admonishing them like children for their treatment of the boy. In the next breath, in soothing words, he told Mahmood to run along to a neighbor’s to have his bruises and scrapes seen after, and he promised the terrified boy that there was nothing to be alarmed about and that he would return straightaway.

  Once outside in the dark street, he had a better idea about what was going on. Two black SUVs of the same make and model common with Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence Directorate agents sat parked on the curb, and four more plain-clothed men stood in the street carrying big HK G3 rifles, a standard military-issue weapon of the Pakistani Defense Force.

  Yes, Embling was certain now, he was being scooped up by the ISI, the national spy agency. It wasn’t good news by any stretch. He knew enough about their modus operandi to recognize that a predawn rousting at gunpoint likely meant a basement cell and a bit of the rough stuff at the very least. But getting picked up by the Army-run intelligence organization was a damn sight better than being kidnapped by Tehrik-i-Taliban, the Haqqani network, Al-Qaeda, the URC, Lashkar-e-Omar, the Quetta Shura Taliban, the Nadeem Commando, or any one of the other terror outfits running around armed and angry on these dangerous streets of Peshawar.

  Nigel Embling was a former member of British foreign intelligence, and he knew how to talk to other intelligence officers. That he might be forced to do so while getting his knuckles broken or his head dunked in a bucket of cold water hardly appealed to him, but he knew this was preferable to dealing with a room full of jihadists who would just quickly and messily hack his head from his neck with a dull sword.

  The plain-clothed riflemen on either side of Embling in the backseat of the SUV said nothing as they drove through the empty streets of the city. Embling didn’t bother to ask the men any questions. He knew he would have his only opportunity to get answers wherever it was he was going. These men were just the scoop crew. These men had been provided with a name and a picture and an address, and then they’d been sent out on this errand as if they’d been sent down to the corner market for tea and cakes. They would be here for their ability to squeeze triggers and put their boots into backsides…. They wouldn’t be sent along with the answer to any of Embling’s questions.

  So he kept quiet and concentrated on their route.

  The ISI’s main HQ in Peshawar is just off Khyber Road in Peshawar’s western suburbs, which would have required the SUVs to turn left onto Grand Trunk, but instead they continued on, into the northern suburbs. Embling imagined he was being taken to one of the God-knows-how-many off-site branch locations. The ISI kept a number of safe houses, simple residential flats and commercial office space, all over the city, so that they could cause more unofficial mischief than they could during an official visit to the HQ. The senior Brit expat’s suspicions were confirmed when they pulled up in front of a darkened office building, and two men with radios on their vests and Uzi submachine guns hanging from their shoulders stepped out from behind the glass door to greet the vehicles.

  Without a word, some six men walked Nigel Embling across the pavement, through the doorway, and then up a narrow staircase. He was led into a dark room—he fully expected it to be a cold and stark interrogation cell, but when someone flipped on the fluorescent lighting he saw it to be a well-used small office, complete with a desk and chairs, a desktop computer, a phone, and a wall full of Pakistani military banners, emblems, and even framed photos of cricket players from the Pakistani national team.

  The armed men put Embling in the chair, unlocked his handcuffs, and then left the room.

  Embling looked around, surprised to be left alone in this small but not uncomfortable office. Seconds later, a man entered from behind, stepped around Embling’s chair, and slid behind the desk. He wore the tan uniform of the Pakistani Army, but his green pullover sweater covered any insignia that might have revealed information to the man sitting across from him. All Embling could discern was that the man was in his late thirties, with a short beard and mustache and a ruddy complexion. He wore narrow frameless glasses that were propped halfway down his angular nose.

  “My name is Mohammed al Darkur. I am a major in the Inter-Services Intelligence Directorate.”

  Nigel opened his mouth to ask the major why he’d been dragged from his bed and driven across town for the introduction, but al Darkur spoke again.

  “And you, Nigel Embling. You are a British spy.”

  Nigel laughed. “Kudos for getting right to the point, even if your information is incorrect. I am Dutch. True, my mother was from Scotland, which is technically part of the British Empire, although her family preferred to think of themselves as—”

  “Your mother was from England, from Sussex,” al Darkur interrupted. “Her name was Sally, and she died in 1988. Your father’s name was Harold, and he was from London, and his death predated the death of your mother by nine years.”

  Embling’s bushy eyebrows rose, but he did not speak.

  “There is no use in lying. We know all about you. At different times in the past we have had you under surveillance, and we are quite aware of your affiliation with the British Secret Service.”

  Embling composed himself. Chuckled again. “You really are doing this all wrong, Major Darkur. I certainly won’t tell you how to do your job, but this isn’t much of an interrogation. I believe you need to take a few lessons from some of your colleagues. I’ve sat in a few ISI dungeons in my time here as a guest of your delightful nation; I’ve been suspected of this or that by your organization since you were in nappies, I’d wager. This is how you do it. First, you are supposed to start with a little deprivation, maybe some cold—”

  “Does this look like an ISI dungeon?” asked al Darkur.

  Embling looked around again. “No. In fact, your overlords might want to send you back for some remedial training; you can’t even get the scary environment down. Doesn’t t
he ISI have decorators who can help you create that perfect, claustrophobic ‘modern horror’ look?”

  “Mr. Embling, this is not an interrogation room. This is my office.”

  Nigel looked the man over for several seconds. Shook his head slowly. “Then you really haven’t a clue how to do your job, do you, Major al Darkur?”

  The Pakistani major smiled, as if indulgent of the old man’s taunts. “You were picked up this morning because another directorate in the ISI has asked that yourself, and other suspicious expatriates like you, be brought in for interrogation. After interrogation, I am ordered to begin the process of having you expelled from the country.”

  Wow, thought Embling. What the bloody hell is going on? “Not just me? All expatriates?”

  “Many. Not all, but many.”

  “On what grounds would we be given the boot?”

  “No grounds whatsoever. Well … I suppose I am to make up something.”

  Embling did not respond. He was still gobsmacked by this information, and more so by the frank way this man was delivering it.

  Al Darkur continued, “There are elements in my organization, and in the Army as a whole, who have enacted a secret military intelligence order that is only to be used in times of high internal conflict or war, in order to lessen the risk of foreign spies or agents provocateurs in our country. We are always in times of high internal conflict here, this is nothing new. And we are not at war. Therefore, their legal grounds are shaky. Still, they are getting away with it. Our civilian government is not aware of the scope or the focus paid to this operation, and this gives me great pause.” Al Darkur hesitated for a long moment. Twice he began to speak but stopped himself. Finally he said, “This new edict, and other things that have been going on in my organization over the last months, have given me reason to suspect some of my high-ranking colleagues of planning a coup against our civilian leadership.”