Locked On

by Tom Clancy

  “Who are they?” she asked, but she feared she knew the answer.

  “These are the Americans who kidnapped me. I was walking down the street in Riyadh. They came from nowhere. The young one, this man with the dark hair, he shot me. The old man, this one, was the leader.”

  Cochrane knew the FBI men could see her through the closed-circuit camera behind her. If they were watching right now, and she was certain they were, then they would see the Emir showing her pages from his pad. There was no reason for that to raise any sort of red flag, but still she waited nervously to hear the door behind her open.

  “We have been through this over and over. I can’t discuss any of that with you.”

  “You are my lawyer, are you not?”

  “I am, but—”

  “Judith Cochrane, I have no interest in helping the United States government in a charade to convince the world I am guilty. If I cannot tell my own lawyer what has happened to me, then I—”

  “We have rules we must obey.”

  “Rules imposed on you by your opponent. Clearly they are—what is the term you use in America?—stacking the deck.”

  “Let’s talk about your nutrition.”

  “I am not going to talk about my nutrition. It is halal, it is permissible for a Muslim to eat. Other than that, I don’t care about it.”

  Cochrane sighed, but she realized he was still holding up the pictures, and she realized she was still looking at them. Despite herself, she asked, “Are they CIA? Military? Did they tell you who they worked for?”

  “They did not tell me. I assume they are in your Central Intelligence Agency, but I need you to find out.”

  “I can’t find out.”

  “You can show people these pictures. There were others, but these four are the ones I remember the best. The old one who was the leader, the young one who shot me, the short foreign man with the tough eyes, and the young one with the short haircut. There was another man, a man with a beard, but I was not satisfied with my pictures of him.

  “All the other people I came into contact with after these men, either I was wearing a hood, or they were wearing masks. I have not seen any faces since I saw these faces here. Until I saw yours.” He held up the pictures again. “These men are fixed in my memory. I will never forget them.”

  Cochrane wanted his information. Damn the agreement she had with Justice.

  “All right,” she said. “Listen carefully. I am working on getting a pass-through slot opened up so that we can exchange documents. I won’t be able to leave with anything, though, so maybe I can bring some tracing paper in my pocket or something. I can trace your drawings and then give them back to you.”

  The Emir said, “I will work on these some more, and I will add some written details below the pictures. Height, age, anything I can think of.”

  “Good. I don’t know what I will do with this information, but there is someone I can ask.”

  “You are my only hope, Judith.”

  “Please, call me Judy.”

  “Judy. I like that.”

  Judy Cochrane looked at the four pieces of white paper again. She had no way of knowing that she was looking into the faces of Jack Ryan Jr., Dominic Caruso, Domingo Chavez, and John Clark.

  Life at Hendley Associates was returning to normal after the Paris operation. Most employees in at eight. A quick meeting in the conference room at nine, and then everyone back to their desks for a day of investigations, analysis, fishing in the murky waters of the cyberworld to find the enemies of the state who lurked there.

  The analysts sifted through their traffic feeds, applied pattern analysis and link analysis to the data, hoping to unlock some critical piece of information America’s official intelligence communities had missed, or exploit some intelligence find by American intelligence in a way the overly bureaucratic agencies could not.

  The field operatives spent their days testing equipment for the field, training, and sifting through the analysis to look for potential operations.

  Two weeks after the Paris op, Gerry Hendley entered the conference room fifteen minutes late. His key operatives and analysts were already there, as well as Sam Granger, director of operations. All the men were sipping coffee and chatting when he arrived.

  “Interesting new development. I just got a call out of the blue from Nigel Embling.”

  “Who?” asked Driscoll.

  Chavez said, “Ex–MI6 guy in Peshawar, Pakistan.”

  Now Driscoll remembered. “Right. He helped you and John last year when you were tracking the Emir.”

  Clark said, “That’s right. Mary Pat Foley tipped us off to him.”

  Hendley nodded. “But now he’s coming straight to us and he’s bringing an interesting lead. He’s running a source in the ISI. A major who suspects a coup is in the works. He wants to help Western powers stop it.”

  “Shit,” mumbled Caruso.

  “And who do you think this major’s best guess is as to who is behind this coup?”

  The men at the table looked at one another. Finally Jack said, “Rehan?”

  “You got it.”

  Chavez whistled. “And why did this major tell Embling about this? Obviously he knows Nigel is a spy?”

  “Knows or suspects. Problem for Nigel is he’s not a spy. Not anymore. MI6 isn’t listening to him, and he is afraid the CIA is hamstrung by the politics of the Kealty administration.”

  “Welcome to our world,” muttered Dom Caruso.

  Gerry smiled but said, “So Nigel went back to Mary Pat and said, ‘I want to talk to those guys I met with last year.’”

  “When do we go?” asked Clark.

  Gerry shook his head. “John, I want you to take another couple weeks off before you return to fieldwork.”

  Clark shrugged. “Hey, it’s your call, obviously, but I’m good to go.”

  Chavez disagreed. “You are healing up nicely, but a GSW is nothing to mess with. Better you stay around here. A wound infection would take you off the active roster real quick like.”

  Clark said, “Guys, I’m too old to give you any macho shit about how I’m one hundred percent. It’s stiff and sore. But I sure as hell am fit enough to fly over to Peshawar and drink some tea with Embling and his new friend.”

  But Sam Granger made it clear the matter was not up for debate. “I’m not sending you this time, John. I can use you around here. We have some new gadgets to test out. Some remote surveillance cameras came in last night, and I’d like your input.”

  Clark shrugged but nodded. Clark was subordinate to Granger, and like most every military veteran, he understood the need for a command structure, whether or not he agreed with the decision.

  “This Embling guy. What does he know about The Campus?” Driscoll asked.

  “Nothing, other than that we aren’t ‘official channels.’ His mates at MI6 trust Mary Pat, and Mary Pat trusts us. Also John and Ding made a good impression on him last year.”

  Ding smiled. “We were on our best behavior.”

  The men laughed.

  Granger said, “I’m going to send Sam this time. This is a one-man op; just go over and meet with this ISI major, get a feel for him and his story. Don’t commit to anything, just see what he will offer up. In this business we don’t trust anyone, but Embling is as solid as they come. He’s also been in the game for pushing a half-century, so I’ve got to assume he knows how to ferret out disinformation. I like our chances here, and the more we can learn about Rehan, the better.”

  The meeting broke up soon after, but Hendley and Granger asked Driscoll to stay behind for a moment. “You good with this?” Granger asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Go on down to the support desk and draw your docs, cards, and cash.” Granger shook Driscoll’s hand and said, “Listen. I’m not going to tell you anything you don’t know here, but Peshawar is a dangerous place, and getting more dangerous by the day. I want your head on a swivel twenty-four /seven, okay?”

  No
, Sam Granger wasn’t telling Sam Driscoll anything he didn’t know, but he appreciated the concern. “We’re on the same page, boss. Last time I took a little vacation in Pakistan, the shit hit the fan. That’s not something I’m looking to repeat this go-around.”

  Driscoll had gone over the border more than a year earlier, and he’d come back with a serious wound to his shoulder and a series of letters to write to the parents of his men who did not make it back.

  Granger nodded thoughtfully. “If there is a coup being planned by the ISI, too much digging around by an American is going to draw a lot of attention. Debrief Embling and his asset, an then come on back. Okay?”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Sam.

  26

  Brigadier General Riaz Rehan of the Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous Division of Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence Directorate cut an impressive figure in the back of his silver Mercedes sedan. A lean and healthy forty-six years old, Rehan was nearly six-two, and his round face was adorned with an impressive mustache and a trim beard. He wore his military uniform on most occasions when he was in Pakistan and he looked intimidating in it, but here in Dubai he looked no less powerful, dressed in his Western business suit and regimental tie.

  Rehan’s property here was a walled two-story luxury garden villa with four bedrooms and a large pool house. It sat at the end of a long curved road on Palm Jumeirah, one of five man-made archipelagos off the coast of Dubai.

  Coastal property in Dubai used to be markedly scarcer, as nature blessed the Emirate with only thirty-seven miles of beaches, but the leader of Dubai did not see the geographical realities of his nation as geographical boundaries, so he began crafting his own changes to their coastline through the reclamation of land from the sea. When the five planned archipelagos were completed, more than five hundred fifty miles of coast would be added to the nation.

  As General Rehan’s luxury vehicle turned onto al Khisab, a residential road of stately homes that also, when viewed from high altitude, served as the top-left frond of a palm-tree-shaped man-made island, Rehan took a call on his mobile. The caller was his second-in-command, Colonel Saddiq Khan.

  “Good morning, Colonel.”

  “Good morning, General. The old man from Dagestan is here now.”

  “Extend my apologies for the delay. I will be there in minutes. What is he like?”

  “He is like my crazy old grandfather.”

  “How do you know he does not speak Urdu?”

  Khan laughed. “He is in the main dining room. I am upstairs. But I doubt he speaks Urdu.”

  “Very well, Saddiq. I will meet with him and then send him on his way. I have too much to do to listen to an old man from the mountains of Russia yell at me.”

  Rehan hung up and looked at his watch. His Mercedes slowed on the small street to let a car from the protection detail that had been following it pass and rush ahead to the house.

  Rehan always traveled abroad with a security detail one dozen strong. They were all ex–Special Services Group commandos, specially trained for bodyguard work by a South African firm. Still, even with this large entourage, Rehan found a way to move in a relatively low-profile manner. He ordered his men to not pack his car with bodies; instead his driver and his lead personal protection agent rode with him, just three men in his SUV. The other ten normally stayed with them in traffic, moving around them like spokes to a hub in their unmarked and unarmored sedans.

  A general in the Pakistani Defense Force, even one seconded to the Directorate of Inter-Services Intelligence, would not normally operate from a safe house abroad, especially one with an address as opulent as Palm Jumeirah, Dubai, United Arab Emirates.

  But there was nothing about the life or career of Riaz Rehan that could, in any conceivable way, be considered normal. He lived and worked at the property in Palm Island because he had wealthy benefactors in the Persian Gulf who had supported him since the 1980s, and he had these benefactors because, for thirty years, Riaz Rehan had been something of a wunderkind in the world of terrorist operations.

  Rehan was born in Punjab, Pakistan, to a Kashmiri mother and an Afghan father. His father ran a midsized trucking concern in Pakistan, but he was also a devoted Islamist. In 1980, shortly after Russian Spetsnaz soldiers parachuted into Kabul and Russian ground troops rolled in to begin their occupation of Afghanistan, fourteen-year-old Riaz traveled with his father to Peshawar to help organize convoys to resupply the mujahideen fighting over the border. Rehan’s father used his own resources and personality to assemble a convoy of light weapons, rice, and medicine for the Afghan rebels. He left his son behind in Peshawar and set off to return to the country of his birth with his load.

  Within days, Rehan’s father was dead, blown to bits during a Russian airstrike on his convoy in the Khyber Pass.

  Young Riaz learned of his father’s death, and then he went to work. He organized, assembled, and led the next shipment of weapons over the border himself on a donkey caravan that bypassed the highway of death that the Khyber Pass had become, instead heading north over the mountains of the Hindu Kush into Afghanistan. It was only the hubris of the young and his faith in Allah that sent him through the mountains in February, but his caravan arrived unscathed. And although it delivered nothing more than old British Army Lee-Enfield rifles and winter blankets for the mujahideen, ISI leadership soon learned of the bold actions of the young boy.

  By his third trip over the mountains, the ISI was helping him with intelligence on Russian forces in his area and within months powerful and wealthy Wahhabi Arabs from oil-rich Gulf States were footing the bill for his shipments.

  By the time he was sixteen, Riaz was leading huge convoys with Kalashnikov rifles and 7.62 ammunition over the border to the rebels, and by 1986, when the American CIA delivered the first lot of shoulder-fired Stinger missiles to Peshawar to the ISI, the ISI entrusted the twenty-year-old operative from Kashmir with getting the high-tech weapons over the border and into the hands of the missile crews who’d already been trained and were now just waiting for their launchers.

  By the time the war ended, the ISI had Rehan pegged as a prime candidate to be a top-flight international operative, so they sent him to school in Saudi Arabia to improve his Arabic, and then to London to properly Westernize himself and study engineering. After London he joined the Pakistani Defense Force’s officer corps, rose to the rank of captain, and then left the military to become an agent of, but not an employee of, the ISI.

  Rehan was used by Pakistani intelligence for recruiting, organizing, and orchestrating the operations of the smaller terror groups active on Pakistani soil. He served as something of a liaison between ISI leadership and the criminal and ideological groups who fought against India, the West at large, and even Pakistan’s own secular government.

  Riaz Rehan was not a member of any of the jihadist organizations with whom he worked, not the Umayyad Revolutionary Council, not Al-Qaeda, not Lashkar-e-Taiba, not Jaish-e-Mohammed. No, he was a freelancer, a contract employer, and he was the man who translated the general interests and goals of the Pakistani Islamist leadership into actions on the ground, in the trenches.

  He worked with twenty-four different Islamist militant groups, all based in Pakistan. And to do this he adopted twenty-four different cover identities. To Lashkar-e-Taiba he was Abu Kashmiri, to Jaish-e-Mohammed he was Khalid Mir. He was, in effect, twenty-five people, including his given name, and this made him virtually impossible for Indian and Western intelligence agencies to track. His personal security was also helped along by the fact that he was neither fish nor fowl: not a member of a terror group, and not a member of the Pakistani intelligence services.

  Terror cells acting under his patronage executed missions in Bali, Jakarta, Mumbai, New Delhi, Baghdad, Kabul, Tel Aviv, Tanzania, Mogadishu, Chittagong, and all over Pakistan itself.

  In December 2007 in Rawalpindi, Riaz Rehan conducted his biggest operation, though no more than a handful of upper-level ISI and PDF generals knew
about it. Rehan himself selected, trained, and handled the assassin of Pakistani prime minister Benazir Bhutto on behalf of the Ministry of Defense and the ISI. And in true cold, calculating Rehan fashion, he also selected the man who stood behind the gunman, the man who blew the assassin up, along with a sizable portion of the crowd, with a suicide vest, right after the prime minister had been shot, to ensure that these dead men would indeed tell no tales.

  It was crucial to the leaders in Pakistani intelligence who used the jihadist groups and criminal gangs as proxy fighters that they keep their hands clean, and Rehan was the cutout who helped them do just that. For Rehan himself to stay clean as the cutout, they put great resources into his personal and operational security. Rehan’s contacts in the Arab world, wealthy oil sheiks in Qatar and the UAE whom he had known since the war with Russia in Afghanistan, began to sponsor him to further insulate and protect him. He was bankrolled by these wealthy Wahhabis, and eventually, in 2010, he returned to the Pakistani Army at the rank of brigadier general simply because his powerful Arab friends demanded of the ISI that Rehan be given a senior operating role in the nation’s intelligence structure. The Islamist generals put him in charge of Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous, a role normally given to a higher-ranking major general. This handed over to Rehan the responsibility for all international espionage assets and operations.

  His benefactors in the UAE, those who knew him (or more precisely knew of him) since his days as a teenager humping mule trains over the mountains solidified their special relationship with Rehan by giving him access to a walled compound on Dubai’s Palm Islands. This became, for all intents and purposes, his office. Yes, he had an office in Islamabad at the beautifully maintained headquarters of the Directorate of Inter-Services Intelligence in Aabpara, but as often as not he was in Dubai, away from those in the government of Pakistan who did not know he existed, or in the Army of Pakistan who did not support his goal for a caliphate.

  And away from those few in the ISI who actively sought to bring him down.