Jonathan followed at his shoulder. “You’re the only guy I’ve got—”
“That’s enough,” said Nichols, spinning to face him. “Now, am I going to have any problem with you two?”
“No, Major Nichols, you’re not,” said Danni, stepping between the two men. “We thank you for giving us the benefit of the doubt. It’s clear you did everything in your power to find Haq. It’s been a difficult day.”
“Yes, Ms. Pine, it has.”
Danni smiled consolingly. “Do you have any idea where they’re taking us?”
“Embassy. This is an intel matter. You spooks can sort it out among yourselves.”
69
An hour later Jonathan was with Danni in the rear of a Pakistani Army Humvee, two Delta Force operators at the wheel, as it made its way along the sun-bleached streets of Islamabad. A bandage covered his ear. Arnica salve had been applied to his bruised forehead. Butterfly stitches closed the laceration from the opium knife.
“What’s going on?” asked Jonathan. “Connor was ‘removed from his post.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that his colleagues found out what he was doing and objected to it,” said Danni. “Frank was never one to follow the book. It may finally have caught up to him.”
“The timing couldn’t be worse.”
“Forget about it. Right now our priority is Haq. We have to assume that he’s alive and at large and that he has the weapon. Nothing else matters.”
The two sat facing each other on opposite benches, heads close, whispering. There were no handcuffs, no restraints of any kind. After all, as Danni had assured Major Nichols, they were all professionals.
“Haq’s hair was cut short,” said Jonathan. “He’d shaved his beard and cut his nails, all except one. He’s going somewhere where he has to look like us. Like an American or European.”
“You mean like a Westerner,” said Danni. “Yes, I agree. Do you know anything else about him? Something that might give us a clue as to his intentions?”
“He was in Gitmo for a long time. I don’t think he’s too fond of doctors or Americans. Oh, yeah, and he likes movies. I’m afraid it’s not much help.”
“It’s a start. Like you said, he didn’t cut his hair for nothing. It means he’s delivering the WMD somewhere he has to blend in and he’s delivering it now.”
“How soon is now?”
“We have to assume he’ll either hand off the bomb or detonate it himself within the next twenty-four hours.”
“I saw it,” said Jonathan. “It was so small. You can hide it anywhere. At least we can pass on what we know about the bomb to the people at the embassy. I’m sure they can do something.”
“What bomb?” said Danni. “The only person besides you and me who knows about it is Frank Connor, and he’s gone missing.”
“What are you saying? That no one will believe us?”
“Would you? I mean, look at yourself. You’re an untrained, untested operative being run by a disgraced spymaster.”
“Except that I’m telling the truth.”
“Granted. And eventually you will convince the men and women in Washington who’ll debrief you of that. They’re not stupid. They’ll listen to what Connor tells them and what you tell them, and they’ll put two and two together. But that will be four weeks from now. A bit late, by my calculations.”
“What about you?”
“What about me? I’m not here in an official capacity. My people think I’m on leave. Once they learn of my participation in this fiasco, I’ll be fired.” Danni cracked a smile. “What did Major Nichols say about Connor? He was ‘removed from his post.’ Yes, that is what they will do to me. They will ‘remove me from my post.’”
“I didn’t think they fired people like you.”
Danni considered this. “Actually, you’re right. They don’t. They’re too cruel for that. Instead they’ll transfer me to a guard post overlooking the settlements in the West Bank. I’ll only wish I’d been fired.”
The Humvee rattled over a pothole and Jonathan bounced off the bench, touching Danni’s knee for support. He held her eyes, struck again by the depth of their blue, and he found himself unable to look away. Soot streaked her cheek; sweat beaded her upper lip. She’d ditched her vest and web belt and rolled up the sleeves of her black utilities. With her tunic casually unbuttoned and her tangled hair hanging across her face, she looked a far cry from the crack commando who’d grouped four shots in the center of Mr. Singh’s chest.
“Danni, why did you come?”
“Because you weren’t ready. Because you were my student and I was responsible for you. Because I don’t send people I like out to be killed.”
“Thank you.”
Danni looked away, uncomfortable. “I’ll have a word with my people,” she said. “They’ll pass along a warning to Interpol and the IAEA. They have measures in place to deal with the traffic of WMDs.”
“What will happen?”
“The threat level will be raised at all ports of entry in Europe, Canada, and the States—airports, harbors, border crossings. They’ll send out a description of Haq.”
“Will it do any good?”
“No. But it’s the best we can do until we get a bearing on exactly where he’s headed.” Abruptly Danni sat up, pressing her back against the bench. “Jonathan, I have to ask you something. If you didn’t send the information from Balfour’s computer, who did?”
“Emma.”
Danni could not conceal her shock. “She was there?”
Jonathan nodded. “She tried to get me to walk away. She said she could take me out of Blenheim with her when she left this morning.”
“Why? Did she know you were in danger?”
“She thought I was in over my head.”
“What was she doing there?”
“Coaching Balfour on how to live his new life without drawing attention to himself. I guess she was teaching him to live like a spook.”
Danni narrowed her eyes, bothered. “But why would she send Connor the information? If she was helping Balfour sell the bomb, why do something to endanger the sale? I take it he was paying her.”
“Probably.”
“Is she helping Haq?”
“I don’t think so. In fact, I had more of the impression that Balfour was keeping the two of them apart. Last night he threw a big dinner for his guests—myself, Haq, and the nuclear physicists who’d reconfigured the warhead. Emma wasn’t there.”
“I don’t like it,” said Danni.
Jonathan sighed. “You asked me why, so I’ll tell you. Because she’s up to something. I just wish I knew what it was.”
“Let’s concentrate on what you do know,” said Danni. “What did you see in Balfour’s office?”
“I read over a lot of his papers. There were telephone numbers, bank accounts, stuff written on his blotter.”
“Like what?”
“A few names. A lot of words in Urdu or Dari that I couldn’t understand. I wrote down everything I could remember as soon as I got back to my room.”
“Do you have the paper?”
“Not anymore. They took all my belongings after Haq recognized me.”
“Can you remember some of it?”
“Some. Not all.”
“That will have to do.”
Jonathan looked out the forward windscreen. They had entered the diplomatic quarter. Wide green berms ran down the center of the road. High walls surrounded large, ornate residences. Private security guards manned every gate.
“You up to running a little?” Danni asked.
“You have someplace to go?”
“Maybe.”
Jonathan inclined his head toward the front seat. “These guys aren’t National Guardsmen. They’re Delta Force. That means they’re sharpshooters.”
“I know,” said Danni, and she slid closer to the rear door.
Against his better instincts, Jonathan followed suit. “What do you mean, you kno
w? If you know, why are you planning on running?”
Danni didn’t answer. At that moment the Humvee braked to a halt at a traffic light. Immediately she threw open the door and jumped out. Jonathan followed her, hitting the ground running.
“Hey, what the—Stop! Both of you! Get back here!”
Jonathan heard the shouts of the soldiers behind him, but he refused to look back. He stayed a half-step behind Danni, zigging when she zigged, zagging when she zagged. They negotiated the midday traffic as if threading their way through an angry, smoke-belching maze, dodging cars and bicycles, flying past bewildered vendors, sprinting at full clip. At some point the sound of the combat boots thudding the pavement behind them receded, and then it died off altogether.
Danni took a sharp right at the next crossroads. The side street was narrower and only half paved. A deep, wide ditch ran down one side of the road. It was a nullah, used to capture water during the monsoon season and keep the streets from flooding. Danni hopped into it and climbed out the other side. A low wall bordered the ditch, and behind it was a slum of corrugated tin shacks and slapdash hovels. Danni vaulted the wall and motioned for Jonathan to keep up.
They ran down alley after alley, turning right and left, until finally Danni stopped, pushing her back against a kiosk selling European magazines two years out of date.
“See?” she said, peeking her head around the corner to verify that no one had followed. “I told you they wouldn’t shoot.”
Jonathan bent double, fighting for breath. “How’d you know?”
“This is Islamabad—the capital. An American soldier opens fire here, he’ll have half the population swarming over him inside a minute and a full-fledged diplomatic scandal an hour after that. Officially, American soldiers aren’t even supposed to be on Pakistani soil. The raid at the airport—there were no Americans there. For the record, it was a Pakistani job all the way.”
“Call Connor. Now. We’ve got to tell him what happened. He has to know that Haq has the warhead.”
Danni’s mouth tightened, then she nodded and dialed the number. The call went directly to voicemail and she hung up. “He’s not answering.”
Jonathan stood and wiped the sweat from his brow. “You know where we are?”
“No idea,” said Danni. “Islamabad isn’t high on my list of vacation hot spots.”
“Great. Now we’re lost, too.”
Danni set off down the road at a determined pace. “But I know where to go.”
70
The house belonged to a wealthy Jewish merchant of English extraction whose family had lived in India and, more recently, Pakistan, since the Raj. The faded glories of a lost empire decorated every corner of the colonial mansion, from the marble foyer to the teak-paneled den: carved elephant tusks, ornate copper teakettles, a miniature replica of Zamzama, the “fire-breathing” cannon made famous in Rudyard Kipling’s Kim. The merchant’s position in the trading community granted him access to the highest levels of the Pakistani government and made him privy to the government’s economic secrets. As his father had done before him, he passed along information he deemed would be of interest to his ancestral homeland. The Mossad had a word for men like him the world over: sayyan. Friend.
The merchant, a short, gray-bearded man, showed Jonathan and Danni to his study and without a word closed the door behind them.
Jonathan sat at his desk, with Danni close beside him. He set to work immediately, writing down the information he’d memorized in Balfour’s office. Some numbers came back easily; others proved maddeningly elusive, slipping from his grasp like a morning dream. He had no problem recalling a batch of six-digit alphanumeric sequences which Danni recognized as SWIFT codes for wiring funds between international banks. He had more problems with longer sequences, and it was decided that these could not be relied upon. After fifteen minutes, he was spent.
“That’s it,” he said. “That’s all there is.”
And for the first time Danni did not prod him for more. “It’s enough.”
Besides the SWIFT codes (which Danni wrote down on a clean sheet of paper, folded neatly, and placed in her shirt pocket), several notations stood out as being worthy of scrutiny. The first was the phone number he had recognized as having an Afghan country code, the initials MH inscribed next to it.
“MH has to be Massoud Haq,” said Jonathan.
Danni agreed and said she would pass the number to the technical services branch of the office, “the office” being professional’s shorthand for her own intelligence service. “It may take some time, but they’ll be able to create a network of his associates from the calls placed and received.”
“How quickly?” asked Jonathan.
“That’s always the question,” said Danni with exasperation. “With a little muscle, I think we can count on sooner rather than later.”
Jonathan’s finger rested on a grouping of letters he recalled seeing on Sultan Haq’s desk. The first line read “METRON,” and the successive lines below it “HAR” and “NEWH.” “Ring any bells?”
Danni said the words aloud. “It sounds like it’s only part of each word.”
Jonathan tried sounding out additional syllables to form a word, but came up with nothing. “Let’s move on.”
“What interests me is this name.” And here Danni pointed to where Jonathan had written “Pasha” and “PARDF.” “Wasn’t Pasha the name of our American major’s most trusted colleague?”
“It’s common enough.”
“PARDF stands for Pakistani Army Rapid Deployment Force,” Danni went on. “How many Pashas do you think they have?” She pushed back her chair. “Pasha was on Balfour’s payroll all along. He was there to look after Haq and make sure he got the warhead to its destination. If Haq escaped through the back, it was with Pasha’s help.”
Jonathan returned his attention to the pad where he had written down “N14997.” “I recognize this. It’s an N number—an aircraft registration code. Every country has its own code. G is for England, F for France.”
“And N?”
“N is for the United States.”
“Are you a pilot?”
“No, but when I was working with Doctors Without Borders, Emma used to ferry medicine from one country to another. We were required to list the registration code of the aircraft flying the supplies on our customs declarations.”
“I see,” said Danni. “So I imagine there’s a central registry that keeps track of these.”
“Absolutely,” said Jonathan.
“Let me run it by the office.” Danni placed a call to Israel and rattled off a series of instructions in Hebrew. Jonathan listened patiently as Danni fought her position with her colleagues in Herzliya. Unable to understand a word, he found himself thinking once again about Emma.
There was not a moment since he’d arrived in Pakistan that he had not felt her invisible hand lurking above him, guiding events to her advantage. He had no doubt that it was she who had placed the spyware-encoded flash drive into Balfour’s computer. Working under Connor for so many years, she would have known that his response would be to immediately dispatch the special ops boys stationed in Pakistan. But why would she want to thwart Balfour’s plans after she had risked her life, and the life of her child—no, their child!—to help bring them to fruition?
“Jonathan, we’ve got a hit.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“N14997 is a C-141 Starlifter registered to Blenheim Cargo Corporation of Miami, Florida, which in turn is owned by East Pakistan Airways, Balfour’s private airline. Apparently the plane is being leased by the United States Army Materiel Command to transport military equipment back from Iraq to the States.”
“Do they know where it is?”
“According to Plane Tracker, the aircraft landed in Islamabad this morning.”
“A cargo plane,” said Jonathan. “It figures. The last I saw Haq, he was headed toward the freight terminal.”
“Hold on,” said Danni, pic
king up her conversation where she’d left off, jotting notes furiously on her pad. “Okay, shalom. Thanks.”
“And?”
Danni’s eyes were wide. “The plane took off at eight p.m.”
Jonathan looked at the ornate clock on the wall: 10 p.m. “Did the pilot file a flight plan?”
“Yes,” said Danni, much too softly for Jonathan’s liking. “It’s flying to Ramstein Air Base in Germany.”
“That’s it?”
“No, Ramstein is only a refueling stop. It’s slated to continue on to McGuire Air Force Base in Wrightstown, New Jersey. Do you know where that is?”
“Yeah,” said Jonathan. “It’s a little more than an hour from New York City.”
71
In Georgetown, snow fell as Jake “the Ripper” Taylor approached the three-story gray-brick town house at the corner of 34th Street and Prospect Street. A Ford Grand Victoria sat parked directly in front of the stairs leading to the front door. The car was unoccupied, and he assumed that the federal marshals to whom it belonged were inside, minding their prisoner. A second Grand Vic waited around the corner, two officers in the front seat, drinking their afternoon coffee. The feds were not winning points for being inconspicuous, thought Taylor, and he was sure to make a full and complete stop at the intersection before continuing on. In that time he cracked his window and looked to his right. The alley was right there behind the town house, just as the boss lady had said it would be, and there, poking its head above the fence, was the old wooden shed.
“There’s a back entry that’s accessed through a shed in the neighbor’s yard,” she had informed him. “You can see it from the alley behind his home. Mr. Connor is a sneaky fellow, and he uses it when he thinks someone’s checking up on him.”
A sneaky fellow. The boss lady using that upper-class accent he knew so well from the university-educated camel jocks he’d met over in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Rules of Betrayal Page 32
