by Vince Flynn
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” the man said in a tone that suggested he wasn’t. “If you could please remove your jacket and shoes, and empty your pockets.”
He did as he was told and then turned to walk to the other side of the conveyor, but was immediately stopped.
“Your belt, too, sir.”
He smiled accommodatingly but felt a surge of nervousness as he removed it. It had been made to order in Asia back in the seventies. The buckle was secured to the leather by a two-inch-long metal strip that had been sharpened on all sides. It was sewn in with permanent stitches, but the pattern and thread were purposely weak. One hard jerk and it would break free, giving him a weapon that was complete crap but still better than nothing.
“A lot of security,” Hurley observed, trying to distract the man looking at the X-ray screen. The belt had been all over the world, passing through even Israel’s airports more times than he could count. Still, this rundown was anything but routine.
“Yes, sir,” he said, not looking up. The conveyor paused for a moment and Hurley focused on the man’s gun. It’d be a hell of a way to go out—grabbing the guy’s weapon and spraying down the courtyard. Just wishful thinking, though. If he so much as raised his voice, they’d immediately harden up on Obrecht. The operation would be finished before it even started. No, if they questioned the belt, he’d tell the truth: that he’d bought it outside a Thai whorehouse before most of the men around him were even born. What did he know about how belt buckles were attached to belts?
It turned out to be unnecessary. His things came rolling out of the machine unchallenged while he was being wanded. A moment later he was fully dressed and moving toward the mansion.
The guard was two paces ahead as they started up the broad marble staircase leading to the front door. He had a sidearm that was within reach, but he wouldn’t give it up easily. Even with surprise on his side, Hurley questioned how he would fare against the man. Twenty—even ten—years ago, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. A quick twist of the neck accompanied by the quiet crunch of vertebrae, and it would be done.
The chemotherapy and the hip surgery had taken more out of him than he let on, though. If Rapp knew the real extent of it, he’d have left him in West Virginia. But there was no way Hurley was going to fade away in a rocking chair while that piece of shit Louis Gould replaced him.
They stayed on the first floor, walking through a palatial entry hall lined with antique furniture and original portraits of people spanning a good five centuries. Most were probably Obrecht’s ancestors and all looked like they were posing with sticks up their asses. Yet another reminder that crime actually did pay.
“Wait in here.”
“Thank you,” Hurley said, stepping inside a spacious parlor. “Do you know when Mr. Obrecht will be available?”
One of the few advantages of being his age was that hearing aids were expected. His were tied into Coleman’s tactical radio setup and had microphones that picked up his voice as well as the ambient sound around him. He depressed a button on the key fob in his pocket to toggle the transmit function and broadcast the man’s answer to Rapp. They wouldn’t be able to coordinate the op to the second, but if Obrecht was as anal-retentive as he was reputed to be, they’d be able to nail it to within a minute or so.
“I don’t know.”
“Could you give me some idea? I need to be back fo—”
The door closed, leaving Hurley staring at the ornately carved back of it. Prick.
He walked around for a few minutes, pretending to look at the expensive furnishings and finally settling into a chair near a set of west-facing windows. Two guards were visible, but there was nothing to see that Dumond’s drone hadn’t picked up.
Hurley suspected the room was full of hidden cameras and microphones, making it a bit challenging to communicate. He stood and depressed the key fob button again.
“Just one time, I’d like it not to be hurry up and wait,” he muttered angrily, as if to himself. “I don’t know how long Obrecht expects me to sit by the door watching the sun go down. Like I don’t have better things to do.”
“Confirm,” Rapp said over his fake hearing aid. “You’re alone on the first floor, windows facing west.”
“Yeah. Just great.”
“Understood. Stand by. We’re three minutes from the tunnel entrance.”
Hurley began pacing, feeling the irritation he was supposed to be faking turn real. He was accustomed to being on the action side of these ops and being dead in the water while Rapp crawled through the dirt and Coleman set up sniper positions was driving him insane.
He got a little satisfaction from imagining opening the door and smashing that Eurotrash merc’s head in with a priceless statuette. And the image of Rapp and that frog showing up to find Obrecht already tied and gagged was downright uplifting.
The mission he’d been charged with, though, was very different. Nothing more than confirming the banker’s location in the house and keeping him occupied with conversation until the two younger men could come to the rescue. But that wasn’t the worst of it. In order to create even more confusion, he was to act like a second hostage if they were confronted by Obrecht’s security. The theory was that it would give Hurley the element of surprise, but he wasn’t sure that Rapp really believed he was still capable of taking out anyone tougher than a Girl Scout.
He sat again, staring at a blank section of wall and thinking back to when the twenty-two-year-old Mitch Rapp had showed up at his training facility. Some college boy lacrosse player who didn’t know one end of a gun from another.
Hurley had wiped the floor with the sniveling little puke. And despite decades of friendship and countless ops, he’d like nothing more than to do it one more time before he died.
CHAPTER 18
ISLAMABAD
PAKISTAN
UMAR Shirani, Pakistan’s army chief of staff, unlocked the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of gin. The kitchen lights were off but the illumination filtering in from the hallway created a dim reflection in the window over the sink. At seventy-one, he was still a bull of a man. An expanding waist was evident behind the casual slacks and golf shirt, but so were the thick arms, barrel chest, and broad shoulders. The scar acquired in the 1971 war with India was still visible—a puckered line that started on his right temple and disappeared into his thick mustache.
Saad Chutani had no such scar. Nor did that pathetic fool Ahmed Taj. They were nothing more than useless bureaucrats. Bookkeepers whose talents were limited to flattery, intrigue, and speechmaking. They had never fought for their country. They would never shed a single drop of blood for Pakistan. All they could do was maneuver in the shadows, quietly chipping away at men greater than themselves.
Shirani put the glass to his mouth and felt the rare sensation of alcohol burning his throat. Allah had put a great hurdle in front of his loyal servant. He would understand.
The aging soldier exited the kitchen and started for his study. The house was nearly ten thousand square feet, decorated and redecorated countless times by his young wife. The wildly expensive furniture and art had recently turned modern, and while he despised it, he knew it wouldn’t last more than a few years. Soon she would use U.S. dollars meant for fighting terrorism to create a new theme.
The house seemed unusually quiet as he strode through it. His wife had wisely withdrawn to the east wing. She’d learned to read her husband’s moods and knew that her presence would only create a convenient target for his rage.
But where were his security men? Had they too retreated in the face of his anger? Sometimes he thought the younger generation consisted of nothing but pampered cowards. How was his country to survive when he was surrounded by nothing but traitors and weaklings? Men like Saad Chutani and Ahmed Taj?
Shirani could not dispute that the president was a skillful politician. His ousting of the formidable former ISI director in favor of Taj was a first step toward bringing the powerful intelli
gence agency to heel. Underestimating Chutani’s abilities would be extremely dangerous, but overestimating them could lead to paralysis. While in some ways impressive, nothing the politician had accomplished would have been possible without the constant involvement of the Americans.
The critical difference between Shirani and Chutani was that the president actually believed in America. He genuinely treated its leaders as friends and partners. He took their money like they all did, but instead of subverting it, he used it on Washington-sanctioned programs. It was all part of his twisted dream of turning Pakistan into a U.S. clone. Into a place where Shirani’s daughters would be free to behave like prostitutes and Allah would become a quaint mythology.
Chutani was dangerous but also far too impressed with himself. While he had been successful in infiltrating Pakistan’s intelligence apparatus and bribing the poor with public projects, his position was not unassailable. His American-sponsored drone attacks and commando raids had strengthened Pakistan’s growing fundamentalist insurgency. And he was not the master of the army. Not yet.
The truth was that Pakistan had been controlled by a civilian government for too long. The country had a lengthy history of coups and the undeniable fact was that Pakistan performed better under military rule. The time had come to act.
Shirani climbed the stairs lost in thought but by the time he reached the top landing, the continued silence began to intrude. The army provided numerous servants and guards—men he’d handpicked for their skill and loyalty. While the size of his home had the ability to obscure them, it was unheard-of for him to travel its full length without at least a glimpse of the people tasked with keeping his household operating.
Shirani felt a dull surge of adrenaline. Had he underestimated Chutani? Had the politician managed to defeat his security? Was he looking to do something more tangible than just humiliating the commander of his army?
Shirani slowed, staying on the carpet runners as he continued toward the back of the house. The overhead fixtures had been removed in the last remodel, leaving the hallway lit only by weak, widely spaced lamps. He told himself he was being paranoid—that Chutani didn’t have the courage to do something this overt—but it did little to steady his nerves.
He put his drink down on a low chest and opened one of the drawers. Inside, he found one of the many guns that had been strategically placed around the house. The mechanism was well oiled, and the round entering the chamber made almost no sound at all.
Shirani found himself wanting to call out, to discover that his men were just giving him space. He wasn’t confident enough to do so, though. Instead, he crept forward, taking a deep breath before stepping into his study with the Heckler & Koch P7 stretched out in front of him.
“I hardly think that will be necessary,” Ahmed Taj said in Urdu.
He was sitting near the unlit fireplace, legs crossed and hands steepled in front of him. Like at the end of their last meeting, he refused to avert his eyes.
“Where are my men?”
“I wanted to speak privately.”
“How . . .” Shirani started, but then fell silent. While Taj was still dressed in his familiar rumpled suit and faded tie, he seemed completely transformed. His posture was ramrod straight and his normally dull eyes had turned cunning. Was it possible that everything Shirani knew about the man was a lie?
The realization that he had seen only what Taj wanted him to see came like a blow to the chest. It seemed so clear now—the increasing sophistication of Taliban activity, Durrani’s death, the well-coordinated attacks on the army’s nuclear facilities. How had he been so blind?
Taj calmly pointed to the weapon in Shirani’s hand. “Put the gun down and sit, Umar. We both know that if I wanted you dead, you would have been long ago.”
Taj watched the man as he laid his firearm on an ugly Western table and sat. Umar Shirani was in many ways his polar opposite. The general was a creature of privilege, having been born into a wealthy family with strong ties to the military. It was this that had made him complacent and all too easy to undermine. In the end, men like him possessed a fundamental belief in their own superiority. To them, life was a competition they couldn’t lose. An endless game of jockeying for position in an entitled hierarchy.
“First, let me apologize for the army being relieved of its duties guarding our nuclear arsenal. It was certainly not my intention.”
It was a lie that Shirani would immediately see through. The goal was less to convince the army commander that the ISI had no interest in reigning over Pakistan’s missile capability than to set a civil tone. Taj needed an ally, not another competitor.
“Of course,” Shirani responded noncommittally. He looked around him, undoubtedly out of a futile hope that he wasn’t alone. That his men would enter and help the old soldier retain the upper hand he was too arrogant to realize he’d lost years ago.
“Our country is rotting, Umar. From both inside and out. The regional instability caused by the Americans is spreading. Sectarian violence has grown to a point that it’s at the edge of our control. And while we’ve been successful at subverting U.S. financial aid, we’ve also been seduced by it.”
Shirani just nodded.
“President Chutani has given me the responsibility of protecting our nuclear arsenal but ordered me to ignore the external threats from the Americans and Indians, both of whom will stop at nothing to wipe out our capabilities and leave us defenseless.”
“How can Pakistan survive this?” Shirani said, finally gaining enough confidence to join the conversation. “I fear that God is judging our weakness, Ahmed. Losing faith in our commitment to His will.”
“As do I. America’s corrupting influence cannot be overestimated.”
“Allah be praised.”
Taj smiled. Shirani’s whoring was legendary and he had been drinking alcohol only moments before. He was like so many others throughout human history—a man who used God as an excuse to pursue his own ambitions.
It was this that would eventually make it necessary to get rid of the man. But not yet. In order for chaos to be averted, Taj’s coup would have to preserve as much of the existing political structure as possible. The illusion of normalcy was critical in the short term.
“I assume you’re here with a proposal?” Shirani said, gaining still more confidence. He would know that whatever Taj had planned, it would be impossible without the consent of the army. Nothing in Pakistan happened without at least the army’s pledge not to interfere.
Fortunately, the general was a simple man. Utterly untrustworthy, but interested first and foremost in protecting his own position.
“I will be taking control of Pakistan soon,” Taj said simply.
Shirani’s surprise at the boldness of the statement was obvious and anticipated. He’d undoubtedly expected to be recruited for some subtle plan to undermine the civilian government’s authority. Not an admission that an ISI coup was in the works.
The general laughed uncomfortably, undoubtedly concerned that this was a trap constructed by Saad Chutani. “You’re talking treason, Ahmed. I have disagreements with the president’s relationship with America, but it’s my job to tell him my opinion and then obey his orders.”
“I admire your sense of duty, Umar, but how much longer will you be able to hold on to that job? You’re experienced enough to know that Chutani is maneuvering to remove you as head of the army.”
“I know no such thing.”
It was Taj’s turn to laugh. “I assume you remember what happened to my predecessor.”
It was impossible to forget. He had been marginalized with fabricated scandals publicized in media outlets beholden to Chutani. The unrest in North Waziristan had been laid at his feet, and he was vilified every time there was a terrorist attack within Pakistan’s borders. Finally, he’d been forced out over accepting bribes that were no different than ones taken by every government executive in the country. He was now facing a lifetime of prosecutions that would leave hi
m penniless and his family disgraced.
“We’re at a turning point, Umar. The Middle East is disintegrating. The world is ready—in fact desperate—for a Muslim superpower to fill the vacuum created by the Americans. The Saudis are children obsessed with toys, and the Iranians are backstabbing women with no nuclear capability. Pakistan is the only country capable of becoming that superpower. We have a unique opportunity, Umar. We can neutralize America, take control of the region, and close our fist around the oil they rely so heavily on. We can bring their economy to its knees and stop the drone attacks on our soil. The humiliations can be brought to an end. All we need is our own strength and Allah’s blessing.”
Taj fell silent and leaned back in his chair. It was Shirani’s turn to speak.
“What is my position in all this?”
Predictably, his thoughts immediately turned to himself.
“Under my leadership, you will retain your rank as well as the authority to do what needs to be done with our nuclear arsenal.”
“And what is that?”
“The expansion and modernization of our missile technology. Like you, I understand the importance of having weapons capable of reaching the United States. . . .” He paused and allowed himself a smile. “I’m sure America’s Congress will be willing to finance the effort.”
For the first time, there was a flicker of interest in Shirani’s eyes. Self-interest, no doubt, but Taj wasn’t naïve. No matter what the general promised by way of support, his army would in fact stay as neutral as possible. The general would wait to see who won and then determine whether the power struggle had been bloody enough to make the victor vulnerable.
And that was all Taj needed—for the army to remain docile until he could do away with President Chutani and consolidate his leadership. Then, and only then, would he move to deal with Umar Shirani.
CHAPTER 19
