They had waited for dark in an abandoned factory outside Sialkot, studying the surveillance shots that Fahim’s men had taken. Kealey’s initial impression of the Afghan’s organizational skills had only been supported by the quality of his intelligence. They had verified, through distinguishing physical characteristics picked up on film, that Mengal had at least 10 men on the premises. They had also managed to verify that the general himself was present, along with the Algerian, Amari Saifi. In short, all the major players were onsite. For this reason, the assault itself had been moved up, and the helicopters were already en route.
The core of the assault force consisted of two MH-53 Pave Low Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR) helicopters. Each MH-53 was carrying 12 Special Forces operators, in addition to the standard flight crew of four—2 pilots, 1 flight engineer, and 1 gunner on the platform-mounted 7.62mm minigun. The Pave Lows were being escorted to their destination by four AH-64 Apache gunships, each of which was armed with a full complement of thirty-eight HYDRA 70 rockets, eight Hellfire missiles, and the standard 30mm nose cannon. Kealey thought that the size of the rescue operation—at least in terms of the number of people the Pentagon had sent, as well as how they had been sent—was perfect for the current mission. The size of the aerial force was small enough to evade Pakistan’s outdated ground-based radar, and the Apache gunships guaranteed a modicum of protection from everything except fixed-wing fighters. And if they showed up, the whole thing would be over, anyway. The size of the incoming force would certainly be enough to get Fitzgerald out, assuming she was even there to begin with.
And that was the problem. The only person they had not been able to locate was Brynn Fitzgerald. Kealey felt sure that she was on the grounds, but he needed to know her exact position. She was either in the house or the barn, which was located less than 30 feet to the left of the house, as viewed from the rear. The lights were on in the barn—a man had walked out earlier, and his silhouette had been plainly visible, even without NVGs—but there were no windows, and moving closer in hopes of catching a glimpse inside would entail too great a risk. At least, that was what had been decided in Washington.
Their role was still strictly limited to surveillance. Harper had set the rules of engagement several hours earlier, just after they had moved to the last staging point, a ridge overlooking the back of the farmhouse. They were not permitted to engage without provocation, and they were to take all steps to remain undetected. In short, they were there only to keep track of things until the assault team arrived. According to Harper, the National Security Council had arranged for a select team of SF operators to be assembled in Afghanistan shortly after the abduction in Rawalpindi. These were the same soldiers who were currently inbound to Kealey’s location. The foresight, above all, was what had impressed the younger man when Harper had briefed him a few hours earlier. The members of the NSC might not have expected to find Fitzgerald, but they had certainly been prepared for it, and Afghanistan was as close as the operators could get without a direct invitation from Musharraf. Of course, that was no longer a consideration, and now all they had to do was carry the mission off without a hitch, which was usually the hardest part.
During their last conversation, Kealey had pointed out that he and his men were more than capable of getting the job done, that there was no need to bring in an entire assault force. Harper said that he had suggested as much to the president, but Brenneman had decided to err on the side of caution. Besides, they had to fly in to retrieve Fitzgerald, anyway, so there wasn’t much point in leaving the operators behind. After relaying this piece of information, Harper had reemphasized the mission objectives. The deputy DCI knew him too well, Kealey thought. Admittedly, he had considered the pros and cons of “engineering” a little provocation. Once the first shots were fired, all bets would be off, and he’d have no option but to go in after her. He felt confident that they could pull it off, especially after what he’d seen with Mengal’s guard and the cigarette, but he wasn’t about to contradict Harper or the president. Not with the secretary of state’s life on the line.
Shifting his weight ever so slightly, Kealey peered once more through the night-vision scope attached to his rifle. He was grateful for the scope’s rubber eyecups, which served to keep the rain off the glass. The weapon was a SIG 550, an assault rifle manufactured by SiGARMS, a company based in Exeter, New Hampshire. Kealey had never used the 550, but he knew it was favored by police snipers for short-range work, and he liked the heft and feel of it. The weapon featured an integral folding bipod; a side-opening, skeletonized polymer stock; and a detachable mount, which had been modified to accept the AN/PVS-17.
Despite its quality, the rifle was a secondary tool, as he didn’t expect to use it. Of far more importance was their communications gear, which, regrettably, wasn’t quite up to par. The encrypted Motorola radios, which Owen had picked up at the embassy, were fine, but they were lacking the ability to communicate directly with their controllers via satellite radio. That would have required additional equipment, which Fahim’s organization had been unable to provide. As such, they were forced to use the Globalstar sat phone that Owen had brought into the country. As the team leader, Kealey had the phone secured in a pouch designed for the PRC-148, a portable radio of similar size and shape. A thin cord ran from the phone to a hands-free headset. Unfortunately, the phone’s battery lasted only nineteen hours on a full charge, and that was on standby. They could count on no more than three hours of actual talk time, so Kealey had kept it on standby, powering up only to relay updates when needed.
Harper was his contact on the other end. To the best of Kealey’s knowledge, the deputy director was still in the Situation Room at the White House, where he had immediate access to satellite coverage. One of the four 8Xs in orbit had already been retasked and was now positioned to provide a live infrared feed of Qureshi’s house and the surrounding area. Unfortunately, even the 8X was incapable of penetrating clouds, which rendered it useless until the storm had moved on. The government did have satellites that could see through cloud cover, most notably, the Lacrosse radar-imaging series, but like the KH-12s, they moved too low and too fast to really prove useful in tactical situations.
The guard beneath the tree was distracted again. Kealey checked his watch again and decided to check in with the other operatives. The rain, while lighter than it had been that afternoon, was still heavy enough to drown out the sound of his voice as he checked in with each member of the recon element. He started with Manik, who had nothing new to report, then moved on to Owen and Walland. He was about to move on to Massi when several things happened simultaneously. The barn door creaked open, then opened all the way, revealing a large square of yellow light. A tall, bearded man in flowing robes stepped out of the barn, pausing to light a cigarette. Kealey, tracking the man through his scope, immediately recognized the face from the photographs Harper had shown him in Oraefi. Although Fahim’s surveillance photographs had already placed Amari Saifi at the house, this was the first time Kealey had actually laid eyes on him. As he was processing this new development, he missed the calm but urgent transmission coming over his earpiece.
Cupping his hand over his ear, he murmured, “I didn’t catch you, Massi. Say again.”
The other man came back a split second later. “She’s in the barn. I repeat, Fitzgerald is in the barn. I just got a positive ID, over.”
For a split second, the words didn’t register. Kealey had known she was on the grounds, but it still came as a shock to hear it confirmed. For a moment, he wondered how Massi had caught sight of her. Then he remembered that the operative had begun adjusting his position two hours earlier, once it became clear they didn’t have a good view of the barn’s main door. It had taken Massi the whole two hours to move a scant 30 feet, but the payoff had been more than worth the time-consuming adjustment.
“Kealey, do you copy?” Massi asked impatiently. “I repeat, do you—”
“I copy,” Kealey said. “Stand by.”
Kealey was thinking hard as he peered through his scope. He watched the Algerian terrorist move toward the house, leaving the barn door open behind him. A few seconds later, he disappeared from view, and Kealey heard the distant sound of a door slamming shut. Once Saifi was inside, the two guards behind the house returned their attention to the dark field in which Kealey and the rest of the team were lying in wait.
Making his decision, he powered up the sat phone, dialed Harper direct, and waited impatiently for the satellite to make the connection. Once he had the deputy DCI on the line, he quickly relayed the new developments.
When he was done with the thirty-second explanation, Harper said, “Thank God she’s there.” Kealey could hear genuine relief in the other man’s voice, as well as a sudden surge of voices in the background. Kealey suddenly wondered if he was on speakerphone. “What kind of shape is she in?”
Kealey hadn’t asked before, so he put the question to Massi, who answered promptly. Then he got back with Harper and said, “She appears to be unharmed. She’s secured to a chair—we can’t see how—and it looks like they’ve erected some kind of film set. Massi can see cameras, portable lights, and a flag in the background.”
“But she’s still in one piece?”
“Yes.”
There was a long delay, the only sound that of the rain, the distant rumble of diesel engines, and the slight hiss of the satellite connection in Kealey’s ear. He could almost hear the argument that must have been going on in the Situation Room. Finally, Harper said, “We need to know more, Ryan. Can you get closer without being spotted?”
“Probably not,” Kealey said impatiently. “Look, John, we’re right there—”
“I know. You want to get her, and we will. Just maintain your position. The assault team lifted off from Bagram an hour ago. ETA is thirty-five minutes.”
“No, we need to get her now. We can do it. We have the advantage on all fronts. These guys are not—”
“Hold your position, Ryan. That’s an order.”
“Fuck.” Kealey muttered the expletive under his breath, but he wasn’t trying to hide his anger; Harper would have caught it over the line. Slightly raising his voice, he acknowledged the order, then ended the call.
Less than five seconds later, he heard Owen’s voice in his ear. “Kealey, what’s happening?”
Kealey relayed what Harper had said, then checked with each operative to make sure they were all on the same page. That done, he returned his attention to the back of the house. Through the night-vision scope, the green-tinted guard beneath the tree was incredibly clear; magnified, his head was about the size of a small pumpkin. All it would take was one gentle squeeze on the trigger, Kealey thought. It was incredibly tempting. Owen, Walland, or Massi would drop the second guard a tenth of a second later, and then they’d be down from ten hostiles to eight, a very manageable number….
Kealey pulled his eye back from the glass and took a deep breath, shaking it off. His finger had actually been tightening on the trigger, as if of its own accord, and now he made a conscious effort to move it outside the trigger guard. The urge to fire was overwhelming. She was right there, less than 100 feet away, and the enemy had no idea they were being watched. It would be so very easy….
He took another deep breath and wrapped his right hand tightly around the plastic grip of the rifle. Part of him wanted Mengal to try something. Part of him wanted the guards to spot the surveillance. Part of him wanted to end it now, but he forced himself to relax, knowing that Harper was right; it just wasn’t time. All they had to do was hold on for another half hour, and then it would be done.
CHAPTER 41
SIALKOT
From the moment Benazir Mengal first laid eyes on Said Qureshi’s home, he had been holding out possibilities for the barn. It was a fine two-story structure, built with the same fieldstone Qureshi had used on the house, and topped with the same slate roof. The only thing it was missing was windows, but for Mengal, that was part of the building’s appeal; after all, he didn’t want to advertise the things he was planning to use it for. There was a solid oak staircase against the north wall, which led up to a hayloft, but otherwise, the ground floor was completely empty, which made it ideal for the film set.
As far as sets went, it was extremely crude, but that was fine by Mengal. No one who watched the tape would be worried about the quality of the production. The tripod-mounted camera was bracketed by a pair of portable halogen lights and centered on a white flag bearing the symbol of the Salafist Group for Call and Combat. The oval-shaped symbol depicted an open Koran resting on a wall of gray stone, which was topped by a turquoise sky. The Koran was framed by a sword and an AK-47, and directly above the open book, a sun bearing seven rays seemed to illuminate the glorious teachings of the prophet Muhammad. There were also scrolls bracketing the central image. The banner beneath the wall marked the name of the group, and the banner above the Koran read, “And fight on until there is no more tumult or oppression, and there prevail justice and faith in Allah.”
It was, Mengal thought, a thoroughly ridiculous symbol. Almost as ridiculous as the aims of the group itself, but using the flag was better than the alternative, which was to face the camera himself. It was the same reason he had recruited Saifi in Algiers. When he had first arranged the interview with Saifi in the Algerian prison, he had, for the most part, explained exactly what he intended to do, leaving out only the specific identity of his target. In return for Saifi’s promise of assistance, Mengal had offered him freedom, which he could arrange through his friends in the Algerian government, as well as money and arms, everything Saifi would need to rebuild his faltering terrorist network in North Africa. He had also promised the Algerian center stage in the attack on the motorcade, the kind of attention that would guarantee instant fame, equating him with the top figures in international terrorism—Carlos, bin Laden, and Abu Nidal—virtually overnight.
Saifi had leaped at the opportunity, which wasn’t surprising, Mengal reflected, given that the alternative was another twenty years behind bars. So far, the terrorist leader had proved reliable, but there was something about his manner that Mengal found distinctly unsettling. Qureshi had caught it as well, and while Mengal had deflected the surgeon’s concerns, they had secretly added to the doubt he was already feeling. Mengal had very few moral qualms; he would gladly kill Fitzgerald if and when the time was right. The Algerian, on the other hand, was unpredictable, and that made him dangerous. Mengal had been careful about this; he’d never left his hostage alone with the Algerian, and now, as he glanced at the man whose freedom he had arranged for eight weeks earlier, he saw a perfect example of what had piqued his concerns to begin with.
The Algerian was standing to Mengal’s right, next to one of the portable lights. He was staring intently at Fitzgerald, who was bound to a chair in front of the flag. Fitzgerald, in turn, was staring stubbornly down at her lap, her battered face contorted with pain. At first, she had refused to speak into the camera, and Saifi had been eager—perhaps overly eager, Mengal reflected—to elicit her cooperation. Still, her bruised, bloody appearance did little to deter the Algerian’s interest. Saifi’s expression was constantly shifting and hard to decipher, falling somewhere between lust, admiration, and pure hate. His eyes were slightly too open, his mouth fixed in a permanent smile. His gleaming white teeth were constantly visible, it seemed, fixed in the center of a tangled black beard, and his hands, with their long, spidery fingers, were wrapped in the folds of his robes. Mengal had to speak his name several times before he turned, and even that was unnatural. His head was the only thing that moved, swiveling slowly as if it were mounted on a fixed platform.
“Go and get the American doctor,” Mengal instructed quietly, leveling his gaze on the bridge of the man’s nose. He could not meet the Algerian’s eyes: he was worried the man might see his concern and mistake it for fear. “Get him and bring him here.”
“We’re going to use him?” Saifi asked
in Arabic, one of their several shared languages.
“Yes.” It was a decision Mengal had been weighing for the past several hours. They had already performed several takes using only Saifi and Fitzgerald, and it just wasn’t working. They needed something more to get the message across, Mengal thought. They needed something that would leave an…impact on the American government, and the secretary of state herself was not expendable.
At least not yet.
“And what of the surgeon?”
Mengal considered briefly. Balakh Shaheed, his top lieutenant, had locked Qureshi in his surgical suite several hours earlier, and he saw no reason to bring him out now. For the moment, Craig would suffice.
“Leave him. Just get the American.”
The Algerian nodded, then pushed open the heavy door and stepped out. A minute later, a sudden crackling noise brought Mengal back to reality, and his eyes moved to the opposite side of the large room, where his two-way radio was resting on a rough wooden table. As he walked over to pick it up, he crossed in front of the barn door, which was still hanging open to the rain and the warm night air.
“I’ve got Mengal,” Massi said suddenly. “He’s inside the barn. He just passed the door. I guess he was on the north side of the building…I couldn’t see him before.”
“Got it,” Kealey said. “You see a weapon?”
“Negative,” Massi said, “but I can’t see the whole room. He might have it leaning against a wall or something…We’d better assume he’s got one close.”
“Roger. Everyone get that?” Kealey asked.
In the order they had decided on earlier, the other members of the team reported in the affirmative, their voices scratching over Kealey’s earpiece.
The Invisible (Ryan Kealey) Page 39
