“Jesus,” replied Carlow. “That would take a Board of Inquiry . . . ”
“Quite frankly,” replied Mack, “I don’t really care if it takes an Act of Congress. They say every man has his price. And I guess that’s mine. Because for that, I’d do anything.”
Rear Admiral Carlow stood up and told them he needed to call the Pentagon, and speak to Admiral Mark Bradfield, the head of the United States Navy. He walked out of the room and then out of the house to make the call on his cell. He had been gone for only around six minutes when he walked back into the room. “It’s done,” he said. “Welcome back, Commander Bedford.”
“Steady, Andy,” replied Mack. “I’m still only a lieutenant commander.”
“Not any more, you’re not,” replied the SEAL boss.
4
THE STUNNING EVENTS of those six minutes in the Bedfords’ white house in snow-swept Maine took everyone by surprise.
By way of explanation, Andy Carlow told them a board of inquiry was being convened right now, with orders from the highest possible authority that the dreaded GOMOR—General Officer Memorandum of Reprimand—that had had been issued against Mack was to be overturned and struck from the record as from this day.
All further matters, regarding pay, pensions, benefits, and promotions, would be retro-active, backdated.
“If anyone’s interested,” said Andy with a broad grin, “Bradfield’s precise words were ‘This should have been done months and months ago, as soon as the stupid, know-nothing Middle East peace talks went down.’
“He also said he never could remember any action in any court-martial ever to cause that much bitterness and resentment, especially among the SEALs. He mentioned that even the goddamned janitor knew Mack should never have been sacrificed like that, especially as the court-martial had just found him not guilty on all counts.”
“Will I need to complete the mission successfully in order for all of this to kick in?” asked Mack.
“Absolutely not,” replied Carlow. “Your word and your handshake are good enough for us. Everyone knows you will either take out those four mass murderers. Or die in the attempt.”
THE OLD NAVY BASE at New Brunswick, Maine, was still functioning, even though its days were numbered. They flew Mack Bedford out of there, direct to the Quantico Marine Base in Virginia. From there he was flown into the Central Intelligence Agency’s helicopter landing pad, a short walk from the New Headquarters Building situated on the main Langley campus on the western bank of the Potomac. The entire building sits beneath a giant copper-grid of a roof designed and structured to prevent listening devices from penetrating the atmosphere inside the walls of the Agency.
Mack arrived under escort, the steel heels of his polished black shoes echoing on the sixteen-foot-wide granite CIA seal inlaid into the lobby floor. Heads turned to look at him; even the sound of Mack Bedford was not like that of other men.
Mack strode to the North Wall of the lobby and stood for a few moments staring at the eighty-three engraved black stars set into the white marble, each representing a member of the agency who had perished in the line of duty.
In the nearby Book of Honor, however, there were only forty-eight names revealed, the others still classified. Mack had known some of these fallen senior INTEL agents, having forged close friendships with them, both in Baghdad and at the Bagram Base in Afghanistan.
Their skills, observations, and strategic plans were often life-and-death for the U.S. Special Forces. The combat SEALs, in all of the world’s trouble spots, damn near worshipped their hard-eyed guides from Langley, Virginia. Mack glanced up at the wording on the wall, the stark black letters, which immortalized them all:IN HONOR OF THE MEMBERS OF THE CIA
WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES
IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY
The memories of lost friends stood before him, and for a few brief seconds he was transported back to the hell-holes where he had fought an often unseen enemy. And he thought again of those guides and their consummate skills, and the terrible dangers in which they operated, undercover and behind enemy lines.
And he remembered the fear and the brutality, the death and destruction. And, here in this great wide and tranquil hall, standing in front of the flag of the United States, he bowed his head in private remembrance. He was unaware that every eye in the place was upon him, although no one knew who he was. He just seemed like someone who really mattered.
Finally, he walked across to the guard station where an escort had already arrived to take him down to the CIA’s situation room, one of the most secretive conference rooms in the United States. They took the elevator down and walked along the great curved concrete tunnels, which made electronic intrusion impossible.
Four guards stood at the entrance to the bomb-proof, sound-proof, phone-proof situation room, where every last law of classified military “Black Ops” was observed. For meetings like this one, there were no cell-phones, no communications to the outside world, no visitors, no secretaries, no assistants.
There would be just the principal operations personnel, men who made big decisions and had the power to make them without reference. In this case, reference might have put them all in jail.
Rear Admiral Andy Carlow, the SPECWARCOM commander, was already in the room. And so was Captain Ramshawe. Mack Bedford entered and stared around him. The space was plain, with white walls and no windows. But there were two giant computer screens set into the wall and one giant television. On the huge, polished central table, there was a massive world atlas and several Navy charts and maps.
There was a white encrypted telephone, which had instant access to the Pentagon and the White House. Two of the armed guards came in and placed a coffee pot with mugs, cream, and sugar on a long antique sideboard. Security clearance at the highest level was required, even to cross the threshold of this place. The guys who brought in the coffee had sufficiently high security clearance to protect the president.
Even the master of all this, Bob Birmingham, towering above his guards, came down that reinforced curved passage and into the room under escort. He was accompanied by the Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Mark Bradfield, who was reputed to become the next chairman of the joint chiefs.
Only one other high-ranked official was invited, Birmingham’s deputy, John Farrow, who, at forty-five, was regarded as a kind of civilian Jimmy Ramshawe. A career CIA man, he had a degree in economics from Georgetown and had served undercover in Arabia and India for many years. The slim, athletic Farrow had served in Peshawar for six months three years ago, and almost got himself killed by Shakir Khan’s tribesmen, out on the rebels’ road up to the Khyber Pass. Farrow operated right at the frontline in the fight against terrorism and had been brought in from the warmth by the CIA high command who were concerned that he would be assassinated. But now he was back, and regarded as a world authority on terrorism. And this particular operation had his name written all over it.
Bob Birmingham introduced Farrow as his 2I/C and the doors to the room were closed. The six men seated themselves at the table, and their “host” proceeded to issue a quick progress report. “The four liberated terrorists have arrived in Lahore and are taking the late mail express up to Peshawar,” Bob began. “They’re ten hours in front of us, and it leaves at 10 o’clock tonight. My guys are on the case, and it looks very much as we discussed. They’re on their way up to Swat Valley, returning to the fold of terrorism. Gentlemen, we have to eliminate them at any cost, except for discovery.”
Bob Birmingham placed five folders on the table and pushed one toward each man. “In here is the criminal record of Ibrahim Sharif, Yousaf Mohammed, Ben al-Turabi, and Abu Hassan Akbar. The charges listed against them include those we know perfectly well they committed, those which, in addition, the Mossad says they very definitely committed, and those we very much suspect they committed.
“You will notice they almost entirely involve bombs and high explosives. All four are skilled bombmakers. Colonel Powell, the Jo
int Detention Group commander at Guantanamo Bay, says they are, in his opinion, probably the four most dangerous men ever to be held in U.S. antiterrorist incarceration.”
He stared across the table at the man who had volunteered to solve this enormous problem. “I’m going to start calling you Mack,” he said. “And so is everyone else. It’s important we remember you are not in the military at present. Wherever you are in the world, if you have to call in, you do so as Peshawar Mack, or Hindu Mack, or, if you go skiing, Aspen Mack.
“Admiral Bradfield has a document with him that sets out the terms of your new career in dark blue. At present it lacks a start date, which you understand. You will also understand why it cannot be released to you right now. The only thing this mission lives or dies by is its secrecy. No one here doubts you will accomplish it.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll try not to let anyone down.” Mack Bedford was pensive, but unafraid. “I would just like to mention the subject of backup. Can I count on anything?”
“Mack, you can have anything you like, armed assistance, weaponry, documents, transportation. Just name it, and it’s done. I have right here your credit card, which has the backing of the United States Government, Triple-A, and no limit.
“With this magic plastic, you can go anywhere, stay anywhere, eat anywhere, pay for anything—cars or even camels if you have to. And of course, cash, however much you need. There will be no questions asked. You are trusted implicitly.
“Remember, nothing matters except that you take these four bastards off the face of the earth, before they strike again.”
“Who’s my main contact if I need to call in?”
“We thought you’d prefer military Intelligence, so it’s Captain Ramshawe. That factory of his in Maryland is probably the most secure building on earth, except for here. And you will have Jimmy’s numbers, e-mails, whatever you need, which will make him available twenty-four-seven for any kind of emergency.”
“If I have to call in, it will be a real emergency,” replied Mack. “You can count on that.”
“Do you intend to go to Peshawar right away?” asked Admiral Carlow. “Start tracking them early?”
“I need to talk to Jimmy about that. Because I don’t think these guys will hang around for long. I’ve studied the court papers on the way down here, and Jesus, three of them have stated publicly their desire for revenge. I think they’ll be heading right back to the West as soon as they have a plan.”
“Remember, we have accurate photographs and full sets of fingerprints now,” said Bob. “Plus names and birthdates. They needed all of that to get into court. And it’s all in the immigration system. They won’t find entry easy.”
“I guess not,” said Mack. “But several billion Mexicans made it.”
Jimmy Ramshawe chuckled. “With a bit of luck we’ll get a fix on them long before they reach our points of entry.
“We’ve got real good coverage all through the Hindu Kush, and along the western side of the Swat Valley. There’s about a hundred people on the case every day in Fort Meade alone.
“And it won’t take me long to get the Brits onside either. They’re more bloody jumpy about these four characters than we are. Mostly because they’ve got shocking leaky borders. And they seem especially vulnerable to Pakistanis every bloody time.”
“For the moment,” said Mack, “I intend to work long-range, with Jimmy, and with Bob’s guys in Peshawar, try to establish a fix. Right now the prisoners don’t have cell phones, but they soon will. Guys like this operate on direct links to their high command. And that North West Frontier is one hell of a big place. I have a ten-times bigger chance of success when they move out, back into the Western world.”
“Did we circulate their photos, details, and fingerprints to the Europeans?” asked Mark Bradfield.
“A week ago,” replied Birmingham. “But none of their major airports are a hundred percent secure. We actually think al-Qaeda guys have infiltrated some of the immigration authorities, probably the Brits, and they’re getting people through the net.”
“Beautiful,” said Ramshawe. “That’s just bloody super.” At which point he raised his voice to mimic those of . . . well, an effeminate persuasion, and squeaked, “Here in our lovely multicultural society. . . . ” And then he went back to his normal tough Aussie tones and added, “Where you can’t tell for the life of you who’s bloody well who.”
THE MAIL EXPRESS was running late all along its hundred-mile journey from Islamabad to Peshawar. It finally came rumbling into the Peshawar City Station an hour and a half behind schedule, and late for morning prayers. Literally hundreds of people cascaded out onto the platform after their all-night ride from Lahore. It was 8:30 in the morning, and the old city of the British Raj was slowly awakening.
But there was nothing slow about the seething action taking place among the terrorists. Ibrahim, Yousaf, Ben, and Abu emerged from the station, and a chauffeur stepped forward and hustled all four of them into the back of a stretch limousine, windows darkened.
Ted Novio came running out of the station just in time to see the huge black automobile pull away from the sidewalk. Instinct told him the four terrorists were in that car, and he instantly memorized most of the license number. There wasn’t a taxi to be found, but there was, however, a line of native Pakistani auto-rickshaws, those little three-wheeler engine-driven transports that zip around almost every city in the country, driven by men who regard themselves as the permanent keepers of the nation’s urban culture. Much like London cabbies.
Ted hurtled toward one of them and dove headlong into the rear seat, terrifying the driver, who was generally accustomed to being asked, “Rickshaw khali hai” (is rickshaw empty) before anyone got in. He was so astounded he leapt out of the driver’s seat.
“FOR CHRISSAKES GET THIS WRECK MOVING!” yelled Ted. But by now there was chaos. A dozen other rickshaw drivers had rushed to help their colleague whom they assumed was under attack by a giant American. It took five minutes for everyone to calm down, by which time the limo might have been on its way to Rawalpindi. “Fuck it,” said Ted resignedly, as Phil Denson and the third CIA agent, Fred Zarcoff, arrived with the suitcases.
“They moved very fast,” said Phil. “Any clues?”
“They just took off in the biggest goddamned car in Pakistan,” he replied. “I have the number. Black stretch. Dark windows. A U.S. Lincoln, I think.”
“If it’s in the city we got a chance. If it’s on the road to somewhere a much less chance.”
Phil wrote down the number, walked over to a policeman, and inquired if he spoke English. The reply was affirmative, and Phil explained he was looking for a car that was supposed to have met him and gave the policeman the license plate number.
“That’s a government registration, sir,” said the policeman.
“Well, they said it would be a black Lincoln limousine.”
“Yes, sir. I think I saw it leave about ten minutes ago. Maybe it’s coming back.”
“Okay. Thanks officer. Does that car live in the city?”
“No, sir, Islamabad. But it might be here for the day. Maybe with Mr. Shakir Khan, a very high-ranking official. Very high rank, indeed.”
“Yes, we’re supposed to be seeing him,” lied Phil. “Any idea where he lives?”
“In the old city somewhere. And he works in Islamabad. I don’t know any more.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
Anxious to avoid another rickshaw riot, Ted, Phil, and Fred headed for a taxi. The fourth CIA man stayed at the station to wait for the next train to Islamabad. From there he would fly home to Paris.
“Just take us for a ride around the old city,” Phil told the driver. “To see a few sights.” For the next twenty minutes they moved slowly along streets chaotic with the raucous shouts of vendors and mule drivers, clogged with horsedrawn carts, rickshaws, motorbikes, and people.
They were just running north of Andar Shehr, close to the great Mosque of Mahabat Khan, when
Zarcoff spotted the car, parked to the left of a small group of street traders trying to lay out peaches, plums, and apricots on three narrow trestle tables. It was easy to see the limousine, illegally parked among the produce and causing a sensational traffic hold-up, which was threatening to bring the entire city to a halt.
Fred guessed that no traffic cop would be writing out a ticket for the limousine, not if he wanted to go on working for the police department. An expert on police cooperation, Fred was a native of Romania and a former member of one of the largest, cruelest, most brutal secret police regimes in the old communist eastern Europe. He had been a young officer in Securitate, the notorious KGB-modeled force that operated out of Bucharest, on behalf the Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceausescu. Fred had seen the writing on the Berlin Wall, and with some alacrity had jumped ship, over to the CIA, for whom he had worked as a loyal and brilliant agent since 1989. On this particular mission he had been extremely agitated since they had left City Station, peering around, checking the rearview mirror, concerned they might be followed.
Phil had been asking, quite reasonably, who the hell could possibly be following them, since even they had no idea where they were, and no one from America could, by any stretch, have tracked them here. Phil was certain they were fireproof. Fred was equally sure they were not.
Yet neither of these vastly experienced CIA field men had noticed an old blue rickshaw chugging along close by, sometimes ducking down side streets, but always popping out right behind or dead level with their yellow cab.
Phil paid off the cab driver, and the agents walked toward the fruit stalls, checking out the limo from about forty yards away. There was little they could do, short of a house-to-house search, except to hang around and wait.
Ted stationed himself on a busy corner of an alleyway crammed with silversmiths. Phil chose to wander up and down the street, checking out the jewelry. Fred found a clothes store and proceeded to dress himself like Ali Baba in baggy pants and shirt, with a colorful waistcoat and black turban. He then headed to a sidewalk café and ordered tea from a brass samovar. Which he never tasted.
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