Harun Syed, a local asset with whom Conley had worked before, was already waiting for him on the edge of the runway. They embraced like old friends. Conley had this effect on people, an ability to make people like him almost instantly, which was one of his greatest advantages as a field operative. They walked together to Harun’s car, an ugly, boxy silver Daihatsu, and set off on the congested N5 National Highway toward the airport.
“So, what is the word?” asked Harun, in English. He was a balding man, almost forty, with a handsome, friendly face, a close-cropped black beard and thick eyebrows that almost met in the middle.
“You tell me,” said Conley. Harun worked for the FIA, the Pakistani version of the FBI, in their counterterrorism division. His working with Conley was tacitly condoned by his superiors, as Conley made sure to supply them with morsels of valuable intelligence from time to time—the kind that was mutually beneficial to share, of course.
“Our headquarters is in a panic,” said Harun “The Americans are breathing down our necks. Accusations are flying free. They think our government had something to do with the abduction.”
“And did you?” Conley asked. Harun’s lips grew taut and he tightened his grip on the wheel.
“Do you think I would stand silently by as my country committed suicide by doing this? No, Cougar. There is no great government conspiracy.”
“That you know of,” Conley pushed.
“I would know of it!” he exclaimed. “Look, we are giving you Americans free rein to conduct your investigations in our country. We want to know who did this as much as any of you. We have nothing to hide.” Harun looked forward, fuming at the suggestion.
Conley sighed. It was no use alienating him. “I’m sorry, Harun. I had to ask.”
“Of course you did,” he said. “You’re an intelligence asshole, just like me.” He laughed, the tension between them dissipating.
“Not as big an asshole as you, though,” said Conley, chuckling. “How is your wife?”
“A mother, and I a father!” he said with pride. “A little girl. Na-jiya.”
“That’s great news, Harun. Congratulations!” He patted the Pakistani on the shoulder. “We need to celebrate.”
“After the mission,” he said.
“And what is the mission?” asked Conley. “I thought you were just dropping me off.”
“What am I, your driver?” said Harun. “Not a chance. I am coming with you. You are stuck with me, my friend.”
They passed rows of palm trees along the darkening road. Then Harun asked, all the energy and enthusiasm gone, “Do you think there will be war?”
“If they find any evidence that someone—and I mean anyone at all—in your government was involved in this, all bets are off. Next year’s an election year, and hawks win elections. Rhetoric’s going to fly high, and candidates are going to try to one-up one another. All politics is going to be pushing the President to war. At the very least, heads will have to roll.”
“Supposing there is someone in the government involved,” Harun said grudgingly, “it is entirely likely they would be protected by certain powerful factions in our nation.”
“Then let’s make sure we do our job right,” said Conley.
It was night by the time they arrived at Benazir Bhutto International Airport. They elbowed their way past the press, national and international, many of whom had camped out outside the airport. They kept a respectful and prudent distance from the cordon of armed guards, whom Conley and Harun approached. Harun flashed his identity and spoke quietly to the guard, then motioned for Conley to approach.
“Someone’s coming to admit us to the scene,” said Harun. “Let’s see if your people managed to get you a ticket inside.” It was several minutes before the contact appeared, a heavyset, dark bearded man with a stiff, suspicious face. He and Harun exchanged a few words in Urdu, identifying themselves. Then the man said, looking at Conley, “And who is the American?”
“Peter Brewer, CIA Counterterrorism Center,” he said, flashing his ID for that particular alias. He used his real first name—common enough not to give him away—in order to avoid blowing his cover. A person’s reaction to his first name is deeply ingrained, and could be enough to tip off an enemy to the false identity.
“Naseer Awan,” said the man. “FIA. Come with me, I’ll take you to where the Americans are coordinating.”
“I didn’t schlep all the way out here for you to tell me what I can see on a computer screen,” said Conley. “Roger wants eyes and ears that he trusts on the ground,” he said, referring to the head of Counterintelligence by his code name.
“I’ve already given the CIA man the tour,” he said. “Your people are setting up in there. You can coordinate with them, and they can give you the information you need.”
“I don’t play well with others,” said Conley. “And I’m not here to work with the other suits.”
“All right, all right,” Awan said, waving his hand for them to follow. “Whatever you say. Come in, I can show you around.”
They walked toward the site of the attack. The air grew acrid with suspended smoke as they approached, and Conley’s eyes watered. He heard intermittent coughing around them, and felt the tickle in his own throat. The fire from the airplane was still smoldering, and the tarmac was blackened in various spots. Enormous floodlights lit up everything, while dozens of men bustled about, scouring every inch of the area. Awan led Conley and Harun through the scene.
“Here is the Secretary’s car,” he said. It was in largely good shape, structurally, but for the broken window on the passenger’s side and the back door, which was bent where it had been forced open. The front seats and passenger’s-side window, however, were covered in blood.
“They came prepared,” said Conley, pointing to where the Secretary’s door had been pried open. The thick metal had been bent. “Hydraulic tools. These guys knew exactly what they were doing.” He turned to Awan. “Have you found where the snipers were located?” asked Conley.
“Two spots along the roof,” said Awan. “We found the mats they left behind. Nothing significant, apart from their locations.”
“How’d they get up there?” Conley asked.
“Surveillance showed they got in dressed as maintenance workers. You can check that out with your people.”
“Do you have any idea if they got any inside help?”
“All airport personnel have been taken aside for questioning,” Awan said, pissy at the implication. “As you see, gentlemen, there isn’t too much here,” he said. “You can wait for forensics. They will be able to tell you more. Meanwhile, the surveillance video has already been turned over to all investigating agencies, including the CIA.”
“Can I talk to the survivors?” asked Conley.
“They have already been removed to the embassy,” said Awan. “Speak to your own people if you wish to have access to them.”
“How about the attackers?”
“We’ve laid them out over here. Come on.” Morgan and Harun followed him a few dozen feet where two bodies lay on the ground in open body bags. They were young men, one bearded and the other clean-shaven. Their clothes were simple, typical for the city and well worn.
“No identification, of course. No personal effects, except cheap digital watches. We are running them through every database we have. I believe the CIA is doing the same.”
“Where’s the third?” asked Conley.
Awan looked at him suspiciously. “Where did you hear about a third?”
“I saw video of the abduction,” said Conley. “Three men were left behind. Do you know where he is?”
“He was alive,” said Awan. “He was sent to the hospital.”
“That wasn’t in the field reports,” said Conley. “Why wasn’t this shared with the other agencies? Having a living witness would have—”
“He died,” cut in Awan. “On the way. In the ambulance.”
“Was he gravely injured?” asked Conley.<
br />
“The first people on the scene did not think so,” said Awan. “He did not go in the first ambulances, which were reserved for the victims, specifically those more gravely injured. But perhaps it was worse than they thought.”
Conley frowned. Important as victims were, having one of the attackers alive in their hands could lead them to the people behind this—and to the Secretary. “Do you know where his body was taken?” he asked. “I’d like to get a picture and an autopsy report.”
“That information will be shared with the agencies in time,” said Awan.
“Maybe I can get a head start if I—”
“I have things to do now if you don’t mind, gentlemen. I suggest you check in with your people and ask them for whatever you need from now on.” Awan walked away, motioning to an investigator who was leaning over the Secretary’s car.
“So what do you make of it?” asked Harun once Awan was out of earshot.
“The attacker. The one who survived. I’m not buying the story on his death. There’s something about it . . .”
“Do you think Awan was lying?”
“I don’t know.” Conley rubbed his chin between his thumb and index finger. “But someone is. There was one living person left here who could tell us who was behind this. One key to finding the Secretary. And that person conveniently died before anyone got to interrogate him.”
“You are grasping at straws, my friend,” said Harun. “There is no significance to his death. Just a man who took a little longer to die than the rest.”
“Say what you like, Harun, but I’ve got a hunch. How many people to an ambulance in the city?”
“Islamabad? Could be three, I don’t know, but for an emergency like this? It is probably just the driver and a paramedic.”
“Then we need to find them,” said Conley. “Yesterday.”
“That’s a lot of work for a hunch,” said Harun.
“I’ve been at this a long time, Harun. You know what it’s like when you get that feeling. Like you just know you have a lead. You know which way you need to go.”
“It will take hours, Cougar. And these are hours we cannot spare.”
“If I’m right, then we have even less time to track them down,” Conley insisted. “The Agency boys have the other bases covered. Look, you can argue with me, but I’m gonna do this.”
“You’re as stubborn as a mule, you know that?” said Harun. “Of course I’m coming with you. Let’s see what to make of this hunch, then, shall we?”
“Let’s,” said Conley. “And let’s move fast. I get the feeling that those guys aren’t going to last very long.”
Chapter 10
May 28
Andover, Massachusetts
Morgan drove home to his sleepy suburban neighborhood well past midnight. He was a wreck. He’d hardly gotten any sleep during his game with Alex, and then had spent a grueling, frustrating day going over intel that led nowhere and making phone calls that got him nothing.
He parked his Shelby Mustang on the driveway and got out of the car. A cool, soothing breeze riffled his hair, and the moon and stars were bright in the cloudless night sky. He looked up, feeling some of the frustration flow out of his body as he breathed deeply. He then turned toward the house.
Through the window, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a faint bluish light coming from the living room, like from a computer or TV screen. His thoughts turned to his wife, Jenny. She’d often stay up waiting for him when he was out late, no matter how many times he asked her not to worry, to go to bed. He felt a twinge of guilt. She had known about his work as a spy for years, and she had come to support him and believe in what he did.
Still, fiercely loyal and strong as she was, she had a sensitive soul. It was part of her strength, the way she could lend comfort to people in need—the way she could make Morgan himself feel whole and fully human while working in a business that could be dehumanizing. All the same, it was something that he knew caused her more than a little suffering.
Morgan walked into the garage and opened the kitchen door. His German shepherd, Nieka, gave him her usual enthusiastic greeting. He ruffled the fur on her neck and petted her head. He walked into the warm kitchen, which had been put together by Jenny, who was an interior decorator, to be elegant and at the same time cozy. It was always the first place he walked into when he got home. The copper pots hanging from the wallpapered walls and the old-fashioned white cabinets were a welcome sight.
Nieka followed him to the living room, where he found not Jenny but his daughter, Alex, sitting on the couch in pajama pants and T-shirt, hair up in an unfussy ponytail, her face lit up by her laptop computer.
“Hey, kid,” he said. “What are you still doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, setting her computer aside and crossing her skinny legs on the couch. “To be honest, I hit the hay pretty hard when we got back in the morning. But I saw the news about the Secretary online when I woke up, and now . . . I just keep thinking about what’s happening, you know? I keep looking for the latest news online.” She motioned her head toward the computer. “That, and what people are saying about it.”
Morgan sat down on an ottoman facing her. He understood. The pundits had been crawling over themselves, speculating about the events, its causes and outcomes. Not that he ever read any of it—you’d get better predictions flipping a coin than listening to any of them. “Are you scared?”
“No. I mean, not for myself. I know things might get ugly, that there might be more to come, but I can handle myself. And things are safe here at home. At least for now. Right?” This last word came with a sudden tone of insecurity. “But I—I mean . . .” she continued. “I know you’re out there, doing your part, and I feel so helpless here. I just feel like I maybe I could be doing something, anything, to help out. Like I should be.”
“Alex, it isn’t your time yet,” said Morgan. He drew the ottoman closer to her, so that she was within arm’s length. “I understand how you feel, you know, kiddo? That feeling like you’ve got to take action. It’s been that way for me all my life. Jesus, you really are my daughter, you know?” He grinned and put his arm on her shoulder. She smiled back. “But you can’t rush thing sort of thing. Your time will come, I promise. Right now, you need to focus on staying sharp and getting strong, because you will be needed. We need kids like you to be better adults than us in the future. But for now, it’s for others to take care of. People who are prepared. Trust me.”
“I do, Dad,” she said, looking away. “I always do.” He didn’t buy it.
“All right, kid. Go get some sleep. It’s late.” He embraced her and gave her a kiss.
“You too, Dad. Are you going out again tomorrow?”
“Before you wake up, probably,” he replied, standing up with a slight grunt. “We’re in crisis mode I might have to stay over a few nights after tonight, depending on how it goes.”
“Do you think you might have to go away? Like, overseas?”
“It’s a possibility,” he said.
“You’ll come say good-bye if you do, right?” Her voice was faltering. He knew what kind of good-bye she was afraid of.
“I’ll be back before you know it, kid. And I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, trying to conceal the fact that she was tearing up. “Good night, Dad.”
Morgan crept upstairs and opened the door to his room. The lamp on Jenny’s side of the bed was lit. She was asleep, propped up on her pillow with an historical novel resting on her chest, reading glasses balanced on the tip of her delicate nose and her short brown hair fallen over her closed eyes. The careless way in which her bathrobe exposed her legs and just a sliver of her red panties made him bite his lower lip. God, that woman. She stirred as he walked toward the bed, and her eyes fluttered open.
“Dan.” Her voice could somehow combine tenderness, pain, and reproach, all at once.
“Hi, honey. How’re you doing?” He leaned down and kissed
her soft lips.
She kissed him back and sleepily pushed herself up and sat back against the headboard, rubbing her eyes. “All right. A bit tired, I guess. How are you?”
“Pooped,” said Morgan. “Hell of a day. It’s shaping up to be one of those weeks.”
“One of those?” she asked pointedly, and he knew exactly what she meant. She was asking if he was going to go off on a mission, put himself in danger.
“I can’t say,” said Morgan. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
She winced. They’d had this argument too many times before. She did understand the importance of what he did, why he persisted even at great risk of injury and death. But while she accepted it, she sure didn’t like it. “Alex has a pretty bad case of poison ivy,” she said. “Plus a few ugly scratches. Dan, I swear, I don’t know what you two get up to out there.”
“Just a bit of fun,” he said, going into the bathroom to wash his face. “Nobody ever died from a little poison ivy.”
“Dan . . .” she admonished. “And that motorcycle you bought for her . . .” Alex had pleaded with him for a motorcycle for the better part of a year. A month ago, Morgan relented and took her into town to the dealerships. She spent the better part of the day test-driving every model, but finally settled on the Ducati Streetfighter. Morgan had never seen her so happy in his life as when she was tearing out of the lot on her new bike, leaving him to trail behind in his car. Jenny, on the other hand, had not been pleased. “I’m afraid she’s taking after you in the worst way, Dan. All this risk-taking. Thrill-seeking, even. It makes me sick with worry.”
“The girl is fine,” he said, toweling off as he walked back into the room. “She’s tough. She can take care of herself.”
“She’s saying she doesn’t want to go to college now.” Jenny said it as if Alex were running off to join the Hell’s Angels.
“Is that right?” he asked.
“Dan . . .”
“What?” he asked. “She doesn’t need to go to college if she doesn’t want to. Plenty of people don’t, and they do just fine.”
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