“There are other angles to this that you perhaps don’t appreciate,” said Bloch. “Consider that the blame for the abduction is poised to fall—not entirely wrongly, I might add—on elements of the Pakistani executive branch. This is after a team of Navy SEALs was killed in a raid in their territory. Relations are strained to a breaking point. We are set on a clear path to war right now, Bishop. War with a nuclear power. No politician has dared say the word to the public yet, of course, but every moment that passes takes us farther along that path.”
“And what does this Weinberg have to do with—”
“If we are able to show that this was his doing to the people in charge,” said Bloch, “then perhaps it will avert war by giving the public someone to really hate in this story. Put a face to the villain. A face that isn’t Pakistani. It might save a lot of lives and curb an international disaster.”
“Sounds like a shaky proposition,” said Kirby. “It relies on the alignment of a great deal of variables.”
“Shaky’s the best we’ve got right now,” said Bloch. “O’Neal, you’re up. What have you got for us?”
“Nothing in the way of any kind of financial motive,” she said. “As you’ve already said, he was probably paying off Ali in order to smuggle drugs out of Pakistan. I can’t think of any way in which the Secretary’s abduction can play into that. Apart from it, as far as I can tell, he has no particular gain in throwing the United States and Pakistan into war. It seems like that kind of disruption could do a lot of damage to a shipping business. But,” she added, “war is a destabilizing force, and all destabilization has winners and losers in the market. I’m betting there’s an angle to this where Himmel and Weinberg personally stand to make a lot of money from a war.”
“Keep working and see what you can dig up,” said Bloch. “Dietz, can you tell us anything about this?”
Louise Dietz, in tweed and glasses that covered half her face, began speaking and got immediately tongue-tied. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and started again, slowly and deliberately. “We have confirmation that Haider Raza is the one at least immediately behind the abduction of the Secretary. The assumed purpose is that of all terrorism—to intimidate, to expose the weakness of your target, to scare them into submission. Perhaps it is to lure us into war. Haider Raza would count it as a victory, as a fulfillment of his life’s purpose, if it took the deployment of the US military apparatus to take him down. An invasion of Pakistan would also heighten anti-American fervor in the entire region. You can bet he’s counting on that.” She finished with an awkward nod, like a student finishing a presentation in class.
“How does Weinberg fit into that picture?” asked Morgan.
“That’s the puzzle,” said Dietz. “Strange bedfellows, those. The implication that there might be some practical gain for Weinberg is . . . sinister. I admit that I don’t really know what to make of it.”
“Thank you, Dietz,” said Bloch. “I agree. It is disquieting. We need to keep digging on this to find out what Weinberg’s ultimate purpose is.”
“All right, I’m convinced that we need to go after this guy,” said Bishop. “And, personally, I don’t care why the man did it. I just care about nailing him. So what’s our angle? How do we get at him?”
“I was getting to that,” she said. “Gunther Weinberg is, of course, extraordinarily well protected. His schedule is carefully guarded, he never discloses where he will be next, and of course, he is never anywhere that doesn’t have top-level security, in addition to his own bodyguards. But we may have an opening. He likes his expensive toys, cars in particular. He sponsors his own Formula One team. And he’s a collector, a very avid one. Lately, he seems to have taken an interest in American muscle cars. This is where Cobra comes in.” Morgan’s cover job had always been as a classic car dealer, which he had taken up full time after he quit intelligence, years before. He’d had fairly significant success, and built a trusted name for himself in the business, and still did some dealing on his down time. “If you please,” Bloch said, motioning for him to stand up.
Morgan moved to the head of the table, where Bloch took a seat to his right. “We are going to come at him through his love of cars,” he said. “Which, by all accounts, is legendary. Lucky for us, this man has a hard-on for American muscle cars. I’ve made contact with one of Weinberg’s known dealers, which just so happens to be one of my professional contacts. It seems he is on the market for a very particular specimen. Shep?”
The image came onto the big screen. It was a black car, sleek as a panther, a panty-dropper detailed with white racing stripes. Bishop whistled. “The chicks will cream, indeed.”
“The 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454,” Morgan continued. “A classic among muscle cars. A beast of the highway. All the raw American power that you might want. An engine that roars with the slightest push. A real head-turner.”
“Okay, it’s a car,” said Kirby.
“It’s not just a car,” said Morgan. “This is the number-one pilot. First out of the factory. Only driven one mile. All original parts, born in driveline with Concours-level restoration, original sale documentation, owner history—everything, and I mean everything, that a serious collector might want. Valued at two million dollars, it’s one of the biggest catches out there.”
Most of them—all but Bishop—seemed unimpressed.
“All right, I get it,” said Kirby. “What’s the next step then?”
“I sell it to him,” said Morgan.
“So,” began O’Neal, “we pretend to own this car, and—”
“There’s no pretending,” said Morgan. “We can’t fool a man with Weinberg’s means on something like this.”
“So I suppose we now own this car?” asked Kirby.
“We bought it yesterday,” said Morgan. “At asking price, but we needed to close before the seller found out about Weinberg. It was a major stroke of luck.”
“And it cost us two million dollars,” said Kirby flatly.
“How did you get to it before Weinberg’s dealer?” asked O’Neal.
“It pays to have the right contacts,” said Morgan. “Looking into Weinberg, I found out about his love of cars and this car in particular. I happened to know who owned it, and he was willing to sell.”
“So, did it work?” asked Bishop. “Did Weinberg bite?”
“I’ve set the bait, and he’s chomped on it hard,” said Morgan. “He wants to meet in person.”
“Is he coming here?” asked Kirby.
“No,” said Morgan. “He’s in Monte Carlo. We’re leaving tomorrow night.”
“Who’s we?” asked O’Neal hopefully.
“Cobra, Shepard, Bishop, Diesel, and Spartan,” said Bloch. The last two were members of the Zeta tactical team.
“And what’s the plan, if I dare ask?” said Kirby.
“A man who’s involved neck-deep in illegal activity like Weinberg doesn’t keep his sensitive information locked away in a public server,” said Bloch
“I checked,” added Shepard.
“He’d be carrying around a hard drive,” said Morgan. “Something big enough to store a heavy load of data, which means it’s too big for him to haul around personally. That means it’ll be with him, but not on him—which means his hotel room.”
“Or the hotel safe?” interrupted Kirby.
“No,” said Shepard. “He’ll need to use it on a daily basis, and he wouldn’t trust it with hotel personnel. It’ll be in his room somewhere.”
Morgan continued. “The plan is, I get in close enough to have access to that hard drive, and copy it. That way, Shepard can take the time he needs to beat whatever security the thing might have, and Weinberg’s none the wiser that his data have been compromised. Meanwhile, tactical provides support and backup.
“The problem,” he continued, “is that I’ll have to use my real identity for this. I’m known in the classic car business, and it’s the only way I can have the credentials to attract his attention. Wh
ich is why this needs to go down as a legitimate car sale. As far as he knows, I am nothing more than a classic car dealer, and that’s as far as he’ll know by the end of this operation. Bishop, Shepard—I’m counting on you guys to back me up on this.”
“I’m just looking forward to my vacation in Monte Carlo,” said Bishop. “I mean, we’re going to a coastal paradise to sell a guy a car. How bad can it really get?”
Chapter 26
June 5
Islamabad
The sun shone harshly on the same airstrip where Harun had picked him up the week before as Peter Conley waited, standing with a dirty-white 1999 Honda Hobio van and its hired driver, Abbas. The plane, an oldish Beechjet 400 jet, landed in the late morning, an hour late but who was counting, and six boisterous men emerged from the sleek white aircraft. One of them strode ahead of the others with a swagger that marked him as the leader. He had short, hard blond hair, an angular nose and chin, face all sharp corners, and cocky blue eyes that cried out arrogance. Asshole, was Conley’s first thought, the second being, he’s going to be trouble.
“I’m Walker,” he said, extending his hand. “And this here’s Bluejay, Mutt, Tex, Clutch, and Mantis.” There was something fratty about them. Conley had not been a fan of Greek life in college. “You’re—Cougar, right? You’re supposed to be some kind of master spy? Some kind of Jason Bourne, back in the day?” This was a taunt, and Conley wasn’t swallowing it.
“Listen, kid, you think you’re hot shit because you get your orders, you come in and you clean up when guys like me go through all the trouble of handing it to you on a silver platter. I get it, I was a teenager once, too. But this is my territory now, and you and your posse here had better do what I tell you or you can get off my goddamn lawn.”
“Jeez, chill,” said Walker, with a smirk. “We’ll be good, won’t we, guys?” He gave Conley a pat on the back, dismissive masquerading as friendly. “Is this our ride?”
He took them first to a house that he had rented the day before for ten thousand dollars cash, no questions asked, to establish their base of operations. In the nice part of town, the part where they were used to foreigners, because he had thought, presciently, that Team Testosterone wouldn’t have the sense to keep quiet and out of sight.
While the Lambda agents wrestled for beds, Conley went out to get them something to eat. He got takeout from a restaurant that Harun had taken him to a few days before. He got dirty looks from the people there, who easily identified him as an American. It was not a good time to be an American in Pakistan, even in relatively cosmopolitan Islamabad.
On his way back to the house, Conley called Harun and told him his impression of the team.
“This is bad news,” Harun told him.
“It’s firepower,” said Conley in a halfhearted defense.
“We will stick out like a peacock in the desert,” said Harun. “It will not be safe traveling with them into the countryside.”
“We could’ve moved in on the house in Zhob if we’d had more people with us.”
“We would not have gotten that far if we’d had more people with us.”
“Harun, I need your help with this,” said Conley. “We’re going to need backup out there.”
“Where is ‘out there’?” asked Harun. “Back to Zhob?”
“No,” said Conley. “Latest info puts Haider Raza out in the Chitral Valley.”
“Allah,” said Harun. “That is practically Afghanistan. The roads are treacherous, and once there, there will be no other Westerner to be found for a hundred-kilometer radius. You will be sitting ducks.”
“If Haider Raza’s hiding out there—”
“Then he can’t catch a whiff of any incoming Americans before they are standing behind him with a knife ready to slit his throat,” said Harun. “Or else the Secretary of State is as good as dead.”
“We can’t do this just the two of us,” said Conley. “We’re going to need a team with us if we actually raid Raza.” Conley didn’t believe it, but he had to put a good show.
“It is madness.”
“But at least it’s the fun kind, right?”
“All right, all right,” said Harun. “I will go. For you. But I don’t think any good is going to come of this.”
The Lambda tactical team greeted the food with ambivalence—grumbling from its foreignness but eating heartily from appetite. They were in a nice four-bedroom home furnished with a six-person table and chairs, along with mismatched silverware and chipped ceramic plates. Conley sat apart from them, watching their easy banter and stream of dirty jokes and one-liners with suspicion. He was never as lighthearted before a dangerous mission. After they ate, Conley pulled Walker aside to discuss strategy.
“Tomorrow, we’ll move northwest into the countryside,” said Conley. “In the direction of Peshawar through to the city of Dir. It’ll be rough going, and your team needs to be hidden in the back of a truck. It’ll be the better part of a day just to get to Dir, and from there, it’s at least a full day’s ride on a dangerous mountain road to the Chitral Valley. We’re going to need satellite support once we get there. We don’t want to linger long anywhere we can be found, either by Raza’s men or by anyone else.”
“I want to see any of these bastards messing with us,” said Walker. “Six men, highly trained by the US military? I’d like to see anyone try to harm us.”
“That kind of thinking works until you’ve got a Kalashnikov-wielding mob on your ass,” said Conley.
“Yeah, whatever,” said Walker.
“No, not whatever,” said Conley. “I am not going to die for your idiocy. You are going to be goddamn careful, if not for your own sorry asses, then for what I’ll do to you in Hell if we all get killed because of you.”
“Fine, fine, I’ll get in touch with Figueroa,” said Walker. “He’ll give us the support we need. And we’ll behave.”
“Good,” said Conley. “I’ve spoken to a local asset I have here, Harun Syed. He’s arranged for a truck to take us to Dir, where he’s going to get us transportation over the Lowari Pass.”
“Are you saying that he’s coming with us?” said Walker with disbelief.
“Goddamn right he is, and we’re lucky to have him.”
“I don’t like to . . . mingle with the locals,” he said.
“Tough,” said Conley. “He’s our best shot at surviving this.”
Walked scowled. “We don’t need one of them with us.”
Conley’s face turned to a frown of puzzled consternation. “We need him,” he said. “He knows the land, he knows the people. And he’s Pakistani. Do you think anyone’s going to talk to a bunch of Americans in rural Pakistan? We can’t run any kind of investigation without him.”
“They’re all traitors,” said Walker. “He’ll turn on us. They all do.”
“He’s a friend,” said Conley, stepping closer so his face was inches from Walker’s. Conley, the taller man, looked down into his cold blue eyes. “He’s my friend. And we need him. If you want me to lead you in this op, this is the way it will be.”
Walker looked at Conley in menacing silence, then said, “Fine. Have it your way. But don’t expect me to treat him with kid gloves when we find out he’s a goddamn traitor.”
Chapter 27
June 7
Monte Carlo
Dan Morgan arrived at the Hotel Oiseau in Monte Carlo in a silver Mercedes coupe that Zeta had arranged to wait for him at the airport, to the jealous looks of the others who were tagging along and had to take a van arranged by a local asset. Morgan didn’t normally go for European cars, but he had to admit that it had plenty of power and handled beautifully. As he climbed out, he made a mental note to take it out on the Autoroute to see what it could do before the trip was over, if he had any time to himself.
It was a bright and sunny morning, and the sun glinted gloriously off the Mediterranean. The exterior of the Oiseau looked like a palace, done in classic Parisian style, with intricate designs an
d columns along its length. It stood on a low bluff overlooking the ocean, but the front entrance was on the inland side. He left his car for the valet under an overhang as ornate as the rest of the structure, and a porter took his bags and motioned him inside. The lobby was all done in white-and-pink marble. Elegantly dressed people, young and old, walked past, some headed for the beach, others for the town, everyone wearing designer sunglasses.
“Morgan,” he said at the front desk. He didn’t like using his real name—didn’t like it at all. But it couldn’t be helped this time.
“The arrangements have all been made by Mr. Weinberg, Mr. Morgan,” said the young woman at reception, whose careful ponytail and muted makeup said quite clearly at your service, but not that kind of service. “The porter will take you to your suite. Would you like a brief description of our facilities, or perhaps a tour?”
“I’d just like to be taken to my room, please.”
He followed a stiff young man in an unfortunate red uniform into an elevator and down a blue-carpeted hallway to an off-white door with branch and leaf patterns carved into its wood. The porter left his bags on the bed and Morgan gave the boy a folded-up ten-euro note discreetly, as they did, the money never seeing light of day.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, and made himself scarce.
Morgan walked out onto the balcony, where he could see the ocean and the boardwalk far below. He had his sunglasses on, which cast the world in shades of yellowish brown, making the greens seem greener and everything else more vivid. It was beautiful, but he felt out of place. It wasn’t there to be enjoyed, not for him. He wished that Jenny were there with him, that they were on vacation. He wondered how she was doing, and thought about calling her, but she probably wasn’t up yet and he didn’t want to wake her.
Morgan walked back into his room, opened his briefcase, and took out a device about the size of a cell phone with a small antenna attached—a bug sweeper, used to check the room for surveillance devices. Over the next twenty minutes, he thoroughly scanned the room, running the device along the walls from floor to ceiling, then the floor and ceiling themselves, then the bed and sofas and ornate wooden furniture, the old-fashioned rotary phone with the wood and brass finish and the Chinese-looking vase with the bouquet of tulips—all the fruity decorations there to impress fancy girls who trolled casinos and boardwalks for rich men and the same girls forty years later, now wives who had certain expectations. Morgan would toss it all out the window if they weren’t going to charge his credit card, and then remembered that Weinberg was paying for the room and considered whether he wouldn’t do just that. It would save him plenty of trouble scanning the room next time.
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