The Fourth Horseman

by David Hagberg

  “Yes, sir,” the pilot said.

  In ten minutes they secured the aircraft for the night, got their bags and left. A pair of Toyota SUVs with deeply tinted windows waited just inside the hangar. They got into one of them and left.

  Two men in dark blue blazers got out of the second SUV and stood at attention near the open rear door on the passenger side. One of them held an H & K submachine gun.

  Haaris had worn his American civilian clothes over on the flight. He changed into the long loose shirt, baggy pantaloons and headgear he’d worn at his first appearance on the balcony of the Aiwan. He strapped the voice apparatus onto his neck, adjusted his scarf to conceal it and retrieved his bag containing some personal items and a change of clothes, plus a nine-millimeter Steyr GB Austrian-made pistol with a pair of eighteen-round box magazines. The reliable semiauto had always been a favorite of his, in large measure because it was accurate and could be disassembled for cleaning in under six seconds.

  He checked the weapon’s load then stuffed it in his belt beneath his shirt and went to the open door of the plane.

  If the two men by the black Toyota had suspected who their passenger was to be they didn’t make a big deal of it. The man with the weapon involuntarily stepped back half a pace, while the driver’s mouth dropped open, but only for a moment.

  Haaris went down the boarding stairs, and he held up a hand. “There will be no conversations,” he told them in Pashtun. “You will not address me by name or title, nor will you speak of my presence with anyone. You are simply to take me to the Aiwan, stopping for no one, for no reason.”

  The driver nodded and stepped away from the open rear door.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I must ask if you expect trouble this morning?” the man with the H & K asked. He was young, possibly in his early twenties, but he had the thousand-yard stare of someone who’d taken incoming fire somewhere.

  “No,” Haaris said.

  “There have been people on Constitution Avenue off and on ever since you…” He hesitated. “For the past several days.”

  “Avoid them,” Haaris said, and he got into the car.

  Within minutes they drove away from the airport and took the old main highway up to Islamabad. The morning was cool, as were many mornings in this part of the country. It was a contrast to muggy Washington. Haaris neither liked nor disliked Pakistan and its people, nor had he ever thought that he would be returning until eight years earlier when he first began to conceive a plan not only for revenge against too many people for him to count—except that he knew all of their names and positions—but for his immortality.

  He did not believe in Paradise with its willing virgins and endless milk and honey, but as a boy in school in England he had developed the notion of an existence after life. The history professors taught him that. Almost no one remembered most of the players in the Trojan War, but everyone knew the name Achilles. Everyone knew the names Caesar and Marc Antony, but especially that of Caesar. German generals were famous, but Hitler’s name rose to the top of every schoolboy’s list of the most recognizable. George W. Bush was known, but not as well as Osama bin Laden. And in the end no one would ever forget the name Messiah.

  * * *

  The Presidential Palace was in the Red Section of the city, the area where most of the government buildings and foreign embassies were located. A small crowd of several hundred people were gathered in front of the imposing building, and as before they burned trash in barrels. Armed guards on the street just outside the fence looked out at the people but did nothing to send them away. The foreign press had dubbed them “the Messiah’s people.” It was they who had named him and it was they who continued to keep watch for his return.

  They drove around to the rear entrance that led into the president’s colony, where his staff and families were housed. Though the gate was guarded by two armed soldiers—who admitted them without question—the colony itself seemed to be deserted. After President Barazani’s assassination his staff had fled for their lives.

  According to Rajput the Aiwan itself had been deserted as well. Not even a maintenance staff had remained. It was as if the seat of power had been deserted so that the prime minister could govern Pakistan without interference.

  Ghulam Kahn was the first president to live there, in 1988, and Barazani was the last. But Pervez Musharraf had lived elsewhere during his presidency. The real seat of Pakistan’s power was gone from this place. The PM was the chief administrator of the country, but the president had been the leader.

  Until now.

  They pulled up at one of the service entrances. The armed guard riding shotgun jumped out and opened the rear door.

  As Haaris got out the guard saluted. “Do you wish us to stay here, sir?”

  “No, you are finished for the morning. Thank you. And remember, do not discuss this with anyone. My reasons will become evident soon enough.”

  Haaris waited just inside what had been a security vestibule, with a heavy steel door leading into the main floor of the building. Under normal circumstances the door would be opened electronically from the inside, but only after the visitor was positively identified and searched for weapons or explosives. This morning it stood wide open to a marble-floored corridor that led straight to the ornate entry hall where visiting heads of state or other VIPs arrived.

  He could see the SUV through one of the small bullet-proof windows but could not see the driver or the armed guard because of the deep tinting of the car’s windows. After a moment or two, however, the Toyota moved off and disappeared around the corner.

  Haaris remained for a full three minutes longer to make sure that guards did not return on Rajput’s orders.

  He walked down the long corridor to the ceremonial staircase and went up to the president’s residence on the third floor.

  The building was totally deserted, but the electricity hadn’t been shut off, the security cameras were still operating and the battery-powered emergency lighting had not activated.

  Enough light came from outside that he could make his way to a window that looked down on the street to the people gathered there. They were actually very stupid. He had held Barazani’s severed head for everyone to see-—the severed head of the properly elected president—and one of Rajput’s shills had shouted “Messiah” a couple of times and the sheep had taken up the chant.

  He’d made a brief speech that was broadcast over television, and here they were camping out on Constitution Avenue. Waiting for him to show up, to give them meaning in their meaningless lives.

  That fact of the matter was, none of them realized that all life was pretty much without purpose unless you were willing to make it so for yourself.

  He didn’t bother with lights as he got undressed, took a shower and went to bed. In a few hours the situation would change, because he would make it so. In a few hours he would lead the country in exactly the direction he’d planned for it to go.

  When he slept it was without dreams. The sleep, he told himself when he awoke briefly just before dawn, of a man with a clear conscience and an even clearer purpose.

  FORTY-ONE

  Upstairs it took Pete less than ten minutes to change into jeans, a white blouse and dark blazer. When she was done she phoned Otto, who answered on the first ring as he usually did.

  “Oh, wow, that went fast.”

  “The guy’s a stage actor. He admitted that Haaris hired him to hang out. But the point is he told me that his contract would be up in two days. So whatever Haaris is trying to pull off, having an imposter here won’t matter because it’ll be too late for us to change anything.”

  “Did he give you any hint what that might be?”

  “None, but Haaris wouldn’t have told him something like that in any event,” Pete said. She went to the window. Nothing looked out of place on the street. “Get word to Mac, he’ll want the timetable. In the meantime I need to go to Islamabad as fast as possible and I don’t think a commercial flight will get me ther
e in time.”

  “You don’t want to go there.” Louise had come on the line. “Mac already has his hands full, he won’t be happy to have you jump into the mix.”

  Pete wasn’t surprised that Louise had joined in. “Otto’s already filled me in, and it’s exactly what I need to do. The ISI won’t know about me, so I’ll be the loose cannon watching his back.”

  “Ross Austin knows about Mac’s situation. You’re not going to be of any use out there.”

  “I’m going with or without your help,” Pete said, the strident note again in her voice. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea, huge waves crashing into the rocks below. If she fell she knew that she would be dashed to pieces, and yet Kirk was there. She could see his head in the crest of a wave. He was motioning for her to stay away from the edge, but at the same time she knew that she would have to try for him. Because of her love.

  “I’ll arrange something,” Otto said. “But first you’ll have to get past Boyle; he’s already on his way to your hotel.”

  “I thought Walt talked to him.”

  “He did, but Boyle insisted that he needed the chance to meet with you. Haaris is a good friend of his, and he’s not convinced that Dave could be the Messiah.”

  “I’m not going to try to convince him of anything.”

  “He knows that too; I spoke to him just two minutes ago. He knows that you want to get to Islamabad as quickly as possible, and he’s willing to help. He has a Gulfstream at his disposal, and he’s already given the order for the plane to be prepped and a crew to get out to Heathrow. The RAF at Northolt is arranging it. He wants you to try to convince Mac to back off before it’s too late.”

  Too late for what? she wanted to ask, but didn’t. “Does he know Mac’s cover ID?”

  “I’m sure that he’s talked with Austin in Islamabad, and I can’t see any reason why the COS would hold anything back.”

  “Damn,” Pete said softly. “Mac shouldn’t have told him.”

  “He had to do it,” Otto said. “If everything goes south, and Mac is outed as CIA, Austin will need to cover his ass.”

  “That’s why you shouldn’t go over there,” Louise said. “You’ll just complicate things.”

  “Will Boyle try to contact Haaris, to warn him?”

  “Page specifically ordered him not to,” Otto said.

  “Not much comfort,” Pete replied. “I’ll call when I get there, and you have to let me know where Mac is.”

  “I know why you’re doing this thing,” Louise said after a beat. “Can’t say I object on those grounds, except that you’ll be putting yourself in serious harm’s way, and we all know exactly how Mac will react. But good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  Tommy Boyle strode into the lobby just as Pete was finishing checking out. He was tall and very slender, his face all sharp angles, his hair thinning on top. He was dressed in a tweed sporting coat, iron-gray slacks and highly shined half boots of the sort that were popular in the sixties. He looked every bit the English gentleman.

  He kissed her on the cheek as if they were old friends. “I have a car just outside.”

  “I talked to Otto.”

  “Your aircraft crew will be aboard by the time we get out to Heathrow. I thought I’d ride along so that we could have a little chat.”

  “About Dave Haaris?”

  “More specifically about this fellow they’re calling the Messiah.”

  “Not the Messiah of the Second Coming, but the ‘just for the moment’ Messiah,” Pete said. “A very big difference.”

  The car was a light blue Jaguar XK sedan. Doormen were holding the rear doors open for Pete and Boyle to get in. Pete hung on to her overnight bag. Their driver headed away immediately, traffic still fairly heavy even at this hour.

  “I’ll need to call in your passport number,” Boyle said. She took it out of her shoulder bag and gave it to him. He phoned someone and recited the name and number, and the fact that it was diplomatic.

  When he was finished he handed it back without comment.

  “Other than the fact that Dave is a friend of yours, what makes you so certain he couldn’t be the Messiah?”

  “What makes you so certain he is?”

  Pete didn’t answer.

  “And what do you hope to accomplish by going out there? Whoever this guy is, you’d never get close to him.”

  “I’ll work something out.”

  “My God, you’re going to try to assassinate him,” Boyle said. “Of all the goddamn harebrained ideas … Let me guess, it’s McGarvey. And he’s already there or on his way. You’re just going over to confirm that the guy we picked up wasn’t Dave.”

  “Why do you suppose that Dave Haaris hired someone to impersonate him?”

  Boyle was troubled. “I don’t know, but I’m going to ask him just that.”

  “Have you tried to contact him?”

  “I left a message at his desk the moment I learned that the man we were ordered to watch wasn’t him. All of this is bad business. The director is holding something back, I’m sure of it.”

  “What about Ross Austin, have you spoken with him?”

  Boyle gave her an oddly pensive look. “No reason for me to have, is there?”

  “I meant about you having arranged transportation for me.”

  “I was going to give him a call once you were off, in case I couldn’t talk you out of whatever nonsense you were up to.”

  “Don’t call him,” Pete said. “Especially if he’s another one of your friends.”

  “We’ve bumped into each other, but he and Haaris are fairly close,” Boyle said. “Ross will have to be told about the incoming flight.”

  “Have Marty do it,” Pete said. “I’m asking you for my safety’s sake, and for Mac’s, just stay out of it. In the meantime lean on Pembroke to see if he knows anything else—though I doubt he does.”

  “Whatever Dave was up to he would not have divulged anything.”

  “No, but the transition went smoothly enough so that your people didn’t catch it. Maybe Pembroke heard or saw something.”

  “Like what?”

  “A phone call. Perhaps Dave met someone in the lobby. Maybe a car came for him, maybe he took a cab and Pembroke remembered the time. Anything we could use.”

  “You were a good interrogator, from what I’ve been told. How about staying behind and questioning him yourself?”

  “Don’t try to look down my trail.”

  “Other than the flight, I’m washing my hands of the entire business.”

  Pete wished that she could believe him.

  FORTY-TWO

  McGarvey sat at the window watching for someone from Jalalabad to show up and take the woman off his hands. The sky to the east was beginning to lighten, and he was anxious to get on with it. Every hour that went by was to the ISI’s advantage. They’d tried to kill him once—because of his questions at the reception, not because they suspected who he really was—and he was certain they would try again.

  If the woman didn’t report soon to her superiors, someone would come here looking for her.

  He glanced at her. She was asleep on the narrow couch, but when his sat phone chirped she stiffened slightly. She was awake.

  It was Otto. “The guy was an imposter.”

  “It means that Haaris is almost certainly here. He’ll probably show himself sometime today.”

  “He’ll have to, because according to the guy he hired as his stand-in, the job was going to last only two more days.”

  “What about the people who were supposed to pick up the woman? I can’t sit around here much longer, especially not now, knowing Haaris has a timetable.”

  “They must have run into trouble; I’ll check on it. But the air force is paying a lot better attention than they did before the bin Laden raid, and even more since the ISI’s botched attack on the SEAL Team Six operators.”

  Judith opened her eyes,
pushed the covers back and sat up, obviously measuring the distance to McGarvey.

  “But you have another problem,” Otto said. “Pete is heading your way, and there was nothing that anybody could say to talk her out of it.”

  “Is she already en route?”

  “In the air. Boyle arranged an RAF Gulfstream for her.”

  “He knows that the guy they’ve been watching is an imposter?”

  “Yes, and he was willing to help Pete because he wants the issue with Dave to be settled one way or the other. He’s betting that Haaris is working on something but not as the Messiah.”

  “I’m going to ask him. In the meantime have Page call someone at the State Department to meet the plane and take her to the embassy. Put her in handcuffs, if it’s the only way.”

  “Won’t be easy. And Austin knows who you are. He’s bound to come to the conclusion who she actually is and why she showed up in Islamabad.”

  McGarvey was afraid of something like this happening. Every woman he’d ever been involved with had been strong-willed, and sooner or later had lost her life because of it.

  “Have Walt call one of his friends in London; maybe they can get their Home Office to convince someone from their embassy here to meet the plane and pick her up. It’d be more convincing that way since it’s a RAF flight.”

  “She’s carrying a U.S diplomatic passport.”

  “They’ll have to work around it,” McGarvey said. “Make Walt understand how important this is to me.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Otto promised. “But getting around Pakistan’s passport control will be a lot easier than getting around Pete.”

  “Tell them they can do anything they want, short of shooting her.”

  “Okay. In the meantime I’ll see what’s holding up our people from fetching your prisoner.”

  “I need her gone as soon as possible,” McGarvey said and hung up.

  “Who is Haaris?” Judith asked.

  “You don’t want to know.”