by Ken Hansen
“My,” she kidded, “we’ve only had two real dates, Mr. Huxley. It’s a little early to be popping important questions, don’t you think?”
“Funny girl. Look, I know I’ve been a sap, but…” He shook his head. “Have you ever heard of Cardinal Armondo Fine?”
“Alla faccia! Is he the snake you were seeking? He was a Bishop in Florence and somehow slithered into the Vatican as a cardinal. Then they stripped him of everything. Yes. I think he fits the description. He has always been a viper.”
Huxley winced. “You knew and you didn’t tell me?” he asked.
Sonatina breathed out hard. “I would have told you if I had thought of it. Why else would you be asking about a former Florentine bishop?”
Her tone seemed a bit forced, or maybe a bit too practiced for what should be spontaneous righteous indignation. Huxley had to keep things calm. “Okay, I got it. Settle down. I’m sorry.”
“It just seems like you don’t completely trust me, Chris. I’ve done nothing but help you.”
“I get it, Sonatina, and I agree, but you have to admit your clearance level is still kind of low, don’t you think? You have to be a skeptical guy in this business, or you end up dead.”
“I’m not the one trying to kill you. I’m on your side, remember?”
“Of course.” Had his tone betrayed his thoughts? Just move on. “So, you know more about this cardinal?”
“Not really. Like I said, nobody from the old neighborhood loved him. I don’t know why the Vatican promoted him, but then I don’t know why they threw him out either. Most Florentines were quite happy to see him go. Not the kind of person you could ever trust, and trust is important, Christian, especially with me.”
Huxley nibbled on his lip. Better to pretend he had not heard that verbal slap in the face. “You know where he is now?”
“No idea.”
“All right, thanks again. And, hopefully, I can find a reason to come to Rome and see you again soon.”
“Am I not reason enough?” Sonatina asked.
“Well, yeah, but trust me”—shit, the wrong word—“business calls and the customers are a little more than simply demanding right now.”
“As long as you are saving the world, I suppose I can wait. Ciao.”
He hung up with a smile on his face, but it turned quickly to a frown. How would she have known what might be at stake?
An hour later, Huxley was driving south on the Jauharabad-Muzaffargarh Road, the Khushab Nuclear Complex to his right with the large cooling tower and its just-released column of smoke clearly visible. That was as close as he was going to get to this facility. He could have appeared at the security gate with his Homeland Security pass just for shits and giggles, but it would have gotten him nowhere. Even with some diplomatic assistance from the President, they would never allow a U.S. investigator on the property. But maybe, just maybe, he could guess at a truck carrying a warhead from the property and see how it worked in person. And maybe he would get a personal invitation from them to boot.
Just after reaching the southeast corner of the facility, he pulled into a roadside viewing area beside a bridge over Sher Garh Canal, which connects the Jhelum River just east of the complex with the Indus River to the west. If the satellite surveillance data was right, the target would appear out of the complex just north of the canal within an hour or two. He settled in, pulled out a camera with a nice-sized lens and seemed to snap a few photos of the complex across the canal, all the time acting as if he were taking pictures of the canal itself. They wouldn’t know yet that he never actually pressed any buttons. Of course it was a crime in Pakistan to photograph a military installation. But this was just an energy facility, right? Nevertheless, he always made sure to have the canal carefully in the foreground.
Several trucks emerged from the security gate, but they all seemed legitimate, and they all headed south. He was beginning to wonder if he could spot a warhead truck when a large eighteen wheeler emerged from the security gate and headed north. While the truck looked perfectly normal through his camera lens, its engine sounded an octave lower and it accelerated very slowly, all as if the engine had been built for something very heavy. The warhead would not weigh too much, but maybe the significant shielding and armor on the truck did? Though the windows on the cab were slightly tinted, he could just see a driver…and a passenger riding shotgun. This one was worth a try.
How close could he follow without causing suspicion? No, how close could he follow and create some suspicion without putting himself in too much danger? He followed the truck for about thirty minutes on the Pakistani highways before it pulled off on a side road. He too pulled onto the single-lane road, and twenty seconds later the truck came to a complete stop, forcing him to do the same. Without warning, the rear doors were flung open, and out streamed a squad of Pakistani soldiers pointing AK-47s at his head. One soldier in the back aimed a missile launcher at the front of his vehicle—just in case he were stupid enough to make a run for it. Huxley appeared shocked and frazzled and held his hands high above the steering wheel, hoping that nobody was feeling particularly anxious to kill a nosy American today.
The slight folds of Anwari’s eyelids nearly disappeared as he squinted through the powerful binoculars at the glare of the mid-day sun blasting off the eighteen wheeler’s metallic skin. The soldiers had surrounded the American and Pakistani MPs were on the way. He made the call. “He’s being hauled away by the Pakistani army.”
“That wasn’t the plan,” bellowed Pardus on the other end. “How the hell did that happen?”
“Looks like he got a bit too anxious and decided to follow a loaded truck. They didn’t appreciate it. I suspect he’ll be taken to SAB.”
“I need to get him out of there. There’s nothing you can do about it. Go home. I’ll let you know when I need you again. I’ll take care of Huxley myself.”
“But if he is in custody, then you don’t need to worry about his investigation, so we can stop leaving bread crumbs to lead him astray.”
Pardus grumbled back, “Not a chance. They will just assign someone else and I have way too much invested in leading him to the wrong hole to let these idiots keep him locked up. Remember, we need him to look to the District so he leaves the Apple alone.”
Anwari’s eyes narrowed. Apple. Pardus had never slipped before. Maybe he makes mistakes under pressure just like everyone else. “OK.” He disconnected just as the Pakistani Army MPs flew by him on the highway heading toward Sargodha Air Base.
Chapter 42
According to Afghan immigration records, Anwari had never left the country. Hell, the authorities didn’t have anything that proved he had even left his home in Kabul. With the good will of a few fellow terrorists with ties to Pardus, he was able to find his way through the mountains back to Afghanistan. Now at his apartment, Anwari thought he would catch up on some news and saw the CNN report from Israel.
Jacob Rosenthal, the kidnapped chemist, had been found earlier in the day near Tel Megiddo, barely alive, without much left of him. His tongue had been severed along with both of his hands. His eyes had been gouged out. An ambulance had rushed him to the emergency room of a hospital in Afula. A few minutes after he was admitted, he exploded, taking two doctors, three nurses and five other patients with him. Well, he didn’t really do the taking himself, it was the bomb sewed into his stomach by Pardus’s men that had managed all of the havoc.
Rosenthal’s wife and two daughters were found dead later in the day in a concrete culvert nearby. The two girls were carrying typewritten notes that said only:
And the earth shall be a waste
because of its inhabitants,
as a result of their deeds.
The news showed the smiling faces of the two girls from school pictures taken a few months earlier. Anwari turned off the television, fell back into his chair, and put his hands to his face. The images of the girls became confused as they warped into the scene of them playing in the swimming pool and then the image
morphed again into his two smiling nephews. His head slipped lower in his hands, and his fingers covered his eyes. And Anwari wept.
Huxley slowly rubbed the scabbed bump on the back of his head. He had taken quite a few hits to the belly, back and head during his short stay in the detention center at Sargodha Air Base. If Ahmed Jinnah had been handling the interrogation… But then his friend had disappeared, which is why he had to pull the damn stunt in the first place. If they wouldn’t talk to him in his role as an investigator, maybe they might leak out a little intel to him if he were their interrogation subject. Unfortunately, he had discovered very little over the last day and a half. His interrogators either knew little or were trained well not to tip their hands. He had one more card to play, though it was risky to him and his friend. Their questions would be the same ones repeated over and over. He just needed to change one answer ever so slightly.
Huxley looked back up at his interrogator. “I’m sure you have verified by now that I am an investigator with Homeland Security. Don’t you think it is about time you stop this nonsense and avoid a political situation between our nations?”
His tormentor said, “If you are who you say, then it will only go worse for you. You would be an American spy who deserves summary execution. And if you now lie, then you are merely an ordinary terrorist who can be assured of eventual execution. In either case, your only hope to survive with your body intact is if you tell us what you have done.”
Huxley shook his head. Too damn familiar. “Look, we have been over this. You know I am not a terrorist because I work for the Americans against terrorism. And you know I am no spy either. For Christ sake, I work for Homeland Security, not the CIA. If you really think I am a spy, then what exactly did I spy on that nobody else in the country can see by simply driving on your roads on a daily basis?”
“You took pictures of the nuclear complex. We have video of you from our security cameras. That is a criminal offense punishable by five years imprisonment, even if you are not a spy. As a spy, it means death.”
“Show me the pictures,” replied Huxley. “I took pictures only of the canal and waterfalls at the bridge. And since you have not shown me those, I assume they were not even saved by the camera.”
“You probably uploaded them to the CIA and then deleted them.”
Huxley shook his head in disgust. “You know I could get a much clearer picture of your facility from our satellites than I ever could accomplish with a Nikon from the other side of the canal.”
“Then why did you follow the truck?”
“I was lost. I was hoping it would take me to a city where I could get my bearings.”
“When it turned off on a little side road?”
“Hey, half the roads here are dirt goat paths anyway. Why would I assume a paved road is too small to lead to a town?”
“What were you doing in Pakistan?”
Huxley felt the tingle on the back of his neck. This is it. “Look, I wanted to see the Badshahi Mosque, OK? I’ve told you that over and over.” Now came the tricky part. He bit his lip and looked down, deliberately mumbling. “I would have been out of this God-forsaken country if I hadn’t run into an old friend there.”
The interrogator perked up, “What is this? An old friend?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Humor me.”
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Ah, but you did. Now tell me. Perhaps it could help you. You don’t wish to die in this God-forsaken country, do you?”
Huxley looked up weakly, apparently giving up. “You know I used to interrogate terrorists, right? Hell, your government knows this because I did that right in this country in cooperation with them.”
“And?”
“Well, I ran into a guy from your security group who used to help me with those sessions. Ahmed Jinnah. We were supposed to have breakfast the other day, but he never showed up. Do you know anything about that? He hasn’t disappeared now, has he?”
The interrogator stared back at him, his face becoming more intense as the moments passed. “What do you know about that?” he shouted. So it was true, and they knew about it.
“Nothing. It’s just that Jinnah never missed an appointment without calling. Not like him, you know. You have him in custody, too?”
“What? No. Why would we…?” the interrogator started.
Huxley held back a smile. So, somebody else had nabbed Jinnah, or he ran.
The interrogator stood up and walked around the room for a few seconds, then returned, leaning over Huxley and placing his hand on the table. “Do you have any knowledge of his whereabouts? Have the Americans kidnapped him?”
Huxley sat upright. These guys are more lost than we are. “Why would we do that? He is just my friend. What was he involved in? Does it have anything to do with that truck?”
“Answer my questions.”
“I just did. Look, maybe I can help you if you tell me some more and let me contact Homeland. You guys wouldn’t be missing anything else, would you?” Huxley eyed his interrogator. He never would have thought that a dark-skinned Pakistani could turn so many shades of red.
“What do you know?” screeched the interrogator.
Huxley smiled, despite himself. At least he withheld the chuckle. Looks like I have all I need. “Not a thing, just as I have been saying all along. I’m just guessing and trying to help you out. But you guys really seem on edge.”
“Take him to his cell.”
As Huxley entered his cell, he was given a nice little sleeping pill in the form of a rifle butt to the back of his head.
He awoke four hours later, still a bit groggy. A soldier was staring at him from above and holding a bucket. Huxley’s face and shirt were soaking wet. “Really, you used a pail of water? Isn’t that a bit cliché?”
“Let’s go.”
“Again? So soon?” he asked. “Come on, I don’t have anything to add.”
“No. Time to clean you up.”
A half hour later Huxley was sitting in his street clothes in a cozy conference room, looking almost human. The door opened and a Pakistani colonel walked in with Ken Mayer trailing him. The colonel apologized to Huxley for the “terrible misunderstanding.” Mayer said little, but nodded in his direction, so Huxley accepted the apology and replied that anyone could have made such a mistake under the circumstances.
It was not until they were on the highway to Lahore that Mayer said anything of importance. “When you went missing, I figured you had done something stupid. You can thank the diplomatic branch for convincing the Pakistanis to release you.”
“Stupid? I was just gathering intel the only way I could while you sat on your hands in Langley.”
Mayer shot back, “You lack patience, Huxley. It will kill you someday.”
“And you lack insight, Mayer. It will get us all killed someday.” Huxley saw Mayer grimace, the big half-circle mole on his cheek bulging out. No doubt someone was protecting Huxley at CIA. Otherwise, Mayer would have already pulled him off the case.
After ten seconds of silence, Mayer spoke again, “Well, it looks like patience has prevailed this time. The Pakistanis unofficially acknowledged that we just might want to be on the lookout for two warheads that apparently have gone missing.”
“Probably because my urgency coaxed them into it.”
“What do you mean?”
Huxley looked at Mayer with a wry smile. “I let on that we knew something was missing from their nuclear complex and so was Jinnah, who had called attention to it. The interrogator’s babbling and facial expressions told me I was on the right path. They must have figured that if I knew about it, then the CIA knew too. They decided it was better for them to come clean and get help finding the infernal things.”
Mayer shook his head. “I don’t know about that, but I got a bit more information than just a facial expression to confirm it. Apparently, they thought the warheads were safely stored until they looked a little more closely and found
two metallic shell replicas with a small amount of fissile material inside to give off a radiation signature. The RFID and GPS mechanisms had somehow been moved to the replica without setting off any alarms.”
“Damn, sounds like what I told you three days ago. Any chance they are still in Pakistan, or is it too late now that we have waited?”
Mayer gritted his teeth. “They are doing everything they can to recover the devices and have now sought our assistance after obtaining appropriate assurances of secrecy to all of this. They have no idea, nor do we, whether the warheads are hidden in this country or have been shuttled out somehow. Our analysts are going over satellite data from the entire country for the past several weeks. Nothing so far. Oh, and I think you were right that the Israeli chemist completed his work for Pardus.”
“How do you know that?” Huxley asked.
“Our satellites picked up no fissile material signatures from these incidents. What else could it be? Plus, the chemist exploded at an Israeli military hospital a day after you were captured by the Pakistanis. I can’t imagine they need him anymore, can you?”
“Shit. Exploded?”
Mayer told Huxley about the incident.
Huxley shook his head and said, “What the hell are we doing to find these things?”
“What do you think? Everything possible. Every terrorism asset we have is on alert and searching. All possible resources are being diverted. And, of course, there’s UNGARD.”
Huxley gave Mayer an incredulous look and then looked away. Mayer should not have even said that name outside of the SCIF—a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—an area at DHS where they could talk about compartmented capabilities without any risk of electronic eavesdropping.
UNGARD, the nutty government acronym for Unified Neutrino and GammA Ray Detector, had just gone live in the last year. New integrated detection, background mitigation and signature correlation systems deployed on two Coast Guard vessels could allow detection of nukes passing between them on the high seas even if the ships were as much as twenty miles apart. As far as Huxley knew, it was still one of a kind and almost experimental. But he’d seen the data and the thing seemed to work even with heavily shielded nukes.
