Retribution (9781429922593) (20 page)

“I hope that'll be the case,” McGarvey said. “I've been thinking about it. Besides giving notice to Naisir that I'm coming after him, Otto's going to build a legend for an American wheeler-dealer living in Karachi. Some guy selling arms to the Taliban, maybe bomb-making equipment that they use to attack not only American targets but Pakistani ones as well.”

Otto saw it immediately. “We'll call him Poorvaj Chopra, born in Calcutta but emigrated to the States with his parents when he was five. Served in the Army Rangers but got kicked out for some shit I'll figure out. Maybe smuggling, gambling, whores—whatever. Anyway, his father went back to Calcutta a few years ago and got mixed up in a Hindu-Muslim riot in the slums and got himself killed. Ever since then Poorvaj has had a hard-on for Pakistanis. Figures he can stick it to them by selling arms to the Taliban while at the same time making some money. Now we want to put a stop to him.”

“Not for any love of Pakistan but because the Taliban have been attacking our people as well,” Louise said. “But Naisir's not likely to believe it.”

“Doesn't matter,” Mac said. “If the legend is strong enough and my assignment is to come to Pakistan to take the guy out, he won't be able to pass me off as an enemy of the state. Someone who needs to be picked up or shot. If he wants me dead he'll have to do it himself.”

“He might have friends,” Wolf said.

“We'll deal with those issues as they come up. In the meantime, I have all the credentials I'll need. But it's become next to impossible to carry a weapon aboard an international flight, especially one going into a country under siege like Pakistan.”

“Weapons,” Pete said, but McGarvey didn't catch it.

“Best if I fly commercial, probably from someplace neutral like Poland or the Czech Republic. Soon as I get back to my apartment I'll call you with my passport number.”

“Give me a name, I have all your documents in a database,” Otto said, and McGarvey nodded.

“Leonard Sampson.”

“Got it.”

Louise was staring at Pete. “Did you mean what I thought you meant when you said ‘weapons'?”

“I'm going to Islamabad too,” Pete said. “I'll need a weapon, and papers under the name Doris Sampson.”

“Not a chance in hell,” McGarvey said.

“She has a point,” Louise said.

“No.”

“You're just the sort of figure Naisir and whoever he'll have helping him will expect to show up,” Pete said, her tone of voice reasonable. “But if you show up with wifey in arm—wifey with a scarf to cover her hair like a dutiful Muslim woman—you might fit in. At any rate, if Naisir is likely to have friends, you might as well have a second gun hand.”

“He's already seen my face in Berlin.”

Pete turned to Otto. “I need the passport and a flight over. Doesn't have to be the same flight as Mac's. Might even be better if you can get me there first so I can be waiting for him. It'll be harder for him to ditch me.”

“Goddamnit,” McGarvey said. All of his professional life he had lived in mortal fear that what he did would boil over into his personal life, affect the people he loved. And it had. Two women he'd been involved with after his divorce from Kathy had been killed because of him. And then once he got back together with his ex she had been assassinated along with his daughter and son-in-law.

The same bullshit fear came roaring in at him again. He didn't want to be responsible. And he said as much.

“Bullshit, as you're fond of saying,” Pete said. “I'm a grown woman, capable of taking care of herself. I think I proved that a couple of years ago right here in D.C., you macho bastard.”

“It's not that.”

“What, then?” Pete demanded. “Tell me.”

McGarvey turned to Otto and Louise for support.

“Your creds will be waiting for you at Dulles first thing in the morning,” Otto said. “I'll have the flight number before you leave here tonight. I think Atlanta first, then Warsaw and finally Rawalpindi. I'll have the name of a guy who'll meet you with weapons and anything else you might need.”

“We'll need to know where Naisir lives, and his family situation. I really don't want to barge into this guy's house while he's having dinner with his wife and kids.”

“I'll have that for you as well.”

It was a nightmare to McGarvey. “Don't I have anything to say about this?”

“No,” Louise and Pete said simultaneously.

He took a pull of his beer, looking at both of them. Otto's expression was neutral.

“I won't cut you any breaks,” Mac said.

“When did you ever?” Pete shot back.

“Shit,” he said. “Naisir works for Joint Intel Miscellaneous.”

“Yes,” Otto said.

“Means he meets with field officers from time to time. Like our NOCs who never show up at headquarters.”

“Right, right, right,” Otto said. “He's got a safe house somewhere. Could be when you show up he'll run to ground.”

“If for nothing more than to insulate his family.” McGarvey said.

Pete gave him an odd look, but she nodded. “If we know where it is, we might get there first and wait for him. It would keep the whole op clean. Keep the collateral damage to a minimum.”

“Eliminate it completely if possible,” Louise said. She'd always been the conscience of the group. She kept Otto centered, and sometimes reminded McGarvey that what he was doing—what he'd always done—was the right thing.

“You guys are right, of course,” McGarvey said. “But I can't help thinking about the families of the two SEALs they killed.

 

THIRTY-THREE

Naisir was made to wait for nearly an hour in the ISI director's outer office before the secretary motioned him to the door.

“You may see General Bhutani now, Major,” he said.

Naisir had taken the call in his office fifteen minutes ago, thankful that he had worn a decent uniform this morning. Ayesha had insisted, telling him she had a hunch, and once again she was right. Over the years he had learned to trust her feminine intuition, and at this moment he was especially glad of it.

General Butani was seated behind his mammoth desk in front of the broad windows that looked down on a pretty courtyard and fountain. A short, slender man dressed in civilian clothes, one leg crossed over the other, was seated in an easy chair in a corner across the room.

Naisir stopped directly in front of the general, clicked his heels, and saluted. “Major Ali Naisir reporting, as ordered, sir.”

The general, who was reminiscent of Musharraf, with a round smiling face, neatly trimmed mustache, and graying sideburns, returned the salute but did not offer a chair.

“I am a busy man, so allow me to come straight to the point. Trouble is heading your way, which is exactly what Pakistan cannot afford to have happen.”

Naisir's gut tied in a knot. “Sir?”

“You are currently involved with a delicate project in the United States, if I've been informed correctly.”

“It was thought to keep the project at arm's length from the service.”

Bhutani let it hang for a moment. “Are we speaking of the same project?”

“SEAL Team Six, sir? A proposal was made to us some months ago that it could be possible to eliminate the Americans who took part in the operation they called Neptune Spear.”

“Why?”

“Retribution.”

“Who gave you this assignment?”

“My section chief, Colonel Sarbans.”

The general glanced at the civilian, who merely shrugged but said nothing.

“The assignment was completely on my shoulders,” Naisir said. “In case something went wrong I was to take full responsibility. Personally.”

“There have been two attacks recently, both of which included the murders of the men's families. Was that your doing?”

“I did not order the killing of innocent civilians, but sir, it was my doing.”

“Who is—or are—the assassins? Certainly not ours?”

“No, sir. I hired an outside contractor, who put together a team.”

The general was relieved. “Was it expensive?”

“We've made partial payments of around one million in U.S. dollars. More has been committed.”

“Where has this money come from?” The civilian asked.

“I have a draw on the Special Projects fund.”

“You live in a fine house near the Jinnah Park,” the civilian said. His voice was very soft, his accent southern—perhaps Karachi.

Naisir knew instantly what was going on, what he was being accused of. “My wife's family is wealthy and generous. The transactions for the house and the two cars and our staff, are quite transparent.”

“Perhaps too transparent.”

Naisir turned back to the general. “Sir, am I being accused of stealing state money?”

“Not exactly,” Bhutani said. He took a photograph from a folder and handed it across. “Do you know this man?”

The eight-by-ten black-and-white photo date-stamped yesterday showed a slightly built man, dressed in a Western-cut business suit, coming out of the airport at Rawalpindi. He was carrying an attaché case and what appeared to be a matching leather suitcase on rollers.

“It's not a clear shot, but I don't think I know him. Who is he, sir?”

“He flew up from Karachi and booked a suite for six days at the Serena Hotel. Do you know this place?”

“Yes, sir,” Naisir said. He was confused. Something not good was coming his way, but he couldn't guess what.

“Your wife's family is wealthy. Have either of you ever stayed there, or perhaps had a meal at one of the restaurants?” the civilian asked. “The Dawat is one of the best in town. There is even music.”

“No, sir, we've never been.”

“The man in the picture is an Indian-born American. Emigrated with his parents when he was very young. He served in the American Army Rangers, but he was dishonorably discharged when it was found that he was having affairs with several of the top-ranking officers' wives on base. Apparently he has an apartment in Karachi, and we think that he may be involved in a number of illegal activities, among them supplying the Taliban with the materials to make IEDs.”

“That would come under the SS directorate.”

“Normally yes,” the general said.

“If the proof is there, why hasn't he been arrested?” Naisir asked.

“His name is Poorvaj Chopra,” the civilian said. “The thing is, no one has ever seen him coming or going from his apartment in Karachi, nor has his bed here at the Serena been slept in. It would appear that he is a mysterious man who is able to come and go without being spotted.”

“We have his photograph.”

“Supplied to us by the CIA, who've had him under surveillance in the United States.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but I have no idea who this man is or what you think his connection to me might be.”

“He's made three calls to your home and one to your office,” the civilian said.

Naisir was rocked. “I took no calls from this man.”

“Yes, we know. Each time he let the telephone ring once and then hung up. We think that all four calls were made from a cell phone. Four different cell phones.”

“Can you explain why this man called you?” Bhutani asked. “Why he has come to Islamabad?”

“No,” Naisir said. “Sir, am I being charged with a crime?”

“Not at this time, Major,” the civilian said. “But if Mr. Chopra does make contact with you, for whatever reason, we want to know about it.”

“Then why are you monitoring my phone?”

“We're not,” General Bhutani said. “The CIA is, perhaps in connection with your operation against the SEAL team we were informed.”

“If that were the case they would not have shared that intelligence with you, sir,” Naisir said.

“No. But obviously something is going on. I suggest that you deal with it, Major. Perhaps if Mr. Chopra were to suddenly disappear permanently, it might be best for you. For all of us.”

 

THIRTY-FOUR

At this point time was not really of the essence as far as McGarvey was concerned. For the moment they figured that Schlueter's primary target was no longer the SEALs but Mac himself. And they wanted to let Naisir stew in his own juices. Keep looking over his shoulder until he got lazy.

Otto had booked them one of the longest routes from Dulles to Atlanta and from there overnight to Warsaw via Amsterdam. They took a Polish Airways LOT flight to Frankfurt, where they picked up an Etihad flight to Abu Dhabi and from there at last to Islamabad, where they were scheduled to touch down at two thirty in the morning local, three days after leaving Washington.

They'd flown first-class on Mac's nickel, and on most of the legs they'd had seats that folded flat, allowing them to get plenty of rest. The food had been reasonably good, and Mac had cut back his drinking so that by eight in the morning according to his watch they were less than a half hour out of Islamabad and he felt good.

A flight attendant had brought them warm moist washcloths and hand towels, along with their customs declaration forms, which Pete had filled out for both of them.

“This is a first for me,” she said.

“Filling out a customs form?”

“No, going into badland.”

“I warned you.”

She gave him a look. “I'm not frightened. I'm excited.”

“You might want to rethink that, Pete. A little fear goes a long way. Makes you aware of what's going on around you. Makes you a little sharper.”

“Naisir will be waiting for us?”

“He knows my face, but it's been three days since Otto planted the Chopra legend, and he may not have made any connection yet. No reason for him to be watching for me to show up. In any event he won't be expecting you.”