Retribution (9781429922593) (28 page)

The dacoit went down hard, and again Mac was on him with a rage he'd not felt in a very long time, slamming his fist into the bastard's face, which was starting to turn purple, and then his chest again, and a second and third time, putting every ounce of his strength in his blows. Wanting to destroy him, for all the crap that he and the sons of bitches like him were doing. Killing soldiers was one thing, but harming innocent women, and in the case of the SEAL families, even children—that was another thing entirely.

Then Pete was behind him. “Stand down, Mac,” she shouted. “He's finished.”

In the distance McGarvey was suddenly aware of the sounds of sirens. Lots of them. He looked up.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She stood swaying, hipshot, favoring her left side. “I think I dislocated my right knee. But we have to get out of here right now.”

“What about Naisir's wife and Schlueter?”

“Gone,” Pete said. “Over the roof, probably.”

McGarvey got to his feet, picked her up, and started for the blown-out gate. “My car is just down the street.”

The sirens were much closer now, and as he carried her out of the compound he was in time to see a crowd of at least three or four dozen men and women, some of them carrying clubs, coming at them from the direction his car was parked.

 

FORTY-EIGHT

Pam Schlueter and Ayesha watched the street from the roof of the house next door, as McGarvey and the woman he'd come to Pakistan with emerged from the gate and pulled up short when they spotted the crowd.

“That'll solve at least one problem for us,” Ayesha said bitterly. Her heart pounded painfully in her thin chest. It was too early for her to feel grief about her husband's death at the hands of the American. That would come, but first she needed revenge.

Crouched just below the parapet of the roof she could feel the heat and raw vibrations coming from the German assassin her husband had hired several months ago. Pam kept clutching and unclutching the pistol in her hand.

“We can do nothing for the moment,” Ayesha said, putting a hand on the much larger woman's arm.

Pam turned to her, a vibrant hate screwing up the features of her face. “It has ended here. I didn't want that.”

“Maybe not.”

“You don't understand. I needed to know what the Americans know. I need to know if they have any proof of the payments your husband has made. It would link me to the ISI.”

“It's obvious they already have the link, or at least suspect it enough for McGarvey and his woman to come here, to challenge my husband. To kill him.”

“Don't be foolish. It was one of your husband's dacoits who fired the shots.”

“Had he not come here the dacoits would not have been necessary! The shots would not have been fired!”

McGarvey, the woman in his arms, backing away from the advancing crowd, made a very romantic picture in Ayesha's mind, even though her husband was dead. But Pam was right, of course. Ali had been a fool in so many ways. And he had badly mishandled the entire situation. Especially the operation in the States against the SEALs. Unbusinessmanlike.

“Be that as it may,” Pam said. “As soon as it calms down I'm returning to Germany.”

“I thought that you wanted retribution?” Ayesha asked, even though she didn't fully understand why yet.

“Your husband is dead; the money will stop.”

“
Die Vergeltung,
isn't that what you called it? Payback for the aggression against my country? We would get our revenge, and you would get your payment for services rendered?”

“The money has stopped, you fucking idiot.”

“It has not, unless you want to turn away from continuing.”

“The ISI will not get itself involved now that your husband is dead, and apparently the Americans know who the paymaster is.”

“Was.”

Pam, still watching the unfolding situation on the street, started to say something but then looked up, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Was?”

“You have a new paymaster.”

“I've already told you that the ISI will no longer let itself be involved.”

“I'll pay,” Ayesha said. “That is, if you still want your retribution. Because I certainly do.”

Pam was interested. “It'll take a great deal of money. Perhaps as much as several million.”

“Euros or dollars?” Ayesha asked, though it really didn't matter. She had access to as much as she needed. Her father, especially, would understand, as would her brothers. This now was a family affair.

“I'll need a down payment of five hundred thousand euros. Immediately.”

“You'll have it within twenty-four hours.”

“I'll give you the banking numbers.”

“I already have them,” Ayesha said. She looked again at McGarvey and the woman. “Before you proceed, your first job will be to kill Mr. McGarvey if he manages to escape today. But not on Pakistani soil.”

“He won't get out of this,” Pam replied.

“Don't be so sure.”

 

FORTY-NINE

The first of the police were just around the corner when Milt Thomas's cab parted the crowd less than ten feet from where McGarvey stood his ground, still holding Pete in his arms. As soon as the cab was clear Milt started throwing out ten-rupee notes, which immediately distracted the mob long enough for him to draw up and reach back and pop open the rear door.

McGarvey shoved Pete inside first, and as he climbed in, Milt accelerating away, he caught a glimpse of the Schlueter woman and Naisir's wife coming out of the house next door and merging with the mob.

“Otto called, said you guys were in trouble.”

“Is that the cops or the ISI behind us?” McGarvey asked.

“The cops,” Milt said. “Someone reported an explosion and gunfire and they came running. If you still have your pistol, and especially the Semtex and fuses, toss them out the window as soon as we're clear. For some reason security at the airport has been tightened up in the past hour or so. They're checking everyone's papers real close.”

“My things are back at the safe house,” Pete said.

“Doesn't matter, I brought both of you new passports, under the names Tom and Maureen Chesson.” He handed back an envelope. “We figured that you might be on the run getting out, your old legends burned.”

The passports were diplomatic, like the ones they had come in under. To McGarvey's eye they looked perfect, neither his nor Pete's photos exactly matching what they looked like now, which was often a dead giveaway for forgeries. The only problem would come if they were searched. None of their others papers—driving licenses, credit cards, bank cards—matched.

Three blocks away Thomas turned down a narrow street that was bordered on the left by a refuse-littered field. Mac tossed out the Semtex, the pencil fuses, and the two extra magazines of ammunition.

“What about your gun?”

“Back at the safe house.”

“Doesn't matter, no serial number, unless they match your DNA with whatever they might come up with from the handle. But I don't think the cops are going to be that sophisticated or quick. And the ISI is going to want to sweep everything under the rug.”

“Major Naisir is dead,” McGarvey said.

Thomas looked at him in the rearview mirror. “That might become an issue, but not right now. It's going to take them time to straighten out the mess, especially if the ham-handed cops go inside and look around. They'll screw up everything.”

“But it's over now, isn't it, Mac?” Pete asked.

“I don't think so. Schlueter managed to get out. I saw her with the major's wife back there in the crowd.”

“Will the ISI still be interested in funding her?”

“No, but it's possible she'll find another source.”

“The major's wife's family is rich,” Thomas said. “And with her husband dead she has the motivation.”

“Milt's right,” Pete said. “From what little I saw at the safe house she rules the roost. If she's got money, she'll step up to the plate.”

Milt looked at them in the rearview mirror. “You're her first target,” he said to McGarvey.

“I hope so, because if we get out of here, she'll be mine.”

“Ours,” Pete corrected.

“You have blood on your neck,” Milt told McGarvey. “You'd better clean it off before we get to the airport.”

*   *   *

The new airport, called Benazir Bhutto International, the same as the old one, had just opened a year ago, and security at the easiest of times was tight, especially for departing passengers.

This afternoon the lines for cars, taxis, and buses at the passenger dropoff points were not terribly heavy, but there were a lot of police and airport security personnel everywhere. Milt headed across to the separate cargo airlines terminal, where only three trucks were in the queue.

“Let me do the talking,” he said.

“Do you have a gun?” McGarvey asked.

“No, and the cab is clean.”

“How about your papers?”

“I'm a Pakistani-born American, who came home because he couldn't stand the way of the infidel. It's why I help the local cops whenever I can.”

A lot of CIA spies fit the same, unglamorous mold. They were foreign-born American immigrants who were fluent in their native language and who were recruited to return to their homes to spy: China, Russia, Iran, Venezuela, even North Korea, which was the most dangerous assignment of them all because the leadership was so incredibly paranoid and the people brainwashed.

When it was their turn at the security checkpoint, they all handed their papers to an armed guard, while another with a long-handled mirror checked the undercarriage of the cab, and a third with a bomb-sniffing dog checked the trunk.

“What is your business here?” the guard with their papers demanded in Punjabi first and then English.

“I am taking my passengers to the TCS Courier hanger. They are leaving on the London-Heathrow flight.”

“They're too late. That plane is leaving sooner than scheduled. Any minute now.”

“It's being held for them,” Thomas said.

“It's not possible,” the guard said. “Anyway you're just a simple taxi driver. What would you know of these things?”

“I'm sorry. I only do as I am instructed.”

The guard returned McGarvey's and Pete's passports. “You will have to arrange for another flight,” he said.

McGarvey put a hundred-dollar bill in his passport and held it out the window for the guard, who was closely examining Thomas's papers, including a national identity card and his taxi license.

“Perhaps you would care to examine my passport again,” McGarvey said.

The guard opened it, looked up at McGarvey and Pete, pocketed the money, and handed the passport back.

“I'll hold your papers,” he told Thomas. “Take your passengers to the terminal, and when you return I will have a number of questions for you.”

“As you wish,” Thomas said.

*   *   *

The TCS Boeing 737 configured as a cargo aircraft was waiting on the tarmac, its engines already spooling. Stairs to the open hatch just aft of the cockpit were in place, a ground crew waiting to remove them.

Thomas pulled up next to the ground crew's pickup truck. “Good luck to both of you,” he said.

“What was all that at the checkpoint?” Pete asked.

“Happens from time to time. No big deal.”

“If you're connected with what happened at the safe house, you could be in trouble,” she persisted. “Mac, tell him.”

“If I don't go back, they'll never let this plane get out of Pakistan's airspace. Now get the hell out of here and let me do my job.”

“Good luck,” McGarvey said, and they shook hands.

“Piece of cake.”

McGarvey had to help Pete up the stairs and inside, where they took the last two seats. The others were occupied by a half-dozen contractors, one of them a medic who even before they had taken off put Pete's knee to rights by popping the kneecap back in place.

“That helps,” she said gratefully.

“What happened?” he asked. He was a man in his late thirties or early forties, mild-mannered with a southern accent.

“Trust me, you don't want to know,” she said.

McGarvey phoned Otto, who answered on the first ring. He'd been standing by for the call. “We're on the way out.”

“How'd it go?”

“Could have been better. But Milt might be in some sort of trouble.”

“The embassy is working on it. They're getting him out of Islamabad tonight. We're just waiting till your flight clears Pakistani airspace. A company plane will be standing by for you at Heathrow.”

“I'll tell you all about it once we're over the Atlantic.”

“But it's not over?”

“I don't think so,” McGarvey said.

 

Germany

Pam Schlueter got back to Berlin a day and a half later, bone-tired and a little bit discouraged because of her abject failure in Pakistan and the death of her paymaster. She didn't think for one minute that Ayesha Naisir would ever make good on her promise to pick up the tab for the rest of the project. And all that was left in her mind was her own revenge, first against McGarvey and second against her ex-husband—a job of work she should have accomplished long ago.

It was early evening under a cloudless sky when she emerged from the Air Berlin arrivals gate at Tegel Airport, and went through customs carrying only her passport and a single carry-on bag containing a couple of items of clothing, all of which she had purchased in Islamabad.

She had half-expected to be questioned by the airport immigration people, but she was passed through without comment. Outside, she held back for a few moments to watch the area around the taxi stand, again expecting to spot a cop or BND officer waiting for her. Those guys almost always stood out.