State of Honour (11 page)

Linda blinked open her eyes. She lay on a ragged floor mattress in a small cell, feeling heady and limp. She’d been drugged. To ease the trauma of the video her captors had taken of her and keep her docile, she imagined. The cell was stone-built. A single battery-operated LED light hung from a hook below the dome-shaped ceiling about four metres above her. She rubbed her sore wrists, chafed by the restraint, and realized she could move her feet as well. She raised her head slightly, but felt as if her skull were cracking open, and slowly resumed the foetal position.

She’d been moved from the cell where the video had been made. But only down a corridor and a short flight of flagstone steps, the ceiling so low that she’d had to duck down underneath the lintel, her guards almost doubling over. She’d seen from the interior walls and the height of the passageway that it had been built maybe a couple of hundred years ago.

The air was damp, but there was a hint of salt hanging there. She focused and heard the faint sound of waves breaking on a shore. If she hadn’t been drugged for days, she guessed she might be on the south coast of Pakistan. Karachi, Pakistan’s largest city and main seaport, perhaps. She felt a sudden throb in her upper left arm, looked down and saw that it had been bandaged. The images of the underground room she’d been taken to after the car journey flooded her mind.

Two women, dressed in white lab coats with light-blue latex gloves and surgical masks, had stood by a small operating table. A number of surgical instruments, including a scalpel and clamps, lay on a cloth on a stainless-steel tray beside it. An oxygen tank, fixed by a tube to a respirator, stood in a rack at the head of the metal table. She trembled with fear. Perhaps they were going to remove a finger or an ear, she thought. But then she realized what they were going to do. Her GPS necklace and ring had been removed already, so they were going to remove the sensor that had been implanted under her skin in her upper left arm.

She’d been led to the table and had heard the men leaving behind her. The women stepped forward and began to undress her. She resisted at first, wrapping her arms around her body and pushing her chin down. But they were strong and firm and she relented, deciding that if she put up too much of a struggle the men would return and do it anyway. Be compliant, Tom had told her. Follow instructions. Don’t antagonize a kidnapper. Standing in her underwear, she was led onto the table. She began to grind her teeth, her breathing becoming rapid and audible. One of the women smoothed her forehead, her touch like a mother’s calming a child. The other woman put a long finger to her lips and shushed her. She looked over and saw a burqa hanging on a hook. The garment gave her a degree of hope. They will dress me in it afterwards, she thought. The mask had been put over her nose and mouth and, trying desperately to refrain from crying out, she’d drifted off.

She clasped her left arm lightly now, and began to rock back and forth. Despite the terrifying words that had come from the tape recorder as the video had been made, still no one had spoken to her directly. Not that she relished being called a bitch or worse, but the silence was burrowing away at her brain like a trapped insect. Men of violence come with barking threats, someone had once told her, but real killers say nothing.

If they were intent on carrying out their threat to kill her, she had three days left to live, or less. She worried that her girls would’ve seen the video, or been told about it. She prayed to God to give them strength. But God had not heard her prayers, or, if He had, He had chosen not to act on them.

She wondered briefly if there was some higher purpose to her incarceration, if her fate was that of martyr for a cause that she did not believe in, for she could see only revenge benefitting. Surely God was not involved in such things, she thought; and then she realized that her mind was still drug weary, her reasoning skewed.

She knew that men and women captured in the line of duty were at their most vulnerable to interrogation during the first seventy-two hours. And since no one had questioned her, she had a notion that they were bluffing. Maybe they weren’t Shia jihadists after all. Maybe it was all about the multibillion-dollar reward.

She told herself to focus on being released.

Two minutes later, she was contradicting herself in her mind. Although she knew that ransoms had been paid for US public officials and members of the military in certain circumstances, paying those who had taken her, without proof of their innocence of the Washington atrocity, would be both politically and morally unacceptable. If they were members of the Leopards, releasing the murderers of the Washington atrocity was even less likely.

And they know this, she thought.

Focusing on the burqa folded on the floor a few metres away, she guessed she would be on the move soon, too.

She bit the inside of her lip, tasted blood, as she tried to revive herself fully. Her complicity was beginning to sicken her. In the short timeframe her kidnappers had imposed via the tape recorder, she knew her only hope was to escape.

Crane’s knowledge of Pakistan had appeared limitless, and Tom had found himself warming to him.

After he’d finished tutoring, he told Tom what to say and do if he was picked up, a crash course in CIA counterinterrogation techniques. Things over and above Tom’s basic SERE training, which, he said, was as useful as a eunuch to a sperm bank in the circumstances. Then he made a few calls and informed Tom that a CIA operative would drop by his room and give him some essentials, including the camouflage transmitters, although she’d be oblivious to what was going on. Jabbing a gnarled finger, he added that she’d had a rough time over here, so he’d be obliged if Tom was courteous.

Finally, he got all serious and offered Tom a capsule about the size of a pea that he’d taken from an antique snuff box.

“What’s that?” Tom asked.

“You know what it is. If, and that’s a massive if, you need to take it, crunch it on your back teeth, or it will pass through your system like a marble.”

“No, thanks.”

“Okay. But remember. This is just covert recon. Nothing more. You check out his house, drop off the bugs in the garden, and then come back over the border. If it don’t have a weak spot, don’t take any risks. I’ll do my best to get the idea sanctioned by Houseman in the interim. But that could take twenty-four hours or more, once everyone with an opinion has their say, including the lawyers. Fucking bureaucracy is breaking my balls since waterboarding hit the headlines.”

“You think we’ll have time to get something incriminating?” Tom asked.

“The truth. No. But don’t even think about trying to get into Hasni’s house.”

Tom shot him a look that said: you’re telling me? He knew the doors and windows would likely be fitted with magnetized sensors and vibration detectors, the floors covered by portable pressure mats. Silent wireless alarm systems throughout. All kinds of stuff. He planned to position a spy camera first, which would be utilized to check out the garden via a secure satellite website on a cellphone. If it was clear of people, he’d plant at least three disguised voice-activated listening devices. It was a long shot, he had to admit.

But he was grateful to Crane for letting him go over the border and facilitating his as yet unofficial mission, although he wondered why he had agreed so easily.

He could have done many things to stop me, Tom thought; not least calling Birch. It was something of a mystery for now.

The phone rang.

“Get that, will ya?” Crane said, sinking back into his armchair.

Tom walked over to a pine dresser where the secure landline was and picked it up. It was Houseman.

“Where’s Crane?”

“He’s here, sir.”

“Switch on CNN,” he said. “Do it now. And tell him to ring me when the item finishes.”

Tom put the handset back in the cradle and grabbed the satellite TV remote. Thumbing it, he told Crane what Houseman had just said. The screen showed three hooded and cuffed men, their heads being pressed down as they were made to duck into a Pakistani police vehicle. It looked to be in real time and staged, the scene illuminated by portable floodlights.

“
The Pakistani authorities have three men in custody who have been charged with the abduction of the US Secretary of State, Linda Carlyle, state terrorism, and multiple counts of murder
.”

“They hood them so you can’t see the beating they took,” Crane said, nodding sagely.

“
The three as yet unnamed men have confessed to being members of the Leopards of Islam. They will stand trial in Pakistan
.
Official sources have indicated that an internal report of the ISI, the Pakistan intelligence agency, highlights the fact that Pakistani police officers recognized some of the men directly involved at the scene of the kidnapping as being members of the Leopards. This is Debbie Cann for CNN news, Islamabad, Pakistan.”

Tom switched the TV off. “The hell did CNN get this before us?”

“The Pakistanis ain’t naive. They know the power of US public opinion.”

“I didn’t know that the police had seen known Leopards. The men I saw were all masked,” Tom said, walking over to the sofa.

“We got a copy of the report over an hour ago,” Crane said, a little sheepishly.

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“No point. Your mind was made up already. But now the world will believe they have those responsible.”

“You think?” Tom asked, resting his hands on the back of the sofa.

“What I think don’t matter diddly-squat as far as this is concerned. Perception, Tom.” Crane waved a finger at him. “It’s all about perception. And this little scene says the Leopards are guilty. The Iranians, too.”

“Which makes what we’ve agreed all the more important,” he said, straightening up.

“As I said, you’ve made up your mind already,” Crane replied, draining his Scotch. “Just get me another one of these before you leave, eh, Tom.” He held out his empty glass, as if Tom were a waiter.

“Don’t forget Houseman wants you to call him.”

“When I’ve finished my whisky.”

“It sounded important,” Tom said.

“No shit.”

Tom was in the snug bedroom allocated to him by a non-CIA manager, who was responsible for mundane matters at the Ariana. It was a high-security building, but no one expected operatives or analysts to clean restrooms, and he was surprised by the number of diverse civilians who worked here.

He was stripped down to his boxer shorts, in need of a shower. He didn’t know how long it would be before he would get the chance again, and, as Crane had pointed out, he smelt like a rodent. He placed his small Buddha onto the nightstand and patted it. He would be on the move again in twenty minutes, going to what could be his death. He accepted it with a calmness that, paradoxically, worried him. He was not a risk taker; all of his training had been the opposite. A DS special agent on a protective detail was taught to eliminate risks. But he would not let the secretary go without doing what he could. Although he knew all too well that even if he successfully planted the bugs, there was no certainty that they would reveal anything useful, especially in the short timeframe.

There was a knock at the door. He slipped on a shirt and walked over to it. It was the CIA operations officer Crane had mentioned. She was a fellow Southerner with short blonde hair and a deep scar on her forehead. Her eyes were cerulean blue and as hypnotic as any he’d seen. After some brief small talk, she handed him a manila envelope containing car keys, a forged Pakistani passport and papers to enable him to cross the border, and the web address for the satellite imagery, which he hoped would result in a successful scan from the spy bug. She eased a canvas bag off her shoulder and gave it to him, too, saying it held a disposable cellphone, some clothes, a marked map, a Maglite and Pakistani rupees, together with the bugs. He noticed something about her. Something he couldn’t pin down. She seemed a little agitated; nervous, even. Crane had said she’d had a hard time here, so he decided not to dwell on it.

After she’d left, he walked across the azure tiles to the cubicle shower, feeling both lethargic and energized. He stepped in and put the showerhead directly above him, turning the dial to blue. He picked up a bar of soap and shivered as the cold water drenched him. He soaped his bruised body down. Placing the soap back into the cradle, he began to massage his aching muscles.

He’d weighed a little shy of thirteen stone for the last ten years, retaining the physique of a light-heavyweight boxer. He watched what he ate and ran most days. He’d trained in Muay Thai when he’d done a three-year stint at the US Embassy in Bangkok. He’d kept up the training, honing his techniques and working out with dumbbells or doing calisthenics when they weren’t to hand.

Bangkok had been his first long-term overseas posting. He’d been abroad on duty many times before, but he’d sampled as much of the culture as the average air steward did. It’d been a bar and a hotel room, then home. But after a week of late nights with a couple of other DS agents, he started to spend his days off exploring the city. The Buddhist temples were called
wats
, his cab driver said, and the best time to visit them was in the early morning when it was cooler and less busy. It was 13:02, sweltering and as packed as a subway at rush hour, the local workers being anxious to spend their lunchtimes offering the saffron-robed monks food parcels called
tam boon
. A way of attaining a better life the next time around, the cab driver had said with a sardonic grin as he’d driven Tom home.

The following day, the cab driver had arrived early and had taken Tom to the Grand Palace. Situated within the grounds, he explained, was the most important
wat
in Thailand: the Temple of the Emerald Buddha,
Wat Phra Kaew
. The Buddha was carved from a single block of jade, and sat adorned in garments of shimmering gold, an elaborate headdress twice its own size atop its cherub-like face.

A woman came up beside Tom. She wore canvas sandals and a purple cheesecloth dress that reached down to about twelve centimetres above her ankles. She had long, curly grey-brown hair, with lengths of beads dangling among the wildness. She looked to be in her mid-fifties with light-blue eyes glinting like sunlight on a glacier.

They had spoken to one another for a minute or two only.

But on his second visit, she’d managed to convince him to light joss sticks in memory of his mother.