State of Honour (2 page)

Islamabad was a city that reeked of fear. Martial law had been imposed by the Pakistani generals, and terrorist attacks were escalating. As a result, the US Embassy compound in the Diplomatic Enclave resembled a modern supermax, ringed as it was by security bollards, floodlights, high-definition surveillance cameras, blast walls and heavy fencing. To add to the deterrent, three Marine rifle companies guarded it in rotation day and night.

Halfway down one of its tiled corridors, two men stood either side of a soundproof, brass-inlaid door, their tailored suits masking holstered SIG Sauer P229 handguns. On the other side of the door, the US Secretary of State, the forty-three-year-old Linda Carlyle, worked alone in a windowless office.

“I heard the generals ordered all women to wear the hijab,” Steve Coombs said, running his hand through his receding sandy hair, his broad back nestling against the wall. “It’ll be the burqa next. My eldest, Cathy, is studying law at Yale. Beats the hell outta me.”

“Me too,” the younger man replied.

His name was Tom Dupree. He’d spent twelve years overseas guarding embassy staff. After another three in the office of investigations and counterintelligence, he’d reached a career summit for a special agent in the Bureau of Diplomatic Security: head of the secretary’s protective detail. It had been his time. The scars on his body – a two-inch knife slash on his bicep and a chest seared by mortar shrapnel – were testament to his dedication. But now his time leading the protective detail was almost over.

“So you’ll be stuck in DC, huh, Tom?” Steve said, picking sleep from his eye.

“Yeah. Chief nursemaid to the good, the bad and the ugly.”

“Foreign dignitary detail ain’t so bad. At least you’ll get to snuggle down in your own bed some. When you gonna get yourself a little lady to share it with?”

“Who says I don’t?” Tom said, adjusting his stance.

Truth was, Tom hadn’t had a girlfriend in over a year. Not since Carrie, an analyst in the DS’s passport and visa fraud division, had told him she couldn’t deal with dating a man she saw less than her dentist.

“’Bout time you became a one-woman man, you ask me,” Steve said, his tone preachy.

Knowing his friend was a Catholic, who’d been married since his nineteenth birthday, Tom chose to ignore the comment. He checked the time on his wristwatch: 08:36. They would be on the move soon, but he was dreading it.

“It’ll get hotter than a habanero chilli out there,” Steve said, yawning. “I sure hope that kids’ hospital got AC.”

“The kids’ hospital is a bad idea,” Tom replied, his brow furrowing.

“So why don’t Lyric drop the line-up?” he said, using the DS’s pro-word for the secretary.

“A photo op. Who knows? But it’s making me twitchy as hell, I know that much.”

The advance detail had carried out a security profile on the location of the kids’ hospital, which was basically a threat and risk assessment: what could happen and the likelihood that it would. It was a dynamic process, and the additions Tom had made since arriving a few days before had been some of the most comprehensive he’d produced in his career. But after distributing the operational orders to his team, he’d realized that half of the countermeasures that would be required if security was compromised would be down to the host Pakistanis.

“Paranoia keeps you sharp. Don’t forget that, Tom.”

“Yeah. Paranoia till stateside.”

It was the most important mindset DS special agents were taught. If any place made it a healthy disposition, it was Islamabad, Tom thought. The city attracted violence as Palm Springs attracted pensioners. He was constantly briefed on hot spots, and this one had been at the top of the list for months. But apart from his six-strong protective detail, there were eight back-up agents in the tactical support team. Part of the Mobile Security Deployment, or MSD, they travelled in armour-plated SUVs, and carried Colt 9mm sub-machine guns and Remington 870 pump-action shotguns. The drivers were experts in defensive and evasive techniques. They’d studied satellite imagery of the surrounding road network, so, if they had to evacuate the secretary at speed, they knew alternative routes back to the safety of the embassy, or the nearest hospital or police station. Still, Tom knew a hundred things could go wrong. Compromises had been made. A fleet of up-armoured Humvees shadowed by a squadron of AH-64 Apache attack helicopters would have been the ideal way to travel, but he knew that was as likely as Steve turning into the laconic type.

“A perfect record and only a week to go. It had to be here, huh.”

“That’s real helpful, Steve,” Tom said, unbuttoning his charcoal-grey suit jacket.

But he’s right, he thought. Back home, the advance detail would have been thorough. Local extremists and publicity-seeking whackos monitored. Pipe-inspection cameras poked into every cranny. Storm drains checked for explosives. The dumpsters removed. Manhole covers bolted, the public trash cans sealed. Then, on the day of her visit, scores of local P.D. would’ve been on the periphery and tried and tested counter snipers on the roofs. All vantage points covered. Discarded bottles and lumps of loose concrete removed within an appropriate radius. The Belgian Malinois bomb sniffers would’ve swept every inch.

“Corridor duty is as boring as those TV reality shows, ain’t it, Tom?” Steve said.

“Can’t argue with that.”

Tom watched Steve weaving his head in what appeared to be a figure of eight. “The hell you doing?”

“My doc said it’ll help with my headaches. Relieves neck tension.”

“Didn’t know you suffered from headaches,” Tom said, a little concerned that his friend hadn’t mentioned it to him before.

“They started a couple months back. Sometimes when I wake up at night, it feels like I’m wearing a vice.”

“Get it checked out again. You got a physical coming up.”

“Sure I will, Tom.”

A couple of seconds later, Tom coughed into his fist and gestured with his eyes. But Steve’s head was still animate. A stocky man with a weather-beaten face and short silver hair had entered the corridor from an elevator twenty metres behind Steve’s back. He carried a bundle of papers in a manila folder under his arm, and walked like an ex-military type. When the man’s footsteps became audible on the tiles, Steve stood ramrod straight. As he got closer Tom recognized him, and moved over to knock on the door before opening it.

“Thank you, son,” he said. He turned to Steve, gestured towards the clear wire spiralling down from his earpiece. “That wire attached to an iPod, Agent?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s good,” he said as he disappeared inside.

Tom closed the door, worried. He wondered if he’d missed something important in terms of the assessment. But the training his team underwent continually was based on repetition, the type that created confidence and long-term muscle memory. If an attack of whatever nature happened, be it a flung bag of flour or a multiple-armed assault, they would act instinctively, almost without conscious effort.

Steve sniffed. “The paper shuffler thinks he’s a comedian.”

“He’s a deputy director of the CIA,” Tom said, “and he ain’t here to tell Lyric a joke.”

Linda Carlyle looked up as the heavy door opened, hoping her rising sense of unease didn’t show on her face. The dimly lit room was fifteen metres square, the few pieces of furniture functional rather than decorative. Sitting at an oak desk, she lifted a pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses off her aquiline nose. For the past forty-five minutes, she’d been speed-reading a departmental report she’d commissioned on the near-past disputes between Iran and Pakistan; all of which had stemmed from Islam’s major schism. While Iran was ruled by Shias, Pakistan was Sunni dominated. In the nineties, they’d backed opposing sides in the Afghan Civil War, and had sponsored sectarian terrorism in each other’s major cities. Now they were on the brink of a conflict that could ignite the whole region.

“Good morning, Madam Secretary,” the deputy director said, walking towards her, his hand massaging the folded skin at his neck.

“You’re not harassing my boys, are you, Bill?”

“Sometimes I forget I swopped fatigues for a suit.”

Forcing a smile, she said, “Take a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

Deputy Director Bill Houseman, who had travelled to Islamabad with the secretary, together with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Under-Secretary of Defense, sat in a padded chair two metres from the desk and crossed his muscular legs.

Linda closed the marble-coloured lever arch file and tapped a remote. The room lit up. “So let’s have it,” she said, switching off the antenna-like arc lamp she’d been reading under.

“The switchboard operator just got a call. I think we should ask the head of your security detail to join us.”

“I’d like to hear what you have to say first. Please continue.”

“A threat has been made.” He clenched his teeth.

“I see.”

“The caller said the Leopards of Islam would ensure that the US Secretary of State never leaves Pakistan soil. We’re putting it down to a random individual. Low-level risk assessment.”

“And why’s that?”

Houseman cleared his throat, putting his hand to his mouth. “Because as a rule, the Leopards don’t make threats before an attack, ma’am.”

“That makes me feel a whole lot better,” she said, shaking her head. “And the current situation here?”

“The Leopards are launching fresh attacks in Karachi, Bahawalpur, Lahore. The list goes on. There’ve been three bomb attacks in Islamabad in the past twelve days.”

“Is civil war on the cards?” she asked, fearing the worst.

“We have reports that Shia elements of the army are joining the insurgency, so it’s a possibility.”

“And the Leopards are definitely backed by Iran?”

Houseman nodded. “No question. But the Sunnis brought it on themselves. The atrocities against the Shia minority were bound to result in an armed response.”

“How serious is the Iranian threat?”

Houseman drew in an audible breath through his nose and shuffled his buttocks a fraction. “Satellite images and drone feeds show that Iranian Special Forces have already made incursions across the border. And there are three divisions of the Revolutionary Guard massed just four miles from the largest of Pakistan’s five provinces–”

“Balochistan.”

“That’s right. Our analysts believe that Iran is planning to occupy the port of Gwadar and help themselves to the huge resources of natural gas in the province if Pakistan becomes a failed state.”

“They’re hoping to take advantage of the chaos,” Linda said, leaning back in her chair and arching her fingers.

“They are, ma’am. But if the Iranians come over the southern border in force, the Pakistanis, despite their internal problems, are likely to go to war. They regard the Iranians as apostates.”

“It’s a mess.” She massaged her temples with her thumbs and forefingers.

“My view is we back Pakistan with muscle and–”

“That’s a decision for Congress.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Houseman said, nodding.

“Thank you, Bill. Send the agent in, will you? The tall one with the buzz cut.”

Houseman got up, said, “May I speak freely?”

“You may.”

“Don’t go to the children’s hospital this morning. Frankly, I don’t think it’s worth the risk; however small.”

He has a point, she thought.

Pakistan had been a Frenemy for years. But the new Prime Minister had requested her visit to discuss the possibility of the US taking temporary possession of Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal if matters got worse. Although they’d been distributed over the country for security reasons, they’d been brought back to Islamabad in recent weeks. They were safe for now. But if the Pakistanis refused to allow them into US custody, her brief also extended to ensuring that the likelihood of them being used if the Iranians came over the border in force was zero.

This, she had to admit, was the real reason for her visit. Houseman knows that, too, she thought, which is why he’s advising against the trip to the hospital.

But, she said, “The president wants to show solidarity with the new regime on the issue of opposition to extremist acts of terrorism, if nothing else. Those children are their victims. I will ensure that the head of my security detail speaks with your people before we leave. Is there anything else, Bill?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, barely able to conceal his concern.

Tom saw the door open. The deputy director came out, scowling.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Tom asked.

“Just peachy.” He gestured behind him. “The secretary would like to see you.”

He put the folder under his arm and straightened his tie before strolling off towards the elevator, taking a call on his cellphone after a few steps.

Tom moved through the door left ajar and saw the secretary standing in front of the desk, a neat, navy-blue box in her hand. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair was tied back with a flesh-coloured scarf. The scarf was a concession. Flowing hair was easily grabbed. Curtailing the possibility of that kind of embarrassing incident just meant one less thing to worry about. She also wore a ballistic pantsuit, as he’d asked her to, together with her specially made jewellery, a gold pendant shaped like a pear and a heavy emerald ring. The pantsuit was a pale hue of cameral. Soft body armour that could withstand a round from a handgun. The impact of the bullet was eradicated by a net of multilayered woven fabrics, which dispersed the energy over an extended area. Pure physics. He’d seen videos of Americans down in Columbia being shot at in their ballistic suits from close quarters. Something he wasn’t about to divulge. It was useless against a round fired by a high-velocity rifle.

She smiled and stepped forward holding out the blue box. “I’d like you to have this.” She handed it to him.

Tom opened the box. Inside was an expensive silver watch, an Omega with a large face studded with diamonds.

“I’ve had it engraved,” she said.

Tom took it out, turned it over. He read the inscription:
To Tom with heartfelt gratitude. Linda G. Carlyle. US Secretary of State
.

“Thank you,” he said, feeling a little embarrassed by her gift.

“I just want to tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done.”

“It’s been an honour, ma’am. But I still have a week before I leave the detail.”

“I know. I just wanted to give it you today… Oh, and I should tell you that a threat has been made,” she said, clearly doing her best to sound mundane.

“A threat. Why wasn’t I briefed?” he asked, his jaw muscles flexing.

“It’s not serious. An anonymous phone call to the embassy just a minute ago. The CIA will brief you before we leave this morning.”

“I’d like you to reconsider your visit to the hospital, ma’am.”

The faint lines on her forehead deepened. “The president gets ten threats a day. He got fifty on the morning of his inauguration. Where would we be if we succumbed to them all? Ensconced in a bunker at Fort Bragg, I imagine.”

“But, ma’am—”

“No, Tom. My mind is made up.”

He looked down at the watch. “This is very generous.”

“Don’t ask what the G stands for. I never use it, and no one knows apart from my parents. Don’t ask about my birth certificate, either.” She feigned a laugh.

His head snapped back up. “I’ll get you safely home, ma’am,” he said. “I promise.”

“Yes, you will.”