The Shadow Protocol (47 page)

Adam relived Qasid’s memories, the vision of his own face disorienting, surreal. Nightmarish. The two men had been brought together by a mutual contact, an al-Qaeda supporter within the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He listened to himself explain to Qasid why he was there. His grandfather on his father’s side was Waziri, from Pakistan’s mountainous western regions bordering Afghanistan.

This family connection was what had brought him to Pakistan, as an intelligence officer—and it had also fueled his disgust at his own country’s actions, as American drones bombed the tribal lands with impunity. The CIA claimed publicly that only terrorists were being killed by the missiles, but he knew, having seen the raw intelligence reports before they were sanitized, that innocent civilians were being murdered.

Now blood demanded blood.

Qasid believed him enough not to have him killed, but was still not fully convinced. The American had to provide proof of his sympathies.

So he did.

The next time the two men met, this time in a filthy slum house in Sector G-7 of Islamabad, Adam handed over a DVD containing footage of a Reaper drone strike two days previously. The Pakistani government had condemned the attack on a village in South Waziristan, in which the Americans claimed that four al-Qaeda fighters were killed—but the recording made it clear not only that numerous civilians in nearby houses had died in the blast, but also that Pakistani military intelligence officers were working directly with the CIA to guide the attack, picking out targets. The footage was quickly released to Al Jazeera and other news networks. Pakistan and the United States immediately declared the audio portion to be fake, but it still roused popular anger for several days.

Qasid was pleased—as were his superiors. They wanted more.

And on the third and final meeting, Adam Gray provided it.

The memory was as clear as if it had just happened. This time, the two men met in the open, spending barely twenty seconds together. Qasid brought a bag containing fifty thousand US dollars; his contact, a memory stick. “The details of the secretary of state’s visit,” Adam heard himself say as he handed over the little flash drive.
“The route, the timing, decoys, security assignments—everything. Make good use of it.”

“We will,” Qasid replied, giving him the bag in return. “Allah be praised.”

The American nodded, then walked away.

The drive contained a full itinerary of the politician’s impending assignation—so comprehensive, in fact, that Qasid at first thought it too good to be true. Was Gray a double agent, trying to draw the al-Qaeda cell into a trap? But the more he checked, the more certain he became that the information was genuine.

Muqaddim al-Rais himself made the final decision.

Go
.

The bomb was prepared, over a hundred kilograms of high explosive jacketed by ball bearings and ragged fragments of scrap metal in the trunk of a nondescript Toyota parked near the location of the meeting. Because the secretary of state’s visit to discuss the security of Pakistan’s nuclear weapons was secret, the roads were not blocked off or cleared of other traffic. This allowed a confederate in a truck to get ahead of the three-vehicle convoy, controlling its speed as it approached the kill zone.

Qasid was half a kilometer away, watching through binoculars from a high rooftop. Adam felt his nervous anticipation, reliving the terrorist’s growing excitement as he took phone calls from spotters along the route.

“This is Azim, they’ve just passed me …”

“Salim here—they just turned right at the junction, like you said they would.”

“It’s Imran, they’re coming up to me now …”

The truck deliberately dropped to a crawl, backing the convoy up behind it on the busy street. According to Gray’s information, Sandra Easton would be in the middle car, SUVs driven by undercover agents ahead and behind.

He shifted his gaze back and forth between the Toyota and the approaching vehicles, the movement shorter each time. Less than a hundred meters to go.

Fifty. “Get ready, get ready …,” he whispered into his phone’s headset. The operation could not be trusted to radio control. There was a man in the car holding a switch directly wired to the detonators. The first SUV passed the waiting Toyota. “Here she comes … 
now
!”

He held his breath. Time seemed to freeze, for a moment nothing happening—

Then the Toyota and the car beside it vanished in a cloud of dust.

It took over a second for the sound of the explosion to reach Qasid. When it did, it was shockingly loud, a single sharp basso crack that shook the building beneath him. Other noises followed: shattering glass, splintering concrete, the thunderous echoes of the detonation.

Adam felt Qasid’s surge of exultation overpower his own horror at the sight. The memories kept coming, even though he no longer wanted them. The terrorist looked back through the binoculars. Nothing was visible except swirling dust and smoke.

Then shapes began to resolve.

Mangled wreckage. Shredded bodies. Rubble and debris surrounding a crater at the roadside, flames gouting from a severed gas main. More sounds reached him—distant screams of panic and pain. Those people on the street who had not been cut down by the blast started to flee.

There was nothing left of the Toyota, and the trailing SUV was barely recognizable as a vehicle. The leading four-by-four, which had been moving away from the bomb, lay on its side, ripped open, its occupants spilled out like sardines from a can. The secretary of state’s car had been reduced to burning fragments.

As had everyone inside.

We did it!

“No,” gasped Adam, reeling. He couldn’t stop the flood of images from Qasid’s mind.

He had been responsible. He had given the information to al-Qaeda. He had betrayed his country.

The more he tried to deny it, the stronger the memories became, taunting him. It
was
him. The face, the voice of the man Qasid had met—they were his.

He was a traitor.

“No!” It was a cry of pure anguish.

Panic rose in him. Conflicting thoughts warred in his mind—a desperate urge to escape, to run from the punishment that awaited if the truth was discovered, versus a need to confess to what he had done. He
had
to turn himself in. He was a security risk, an al-Qaeda sympathizer.

A traitor.

He looked around frantically. The exit—

I have to run
.

His thought, or Qasid’s? He didn’t know.
This is my only chance, I have to get out of here before they catch me …

The door opened. He jumped in alarm. It was Bianca, having returned the PERSONA equipment to the lab. She held something in one hand. The Englishwoman immediately picked up on his fear. “Are you okay?”

She’s the only other person who knows the truth
.

Qasid. It
had
to be. It couldn’t be his own mind regarding as a threat the woman who had done nothing but try to help him. It
couldn’t!

“Yeah, yeah, I’m—I’m fine,” he gasped.

“No you’re not,” she replied, anxious. She gestured toward the couch. “Look, sit down.”

“No, I’m okay.” He opened the panel concealing the wardrobe. There was a mirror on its back. He looked into it, not even sure who he was going to see staring back. His face, or Qasid’s?

It was his own, but wide-eyed, brow beaded with sweat. “Really, you don’t look good,” said Bianca.

He whirled. “Of course I don’t look good! I’ve just found out that I’m—I’m a traitor!”

“I don’t believe it,” she insisted. “I can’t! There’s got to be some other explanation.”

“There isn’t,” he said, pacing again. “I remember—
Qasid
remembers. We met in Islamabad, three times. I gave him a flash drive with all the security details for Sandra Easton’s visit. And they were genuine.”

Why am I telling her this? She already knows too much! I’ll have to elimin—

He tried to crush the thought. But it wouldn’t die, writhing and squirming under his mental boot heel. Growing stronger. Fear roiled through his body. What if he couldn’t resist?

“But that doesn’t make sense,” she protested. He saw that the object she was holding was a jet injector. “If you were really a traitor, why would you join the Persona Project? The entire thing is about finding out people’s deepest secrets!”

“To get rid of the guilt. That’s why I wanted my memory erased. It’s the only explanation.”

“No, I don’t accept that.” Bianca moved closer. “It doesn’t fit with your personality.”

“I don’t
have
a personality!” he said with a desperate near-laugh. “You said so yourself!”

“I was wrong. I know you better than that now.”

Adam pulled away. “You don’t know me at all. How can you?
I
don’t know me. But now I know what I’ve done. I’ve got to—”

He broke off abruptly. He had been about to say that he had to turn himself in, but another voice in his mind drowned out the words.
I’ve got to get out of here, before they catch me …

“What is it?” she asked.

Adam said nothing, staring at her.
She’s the only person who knows the truth. The only person who can tell the Americans what I did
.

The only person who can stop me
.

He stepped toward her. Panic faded, replaced by a cold resolution.
I have to get out of here. She’s the only witness
.

She has to be eliminated
.

Images of the other people Qasid had killed flashed
through his thoughts. Shot, stabbed, burned, strangled … 
Killing is easy. All you need is the will
.

“Adam?” He saw the uncertainty in Bianca’s eyes change to concern.
It’s the only way. Do it
.

Another step. She backed away, confused—and starting to feel fear. He had seen it before, many times; the realization that death was approaching … and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

Do it. Kill her! I have to get away
.

“Bianca, I—” Again, the words froze before they could reach the air.

Kill her!
Qasid’s voice grew ever louder, drowning out his own thoughts. The more he struggled against it, the more insistent and deafening it became.
I have to escape! Kill her! Kill her!

“Adam!” Bianca gasped as he grabbed her arm. She tried to twist away, but his grip was too strong. He pushed her against the wall. “Adam, no! What are you—”

Kill her!

His other hand took hold, tightened …

Around the injector.

He tore it from her, jammed it against his neck—and pulled the trigger.

No! I have to escape, I need to …

Qasid’s voice faded. Adam reeled back, collapsing on the couch as the Neutharsine took hold. His heart raced, every breath as loud as a hurricane. Mind churning, he slumped, struggling to regain control.

“Adam!” Bianca’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. But when he forced his eyes open, she was right beside him. “Oh my God, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

He slowed his breathing. “I’m … I’m okay,” he croaked.

She helped him sit up. “What happened?”

“Qasid. It was Qasid, his persona. It—it almost took over.”

“But I thought that was impossible!”

“Apparently not.” He took a deep breath. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

She glanced at her arm. “No, I’m okay. You scared me, though.”

“I scared myself,” he admitted. “What did you see?”

“I’m not sure. It was like—like there was someone else behind your face, is the only way I can describe it. Your eyes went so …” She shuddered. “Cold.”

The injector was still in his hand. He let it drop onto the couch. “It’s a good thing you brought this. I don’t know what I would have …” He trailed off, partly so as not to disturb her any further.

And partly to stop himself from thinking about what he had almost done.

Would
he have done it? Would he actually have killed her? He didn’t know. That was in some ways the most frightening thing of all.

She knelt before him, holding his hand. “Jesus. You’re shaking. Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m okay. But thank you.”

“So what happened? How could Qasid’s persona take over?”

“Maybe because I was panicking? It was like the feedback loop with Vanwall’s vertigo, but worse, much worse. I was losing it—and that gave him an opening.”

“What did … 
he
want?”

“To escape—to get out of here before he was caught. Before
I
was caught.” He gave her a look of anguish. “Bianca, I’ve got to turn myself in. I betrayed my country.”

“No, I still can’t believe it. It doesn’t fit.” She leaned back on her haunches, still holding his hand. “The Persona Project is so secret, even other parts of STS don’t know about it. So how could
you
have known? Nobody here had ever met you before you joined.”

“If I had access to the secretary’s security details, I would have had access to other classified information.”

“So, what, you planned all along to give the information
to al-Qaeda, and then join Persona to wipe your guilt?”

“Something like that. It has to be.”

“But if you knew you were going to feel that guilty, why would you do it in the first place? Was Qasid blackmailing you?”

“No. I approached them.”

“Okay, so … what did Qasid make of you? Did he think you were conflicted about handing over the files?”

Adam thought for a moment. Qasid’s memories of the encounters remained in his own mind, but now stripped of feelings. “No. I seemed nervous, I guess, the first time I met him, but the other two times I was …” He paused, the image incongruous. “Business-like.”

“That doesn’t sound like you were racked with guilt, then.”

“But it’s the only explanation.”

“No, it isn’t. Maybe you were doing your job—as a spy.”

“But I gave Qasid the damn details!” he cried, pulling his hand from hers. “I took fifty thousand dollars of blood money in exchange for the information. And they used it! They planned an attack on the secretary of state—and it succeeded! They killed her, and over a hundred other people. Qasid watched it happen—” He stopped, realizing with shock that there was something familiar about the scene.