The Survivor (16 page)

Shirani found himself wanting to call out, to discover that his men were just giving him space. He wasn't confident enough to do so, though. Instead, he crept forward, taking a deep breath before stepping into his study with the Heckler & Koch P7 stretched out in front of him.

“I hardly think that will be necessary,” Ahmed Taj said in Urdu.

He was sitting near the unlit fireplace, legs crossed and hands steepled in front of him. Like at the end of their last meeting, he refused to avert his eyes.

“Where
are my men?”

“I wanted to speak privately.”

“How . . .” Shirani started, but then fell silent. While Taj was still dressed in his familiar rumpled suit and faded tie, he seemed completely transformed. His posture was ramrod straight and his normally dull eyes had turned cunning. Was it possible that everything Shirani knew about the man was a lie?

The realization that he had seen only what Taj wanted him to see came like a blow to the chest. It seemed so clear now—the increasing sophistication of Taliban activity, Durrani's death, the well-coordinated attacks on the army's nuclear facilities. How had he been so blind?

Taj calmly pointed to the weapon in Shirani's hand. “Put the gun down and sit, Umar. We both know that if I wanted you dead, you would have been long ago.”

Taj watched the man as he laid his firearm on an ugly Western table and sat. Umar Shirani was in many ways his polar opposite. The general was a creature of privilege, having been born into a wealthy family with strong ties to the military. It was this that had made him complacent and all too easy to undermine. In the end, men like him possessed a fundamental belief in their own superiority. To them, life was a competition they couldn't lose. An endless game of jockeying for position in an entitled hierarchy.

“First, let me apologize for the army being relieved of its duties guarding our nuclear arsenal. It was certainly not my intention.”

It was a lie that Shirani would immediately see through. The goal was less to convince the army commander that the ISI had no interest in reigning over Pakistan's missile capability than to set a civil tone. Taj needed an ally, not another competitor.

“Of course,” Shirani responded noncommittally. He looked around him, undoubtedly out of a futile hope that he wasn't alone. That his men would enter and help the old soldier retain the upper hand he was too arrogant to realize he'd lost years ago.

“Our country is rotting, Umar. From both inside and out. The regional instability caused by the Americans is spreading. Sectarian
violence has grown to a point that it's at the edge of our control. And while we've been successful at subverting U.S. financial aid, we've also been seduced by it.”

Shirani just nodded.

“President Chutani has given me the responsibility of protecting our nuclear arsenal but ordered me to ignore the external threats from the Americans and Indians, both of whom will stop at nothing to wipe out our capabilities and leave us defenseless.”

“How can Pakistan survive this?” Shirani said, finally gaining enough confidence to join the conversation. “I fear that God is judging our weakness, Ahmed. Losing faith in our commitment to His will.”

“As do I. America's corrupting influence cannot be overestimated.”

“Allah be praised.”

Taj smiled. Shirani's whoring was legendary and he had been drinking alcohol only moments before. He was like so many others throughout human history—a man who used God as an excuse to pursue his own ambitions.

It was this that would eventually make it necessary to get rid of the man. But not yet. In order for chaos to be averted, Taj's coup would have to preserve as much of the existing political structure as possible. The illusion of normalcy was critical in the short term.

“I assume you're here with a proposal?” Shirani said, gaining still more confidence. He would know that whatever Taj had planned, it would be impossible without the consent of the army. Nothing in Pakistan happened without at least the army's pledge not to interfere.

Fortunately, the general was a simple man. Utterly untrustworthy, but interested first and foremost in protecting his own position.

“I will be taking control of Pakistan soon,” Taj said simply.

Shirani's surprise at the boldness of the statement was obvious and anticipated. He'd undoubtedly expected to be recruited for some subtle plan to undermine the civilian government's authority. Not an admission that an ISI coup was in the works.

The general laughed uncomfortably, undoubtedly concerned that this was a trap constructed by Saad Chutani. “You're talking treason,
Ahmed. I have disagreements with the president's relationship with America, but it's my job to tell him my opinion and then obey his orders.”

“I admire your sense of duty, Umar, but how much longer will you be able to hold on to that job? You're experienced enough to know that Chutani is maneuvering to remove you as head of the army.”

“I know no such thing.”

It was Taj's turn to laugh. “I assume you remember what happened to my predecessor.”

It was impossible to forget. He had been marginalized with fabricated scandals publicized in media outlets beholden to Chutani. The unrest in North Waziristan had been laid at his feet, and he was vilified every time there was a terrorist attack within Pakistan's borders. Finally, he'd been forced out over accepting bribes that were no different than ones taken by every government executive in the country. He was now facing a lifetime of prosecutions that would leave him penniless and his family disgraced.

“We're at a turning point, Umar. The Middle East is disintegrating. The world is ready—in fact desperate—for a Muslim superpower to fill the vacuum created by the Americans. The Saudis are children obsessed with toys, and the Iranians are backstabbing women with no nuclear capability. Pakistan is the only country capable of becoming that superpower. We have a unique opportunity, Umar. We can neutralize America, take control of the region, and close our fist around the oil they rely so heavily on. We can bring their economy to its knees and stop the drone attacks on our soil. The humiliations can be brought to an end. All we need is our own strength and Allah's blessing.”

Taj fell silent and leaned back in his chair. It was Shirani's turn to speak.

“What is my position in all this?”

Predictably, his thoughts immediately turned to himself.

“Under my leadership, you will retain your rank as well as the authority to do what needs to be done with our nuclear arsenal.”

“And what is that?”

“The
expansion and modernization of our missile technology. Like you, I understand the importance of having weapons capable of reaching the United States. . . .” He paused and allowed himself a smile. “I'm sure America's Congress will be willing to finance the effort.”

For the first time, there was a flicker of interest in Shirani's eyes. Self-interest, no doubt, but Taj wasn't naïve. No matter what the general promised by way of support, his army would in fact stay as neutral as possible. The general would wait to see who won and then determine whether the power struggle had been bloody enough to make the victor vulnerable.

And that was all Taj needed—for the army to remain docile until he could do away with President Chutani and consolidate his leadership. Then, and only then, would he move to deal with Umar Shirani.

N
EAR
L
AKE
C
ONSTANCE

S
WITZERLAND

M
ITCH
Rapp made a show of activating his throat mike, though in fact he was constantly transmitting on the frequency Gould had been excluded from. “Joe. Have you acquired us?”

“Not yet.”

That was probably a good thing. Maslick was in an elevated position specifically looking for them and hadn't yet picked them up. If that was the case, it was almost certain that Obrecht's men were still completely ignorant of what was going on outside their wall.

The trip from the knoll had taken longer than Wicker's estimate but Rapp had anticipated that. Gould was good—making no mistakes that Rapp could see from his position five feet behind. He wasn't fast, though. The assassin had been operating primarily in urban environments since he'd left the French Foreign Legion. It was no surprise that he couldn't hold the pace expected by an elfin former SEAL who had been creeping around the woods since he was in diapers.

Gould wriggled between two trees and Rapp followed, thoughts of Anna intruding on his mind. Her courage during the White House op. The depth of her green eyes. How different his life would be if she had lived.

He cleared the trees and the bottom of Gould's boot came into view again. What Rapp saw, though, was the whitewashed front of the man's house in New Zealand and the sun reflecting off the ocean below.

It was a stark contrast to the dilapidated apartment Rapp called home. He'd been building a new house on a couple of acres just outside the Beltway when Anna died. Or more precisely, when the man in front of him had murdered her in a botched attempt to get to him. Construction had immediately stopped, along with everything else in his life.

The burned-out bones of his old house were still there. Kennedy and Mike Nash had tried to convince him to have the lot cleared so it could be sold, but so far he hadn't been able to bring himself to do it.

In light of all that, why did he still feel conflicted about Louis Gould? Why had he passed up every opportunity to take the man out?

Tom Lewis, the CIA's shrink, had gently suggested an answer: When Rapp looked into the Frenchman's eyes, he saw a reflection of himself. Of course, he'd dismissed it as psychobabble, but there was no denying that Lewis was right more than he was wrong.

A small rock outcropping appeared ahead and Rapp took cover behind it. The entrance to the tunnel was just a few yards away, but they were the most exposed of the journey.

“Joe,” Rapp said into his radio. “I'm at the feature we designated echo three. Look six feet behind it.”

He put a boot against a sapling and gave it a gentle nudge.

“I've got you,” Maslick came back immediately.

“Any activity nearby?”

“A nice six-point buck about one twenty-five to the west. That's it.”

Rapp started out again, using his elbows to drag himself forward at a pace that would allow him to close the gap to Gould. The light breeze was traveling from west to east, making it unlikely that the deer would be spooked by their scent.

It took an excruciatingly long time to cover the distance, but finally both men were lying in front of the cave's entrance. Gould slid
through the tight opening and Rapp put his head partially inside to let his eyes adjust to the lower light.

The Frenchman pried a piece of stone from the dirt wall, revealing the promised keypad. He glanced back before punching in the code. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

Rapp counted, confirming that the string of numbers was the twelve Gould had reported back at the farm. Not that he thought a pathological liar like him would make such an obvious mistake, but it made sense to keep close tabs on the man.

There was a quiet click and Gould pressed a hand against the rusted steel at the back of the cavern. It swung inward, revealing dim red emergency lighting beyond.

Rapp adjusted Hurley's Kimber .45 holstered in the small of his back and activated his radio again. “We're about to enter. Figure ten minutes to get to the mansion.”

“Roger that,” Coleman responded.

“Stan?” Rapp said.

The muttered response was barely intelligible. “Waiting, waiting, and more waiting.”

It wasn't what Rapp wanted to hear. They needed Hurley to pinpoint Obrecht's location in the building. A room-by-room search was not part of their quick-in, quick-out plan.

“Roger that. Do what you can, Stan. We're moving.”

R
OME

I
TALY

O
NCE
again, Allah had blessed their enterprise. Despite a forecast for rain, the sun was in full force, with only a few distant clouds to obscure it.

Kabir Gadai strolled casually along the gravel walkway, led by a leashed Labrador retriever puppy. He'd purchased it only a few hours ago and was already looking forward to putting its dead body in a dumpster as soon as this was over. Westerners' affinity for these filthy creatures was inexplicable, but not acknowledging that affinity would be stupid. Nearly everyone who passed looked down at the animal and smiled. More important, Isabella Accorso had two Labradors of her own—the latest in an unbroken series of similar dogs going back to her childhood.

The park was long and narrow, bordered on the left by a busy Roman road and on the right by the ongoing excavation of an ancient square. Gadai examined the columns and crumbing walls that recalled a time when the Italians ruled the known world. Later Catholicism would take hold and the people of this region would embark on the Crusades, a genocidal rampage against the followers of Mohammed.
The same people who were now so critical of violence had burned his people at the stake, imprisoned them in unimaginably cruel conditions, and forced them to endure tortures unparalleled in their creativity and savageness.

Now the Americans were sending their Christian soldiers marching across the Middle East in an effort to remake it in the name of a false faith that they themselves seemed largely uninterested in. They would never understand what it was to have God in one's heart—for Him to be part of their very being. For the Americans, the Creator was nothing more than an occasional convenience. A being to be called on in difficult times and to be briefly acknowledged on public holidays.

“ETA one minute,” the voice said over his Bluetooth headset. “Her preferred position is fully open.”