ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
He threw the phone against the wall, startling his female aide.
Slowly, Atiq Gadai stood, pressing tight fists against the top of his desk, before turning around, arms crossed. His eyes scanned the manicured lawns and gardens of the ISI headquarters beyond a row of panoramic windows.
“Leave me,” he said, listening to his aide’s hastening footsteps until she closed the door behind her, leaving him to his thoughts.
After all the precautions he had taken to secure his traitor daughter in one of the ISI’s most guarded safe houses, the Americans had managed to break her free, murdering a dozen guards in the process. The operation had been swift, executed with military precision. They were in and out in under a minute, leaving nothing but death and destruction in their wake—and, most importantly, no witnesses.
He clenched his jaw, trying to control his growing anger, remembering the brief discussion he’d had with Maryam before leaving her in the hands of his interrogators.
The rescue team had made sure that every guard inside the compound-like facility was executed. Two bullets in the center of their chests and one to the head each, making it far more difficult to understand how they had broken through his security measures.
But seeking understanding would have to come later. At the moment he needed to protect the mission, and that meant protecting Salma, following up with his contacts in Monterrey, making certain that they would live up to their commitments.
So, as enraged as he was at Maryam’s liberation, Atiq somehow found the discipline to compartmentalize his ire. Logging into his system, he contacted his allies in Mexico, focusing his energy on making certain that the damn Americans didn’t get their hands on another one of his agents.
He finished in ten minutes, before switching tasks, deploying agents after his runaway daughter—assuming she was still in the country. For all he knew, her American rescuers could have her halfway to America by now. He decided to activate the two operatives who had figured out she was a traitor and who later participated in the abduction, Ahmed and Manish. Along with the activation, Atiq wanted to include a clear mission statement: Kill Maryam and Bill Gorman on sight. And don’t come back until it is done.
When he was finished, Atiq kicked off another message, posting it on an Internet bulletin board that didn’t exist, except to a selected group of bounty hunters. He wanted mercenaries who would stop at nothing to collect the irresistible price he placed on Maryam’s head as well as the head of Bill Gorman.
Halfway through the message, there was a knock on the door.
He ignored it, finishing and activating the bounty just as a second knock pounded his door, this one louder than the first.
“What is it?” he shouted, annoyed at the distraction when he had so much to do.
Problems like this fell in a category requiring total concentration. They could not be solved if he kept getting interrupted.
The door inched open and his assistant stuck her head through the gap.
“Dr. Gadai … there are some men here to see you.”
“Who? I’m busy now,” he replied.
His assistant was slowly but firmly pushed aside and six soldiers marched into his office followed by two men in business suits whom he recognized as members of the prime minister’s protective detail—and who had been trained by Atiq’s network.
Atiq stood, hands on his desk. “You’d better have a damn good reason to barge in like this.”
“Dr. Gadai,” said the older agent, “Prime Minister Korai has summoned you.”