Crane was slumped in an armchair in his small suite back at the Ariana. He wore a dark-blue bathrobe and picked at his fingernails, as if he were still trying to remove the dirt from the fort. The living area was neat but tired-looking, with sickly pea-green walls and furniture that looked as if it had been brought in flat-packed. The light bulbs were of the energy-saving variety, and gave off a jaundiced glow.
“Helluva day, huh? But don’t let the white towels and clean bed sheets fool you, Tom. This is still Kabul, so keep alert. I know at least five analysts who sleep with the light on and cuddle a Smith and Wesson Sigma like a comfort cloth. You gonna take a shower? You smell like a rodent.”
Although he’d removed his dusty jacket and had slipped on a white shirt previously, Tom was still dressed in combat pants and scuffed boots. He hadn’t washed yet. He was anxious for answers. He bent over an oval table and placed down two glasses, with heavy serrated bases. He poured a large whisky for Crane, a smaller one for himself. Crane said that despite sampling almost all of the world’s alcoholic drinks in their natural environments, he loved Scotch above all else. It beat ouzo, schnapps, rum, sake… He rattled off another five national drinks, most of which Tom had never heard of. Ignoring him, Tom walked over to the armchair and handed him his drink.
“How did they disable the GPS sensor under her skin?” he asked.
“You can buy a tracker defence device on the net. A small unit with enough power to jam a signal within a five-metre radius,” Crane replied, almost nonchalantly.
Still standing, Tom took a sip, felt the alcohol warm his throat. “Why would they lead us to the fort? They must have known we would kill the men there.”
“They kill their own by the dozen a day. Internal feuds. One tribal warlord taking another’s land. Think suicide bomber. Think a country where you sell your twelve-year-old daughter for two hundred bucks. Think–”
“I got it, okay.”
“Besides, we just used up all our resources on the proverbial wild-goose chase. I’d say that was kinda smart.”
Tom walked back to the table, put his glass down. Turning, he said, “Is Brigadier Hasni still around?”
“Hasni?”
“I heard about him when I did my spell in counterintelligence.”
“Yeah, he’s still around. Like a bad smell,” Crane said, smiling at his own jibe.
“I guess he knows the answer to my conspiracy theory, as you call it.”
Crane laughed hard, his chest heaving. “And I know for a fact that man has tortured to death over twenty people. He’s a butcher. But in his own way, he’s as passionate about Pakistan as POTUS is about America. Besides, he’s an untouchable, so any little caper you’ve dreamed up won’t be worth a dime.”
“You think,” Tom said, eyeing the older man and nodding.
He had a plan, one that he needed Crane’s help to accomplish, although he’d already decided that it was more of a desire to act, rather than a coherent strategy.
“I don’t feel inclined to score points here, so I’ll just say that if you’re planning on going back to Islamabad, I’ll do my best to dissuade you,” Crane said. “You go back there, you’ll go it alone, and that, I can tell you, is just plain suicide.” He took a gulp of whisky, licked his lips. “Besides, I got a duty to have you arrested by the Marines, you talk like that.”
“I made a promise to Lyric, and I’m not about to renege on it. You’re the only man I know who can help me out. If things go wrong, I won’t mention your name.”
Despite Crane’s scepticism, Tom still believed the ISI were responsible. Even if they hadn’t executed the abduction, there was no way the secretary could’ve been taken if they hadn’t sanctioned it.
“If the ISI know you’re a loner, you’ll say my name. You’ll fucking sing it,” Crane said, scratching the back of his head. “They have these machines that turn your vitals into the size and consistency of plums. Get it?”
Tom walked over to a taupe-coloured sofa opposite Crane, dropped down onto it, said, “Then give me someone who knows the city.”
“You’ll put them in danger, too. I’ve had five assets arrested and imprisoned by the ISI this year already. I’m not inclined to lose any more.”
“So what are we gonna do, huh? Sit on our asses until Lyric’s head is cut off on YouTube? Just gimme a break here.”
Crane eased forward, spread his arms. “And if I don’t?”
“I’ll go back anyways.”
“Don’t you think we are talking to everyone who might know something? Jesus, Tom, we got close to five hundred people on this,” he said, cradling his glass of Scotch as if it were a panacea.
“I just can’t go home and do nothing.”
“You won’t make it. I’m telling you the truth. So just forget it. And if you persist, I will have you restrained.”
“No, you won’t,” Tom said, getting up from the sofa.
He figured Crane was old school, too. He sure as hell wasn’t a stuffed-shirt Ivy League type out to play the game in DC by the time they were thirty-five.
As he got halfway to the door Crane said, “Wait.”
Tom turned. Crane seemed deep in thought. He rubbed the rim of his glass with his forefinger, and looked oddly sad, given that they weren’t exactly tight.
Looking up, he said, “You didn’t even ask the right question.”
“What do you mean?” Tom said.
“Sit down.”
Tom walked back to the sofa and sat back down.
Crane pursed his lips. “You shouldn’t have asked how the GPS sensor under her skin was deactivated. You should have asked how they knew it was there. I told you not to trust anyone. Don’t.”
Tom shuffled uncomfortably on the sofa. He hadn’t asked the right question. But his mind was made up. His eyes locked with Crane’s and, for a second or two, he had a notion that he was going to tell him something extraordinary. But when the man spoke, it was practical.
“Whatcha got in mind anyhow?”
“I could pass for a Pakistani, least at night,” Tom said. “I’m good at finding weak spots in security. Buildings, in particular. I make them strong. But this time I’ll exploit it. You know Hasni has to be implicated in some way. Just let me check his place out. Then maybe I could plant some of those bugs your techs make, the ones that look like stones or moss. People feel safe in their gardens. They say all kinds of things.”
Tom knew that satellites and drones could pinpoint a man or woman from thousands of miles away, but it still took a bug from relatively close quarters to hear a conversation that wasn’t taking place on a cellphone.
Crane groaned. “How do you know he has a garden?”
“I was busy when you were taking a shower. Took a peek at some satellite imagery.”
“Houseman would crucify me for even having this conversation with you. You realize that, right?”
Tom nodded.
“Okay,” Crane said, sighing. “I’ll put you in touch with someone. His name is Sandri Khan. But don’t ever repeat that. Now listen.”