CHAPTER 23

relax hilton palace hotel

fiza ghat bypass, along the swat river

mingora, pakistan

1020 local time

Chunk was no expert on luxury hotels, and he was sure as hell no expert on urban Pakistan, but he was absolutely positive that the Relax Hilton Palace was not in any way affiliated with the actual Hilton brand. The small hotel did have a certain charm, he supposed, with its oversized bright-green tinted windows—designed, perhaps, to cast the muddy brown Swat River in a more palatable shade when viewed from inside.

He stepped from the van and looked north, across the river toward Saidu Sharif Airport, where they’d landed a half hour ago. He slung his pack, a black civilian North Face number, and resisted the urge to go to the rear of the van and start pulling out gear.

Civilians don’t hump their own luggage at hotels, he reminded himself as Pakistani hotel staff descended on the vans en masse.

The porters were dressed in bright and festive shalwar kameez—baggy trousers tight at the ankles and long, tunic-style shirts—complete with Sindhi caps and colorful round-toed silk khussa shoes. He caught Riker’s raised eyebrows and just smiled and shook his head. Chunk had been deployed in a nonofficial cover only once before, and that was as part of an ISR advance team in Iraq in 2014. He and his three men had posed as journalists and provided physical security for some OGA types. Today, he’d had the flight over from Jalalabad to get into character, or whatever spooks called it. During their predeparture brief, they’d conducted a video chat with a DIA man on Theobald’s team, Peter Brusk, whose advice had boiled down to: Don’t be afraid to be uncomfortable.

“You’re Americans working on an urban development plan for the region because your companies want to invest over here. You’re sniffing out places for manufacturing plants and call centers, evaluating infrastructure, that kind of thing, an effort that will create the best jobs in the region,” Brusk explained,“This makes the NOC basically one of royalty, since everyone here wants those western dollars. No one will expect you to divulge individual company details—which is a gift because you don’t have to remember shit, except your fake name. It also means your shitty language skills and obvious discomfort won’t raise any eyebrows. We’ll start with a tour of the area. If you stay long enough, we’ll need to arrange meetings with local business leaders so you seem legit.”

“Discomfort” wasn’t the problem. Chunk and his team were used to sleeping in tree hollows, riding in cramped helos and SDVs, and getting chafed raw in every place a body can chafe. “Not raising eyebrows,” now that was another animal altogether.

“You must be Harry Anderson,” a man in blue jeans and a black sports shirt said, walking up to greet him. Chunk took the man’s proffered hand and shook it tightly.

“I am,” he said, remembering his fake name and programmed response. “You must be Peter—good to meet you in person.”

“You too,” Brusk said with a thick Texas accent that to Chunk sounded like home. “I work for Robert Theobald, but everybody calls him Bobby. I’m the IBC coordinator for Pakistan’s western provinces. Y’all arrived in country yesterday?”

“Two days ago,” Chunk replied, staying on script. “We spent yesterday in Faisalabad. We were supposed to have a few tours, but honestly, we just mostly slept off the jet lag. Faisalabad is probably a little more expensive than my bosses are looking for. I was told to look deeper here, in the Swat Valley area. Problem is, most people hear Swat Valley and think Osama bin Laden.”

Brusk laughed a big genuine laugh and put a hand on Chunk’s back, talking while directing him toward the hotel entrance. “Yeah, that’s about right. But it also means the real opportunities are here. The area around Mingora is just good people looking for a better life. Bad guys are everywhere in the Middle East, I guess, but that’s true in London these days too. We’ve got lots to show you, but first we have a little presentation for y’all. Let’s get you checked in, then we can meet in the conference room for a quick overview of our goals and opportunities before stepping out. That sound good?”

“Sounds great,” Chunk answered.

“The whole third floor is rented out by IBC, so we’ll get the bags sent right up to the conference room, then y’all can grab your individual stuff and pick out your rooms. The bags will be with my guys until you get there, so don’t worry about that.”

Brusk held his eyes with the last comment, perhaps sensing Chunk’s discomfort at being separated from their bags—bags which were full of weapons, ammunition, body armor, and communications gear.

Chunk nodded, figuring he didn’t have much choice in the matter.

The surprisingly modern lobby, with its immaculate white-marble tile floor and brightly colored walls, took him by surprise. An attractive young woman behind the check-in desk smiled at him and greeted him in English, while an attendant served them cups of ice water with cucumber from a silver tray.

“Is this what you expected?” Watts said, stepping beside him, voice tense. He looked at her and was met by an expression he had decided to nickname her “stress face.” It was the same expression she’d had during the briefing with Jarvis.

Instead of answering her immediately, he parried her expression by relaxing his own and smiling at her. Then, raising the paper cup to his lips, he said, “Ahhh, pickle water. Now that’s a treat you just don’t get every day.”

This broke her immediately, and he heard her real laugh for the first time since they’d met.

“If you see a potted plant I can pour this in, let me know,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, before adding, “Don’t worry. We’re in good hands here. I promise. Now let’s get our ’merica on.”

When she shot him a quizzical look, he gestured at a woman in traditional clothes, a bright-pink pashmina around her shoulders, tending to a buffet laid out in a dining room beyond the lobby. “Biggest risk for you on this trip, Rebecca, is that you might put on a little extra weight. I know how you like to eat when we’re on the road.”

He saw comprehension flash in her eyes, and her expression immediately soured as she shifted into character. “What’s sad, Harry,” she fired back, remembering to use his fake name, “is how naturally being misogynistic comes to you.”

“Nice one, boss,” Saw chuckled as she walked off with Brusk. “You sure have a way with the ladies.”

“What?” Chunk said, throwing his hands up in a don’t-look-at-me-she’s-the-crazy-one shrug. “Seriously, what did I say?”

Five minutes later they were checked in and gathered on the third floor, inside a large but simple conference room, their bags and boxes stacked along one wall. Chunk slid into a chair beside Watts, and Riker dropped in on the other side of him, with Saw taking the seat next to Yi. With Antman in the ISAF hospital in Kabul and Georgie on his way home to Virginia, that left just Spence, Morales, Trip, and Edwards to join them at the table.

Once they were all seated, Chunk took the temperature of the room. Other than Watts, nobody seemed nervous. Damn, he thought, looking around. It was so surreal. Seven SEALs at a DIA black ops site inside Pakistan, surrounded by a citizenry known to be Taliban sympathizers. Add to that their disavowed State Department, no air support, and no QRF.

Chunk grinned. Now this is some real Tier One shit.

Brusk returned with a new, rather benign-looking guy in tow. The DIA man closed and locked the door behind him while his partner passed out thick green folders.

“Hey guys, and thanks for coming. I’m Peter Brusk and this is Earl McAllister. We’re the onsite team for IBC, and we’ll be taking you on the tour of Mingora shortly. First, though, we have a briefing for you on the region, the economic opportunities we see here, and some ground rules and courtesies you should observe while in Pakistan.”

McAllister keyed up a PowerPoint on a laptop, and a TV monitor on the wall refreshed with the first slide. Brusk walked to the head of the table, and with all eyes on him tapped his ear and looked up, spinning a finger around in the air. The message was clear: Don’t know who could be listening.

“As I go over this material,” he said, “feel free to look through the folders we prepared for you that highlight much of what I’ll be saying over the next twenty minutes . . .”

While Brusk droned on, Chunk opened his folder and found a cover page stamped with TS/SCI Eyes Only. As Brusk and McAllister put on their show for anyone listening in, Chunk and his team read through the real brief—a classified overview of Theobald’s brilliant DIA operation in Mingora. Their NOC, as a well-funded international NGO sponsoring economic development in the former FATA region, was perfect. It gave them unfettered access in the community, and also allowed them to run local assets who served as their eyes and ears throughout not just Mingora, but the Khyber. Everyone wanted to make the westerners feel welcome—and safe—and open the deep purses of foreign investors and corporations that could pour lifeblood into the struggling region.

Very friggin’ clever.

Their “tour” would allow them to perform real-time ISR on a variety of highlighted areas in Mingora and across the bridge in the communities around the airport and north into the foothills of the Hindu Kush. And it would give them access to a variety of trusted assets more read in to IBC’s counter-terror mission—those individuals and their rough histories with the operation were also outlined in the file.

Chunk looked up and saw Spence flipping through his folder, a broad grin on his face suggesting this was some pretty cool shit. Riker looked bored, but then again, he never did care much about the minutiae. Watts was taking notes, of course. Next, he caught Saw’s eye. The SEAL raised his eyebrows and nodded. This was the kind of shit that made a difference. Kicking in doors was awesome, but it was ten times more gratifying when you were kicking in the right doors at the right time.

Brusk spoke for another ten minutes before wrapping up. “And so, in conclusion, I think we have several sites that will be of interest to you. Go ahead and get yourselves settled, have some lunch, then we can regroup and finalize our afternoon itinerary. Any questions?”

Riker raised a hand, a stupid grin on his face, but Chunk caught his eye and shook his head. The Senior Chief lowered his hand, still grinning like a schoolboy, and said, “Nope. No questions.”

“Great. Feel free to take your personal belongings to your individual rooms, but any team-related items will be perfectly safe here in our conference room,” Brusk said. Then, turning to Watts, he added, “Ms. Taylor, I understand you’re having lunch in town with Mr. Theobald?”

“Uh, yeah, so it would seem,” she said, tucking a sweep of bangs behind her ear.

“Great. I’ll get you the address for the restaurant.”

“Thank you, Peter,” she said and looked over at Chunk, eyes wide, her face one big question: Are you coming with me?

He’d contemplated escorting her, but she’d told him that Theobald had been explicit she come alone so as not to spook his asset. He knew it was the right call and understood the man’s conundrum. Having a big, burly operator show up unannounced was all it would take to ruin the interaction, or worse, cause the asset to bolt. Whitney, on the other hand, would appear to pose no threat. She’d agreed at the time, but now—facing the actual moment of truth—she looked scared.

This, unfortunately for Whitney, was one of those kick-the-baby-bird-out-of-the-nest moments.

Time to test those wings, Heels.

He leaned back in his chair, smiled, and gave her a thumbs-up that seemed to say, “Go get ’em, tiger.”