CHAPTER 24

relax hilton palace hotel

mingora, pakistan

1140 local time

Whitney sat on the edge of the bed in her hotel room, trying not to hyperventilate. She understood why she had to go alone to meet Theobald, but it didn’t change the fact that the prospect terrified her.

What if Theobald doesn’t show up? What if the terrorists know we’re here and kidnap me? What if it’s a trap and we get shot or blown up?

She blew air through pursed lips and tried to put the thoughts out of her mind.

Remember what Yi said and stop saying what if !

The trip to Afghanistan had been her first to the Middle East and her first time in a third world country. But from the moment she’d stepped off the plane in Kabul, she’d had a platoon of heavily armed Tier One SEALs around her. As much as she hated to admit it, she’d taken great comfort in that fact. Now she was in Pakistan, no longer safe and secure on a US base, and she had to go meet a spy at restaurant alone.

I feel like one of those idiot girls in a horror movie, bumbling her way toward an obvious and bloody demise that only she didn’t recognize.

Her mobile phone rang. It was Chunk.

She answered it. “Yes.”

“You should probably get going, or you’re going to be late.”

“I know.”

“You can do this, Heels.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice hollow as she debated asking Yi to come with her.

“Would it make you feel better if you knew that me and the boys are going to be driving loops in the van in case you need to call in the cavalry?”

“Um, hello, yes!”

“I thought so. We’re just a phone call away. Now, get your intel ass moving.”

“Roger that,” she said and ended the call. Feeling like nine million pounds had suddenly been lifted off her back, she got to her feet and headed downstairs.

In the lobby she asked one of the hotel’s young porters to get her a taxi. He repeated the word “taxi,” and when she nodded, he smiled and stepped outside to the parking courtyard. While she waited, Chunk and three of the boys showed up, but they walked past her like she didn’t exist and headed out, ostensibly to the van. This knocked the edge off her nerves, until she noticed a bearded man wearing a black knit cap standing next to the reception desk, staring daggers at her. She glanced at him but didn’t hold eye contact, resisted the urge to wait outside for the taxi, and tried her best to look relaxed. The next two minutes were the longest of her life, with the stranger’s eyes boring into her the entire time. When the porter returned, grinning, she practically jogged to meet him.

“Taxi, taxi for you,” he said and led her to a little white sedan idling in the courtyard.

“Thank you,” she said and tipped him five hundred rupees when he opened the door for her, a sum that earned her gushing, incomprehensible gratitude.

“Hello,” the driver said, greeting her in heavily accented English. “Where you go?”

“Hujra restaurant, please,” she said, nervously folding her arms across her chest.

“Hujra close,” he said, cocking a quizzical eyebrow at her.

“Are you sure it’s closed? I’m supposed to meet someone for lunch.”

“No, uh, it close . . . close. You understand? It not far.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Please take me there.”

He shrugged, put the transmission in drive and pulled away.

As the taxi accelerated onto the N-95, the paved two-lane thoroughfare that skirted the southern bank of the Swat River, she debated whether she should buckle her seat belt. If bullets start flying, I need to get low and possibly make a run for it. Trying to get out of a seatbelt will cost me precious seconds. On the other hand, if we have to evade at high speed and we get into an accident—

The taxi unexpectedly braked, interrupting her thoughts and sending adrenaline surging into her bloodstream. She looked up as the driver activated his turn signal, turned left across the oncoming lane of traffic, and pulled into a restaurant parking lot. Screwing up her face, she looked out the window and verified the name on the sign: Hujra.

“See, close,” the driver said, turning to her with a comical smile. The ride had lasted no more than ninety seconds door to door.

Feeling ridiculous, she pulled two five-hundred-rupee notes from her pocket and handed them to him. “Is this enough?”

“Yes, yes, thank you,” he said, happily taking the money. “You want me pick you up?”

“Um, no . . . thank you,” she said. “I think I’ll walk back.”

“Okay, bye-bye,” he said as she climbed out.

A Caucasian man standing on the other side of the N-95 caught her attention. He was dressed in a short-sleeved button-down shirt and khaki pants. The smiling, clean-shaven man was trying to get her attention with a large exaggerated wave.

“They always drop off on the wrong side,” he called to her. “The owners expanded across the street for waterfront dining.”

“Mr. Theobald?” she called back.

“Yeah,” he said, beckoning her. “C’mon over.”

She hesitated a heartbeat, then walked to the roadside to wait for a break in traffic. Fifteen seconds later she was jogging to meet her DIA contact.

“Robert Theobald,” the American said, extending his hand. “But you can call me Bobby.”

“Whitney,” she said and shook his hand, noticing how similar his grip was to Chunk’s, a hand that felt more like ironwood than flesh.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t have this meeting at the hotel, but I couldn’t risk spooking my asset. His antennae are up, so I wanted to keep things small and intimate,” Theobald said. “How much experience do you have running assets?”

“None,” Whitney said, scanning over her shoulder. In her peripheral vision, she saw a van approaching from the north and recognized it as Chunk and the guys making good on their promise to stay in the area.

“You look nervous,” he said, his gaze following hers, then returning to her face. “Something got your antennae up?” He seemed to take a measure of her before saying, “First time in Pakistan?”

“Yeah,” she said, glancing over her other shoulder.

“This place is solid. I personally know the owner, and I had his family vetted and surveilled.”

“Mm-hmm.” His assurances did little for her nerves.

“I know what you’re thinking—what the hell is this yahoo talking about? This is the Swat River Valley in friggin’ Pakistan, where every other face you pass on the street could be a terrorist in hiding. It ain’t that way, I promise. Mingora is a good city—a community of mostly small and family-owned businesses. The people here aren’t bent on jihad and taking down America; they’re just scraping out a living and trying to make a better life for their family.”

“Understood,” she said.

Except those aren’t the people I’m worried about, she thought. I’m worried about the ones with a drone armed with missiles that just blew up an Army convoy.

“Please follow me,” he said and turned.

She followed him to an expansive deck filled with outdoor dining tables. A small crowd was scattered at the tables, enjoying the nice afternoon weather. Theobald had chosen a corner table along the deck railing, with a view of the muddy Swat and its rocky bank. The table was conspicuously outside the eavesdropping radius of other patrons. He gestured for her to take the seat with the best view of the river, while he took the chair opposite, with unobstructed sightlines and nothing behind him. A waiter promptly brought them a basket of naan and tea service.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about my last conversation with your former boss at NCTC. How about we start with you laying out your drone theory for me, then I’ll try to fill in any blanks with the intelligence my team has collected,” the DIA man said, kicking things off.

Whitney kept her voice low but dove in, explaining her theory that the convoy attack outside J-bad had been executed by a UCAV. Next, she read him into the raid Chunk’s team had conducted on the Taliban stronghold in the Hindu Kush, and finally, walked him through her LOS hand-off theory. All the while, he listened without interrupting, nodding periodically.

“The Pakistani military recently signed a contract for forty-eight Wing Loong combat drones with the Chinese aerospace conglomerate CAIG,” he said, leaning in to close the gap between them.

“Interesting,” she said, wanting to hear more.

“Prior to signing that contract, Pakistan had a Wing Loong Pterodactyl model in the country for extensive testing. This was not widely publicized, but what did make the headlines was that the drone was reported to have crashed six months ago, a report which, interestingly, the Pakistani military confirmed in the aftermath. But what if that report was manufactured? What if the drone didn’t crash, but certain corrupted elements within the Pakistani military wanted the world and the Chinese government to believe that it did? Assuming bribes were paid, is it really much of stretch to imagine that drone secretly finding its way into terrorist hands?”

“About a month ago,” Whitney said, “US Navy SEALs raided a vessel in the Arabian Sea suspected of carrying WMD precursor components, but what they found instead were Chinese-made HJ-10 air-to-ground missiles and crates of electronic parts which have since been identified as drone components manufactured by CAIG. The cargo was bound for the port of Gwadar in western Pakistan. What if these parts were purchased by the Taliban after they got their hands on the drone? I mean, they would need the parts and the missiles, right, if they had acquired the drone?”

“I don’t think it’s Taliban, or I would have heard something supporting by now. But there is another nascent organization here in Pakistan that’s more likely to be involved—an al-Qaeda splinter faction I’ve been trying to penetrate, operating right here in the Swat River Valley.”

Whitney scooted her chair closer. “What splinter faction?”

“They call themselves al Qadar.”

“I don’t speak Arabic. What does it mean?”

“It means, roughly, a goal or event which is predetermined to happen.”

“You mean destiny?”

“Yeah. In their case, the predestined goal is a global Islamic caliphate,” Theobald said, his gaze ticking left, over her shoulder. “My contact has arrived. Why don’t you pull your chair around to the end of the table?”

She did as instructed, guessing that good tradecraft meant using geometry to make it difficult for everyone to be photographed, in case they were being surveilled.

“Hello, my friend,” Theobald said, standing momentarily to greet a young Pakistani man who looked nervous as hell.

“Hello, Bobby.” The man took a seat but didn’t move to shake hands with either of them.

“Bezerat this is Rebecca,” Theobald said. “She works with my group.”

Bezerat nodded at her. “Hello.”

“Hi,” she said and forced a smile.

“Have you heard anything from your brother, Mohamed?” Theobald asked, his voice ripe with concern.

“No, nothing. I’m very worried, Mr. Bobby,” Bezerat said, his expression pained. “I think they killed him.”

The compulsion to jump into the conversation and ask, “Who killed him?” was almost overpowering, but Whitney forced herself to just listen.

Theobald nodded. “I’m nervous too. I have my people and other trusted friends looking for him, but we need to take precautions now. Especially with you. This should be our last meeting for a while, and so I need you to tell me everything you know, including rumors and details you might have withheld before.”

“Okay, okay,” the nervous Pakistani said, scratching at his thin juvenile beard. “I think Mohamed had a run-in with ISI.” When Theobald said nothing, Bezerat said, “Did you know about the meeting?”

“No,” Theobald answered.

“You swear you did not tip them off?”

“I swear,” Theobald replied. “You know how I feel about ISI.”

Although she’d never had any dealings personally with Pakistani intelligence, Whitney understood the subtext. Inter-Services Intelligence, Pakistan’s version of the CIA, was an uncomfortable bedfellow for any foreign intelligence service to work with, because for every honorable officer or agent, an equal number of snitches, thugs, and terrorist sympathizers worked there.

“Well, ISI came to see my brother. Unannounced. Two agents showed up at the store.”

“Were you there at the time?”

“No. I was out making deliveries. My brother told me. He called me and sounded quite agitated.”

Theobald nodded. “Go on.”

“When I got back, Mohamed was gone.”

“Where did he go?”

“I think he went to see Hamza.”

“Why?”

“My cousin said that my brother was convinced Hamza was watching him. He wanted to head off any problem.”

Whitney looked at Theobald, the question poised on her lips.

Theobald met her gaze and said, “Hamza al-Saud, the suspected leader of al Qadar.”

She nodded and committed the name to memory.

“Did you ever tell your brother you were working with me?” he asked Bezerat.

“No.”

“What about your cousin?”

“No.”

“Are you certain? Not even in a moment of weakness?”

“No, I swear. Never,” Bezerat said with conviction.

“Okay,” Theobald said and blew air through his teeth. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, then turned to Whitney. “Rebecca, I know you have some questions for Bezerat.”

“Um, yes I do,” she said, swallowing. “Do you know of, or are you aware of the brokering of, HJ-10 air-to-ground missiles to al Qadar?”

Bezerat screwed up his face at her. “I don’t even know what that is, HJ-10?”

She cleared her throat, silently chastising herself for the way she’d asked the question.

Theobald probably thinks I’m an idiot.

“It’s a drone-fired missile. We have a working theory that Hamza has either acquired or is trying to acquire a drone capable of firing missiles at US military targets.”

“Okay, this is interesting,” Bezerat said, nervously knitting his fingers together and cracking his knuckles. “I overheard my brother and cousin just a few days ago. They were talking about a drone.”

“That’s good, Bezerat. What exactly did they say?” Theobald pressed.

“I . . . I don’t know. It was hard to hear, and I didn’t want them to know I was listening. I was behind the shelves in the back of the store, and they didn’t know I was there. Mohamed was talking about a drone shooting a convoy. I assumed it was the Americans blowing something up—the Taliban, maybe, like they always do. I’m sorry, but I was very nervous and that’s all I could hear.”

Theobald glanced at Whitney, his gaze speaking volumes.

“Did your brother sound excited or upset, talking about the drone?” Whitney asked.

“Now that you make me think about it, when I came into the store, my cousin and my brother were in very happy moods,” Bezerat said.

“What did your brother do for al Qadar exactly?” she asked.

“My family has an electronics store in Mingora. My brother is—well, he is not a terrorist, but he’s a true believer. He wants to see Muslims rise. He wants a world where the West is not the boss. My cousin is in the middle. When he is around me, he is not caring about politics, but around Mohamed he is supporting a strong Muslim rise. I think my cousin has always looked up to Mohamed and tries to impress him.”

“I understand,” she said, nodding, “but do you know if your brother was an active member of al Qadar? Was he supporting operations or involved in the planning of operations?”

“No, I don’t think so. But he was trying to make a profit from Hamza. He wanted to be a supplier of components and information.”

“Why do you think ISI came to see your brother? I mean, how would they know to suspect Mohamed was working with al Qadar?” She felt herself getting drawn into the spider-
web now.

“I don’t know,” Bezerat said, then nervously began looking over his shoulder. “I have been here too long. I . . . I need to go.”

“One more question,” Theobald said, calm and languid as a lullaby. “Did you ever make electronic component deliveries on behalf of your brother to Hamza or his people?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. They don’t tell me about all the customers, and I don’t ask.”

“Okay, I understand, but if Hamza al-Saud does have a drone, and we’re talking about a big drone, a machine the size of a small airplane, do you have any idea where he might hide it? It would need to be in a warehouse or a big garage . . . somewhere near the airport, maybe?” he coaxed the young Pakistani.

Bezerat’s eyes flashed with epiphany. “Yes, yes, possibly. During the last few weeks, Mohamed was making deliveries to a building in Kanju, the area just west of the airport. He was taking them himself instead of having me make the trip.”

“Do you have an address?” Whitney asked.

“I maybe could find it for you. I need to look through the papers. See if my brother kept a record or not.”

“Will you do that for us?” Theobald asked.

“It is a big risk, if my cousin sees me. What will you do for me if I do this for you?” Bezerat said.

“What do you want?” the DIA man said.

“You know this. I’ve told you many times, Bobby. I want to go to university. I don’t have the money or the connections. You need to get me in.”

“Yes, but we’ve talked about this. A big reward requires a big win. So here’s what I can promise. If you get us the address and it is valid intelligence that leads to a successful counter-terror operation against al Qadar, then I will make good on my end of the bargain.” Theobald’s gaze was earnest and unwavering.

“You swear?” Bezerat said, his jaw tight.

“I swear, and you know I always keep my promises.”

“If I succeed, I text you the address.” Bezerat shoved his chair back from the table and stood up. “Okay?”

Theobald nodded but stayed firmly planted in his seat.

“Okay, goodbye,” the young man said, and with a curt nod to Whitney, he departed.

“So what do you think?” Theobald said, turning to look at her.

“A couple of things. First, if Bezerat gets us an address, we can compare it to the transmissions we collected during the time leading up to the drone strike. If the coordinates match, then we have compelling reason to conduct ISR on the facility and potentially make a move against it.” The gears in her head were really churning now.

“Okay, and second?”

“Maybe you query your network of assets about the crashed Wing Loong drone and see if anyone might have heard whispers about that. And maybe question airport employees about late night or unauthorized aircraft flying out of the local airport.”

A broad smile arched across Theobald’s face.

“What’s that look for?” she said, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“Oh, just that if I didn’t know better, I’d say you caught the bug.”

“What bug?”

“The field ops bug,” he said with a smile. “It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, maybe a little,” she said, her lips curling up at the corners.

“You were having so much fun there at the end, you forgot all about being nervous. Didn’t ya?” he teased.

He was right, she had, but the recognition of this lapse in attention mortified her and instantly sent her stomach fluttering with renewed anxiety. “Yeah. Rookie mistake. Won’t happen again.”

“Ah, don’t be so hard on yourself. For your first field engagement, you did pretty damn good,” he said, ripping off a hunk of naan and stuffing it in his mouth. “Now let’s scarf down some lunch, then I’ll get to work shaking some trees and we’ll see what falls out.”