CHAPTER 29

mobile gcu

n-95 highway westbound

twenty miles outside of mingora, pakistan

0255 local time

“We need to strike them now,” Qasim said, glaring at Hamza. “Let me use the drone to kill the Americans who hit the safe house.”

“They’re already gone, Qasim,” Hamza said, shaking his head. “This raid was an unsanctioned operation on Pakistani soil. They did not ask for permission, nor did they bother to inform the Pakistani government. The American operators won’t take any chances of being discovered. Quick. In and out. That’s how it goes.”

“And how do you know all of this?” Qasim asked.

“I have connections within the Pakistani and tribal governments, as well as informants inside the Pakistani National Police,” he said to Qasim’s surprise. Revealing this information now said much about the relationship they had built over the past weeks. “I would have been notified if it had been sanctioned.”

“Then let’s reposition and hit the primary target. The Americans are looking for us as we speak. We need to act before they find us or shoot down the drone.”

“Sunrise is in two hours. Kandahar is over seven hundred kilometers away, which means we can’t make it in time. Our greatest probability for success is to reposition the drone and loiter until after sundown so we strike during the cover of darkness.”

“That gives them twelve hours to find us,” Qasim argued.

“They don’t even know what they’re looking for. From the sky the GCU looks like a CONEX box. And thanks to the autopilot subroutine you wrote, we’re not transmitting. So long as we stay dark for the next twelve hours, they’ll have no signals intelligence to exploit. The other trucks are diverging, each going in a different direction. Even if the Americans were watching when we evacuated the warehouse, they only have a twenty-five percent chance of picking the right truck. You might have noticed I didn’t split the convoy until after you put the drone on autopilot and we stopped transmitting.”

Qasim had noticed, and somewhere in his mind he understood that Hamza’s plan made sense, but he was just so damn angry. He wanted vengeance and he wanted it now. Then, as if his fury had somehow beamed itself into Hamza’s mind, he watched the terrorist’s expression harden.

“But there is something we can do,” Hamza said, his voice a low growl. “I was so focused on fleeing and salvaging the operation that I did not think of it until this moment.”

He pulled a mobile phone from his pocket, a different mobile phone from the one Qasim had seen him use before. He dialed, greeted the caller in Arabic, then conducted the remainder of the conversation in Pashto. “As-salāmu ʿalaykum, Abdul . . . No, things are not well. The Americans just hit my safe house in Mingora . . . I was not there when it happened . . . No, I vacated the other facility with the hardware intact . . . That is correct . . . I believe it is the same group who hit the mountain compound . . . One of my informants reported that a group of Americans checked in at the Relax Hilton Palace Hotel . . . Operator types, which tells me it is a very high probability it was them . . . Yes . . . Go with God, my brother. May he grant you courage and victory.” Hamza ended the call and looked at Qasim. “It is done. You may get your vengeance yet, Qasim.”

“What is done?”

“Our Taliban brothers in Mingora are going to strike the Americans at their hotel. Thirty Taliban fighters died when the Americans hit the cave stronghold our remote pilot team operated from. Taliban leadership was very angry about this devastating loss and blamed me. Abdul argued on my behalf and prevented a schism between our organizations. He understands the big picture.”

“Does Abdul know our next target?”

Hamza nodded. “Yes. In fact, I will tell you a secret—a strategy you would do well to remember as you rise. To appease Taliban leadership and preserve the relationship, I let them select the next drone target.”

“The Taliban chose Kandahar?”

“Kandahar has always been my ultimate target, but they didn’t know this. I put the notion in Abdul’s head many months ago, but during the negotiations I let him take absolute credit for the idea. He championed the selection and fought to convince the others. All I had to do was say yes.”

“I do not have a strategic mind like yours,” Qasim said, turning away to look at the primary monitor on the drone pilot’s station. “Aerodynamics, avionics, computer programming—these are things my mind understands. Relationships have never been my strength . . . that was Eshan’s specialty.” A wave of fresh angst roiled his guts. The security camera footage of Eshan being shot in the face played unbidden in his mind—a waking nightmare that he couldn’t turn off. “I can’t believe Eshan is gone. Gone! First my father and sister, and now my best friend . . . all murdered by the Americans.”

“I am very sorry about Eshan,” Hamza said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I know my words are no conciliation now, but his death has hit me very hard as well . . . in more ways than you realize.”

“How long have you known him?”

“We met two years ago, in Lahore. Quite by accident, I thought, but now I understand it was destiny. I was lost at the time, and it was Eshan who encouraged me to pursue my true calling.”

Qasim’s heart skipped a beat, and he slowly turned to look at the other man.

“You thought it was the other way around, did you? That I had recruited Eshan,” Hamza said with a chuckle. “No, Qasim. Eshan was managing money and fundraising for the Taliban when we formed al Qadar.”

“We?” The word escaped his lips like a dying breath.

“I know it is upsetting that he kept this from you, but al Qadar was his vision. We built it together, as partners.”

“Partners? No, no, no . . . that can’t be.”

“It’s true, Qasim.”

“I don’t understand. He told me you were the leader. He took direction from you.”

“Quite a convincing illusion we maintained, don’t you think?” When Qasim couldn’t find the words to answer, he continued. “It was all by design, and only because Eshan put the cause before his own ego. For him, it was never about power or titles or ruling other men. It was always and only about the mission, about changing the status quo . . . about changing the world. This is the agreement we had, and it took incredible trust on his part.”

“You mean nobody in al Qadar knows he was the founder?”

“Cofounder,” Hamza said with a smile. “And no, the rank and file had no idea that the true visionary behind our movement was hiding in plain sight. It was my job to inspire and lead operations—that is my strength. It was his job to build the global infrastructure, recruit talent, and fund our mission. You didn’t really think he was an investment banker, did you?”

“I always took what he said at face value,” Qasim said, his gaze going to the middle distance. “I trusted him completely, that’s what best friends do . . .”

Hamza looked at him, his gaze earnest. “Eshan told me that you would someday be the third partner in our movement. He said that I needed to be patient with you, that you were a man of great intellect and inner strength, but you did not recognize those things in yourself. He also said you were living a life of denial. ‘Trapped in a hall of mirrors,’ I believe were his exact words. But that the day was coming when you would break those mirrors and escape the torture chamber you’d built for yourself, and I needed to be ready to embrace you with open arms. Well, Qasim, that is today.”

Qasim wasn’t sure how long he sat in silence, contemplating the other man’s words. He felt decoupled from time as he processed the revelations that had just turned his entire life upside down. All of their interactions since Eshan had appeared on his doorstep in London played back like scenes of a movie. With the context of hindsight, the clues were there—he’d just missed them. Eshan’s knowledge of his work at British Aero, the fake passport he carried, the way he managed the border crossing, the Taliban lieutenants at his wedding, the way he came and went freely from the warehouse like he had special privilege, and on and on . . . Hamza was telling the truth. Eshan had been a visionary and a chameleon, and he’d known Qasim better than Qasim had known himself. And now he was gone . . . another son lost in a war of ideologies that would never end.

He refocused his gaze to a backpack resting on the floor between the seats and nudged it with the toe of his boot. “Maybe it’s time we do something more productive than talk about my feelings.”

“What did you have in mind?” Hamza said with a hopeful smile.

“How about coming up with a backup method for controlling the drone should the Americans force us to abandon this GCU before the drone is on target?”