McGarvey ordered a car with a GPS from the concierge, who apologized, saying that it would take thirty minutes to arrive. Naisir had obviously flashed his ISI credentials to the manager, so the entire staff was on edge, though if he’d said anything negative about the two Americans, it wasn’t apparent in their attitude except that everyone was ultracareful.
He went back to their suite, where he tried to call Pete, but the phone switched to a recording that his call was being forwarded to an automatic voice message system.
Otto called at that moment. “Pete’s in trouble.”
“I just tried to call her. But her phone switched to voice mail.”
“An old Lexus showed up down the street from the safe house, and in the next pass it was in the compound and four guys were getting out.”
“Goddammit,” McGarvey said. He was afraid of something like this. “Was Naisir with them?”
“I don’t think so. These guys were a lot larger than him. But I got the car’s tag. I’m running the registration now.”
Switching the phone to speaker, he laid it on the bed and got his pistol, the silencer, the spare magazines, and the small bricks of Semtex and fuses. “I want to know when Naisir arrives.”
“The Lexus is registered to Zeeshan Manzoor Sial Import/Exports. Hang on.”
Mac holstered the pistol, put on his lightweight black blazer, and pocketed everything else. All that was left in the suite was their overnight bags, a few bits of spare clothing, and their toiletries kits. He didn’t think they’d be back for any of it.
“I’m not coming up with any actual import or export license applications, but they maintain an account under that name at the Habib Bank AG Zurich in Rawalpindi. I’ve not cracked it yet, but their business credit cards are platinum. I think I’ll go to Zurich and see if it’ll be easier to get in.”
“Any connection with the ISI?”
“None that I’ve found so far. My gut feeling is these guys are the city version of the dacoits—bandits, enforcers, tough guys who originally started out in India and Myanmar. They’ll work for anyone with money—and they’ll do anything from robbing trains, to raping your neighbor’s daughter if you get into a feud.”
“Kidnapping and murder?”
“Yeah. And they have a reputation of being good at what they do.”
“What’s your confidence level?”
“That they’re dacoits? Ninety percent. I’ll have it nailed in a couple of minutes. But listen, Mac, if you go barging in there right now with the four of them on site, plus Naisir’s wife, and very likely Naisir himself within the next twenty minutes or so, there’ll be a bloodbath, and there’s no guarantee you or Pete will come out of it in one piece.”
“You’re right, but I am going to take a quick pass.”
“And then what?”
“I’m going to do exactly what they’re expecting me to do. Wait until the middle of the night and then hit them.”
The line was silent for a longish moment or two. “By then Schlueter will most likely be there. Seven-to-one odds.”
“Actually seven-to-two with Pete. And they’ll be overconfident.”
“Shit,” Otto said. “One of these days you’re going to make a mistake.”
“Not today,” McGarvey said. “Soon as Naisir shows up let me know.”
Again Otto was silent for a second or two. “No way I can talk you out of this?”
“I’m not leaving Pete there.”
“They won’t do anything to her; it’s you they want.”
“That’s right. And I’m not going to disappoint them.”
“Shit.”
* * *
The car turned out to be a chocolate-brown Mini Cooper, with the bigger engine and twin pipes, plus a portable GPS unit suction-cupped to the windshield. McGarvey plugged the address of Naisir’s house in the city into the unit. When he arrived, he parked across the street.
Traffic was thick downtown, but orderly, and the impression that he got was of a carefully managed, almost squeaky-clean city, reminiscent in some ways of a Swiss town but with an Islamic flair.
He walked across the street and rang the bell at the front gate. An older man in jeans and a white shirt buttoned at the collar answered the door.
“I’d like to speak to Major Naisir,” McGarvey said in English.
“May I ask who is calling?”
“Mr. McGarvey.”
“Yes, sir. I will tell the major that you called. Most unfortunately he is not presently at home.”
“When do you expect him or Mrs. Naisir?”
“I couldn’t say.”
* * *
He drove over to the government section, where he slowly passed the Pakistan Secretariat buildings on Constitution Avenue. Then he turned around at the bus station and passed the parliament building, the National Library, the Supreme Court, turning on Bank Road. He followed it into the diplomatic section, where he parked in front of the German embassy.
If he had picked up a tail he hadn’t spotted it, but he was pretty sure that Naisir had instructed the hotel staff to keep an eye on his activities. They would have reported the car to whatever number they had been given. In addition he’d spotted surveillance cameras on the roofs of all the government buildings, including the German embassy’s. If they were watching, they knew where he was. It was even likely that the delay in delivering the car had given the ISI time to plant a GPS tracker. Which was exactly what he wanted.
He got out of the car and sat down at a bench twenty yards away, well out of the range of any listening device that also may have been planted. He telephoned the U.S. embassy and was immediately connected with Don Simmons, the CIA’s chief of station.
“Mr. Director, I was hoping that you wouldn’t be calling me, but I’m not surprised that you have.”
When McGarvey had briefly served as the DCI, Simmons had worked as assistant COS in Cairo. They had met once at headquarters, and again in London at a joint intelligence services conference, where the topic of discussion was the Middle East, which everyone had agreed even then was on the verge of a meltdown. He’d seemed to be a no-nonsense career officer with a limited sense of humor. The work of the CIA was serious business.
“I need to get in touch with Milt Thomas.”
“I’ll not involve my staff in any clandestine operation you’ve come here for.”
“Nor am I asking for it. I’d simply like him to watch for someone coming in on an Air Berlin flight this afternoon. Routine. As far as I’m concerned he can even report it to his police contact.”
“And then what?”
“Give me a call and let me know.”
“And then what?”
“Nothing.”
Simmons hesitated, but then gave McGarvey a phone number. “If you get yourself into any trouble with the police or the ISI, you’re on your own.”
McGarvey broke the connection and phoned Thomas, who answered immediately in Punjabi.
“I need a favor,” McGarvey said.
“You’ll have to clear it with Don,” Thomas said in English.
“Already have. I want you to meet an Air Berlin flight this afternoon. See if a woman gets off, and see what she’s carrying and who, if anyone, meets her.”
“How will I know who she is?”
“I’ll send you a couple of photos from my cell phone.”
“Do I need to tail her?”
“Depends on who she meets or doesn’t meet. But listen up: be careful. This woman is very good, and if Major Naisir is the one to meet her, back off immediately.”
“I hear you,” Thomas said. “Give me the details.”