Ayesha walked up the gentle slope in the Islamabad Graveyard, past row after row of stones and tablets back to where her husband had been buried the morning after his death, as was Islamic custom. It was early evening. The lights of the city were behind her; only the lights of the PAEC General Hospital were visible up the hill from her.
She’d parked her car at the side of the Faqir Aipee Road, just off the Kashmir Highway and had gone the rest of the way on foot. She was leaving for Germany later this evening, her packed bags in the car. It was possible that she would never be able to come home, and she wanted to say good-bye one last time to her husband.
He had been a good man to her, never resenting her family’s fortune or her advice. In fact she believed that over the past several years, since the incident with President Musharraf, he had actually depended on her. And for that she felt the loss all the more keenly.
But she did not cry. She’d been the only girl in the family, and she’d grown up tough, entirely capable of holding her own among men. Her father and uncles and brothers never cried, nor did she.
She got to his grave site and stepped to one side of the simple headstone. He could have been buried in the military cemetery, but he’d once told her that he belonged here with the common people. He was no hero, nor would he ever be, so he felt it wasn’t right that he should be buried with soldiers who’d died on the battlefield. Nor did he want to be buried in the private cemetery where Ayesha’s people were laid to rest.
So here he was. A common man: in fact one of the last to be buried in a cemetery hardly a half century old and already full.
“He should not be here,” General Bhutani said behind her.
She turned. “You startled me, General.” Two bodyguards stood a few meters away.
“It wasn’t my intention, Ayesha. But he deserved a soldier’s burial.”
“He wanted it this way, but not so soon.”
“I agree. Too soon. And for the wrong reasons—still another affront to our dignity.”
She looked again at her husband’s gravestone. “Why did you come here, at this particular time? Certainly not to visit the grave of a simple major?”
If Bhutani took any offense at her tone, he did not show it. “I was told that you were leaving for the airport, and I wanted to talk to you in person—not on the telephone—before you left.”
“You followed me?”
“Yes. And I wasn’t surprised when you stopped here.”
Bhutani and his family were crude, in Ayesha’s father’s opinion. Only a generation or two from simple mountain tribespeople. Lacking in manners and modern sensibilities. Perfect for the role of ISI director. And in many ways, in her estimation, exactly the same as McGarvey, the former director of the CIA. Violent men, devious, skulking around, peering into other people’s lives for some prurient interests in the name of national security. And she was sure that her expression showed her contempt, because his face darkened.
“Why are you going to Germany? What’s there for you so soon after your husband’s death? The rug business?”
“A vacation before we and India destroy each other over petty religion. I have a plane to catch. I don’t want to be late.”
“It will be held if you are not on time,” Bhutani said, his tone harsh now. “Or not, if I have you taken in for interrogation.”
“I don’t think you would want to do that, General Bhutani. The consequences might not be to your superiors’ liking.”
“A risk I am willing to take in order to convince you that I am on your side. I know about Ms. Schlueter and the operation your husband hired her to run, just as I know about her part in the incident in Rawalpindi. She is back in Germany now, and I believe that you are joining her there, perhaps to avenge your husband’s death by continuing the mission.”
“And which mission is that?” Ayesha demanded. Her heart pounded. Buffoon or not, Bhutani was powerful.
“Retribution for the American raid at Abbottabad. Two have been eliminated; twenty-two remain.”
“I would think that you would have your hands full spying on India to bother with something so insignificant.”
“Not insignificant to some in our government who want to see such a thing happen. Of course your husband understood the delicate balance we have to maintain between ourselves and Washington and between us and our population.”
“You didn’t support him.”
“But we did, to the extent that was politically possible.”
“He’s dead!”
“He was a soldier; he understood the risks.”
“Now you want me to take up the battle.”
Bhutani smiled wryly. “Isn’t that why you’re flying to Germany tonight?” he said. “We can support you financially, and with intelligence information, but the actual operation will have to be carried out by whoever Ms. Schuelter hires. They’re expendable.”
“As am I?”
“Yes,” Bhutani said.
Ayesha held her silence for a moment. She hadn’t expected the ISI director to be here, though what he was telling her was expected. But now that it was in her face, to some extent even more than the fact of her husband’s death, when she was on the verge of flying to Berlin, it was superreal for the first time. People were going die—possibly she herself.
She glanced again at her husband’s grave. “What are my chances?”
“I don’t know, but I expect they will be near zero for the entire mission unless you convince Ms. Schlueter to first take care of one thing.”
“Mr. McGarvey.”
“Yes. You must do everything within your power to eliminate the man, and my agency will supply you with money.”
Ayesha looked at him. She was a businesswoman. “How much money?”
“Unlimited,” Bhutani said. “Kill McGarvey.”