Retribution (20 page)

CHAPTER 34

 

“T
he map.”

Samullah handed Yousef a roll of paper longer than his arm.

“This is possible.” Yousef spoke to the third man in the room on the second floor of the mud-brick house in the small western Pakistani village of Sarai Naurang.

Yousef was even more exhausted than before, if that was possible. The trip from Danish Abad had taken hours, but it was necessary if he were to stay alive. The most basic rule was always to keep on the move. Now the Pakistan Army was pushing across much of western Pakistan looking for the man he had come to meet.

Samullah Ullah had traveled with Yousef in the small Toyota pickup truck. It had an extended cab, but Yousef was lanky and long-legged. Samullah was, like Yousef, a tall man. So both were cramped up in the back of the truck for hours with the driver, the guard, and several AK-47s in both the front and back. But Yousef needed Samullah with him for this meeting for a very important reason.

“You are suggesting what?” The other man had also come a long way. Zulfiqar Mehsud had walked for most of a day, hiking down from the mountains above Sarai Naurang and then riding on the back of a dirt bike for well over a hundred miles.

“Something that will be remembered.” Yousef knew his reputation with the Pakistani Tehrik-i-Taliban would carry much weight; however, Zulfiqar Mehsud didn't commit his men to missions lightly. The jihad soldier was not an unlimited resource. And failure directly affected recruiting.

Zulfiqar Mehsud had survived several wars only by his cunning and skill. He was like a wolf. When possible, he would attack in a pack. If necessary, though, he would strike as the lone animal. A retreat was not dishonorable; rather, it was a strategy. Prisoners had their throats slit only because logistics required it. A retreating patrol could not spend time dragging a prisoner along.

The man had a well-wrinkled face, with skin that had been weathered by a life in the Hindu Kush. A twist of gray cut through the center of his black, curly beard. He had a large mole between his eye and the ridge of his nose. His hands were tough and leathery, small and stubby, with years of dirt under the nails. Like a pit bull, his tolerance for pain was high, his interest in comfort nonexistent.

Repeatedly, the United States reported Mehsud had been killed in an air strike. And repeatedly, a few weeks later, a video would surface with him laughing at the world. No one had collected the multimillion-dollar bounty on his head.

Yousef stood an even chance of not being recognized by the Pakistanis. He had bluffed his way through more than one checkpoint, but Mehsud had orchestrated too many bombings of important Pakistani officers. One recent bombing tore through a central mosque. It was well within the security ring of a military's base. The suicide bomber wore a vest full of explosives, climbed through a drainage ditch, under a fence, and walked into the mosque when it was full of officers, their wives, and little children. His pants, dripping wet, were noticed only at the last second.

Every officer knew who sent the bomber. The leader of Tehrik-i-Taliban, or TTP as it was called, was wanted, badly wanted, by the Pakistan Army.

Zulfiqar risked being recognized whenever he came down out of the mountains of western Pakistan. It had to be important for him to make the trip.

“There!” Yousef pointed to a paved road in the center of the satellite map. The detail was amazing. The road didn't look like a typical road, however, as it was much wider than any highway. It had several markings down the center and sides. Large dashes ran down the middle of the cement pavement.

While they were talking, an old woman brought a basin of water into the room.

Yousef dipped both hands into the cold water and rubbed his face. As in most of western Pakistan, a thin, powderlike dust seemed to hang in the air here. Traveling in the back of the truck with the windows open for hours had covered Yousef from head to toe.

Yousef passed the basin to Zulfiqar, who then passed it on to Samullah.

“What do you think of this plan?” Zulfiqar asked Samullah.

Samullah paused before he spoke. Despite his fame, these men had spent most of their lives killing others who wanted to kill them. Tribal wars were vicious. The Russians were known for gut shots aiming to kill with pain.

The Americans killed in another way entirely. They used Hellfire missiles from well above the clouds.

“It is a good plan,” Samullah said at last. He was not known for overstating his thoughts. “
Allah Akbar
.”

“We need a squad of warriors.” As Yousef spoke, he pointed to the center of the satellite photograph. It had markings on it of a military base with a central runway.

Zulfiqar, never one to shy away from even the most impossible missions, took one look at the photograph and comprehended the full extent of the mission.

“You are a brave one.”

“The reward is great,” Yousef said softly. “Allah would be pleased.”

The airstrip had the numbers on it of 12 and 30, signifying both the ends of the runways and the compass heading of the runway, 120 degrees to 300 degrees. But this runway was different. At the far end beyond the 30 were taxiways that led through gates, down a long pathway, to several bunkers.

“Indeed,” said Zulfiqar.

For the Air Weapon Complex at Kamra was where the Pakistani military kept their nuclear weapons.

“It will be difficult. Very difficult.” Zulfiqar would know. “It will require money.”

Yousef nodded. “That is all true, but we have the money we need. What we lack is your warriors, men true to the jihad who can help us. We will make two attacks. A diversion will come directly through the lead gate. But the heart of the attack will come from across here, the Ghazi Brotha.” Yousef pointed to what appeared to be a river on the south end of the base. “I will pay each warrior a hundred thousand U.S. dollars.”

Zulfiqar's face showed astonishment.

Yousef held his gaze steadily. The truth was, the price of Zulfiqar's men was a small part of the overall expense.

“But even if you get the warheads, they say the components are separated.”

“I do not need all of the components. All I want is the HEU.”

Zulfiqar's face showed confusion.

“The enriched uranium. The core. They call it the
pit
. They will look like small shiny metallic balls no bigger than your fist.”

Actually, Yousef wanted two cores. One would be used abroad, the other kept close.

Zulfiqar shrugged, apparently satisfied. “If that's what you need, brother, then you shall have it.”

Yousef smiled. “Thank you, brother. Soon, you will have all of the information you need.”

Though Zulfiqar didn't let it show, Yousef knew that the old man was already deeply committed to this mission. An attack on one of the main air bases of the Pakistani Air Force was enough of an achievement to last Zulfiqar for years. A successful direct attack alone against the Pakistani Air Force's Air Weapons Complex would shake the very government to its foundation. But the capturing of two cores . . . that would shift the dynamics of the world—Zulfiqar's and everyone else's.

CHAPTER 35

 

T
he fluorescent lights flashed on in the pitch-black room, darkened, then flashed again before bathing the space in blue bright light.

“Maggie, look at this.” Robert held the small black flash drive directly in front of her.

Maggie's face showed a brief flash of recognition upon seeing the small object. But she covered her eyes with her pillow, acting—as she had been more and more prone to do—like a small child.

“Do you remember this?”

“God, what time is it?”

“Maggie, do you remember this flash drive?”

“Where is Billie?” She sounded like a child. “Tell Billie I need her.”

“What? The pain?” Tranthan spoke the words more like a technician than a lover or a person who held some semblance of passion for the woman laying here in the bed. “Give her something.”

Another nurse stood in the shadows. It was the figure of a man, tall and dark, but dressed in white operation-room scrubs.

“Maggie, this is important.”

Tranthan hovered over her, tired and angry and drunk. Some men would become happy or relaxed or joyful after several drinks. Tranthan became impetuous and gruff.

“What is that?” Maggie asked.

“It's the flash drive that came from your office in Doha. Do you recognize it?”

“Where was it?”

“In this.” Tranthan held out the small gold photo frame. “Do you remember it?”

“I know that.”

“Yes.”

“I know that.” She repeated the words.

“Give her something to help.” Robert spoke to the man at the edge of the darkness in the far corner of the room.

“Where's Billie?” Maggie said, suddenly agitated. “I really need to talk to Billie.”

She winced as the chemicals flowed into her IV. Almost immediately her eyelids became visibly heavy.

“What was the password, Maggie?”

Suddenly, Maggie O'Donald's face showed fear. “Where's my buzzer?” She ran her hand down, as far as she could reach, along the bed rail, looking for the feel of the buzzer.

“Maggie, I need you to concentrate.”

“Okay.”

“Was the password a word?”

“No.”

“Maggie, lives depend upon what is on this flash drive. The Gulf could blow up without this. We need it!”

“The park,” she said without warning.

“What park?”

“The park is important.” Her face was full of confusion.

Tranthan signaled with his hand. The figure in the dark handed him a small laptop, which he opened and turned on. Tranthan didn't say anything. After what seemed an eternity, he connected the flash drive to the computer.

“Maggie, help me on this.”

The password box came up.

“Try
Battery Kemble,
” she said.

The park where they used to meet . . . Hidden deep in Washington's northwestern corner, on a side street, the park's small entrance was known only to the few homeowners whose houses backed up to it. Well over a hundred and fifty years ago, the steep hill that formed the far northern end of the park was a battery emplacement to protect Lincoln and the city from the advancing Confederates.

The beep of the computer signaled a failed password.

“Maggie, it says we only have two tries left.” Tranthan felt his anger building into recklessness. “Try harder.” He looked to the man with him. He injected her again; again, it wasn't the morphine that Maggie would be used to.

“I don't know. I need to sleep.”

“Maggie, help me on this and we'll let you sleep.”

“Oh, God,” she said. “I don't look good.” She began to sob. “I will never look good again.”

“Maggie, you won't. I can't lie. But you are a professional. Lives depend upon your being a professional. Can you do it?”

She tried to stop the tears, but they continued to pour down her face.

“Try BKP06,” said Maggie, her voice nearly a whisper.

“Battery Kemble Park.” He hesitated. “Oh-six?” He paused as he thought of the number. “June?”

“Yes.”

“Our first meeting.”

He punched the numbers into the password. Again, the computer refused the attempt.

“Damn it, Maggie . . .”

Tranthan didn't say anything for a moment. Finally, he shook his head sadly.

“Maggie, with what's going on now, I may not get a chance to see you again.”

“What?” She began to sob again.

“We need that password.”

Tranthan continued to look at the computer screen, seeming to ignore her.

“Concentrate, Maggie,” he chanted softly. “Concentrate.”

Her expression changed, becoming more distant as her voice faded. “Please get me Billie.”

“Come on, Maggie.”

She closed her eyes, concentrating, then mumbled something.

Tranthan couldn't hear what she was saying. He leaned over.

“What?”

She seemed to be struggling to repeat what she'd said. No sound came out. She was fading faster.

He watched her lips, reading the words as she tried once more.
There!
He had it. Without trying the password, he knew with certainty that he had the correct one. He closed the computer and walked out of the room.

Robert Tranthan made several decisions at that moment. The renegade operation to find and stop the man that caused all of this would be shut down.

Tranthan considered the odds. If Scott's plan succeeded it risked exposing his link with Maggie. It risked exposing her source.

“I think I know who it is.” He spoke the words to himself as he walked down the hall.

And Maggie was simply too much of a risk.

CHAPTER 36

 

P
arker stopped at the bottom of the stairs before stepping out into the cold, wet wind. The inner pocket of the coat held the airplane tickets and visa pressed against his chest. A lower side pocket bulged with the scarf that Atwan had just given him. Parker pulled the zipper up; only a sweater cap protected his head.

Parker glanced at his bearded, somewhat wild-looking reflection in the storefront's glass window.
God, what a sight. She would laugh at me.

As he moved out of the doorway a double-decker bus stopped directly in front of the building. Parker stopped again, waiting for it to move on. It pulled away to reveal a man standing across the street under the cover of the overhang of the extended roofline of a government building. It was someone that he did not recognize.

The stranger, dressed in a dark ski coat, looked not at the traffic or the pedestrians or the storefronts, but above Parker, to the second floor and the
Al-Quds
office.

Parker sensed trouble. His stare met the stranger's for a moment, but a passing lorry broke their eye contact. Once the truck cleared, the man was gone.

Parker wheeled around, back to the newspaper building, pulled the door open, breaking the lock as he did, and headed up the stairs two steps at a time. After the first two steps, a flash picked him up and threw him back down the stairs and through the closing glass door. The heat, plaster, and wood hit him like a shotgun blast.

Parker reached to his face. In the stunned moment, he felt his own, unfamiliar beard, along with a new, sticky substance. As he tried to sit, his head began to swirl. Little stars flashed across his vision as a woman bent down beside him. Another man came out of nowhere and grabbed Parker under the arms and was pulling him down the sidewalk, away from the blaze. The woman's mouth was moving, but Parker could only hear a ringing in his ears. He sensed the wet sidewalk, though, and his pants being drenched in the rain puddles.

Slowly, the ringing started to quiet.

“You're bleeding.” The woman was shouting the words, looking at the top of his head.

Parker reached up and pulled his hand away, seeing blood—his blood.

“I'm all right.” He mumbled the words in English, then realized he needed to slip back into the Bosnian dialect. He closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them again, he was looking at the second floor of the building, which was ablaze.

“The people.” He pointed to the second floor.

The man who had pulled him out of the debris was shouting the words as well.

An ambulance technician leaned over. Parker saw him before registering the wail of sirens in the background. The technician dabbed his forehead with a large gauze bandage while another felt Parker's legs and arms.

“Not bad, lad.” The technician cleaned the head wound. “Anything else, George?”

“I don't think so. Bloody lucky he was standing where he was. One step to the left or right and he would have gotten a chest load of glass fragments.”

“Thank you,” Parker mumbled in accented English.

“We need to take you in.”

“I'm okay.”

“Still, we need to take you in.”

Sadik's wife.
The thought struck Parker harder than the explosion.
If, by chance,
I
was the target, Zdravo and her niece could be next.

“Check on the others. I'll be all right here. Just let me sit here for a moment.”

“Let's pull him up under this doorway. I'm hearing we have badly burned victims behind the building.”

The two techs pulled Parker to a nearby foyer, retrieved their bags, and headed to the back of the building.

Parker watched them disappear, then rolled over on his forearms, waiting a second for the vertigo to abate, and did a push-up to his knees, finally standing up. He leaned against the doorway, trying to get his balance back. The rain drenched his face as he crossed over King Street, heading south to the tube.

He removed the bandage and trashed it quickly.

Good God.
His head was still swimming, causing him to stop again in the doorway of a café. Parker looked back at the raging fire that was consuming what was left of the newspaper. King Street had now been blockaded by the fire trucks and police vans.

On a nearby light pole Parker noticed for the first time a pair of security cameras covering the street. As he made his way down the street, he pulled out his PDA and checked the time. He had two minutes until the next train on the Victoria line. It was a straight shot to Walthamstow. He started to run across the tube's entrance, past the stores, reaching into his pants pocket for the rail pass, and once through the gate ran down the escalator, running past the Londoners standing on the steps.

The clock was ticking.

He heard the train and felt the warm wind blow through the connecting tunnel. It was still a long walk to the train heading north, but the express would be faster than even what Scott could do. Parker ran through the walkways, down another escalator, and reached the train just as its doors started to close.

He took a seat.

The woman sitting across from him had a young girl, perhaps four or five, who was staring at him. Her eyes were like saucers, big and brown, looking frightened.

Parker saw why when he glanced up at his reflection in the glass of the train's window. Blood still streaked his face. He pulled the sweater hat off only to find a shard of glass caught in the fold. The hat was soaked from the rain, and he used it as a rag to clean up his face. He smiled at the child, who smiled back now that the blood was gone. The entire time her mother never looked up, talking intently on her cell phone.

Parker looked at the PDA again. The train had another ten minutes until the last station. He put in the password and texted Scott.

It didn't take more than a second for the reply.

Parker began typing another reply.

Again, the response was immediate.

Parker thought a moment and looked at the time again. The train was still five minutes out of the station. He thought of Zdravo and the child.

The police officer who patrolled the station.
He would be the closest source of help.

Parker starting texting Scott again.

This time there was a delay. Scott was reading the text and then, Parker hoped, he was talking to his man at Scotland Yard.

Come on, come on.
The train was still two minutes out from the station. There was no text reply. Parker sent another.

Still no reply. Perhaps being in the tunnel had interrupted the signal.

The train pulled in to the station. It seemed an eternity for the doors to open. Walthamstow was aboveground and open. Parker stepped through the doors as soon as they started to pull apart. The station was empty. He sprinted across to the entranceway, looking for the police officer who always stood in the corner. The policeman was missing.

A good sign.
The policeman was never missing.
He must have gotten the word.

Parker began to run. The street was just ahead. Ahead he saw an object lying across the curb and sidewalk. As he moved closer, he saw the limp shape of a body dressed in a blue shirt and dark pants. The shirt was stained in a circle of blood that went down the side to a puddle below. It was the station officer. Scott had gotten the word. Parker stopped, checked for a pulse, and looked down the one-lane street. It was empty. He could hear the sirens in the distance. Parker felt around the officer's waist, looking for a weapon. There was none.

He started walking down the street. It remained quiet and empty. No one was moving. He saw no one. The sirens were getting louder. He was alone. Only him and the man.

Parker kept walking down the street, keeping a car to his back as he moved, expecting anything. Just as he got to the flat, he looked up at the window where she would sit with the baby. It was vacant. He moved up to the front door. It was ajar, opened only the width of a man's fist, but the opening caused him to shudder.

He slid the door open with his foot, staying behind the protection of the wall and staying in the alcove, just out of sight from anyone on the street. Parker paused, planning his next move. The sirens were getting closer.

In moments, an armed team would be charging through this doorway. He—

The second explosion of the day ripped through the brick building around him.