State of Honour (23 page)

It was 18:02 and the general stood on a muddy bank overlooking the Potomac. The Pentagon, where he’d worked in the Department of the Army for the past eight years, was a few miles upstream, obscured by the tree line. But the Washington Monument was clearly visible across the waters; a granite, marble and bluestone obelisk rising over one hundred and seventy metres above the National Mall. He put his hand into a plastic bag of dried white bread and fed the ducks, his broad back accentuated by his heavy black overcoat. The sun had disappeared once more, and the clouds were low and gunmetal-grey. A strong breeze was whipping up the surface of the river, the ducks bobbing up and down and struggling to remain close enough to the bank to take advantage of an easy dinner.

Tom sat in the back of Lester’s VW van in between Lester and Karen, his eyes flicking between three flat-screened monitors. They were all wearing headphones. The van was parked on a lot next to a cluster of picnic shelters. There were five other vehicles parked there. They could have parked the van two hundred metres away amid a poplar copse, using camouflage netting to cover its bulk. But Tom knew that Swiss’s bodyguards would be vigilant, and sometimes being visible was the best way not to stand out.

Besides Lester’s van afforded perfect cover for surveillance. It was equipped with covert cameras in the grille and roof vent, together with a couple of parabolic microphones, which were linked to satellite-like dishes disguised around the headlights. The type that could pick up a whisper a third of a mile away. Their movement was concealed by steady pegs, which locked the van’s suspension in place, and the interior was soundproof. The windows on the sides could be used for taking photos, but if someone outside peered in it looked as if the van were empty, a projected image showing on the glass.

The general had agreed to speak with Swiss, although it had taken Tom ten minutes to convince him that he wouldn’t do anything afterwards that would ruin his career in the DS or leave himself open to a federal rap, or worse. He’d also agreed to wear a microphone hidden in a fountain pen. Tom had figured this would be their only chance to get Swiss talking, and, if anything went wrong with Lester’s clandestine equipment, he wanted a back-up.

Five minutes later, Swiss’s gold-coloured Range Rover with tinted windows appeared on the asphalt roadway and moved towards the general at a sedate pace. He didn’t look up, just continued to feed the ducks. Tom had never known any details of what his father did, except that when he’d seen him as a late teenager he was always in uniform. He’d supposed he was regular military. But after he’d qualified as a special agent, he’d gotten the impression that his father’s past was more complicated, although he never talked about his work, or anything else in his life for that matter. He was the most secretive man Tom had ever known. Like Crane, he was an enigma. Tom had gotten the idea that his father worked in intelligence after he’d found three passports in his suitcase when he’d visited him in DC one summer.

“We’re on,” Karen said.

The car stopped about three metres from the riverbank and Swiss and two bodyguards got out, the same pair who had been at the warehouse. The Eastern European woman and the meathead. The general didn’t turn around. Swiss, flanked by his bodyguards, walked over to him and stood behind his right shoulder.

“Appreciate you coming,” the general said. He gestured to the ducks. “The thing about ducks is, they’re all controlled up top, but underneath they’re paddling like crazy. Least when they see something that’ll fill their bellies. And it don’t matter who’s feeding them, they see food, they just go for it.”

“You said it was an urgent matter of national security.”

“The weeding out of people who threaten the stability of government is always an urgent matter of national security, Mr Swiss. Or should be, even for people who weren’t born here.”

“Is that a slight?” Swiss asked.

“A slight?”

“Because I was born French and became a US citizen.”

“The truth is, we’re all immigrants of different degrees here. But the one thing that binds all Americans, or most of us, I like to think, is an allegiance to the Constitution. A belief, too, that despite our frailties, of which there are many, we stand for something good and positive in the world. It maybe old-fashioned, and God knows we’ve sinned, but there’s still something about the freshness of the air that makes people from all over want to breathe it.”

“What did you want to see me about?” Swiss asked, his tone agitated.

“You can tell your people to step back some. Then we can talk.”

Swiss waved away the bodyguards like some ancient warlord.

“The CIA has been up to no good. Now I know a man with your credentials is aware that they’ve been up to no good for some considerable time, despite saving our asses from God knows how many 9/11s. But they’ve overstepped the mark.”

Back in the van, Karen adjusted the monitoring devices for greater clarity as Tom studied every move both men made.

“And how have they done that?” Swiss asked.

“They’re planning to utilize the situation in Pakistan to their own advantage. Their budget, like the military budget, is to be cut massively. Like a smack in the face with a catfish, as my daddy used to say. But we have information that implicates them in the abduction of the Secretary of State.”

The general put his hand into the bag and scattered the bread, as if he were sowing seeds. The ducks squabbled with one another as ducks did, without any real aggression or damage being done. Swiss looked around. He motioned with his hand again, and the bodyguards started to move towards the lot.

In the van, Karen said, “Look, Swiss’s finger is tapping his thigh. He didn’t expect that. He’s worried.”

“I thought you were a communications expert,” Tom said. He knew it was a subtle movement that only a trained operative could have picked up, something he’d been taught during his surveillance training.

“All forms of communications,” Lester said. “That’s what your résumé said, right?”

“Of course. I can lip-read and sign, too,” she said.

“Okay, okay,” Tom said, still transfixed by the monitor.

After the pause, Swiss said, “That’s absurd.”

“That’s a fair comment, but it is a fact,” the general said.

“You said we.”

“Patriots, Mr Swiss. Those who believe folks still got a right to breathe fresh air, despite everything that’s gone on in the last decade or more.”

“And why would the CIA do such a thing?”

“Like all people who fear their power is waning, they have to make themselves seem indispensable. They need a new enemy. They want the secretary to be the proverbial sacrificial lamb. They want to stir it up and make the Leopards and their Iran backers the new supreme bad guys, so that another war don’t seem farfetched no more. The ongoing uprisings in the Middle East, the build-up of the Chinese military, the North Koreans, and the al-Qaeda-backed insurgents in West Africa are all genuine security problems, but they won’t spark another war. They always have to have a supreme bad guy, else they can’t justify the billions they spend. Close to ten billion at the last count,” the general said, still facing straight ahead. “The ugly death of the US Secretary of State will give them what they want.”

“Even if I bought all this, which I don’t, what do you think I can do about it?”

“I’m sorry you think that way, Mr Swiss.”

“Okay, let’s assume for the purposes of this conversation I do believe it.”

“You father’s lying, right?” Lester said.

“He is,” Tom said, frowning. “Check on the bodyguards.”

“You have a vested interest in a war with Iran, Mr Swiss. You, no doubt, would supply the weapons. It’s no secret that corporations like yours saw their stock rise fourfold during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Like brokers, you make money irrespective of whether your customers win or lose.”

“And, General?”

“When the secretary dies, as we all know she will, we want you to do your patriotic duty.”

“Which is?” Swiss asked.

“We’ll tell you how when the time comes. For now, just keep paddling beneath the surface and remain calm up top.”

“So you suspect me of something?”

“Did I say that?”

“I must tell you that I have served this country for years, given jobs to thousands of people. Jobs with benefits the state couldn’t match in a hundred years. None of my retired workers have to queue for free healthcare or pump gas because their pensions don’t meet the bills.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” the general said, stuffing his plastic bag of bread into his overcoat. “You know, Mr Swiss, we live in very dangerous times. We never know what’ll happen next. We’ll speak again.”

And with that the general turned and began to walk in the direction of the Pentagon, leaving Swiss standing there, shaking his head at the ducks.

“I like it, but what the hell was that all about?” Lester said.

“Get a man confused and twitchy and he makes mistakes,” Tom said.

This was Tom’s plan. His father wasn’t exactly a model parent, but he was good at making someone feel nervous without pointing a gun at their head. Tom figured Swiss would be jumpy already after he’d told him about Hasni at the warehouse. Swiss had killed Hawks on the strength of it, after all. He just hoped that this little scene wouldn’t push the man completely over the edge.

The car ride had gone on for another forty minutes or so. Khan guessed he was in some ISI-owned house, deep in the valleys. But the dimly lit room might as well have been anywhere in Pakistan. The ISI had numerous torture centres, most of which were not in their official buildings, and didn’t show up on any government paperwork. To all but a very few people, their whereabouts were unknown. Officially, they didn’t exist, just as the black sites around the world Khan had sent over thirty Pakistani men to as a result of the information he’d given to the CIA didn’t exist. It was the way of things, the path he’d chosen; and now it was payback time.

He was naked and tied to a wooden chair, blood oozing from a large gash above his right eye where the torturer had punched him with a brass knuckleduster. He spat more blood from his mouth, and felt the jagged edges of broken front incisors with his tongue. The man was old-school, preferring scalpels and dental pliers to serums or electric shocks. He had them laid out on a wooden table in front of him; all part of the vicious game. He was jowly and heavily lined, with an obvious pot belly. He had a bad comb-over and a wispy moustache, like that of a teenage boy. He wore only khaki pants and a sweat-stained white undershirt.

Khan trembled involuntarily. But he hadn’t been asked any questions as yet.

Apart from the torturer, two ISI operatives and a man operating a recording device, Brigadier Hasni now entered the room and stood roughly four metres away. Out of range of flying blood, but close enough to study the contorted face and hear Khan moan.

Khan worried why Hasni had arrived. The man had been a torturer in his time and was good at it by all accounts. But why do it yourself when there were others to do it for you? There were myriad other things in life more pleasurable, except for a sadist. But he knew that Hasni wasn’t one; it had been his duty, he supposed. Besides, he knew that sadists made bad torturers. They lacked the empathy that was necessary to obtain a confession or information. If a victim merely thought the torturer was getting off on the experience, he or she would simply blurt out anything early on, or even before they experienced any pain. And there would be no way they’d shift from that initial position.

The man pulled off the bloodstained knuckleduster, keeping his black leather glove intact. He stretched his back, clearly tired by his physical exertions. He picked up a length of lead pipe from the table and waved it before Khan’s eyes. He could see it clearly, because the man did not like to strike the eyes and had been fastidious to avoid them. The eyes don’t lie, he thought. They betray, but they do not lie. He watched the man twiddle the pipe in his hand before looking at it with what appeared to be a degree of disdain. What could he do with it? Khan thought. Knock me out. Break my toes or kneecaps. It was crude, even for him. As if sensing this, the man placed it back down and lifted up the pliers. This was a different matter, and Khan winced at the thought of it.
The teeth
, the ISI operatives in the car had said,
he likes the teeth
.

“Wait,” Hasni said, holding up his hand.

Khan saw Hasni walk over to him, stopping by his side. He bent over and whispered, “I know it was you, Khan. You told the Americans where she was, didn’t you?”

Dear God, Khan thought. He knows. But how does he know? He’d only relayed the whereabouts of the US Secretary of State to one person. His CIA handler.

Hasni straightened up and move backwards a few steps. “You have no children.”

Khan shook his head. “No.”

“A man without children is like a car without an engine. What’s the point?”

Mahmood, Hasni’s son, Khan thought. He knows everything.

“Ah,” said Hasni. “Right there, just a flicker. You’ve got it, haven’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Khan said, weakly.

“Oh, yes. Yes, you do. You told the American about my son.”

He felt utterly hopeless. But what he did now know was that he was being tortured for Hasni’s revenge. This wasn’t about how long he would take to break, or what needed to be reduced to raw meat, twisted, mangled, shredded or smashed beyond repair. There was no breaking point applicable, no sense of rationality to the concept of breaking in time. And he began to weep, knowing that no truth, no piece of intel or name would be an antidote for the pain that would be visited upon him.

Hasni walked over to the far corner of the room, which was a dark recess. He stopped and began to talk with someone who was hidden there. When he saw the man come out of the shadows, Khan gasped, the intake of air causing intense pain in his broken teeth as it raced over the exposed nerves. He shook his head, both in disbelief and to relieve the pain, but mostly because he could not believe it. He was dead. Of that there was no doubt now.

The man standing a little way out of the shadows, a metre from Brigadier Hasni, was his CIA handler. Dan Crane.