The Survivor (40 page)

“The traffic’s not too bad right now, but the farther we go, the worse it’s
going to get. President Chutani’s dinner for Sunny Wicka is tonight and they’ve got everything around the presidential palace blocked off.”

“You heard me.”

“Is there anything I need to know?”

“No.”

Rapp inserted an earpiece and dialed Kennedy on a secure sat phone. Not surprisingly, she picked up on the first ring.

“Are you on the ground?”

“Yeah.”

“Time’s tight, Mitch. We’re less than an hour from the start of the dinner.”

True to Drake’s word, traffic was getting worse. A flatbed teetering with bales of cotton cut them off, forcing the station chief to slam on the BMW’s brakes. The gap that opened between them and the back of the truck was immediately filled with motor scooters. The cause of the jam was just ahead and hard to miss—a tank parked sideways in the road.

Beyond, Rapp could see the massive, bunkerlike presidential palace illuminated with colored spotlights. A single limousine was gliding toward a set of barricades guarded by a group of soldiers. Other vehicles trailed at intervals designed to limit damage from a potential attack.

“We’re approaching the palace now,” Rapp said. “It doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to get the car close, though.”

Drake gave him an inquisitive look and Rapp pointed left. They diverted onto a narrower street but soon found themselves stopped in a sea of blaring horns.

“Do you have a plan to get in?” Kennedy asked.

The truth was that he still didn’t. He had no intel on Pakistani security, no layout for the building, and no guest list. Even the event schedule he had was just something pulled off a Pakistani news site. Not exactly something he wanted to bet his life on.

“I’m still working on that,” he said, feeling around on the floorboard for the electric razor Drake brought.

“They have tanks,”
Coleman said loud enough for her to hear. “Tanks are usually not a good sign.”

Rapp started into his beard with the clippers, debating whether to leave the mustache favored by ISI men. His skin wasn’t quite dark enough to pass, but he might be able to create a second of hesitation on the part of anyone lining up on him. In the end, he decided against it and went with the clean-shaven look of the Secret Service.

“Then I think I have some good news for you,” Kennedy said. “Guess who’s consulting on the security for Sunny’s delegation.”

“I’m not in the mood for games, Irene.”

“Jack Warch.”

Rapp stopped the razor midway through his chin. Warch was a former Secret Service executive who had started a private security firm a few years back. He was a solid man and a good friend. More important, he owed Rapp his life.

“With all the instability in Pakistan, the government decided to bring Jack in to stress-test the Secret Service’s protocols,” Kennedy said.

“No, our luck’s even better than that,” Rapp responded. “If Jack’s here, he’s not doing stress tests. He’s in charge. No one at Secret Service is going to question him and no one will have the guts to do anything but exactly what he tells them.”

“I suspect you’re right. I spoke to him earlier and he seems to have a solid handle on things.”

“Our chances of pulling this off just went from zero to ten percent. Did you tell him what’s happening?”

“I thought you’d prefer to do that yourself. He’s going to meet you outside the pedestrian gate on the palace’s north side. But he’s not happy about it.”

“He’s never happy.”

“Like you.”

Rapp ignored the jab. “Does Sunny know?”

“No. She’s not the target and we can’t afford to have her looking nervous.”

“Understood.”

“You haven’t
told me if you were able to get Gadai to talk.”

“He talked.”

“So you know Taj’s plan?”

“Unless he was lying.”

“Do you think he was?”

“Sixty–forty not.”

“Where is he now?”

“Dead.”

“Dead?” The pitch of her voice rose perceptibly. “What do you mean, dead? What happened?”

“It was part of our agreement.”

There was a brief silence over the line. “We’ll discuss that later.”

“Have you talked to President Alexander?”

“I got off the phone with him ten minutes ago.”

“And?”

“He wants to have the banquet canceled and tell Chutani what we know. Let him deal with Taj.”

“That’s going to leave Chutani with the files.”

“In his mind, that’s an acceptable compromise.”

“If Alexander believes the president of Pakistan won’t sell us down the river the second it’s in his best interest, he’s nuts. And even if Chutani were the Boy Scout we know he’s not, are we sure he can keep that data under wraps? What happens when some ISI mole gets his hands on it? Or one of the eight hundred terrorist groups operating here? What happens when there’s another coup?”

“My argument to him exactly.”

“And?”

“He’s given us authorization to assess the situation. But under no circumstances are you to act without his express authorization.”

“What’s that? You’re breaking up.”

“I thought I might be.”

“So I deal with Taj. Tonight.”

“Neither of us is naïve
about these kinds of situations, Mitch. If it all goes right, our sins will be forgiven. If it goes wrong . . .”

She didn’t have to finish the thought. Her expectation was that she would take the political bullet and he would disappear to the far corners of the earth. The world’s governments would try to find him, of course, but he knew most of the people they’d send. Some would put on a show and cash their expense checks, but none would be stupid enough to succeed.

Rapp dropped the razor on the floorboard and brushed the hair off his suit. He’d already made his decision. If he could get this done without exposing his involvement, he would. But if the only option was to beat Taj to death while his security detail emptied their guns into him, that’s the way it would have to be.

One way or another, Ahmed Taj wasn’t going to see the sun rise.

A
HMED
Taj extricated himself from a conversation with two of Pakistan’s members of parliament and walked toward the center of the room. A uniformed waiter offered a tray of Obaid Marri’s tiny creations and Taj took one. He assumed that the other guests would find it exquisite but he had never seen food as anything more than sustenance.

President Saad Chutani was holding court on the south side of the hall, laughing easily with the American secretary of state. His wife stood next to him wearing an immodest Western dress and holding a glass of wine produced locally by another of Pakistan’s anti-Islamic economic initiatives.

It was a display that made Taj wonder even more about the politician. Until that night, he had seen Chutani as the West’s puppet—an ultimately weak man desperate to prove himself to his masters. Now, though, Taj’s eyes were open. Chutani wasn’t playing a role to ingratiate himself with the Americans. He was one of them. It was his identity as a Pakistani and a Muslim that was a lie.

Predictably, Carl Ferris was at the bar. Despite having only recently arrived, his gait was already a bit unsteady. Not surprising. Taj’s people
reported that the American senator had consumed a quarter of a bottle of scotch in his hotel suite.

Ferris started in his direction, but Taj scanned past him at the room itself. Soon it would be his. The presidential palace would become the center of modern Islam and a base for spreading sharia law throughout the world. All while the Americans watched helplessly.

Chef Marri appeared in the kitchen doorway and surveyed the growing crowd, looking understandably nervous. He was carrying the poison Taj had given him hidden on his person. It was not the -exotic toxin Taj had originally planned to use in order to further implicate the Americans. Instead he’d chosen a mix of common compounds that would generate a much more sensational and horrifying death for the traitor Chutani. A death that would stir the rage and nationalism of even Pakistan’s growing secular elite.

“Ahmed!” Ferris said as he came within earshot. “Nice party.”

Taj smiled warmly as they shook hands. “I’m glad you approve.”

“And I have to say that the security is impressive. They can’t even keep people from climbing over the White House fence in my country.”

He was speaking loudly enough to be overheard by people around them and Taj made sure his response was sufficiently diplomatic. “Your Secret Service is to be given a great deal of credit for what you see, Senator. My men have felt privileged to work with them.”

Ferris frowned and looked around him at the dark-suited men blending in near the walls. Most were American, with much of the Pakistani detail doubling as waitstaff. Jack Warch, the consultant who had been so much trouble, was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Gadai had overestimated the man’s diligence.

“At least you don’t have to deal with the CIA. I’m telling you, it’s one screwup after another. We could use a man like you to straighten it out.”

Implausibly, the idiot’s voice had grown even louder. A man and woman Taj didn’t recognize glanced inquisitively in their direction. Ferris was unquestionably a destructive force, but there was no telling from one moment to another what kind. Taj had hoped to use him as a
scalpel to slowly slice at America’s heart. Based on his recent behavior, though, his destiny might be more as an indiscriminate bludgeon. Less effective, but still blessedly ruinous if enough force was applied.

“The world has become a complex and chaotic place, Senator. I’m glad to be heading a much more modest organization. I wouldn’t want to be in Director Kennedy’s position.”

“Too bad,” Ferris said, swilling his drink. “Because if I have anything to do with it, there’ll be a job opening soon.”

Taj put a hand of Ferris’s back and nudged him toward the knot of people surrounding Sunny Wicka and the president. “I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting your secretary of state. Perhaps you would introduce us.”

“Sure. Why not?”

“You go ahead, Senator. I’ll be there in a moment.”

Ferris forced himself into the group and immediately hijacked the conversation while Taj found the head of Pakistan’s security detail. “Rearrange the place cards so Ferris is next to me.”

The man nodded and Taj returned to the senator’s side. He would have to keep a close watch on the man while he was in Pakistan. It would be impossible to deliver this half-wit to the White House if he couldn’t get through a simple state dinner without compromising himself.

T
HE
Secret Service man was waiting in the shadows of a well-manicured stand of trees. Five hundred yards beyond, the presidential palace was lit up in yellow, green, and white. Pakistani special forces were everywhere, clad in dress uniforms but armed with automatic weapons that were in no way ceremonial. In addition to the tank Rapp had seen earlier, there were no fewer than five armored vehicles within view—three of which had mounted guns.

“I’ve been told to take you to the side gate,” the man said. Rapp didn’t recognize him but the young agent’s nervousness suggested he knew exactly who he was dealing with. Coleman and Rapp followed along, keeping their heads down and managing not to attract any attention. Just two more Americans in dark suits patrolling the area.

Rapp studied the security in the palace courtyard as they skirted the fence. It was understated in an effort to seem welcoming to Sunny Wicka’s delegation, but still solid. The fence itself was only about six feet tall, with bars eight inches apart. Easily climbable, but with the firepower in the area, it was unlikely that anyone trying would still be recognizable as human when they hit the ground on the other side.

They found Jack Warch standing with his back against the bars,
scanning the area in a calculated pattern. The retired Secret Service -assistant director would have to be close to sixty now, Rapp knew. Backlit the way he was, fine details were impossible to pick out, but it was obvious he had a lot less hair and a lot more midsection than he’d had during his days protecting the president.

“The private sector’s made you fat,” Rapp said as they approached. Their escort peeled off and headed for the main gate without a word.

“And the Agency’s made you crazy if you think you’re just waltzing into my operation like this. Bad things happen when you’re around, Mitch.”

No one shook hands. It might seem suspicious to anyone watching. Warch did give a nod to Coleman, though. They’d known each other for years.

“Chutani’s going to be poisoned,” Rapp said simply.

Warch remained silent for a moment, processing what he’d just heard. “How do you know?”

“I know.”

“Who’s making the move?”

“Taj.”

Warch’s expression turned skeptical. “My ass. He can barely get out of his own way. That’s why Chutani put him in as head of the ISI.”

Rapp just stared at him.

“All right. Fine. I only have authority over U.S. security but I’ll talk to my counterpart on the Pakistani side. I’m not sure he trusts me but he’ll listen to a potential threat. Do you know how it’s going to go down?”

“I might.”

“Give me the details then. That should help.”

“We’re not getting him involved, Jack. You and I are going to handle this.”

“Yeah, Irene told me you’d say something like that. Listen, Mitch. Security is wall-to-wall and there’s a lot of tension on both sides. Basically, you’ve got a powder keg ready to go off, and what I don’t need is you going in there throwing matches.”

“I’ve
always liked and respected you, Jack, but right now I don’t care what you think. Get me inside. And do it now.”

Warch hesitated for a moment and then reached into his pocket. Rapp assumed the man wouldn’t do anything stupid but crossed his arms in a way that brought his hand closer to his weapon inside his jacket. There was too much at stake to take chances.

When the former Secret Service man’s hand reappeared, it held a laminated badge. “This guy looks as much like you as anyone I have. I’ve pulled him and you’re going to take his place.” He glanced at Coleman. “I’m sorry, Scott. You’d stand out like a sore thumb in there. I don’t have any blond guys.”