So they came out of the mountains, surrounded by a ragged convoy of media vehicles that shielded them from the Americans’ hungry Predator drones and missiles. The caravan grew ever larger as it drove through the villages, trucks and automobiles and tractors, and they arrived in Islamabad as if leading a parade. Crowds jostled along the streets for a view of the famous guerrilla leader who would bring Pakistan back to its rightful position in the community of nations. Then, with his hand on Pakistan’s nuclear missiles, silent but ominous for now, he would have a guarantee that other countries would listen to him.
In the meeting room, the bearded leader was greeted as if he had already taken office. In his humble robes, he moved with ease among the rich supporters, the experienced political teams, and the powerful men who recognized the wave of the future and were clambering aboard his golden train. The conference was called to order by none other than General Nazam, who pledged his loyalty and spoke in glowing terms of young Selim Waleed, hailing him as a patriotic young man who had almost single-handedly transformed the Taliban into a legitimate political organization, the Bright Path Party, with the respected Muhammed Waleed as its presidential candidate.
The general hugged the smiling, bearded warlord as the international film crews buzzed around them. The audience erupted in sustained applause that shook the squares of the soundproofed ceiling. As arranged by Selim, General Nawaz then quietly departed from the platform and left the room so as not to distract any further from the attention being lavished upon Muhammed Waleed. Also on Selim’s instructions, the general was handling a final task of weakening the president’s personal protective services for the Istanbul conference by infiltrating men loyal to him into the inner security ranks. There was much work to do.
General Nawaz was back behind his desk within fifteen minutes, and he immediately placed a scrambled, secure call overseas. When a voice answered, Nawaz asked, “Football?”
“Soccer! Good to hear from you.” CIA Director Geneen was in a sealed communication cubicle adjacent to his office. He had been expecting the call.
“And you. By any chance are you watching television?”
“Why, yes, I am. One of the news channels.”
“Hold on for a second, would you, Football? I have to make another call. Will only take a moment.” General Nazam pulled open the right-hand drawer of his polished desk and picked up a cell phone. He dialed. The signal was received by a little phone, and the battery sparked a detonator embedded in blocks of plastic explosives that were hidden in the false ceiling directly above the speaker’s platform at the headquarters of the Bright Path Party just as Muhammed Waleed was making his acceptance address.
The general strolled to his large window and looked out over the city and saw a mushrooming cloud of smoke and debris rising into the afternoon sky. He went back to the phone. “Football? I fear that something terrible has happened that will be requiring my attention. It seems to be a car bomb or some such thing.”
“Yes, Soccer. I understand that you must tend to your duties.”
“Oh, before we go, I also mentioned our friend Jim Hall to the Turkish police handling the security for our president’s appearance tomorrow. They will deal with it. No trace of your company’s involvement.”
“Best of luck, my friend.”
Both men hung up at the same time. Waleed went back to his window to watch and heard the first sirens of the emergency responders heading toward the scene. In the United States, Bart Geneen made no notes about the brief conversation. He just smiled.
ISTANBUL
TURKEY
JIM HALL ALSO HAD been watching an all-news channel on television while building a bomb of his own. Wires, battery, detonator, and four powerful blocks of C-4 imbedded with hundreds of marbles were being fashioned into a makeshift claymore mine that he would place at the head of the president’s bed. A pressure switch would be stuffed into the mattress, and when the man lay down to sleep, the circuit would snap shut and the explosion would result. One of Selim’s henchmen on the security team was to allow him entrance to the room. He worked slowly and carefully.
The irritating little news banner crawling along the bottom of the CNN broadcast caught his attention.
NEW EXPLOSION ROCKS PAKISTAN… ISTANBUL POLITICAL MEETING TARGET… POLICE CLAIM TALIBAN LEADERSHIP KILLED… NEW EXPLOSION ROCKS PAKISTAN
Ten minutes later, a Turkish tactical police antiterrorist team rushed into the Four Seasons Hotel in Istanbul, sealed off an entire floor, and breached the door to a small suite. The bed was covered with the makings of a bomb, and explosives experts moved in to secure it.
Jim Hall was gone.
BERN
SWITZERLAND
KYLE AND LAUREN HAD spent much of the afternoon resting and making love in their hotel room and now lay beneath the light duvet. They had fallen asleep with her head on his arm and her free hand resting on his chest, registering his strong heartbeat. It was a struggle to come awake again and hit the shower, but Lauren’s appointment was at seven o’clock for dinner with the CIA assistant station chief who was driving in from Zurich to reinstate her to duty and return her credentials. Basically, the man was apologizing for the CIA’s hurried investigation, which had leaped to an incorrect conclusion about Agent Carson. Those words would never be spoken.
“What are you going to do while I’m at dinner?” she asked, clipping on a new set of earrings that she had bought earlier that day. Little silver bears.
“I’m going to do some more walking around, try to get a better feel for the area around the bank and check out how things look when it gets dark.”
“You never stop, do you?” She gave him a bright smile. “The Swiss Gestapo or Cheesemakers or whoever they are will handle this now, Kyle. We’re done except for pointing a finger at Jim when we see him tomorrow.”
“I’m concerned that they want to just catch him without firing a shot. It could still all go to hell.”
“Kyle, the Swiss guard the pope. They were Europe’s best mercenaries for hundreds of years. Trust them.”
“I do, but they don’t know Jim like we do. He will have a good plan, which is why I want you to get an armed CIA escort tonight. The assistant station chief can arrange that. Also he gives you a ride back to the hotel in a company car.”
“Yes, teacher. You know best, teacher. Anything you say, teacher.” She somehow smiled and frowned at the same time. “Tonight, I get my creds back and can start legally carrying a weapon again. I can take care of myself, Kyle. Don’t worry. I will be the one of us with a gun. C’mon.” She moved toward the door.
Swanson picked up his jacket and walked out behind her, locking the door. She waited beside the elevator, and when she turned to look at him, he was again struck by the beauty of the woman. From hair to eyes to toes, everything seemed to just fit her perfectly. He gave her a slight kiss and was scolded for risking the makeup job.
Downstairs, he led the way out of the elevator into the busy lobby, which had the look and feeling of normalcy. Two female clerks behind the front desk, a young couple talking with the woman concierge about affordable restaurants, a uniformed bellman pushing a handcart stacked with luggage. Then out the door, Kyle first, looking both ways. The front of their hotel was easy to identify, not because of its own signage, or the set of columns beside the door, but because some unhappy tagger had written YANKEE GO HOME in red paint on one of the cornerstones. Traffic was flowing smoothly, and he told the green-uniformed doorman to get a cab. Behind them, the young couple emerged, chattering in French, and waited their turn. A little Nova Taxi with its distinctive red sides and yellow top swung out of the flow and pulled to a stop.