And that was not far from wrong. A smile formed on the man’s face, just a hint at first, but by the time he reached Quinn, it had turned into a full-blown grin. The slender Pakistani embraced him in a full hug, grabbing both shoulders and then stepping back to give him a once-over.
“It has been too long,” the man said.
“It has.” Quinn smiled, glancing at Thibodaux.
“Jacques,” he said. “I’d like you to meet Wing Commander Mandeep Gola of the Pakistan Air Force.”
Thibodaux grinned, extending his hand. “I’ll bet you have some juicy stories to share.”
“Apart from the one of him nearly killing me in front of my parents?” Mandeep gave a deep belly laugh. He steered Quinn and Thibodaux out of earshot of his men. “As a matter of fact, I do know some interesting tales.” His words clicked with heavily punctuated Pakistani English. “But I am afraid we must save the best ones for another time. My superiors report that the escaped brothers have killed a small contingent of military police on the road between Gilgit and Chitral.”
Quinn nodded, picturing a map of Pakistan in his mind. “The Fengs were thought to have ties with al Qaeda cells operating out of some caves in Waziristan and even more across the border. You think they could be heading for Afghanistan?”
Mandeep smoothed his great mustache with a thumb and forefinger and sighed. “Many in my government believe just that. Or at least they say they believe so. But reports also say the security at Dera Ismail Khan prison was extremely tight. I have it on good authority that half the guard force had called in ill the night of the escape.” He shrugged. “It took the help of someone with power and connections to ensure their escape in the first place. I see no reason those same powerful and connected entities would not work to deceive everyone regarding their direction of travel.”
“Even killing their own guys,” Thibodaux muttered, disgusted, but not really surprised. “That’s messed up.”
“Indeed,” Gola said. “These killers have ties to Kashgar and my gut tells me that is the way they have gone.” He smiled at Quinn. “Do you still trust in your gut, the way you did at the Academy?”
“I do,” Quinn said. Even as a child growing up in Alaska, he’d learned that no matter what you called it, sixth sense, instinct, or a gut feeling — life offered subtle clues that only the subconscious could read. The Japanese called it haragei—art of the belly — and it was the foolish person that did not listen to it.
“There is a good chance that they have already crossed the Khunjareb into China,” Mandeep continued. “My government has set up a task force and the foreign ministry is working with Beijing for permission to send investigators into China.”
“Politicians,” Thibodaux scoffed. “How’s that working out?”
“As one might expect, I am afraid.” Mandeep smoothed his mustache in thought. “But at my lowly level, I maintain certain connections that help me circumvent such political entanglements. The Feng brothers’ escape has made Pakistan a laughingstock. I wish to see these terrorists captured at once and I do not care who does it.” He nodded toward his Alouette, brightening some. “My men will take custody of your prisoner. I’ve made arrangements to fly you across the border as far as Tashkurgen, where I meet with my counterpart in the PLA Air Force for a periodic lunch. I have taken the liberty of setting up ground transportation for you from there.” Mandeep put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “I know how much you like motorcycles, my friend, but was simply too rushed to find anything but a small van for you to use.”
It made sense that the Fengs would go to a familiar area to roost. And getting as far as Tashkurgen by air would cut their time to Kashgar in half. He hated missing the opportunity to interrogate Khalifa. Quinn suspected Qasim Ranjhani — a terrorist with ties to President Hartman Drake — was behind the Concordia massacre and Khalifa was their first real lead to where he might be hiding.
The jihadist appeared to read Quinn’s mind and looked up with a sneer from where he sat beside the Alouette’s strut. “I am a man of no consequence,” he mumbled in a voice much higher than Quinn had expected, as if reading from a prepared script. “You and your kind are no more than dogs. Inshallah, we will cleanse the earth of infid—”
Mandeep Gola’s pistol seemed to leap into his hand. He spun and put two rounds into the jihadist’s face, obliterating Quinn’s chances of getting any information.
The wing commander holstered his pistol with an exhausted groan. “We are already familiar with Abu Khalifa’s ties to the Taliban. He is one of fifteen men responsible for the murder of the children of my friends. Such a man’s absence from the earth is far more beneficial than any questionable intelligence he might have provided.”
Two of the soldiers picked up the mutilated body and dragged it toward the other chopper. Mandeep shook his head as if to clear it from the killing. The broad smile crept back across his face as he looked at Quinn.
“Come,” he said, disappearing around the left side of the aircraft to give it a quick once-over before he climbed in. “We should be on our way.”
Ahead of Quinn on the Alouette’s boarding ladder, Thibodaux stopped to glance back at the second chopper where two of Mandeep Gola’s men zipped the mess that was Abu Khalifa into a body bag. A third Pakistani stood by with his rifle across his chest, staring back across the rocky terrain with a blank face.
The Cajun turned to Quinn.
“What do you think the odds are we find these Uyghur bastards without getting ourselves cooked in a Chinese pot?”
“Well,” Quinn said as they climbed into the helicopter, “the Feng brothers blew up a train before they were arrested, so everyone in the People’s Liberation Army who isn’t aiming missiles at the US will focus their resources on tracking them down. You’re practically AWOL, and I’m being hunted by every police organization known to mankind. Beyond that, we’re members of the United States military sneaking across the border of a country with which we are on the brink of war — out of uniform and with no official documents. That makes us spies in anybody’s book.”
“So…” Thibodaux winked his good eye. “You’re sayin’ we have a chance.”
“Yep.” Quinn buckled his harness and was pressed back in his seat as Mandeep added power to lift the Alouette off the gravel. He watched the glaciers and rock cliffs blur by the window of the chopper as they headed toward Khunjareb Pass — and wondered if the Chinese would bother to take him into custody, or put a pistol to his head and shoot him on sight. “I’d say our odds are outstanding.”
Chapter 4
Vice President Lee McKeon shooed his secretary out of his small West Wing office so he could take the incoming call. Nearing sixty, Natalie Romano had been with him since his days as governor of Oregon. Though she knew nothing of his true background and plans, she was savvy enough not to snoop in affairs that didn’t affect her directly. Had that not been the case, she would have been dead long before and that would have been a shame because good secretaries were difficult to find. She shut the door on her way out.
The cell in McKeon’s pocket was not connected to the administration and, as such, was less of a problem should one of the many bothersome anti-administration groups that were springing up in Congress want to subpoena records. Even the President did not know about this phone.
A self-proclaimed Chindian, the former governor of Oregon was actually of Chinese and Pakistani descent, adopted and raised by a couple named McKeon. He was a tall and lanky man, and his resemblance to Abraham Lincoln was not lost on the American public. His political opponents often described him as cadaverous. He found it impossible to fold his long legs under the desk for any length of time and had to push the chair away so he could stretch out as he answered the call.