The meeting broke up soon after, but Hendley and Granger asked Driscoll to stay behind for a moment. “You good with this?” Granger asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Go on down to the support desk and draw your docs, cards, and cash.” Granger shook Driscoll’s hand and said, “Listen. I’m not going to tell you anything you don’t know here, but Peshawar is a dangerous place, and getting more dangerous by the day. I want your head on a swivel twenty-four /seven, okay?”
No, Sam Granger wasn’t telling Sam Driscoll anything he didn’t know, but he appreciated the concern. “We’re on the same page, boss. Last time I took a little vacation in Pakistan, the shit hit the fan. That’s not something I’m looking to repeat this go-around.”
Driscoll had gone over the border more than a year earlier, and he’d come back with a serious wound to his shoulder and a series of letters to write to the parents of his men who did not make it back.
Granger nodded thoughtfully. “If there is a coup being planned by the ISI, too much digging around by an American is going to draw a lot of attention. Debrief Embling and his asset, an then come on back. Okay?”
“Sounds good to me,” said Sam.
26
Brigadier General Riaz Rehan of the Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous Division of Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence Directorate cut an impressive figure in the back of his silver Mercedes sedan. A lean and healthy forty-six years old, Rehan was nearly six-two, and his round face was adorned with an impressive mustache and a trim beard. He wore his military uniform on most occasions when he was in Pakistan and he looked intimidating in it, but here in Dubai he looked no less powerful, dressed in his Western business suit and regimental tie.
Rehan’s property here was a walled two-story luxury garden villa with four bedrooms and a large pool house. It sat at the end of a long curved road on Palm Jumeirah, one of five man-made archipelagos off the coast of Dubai.
Coastal property in Dubai used to be markedly scarcer, as nature blessed the Emirate with only thirty-seven miles of beaches, but the leader of Dubai did not see the geographical realities of his nation as geographical boundaries, so he began crafting his own changes to their coastline through the reclamation of land from the sea. When the five planned archipelagos were completed, more than five hundred fifty miles of coast would be added to the nation.
As General Rehan’s luxury vehicle turned onto al Khisab, a residential road of stately homes that also, when viewed from high altitude, served as the top-left frond of a palm-tree-shaped man-made island, Rehan took a call on his mobile. The caller was his second-in-command, Colonel Saddiq Khan.
“Good morning, Colonel.”
“Good morning, General. The old man from Dagestan is here now.”
“Extend my apologies for the delay. I will be there in minutes. What is he like?”
“He is like my crazy old grandfather.”
“How do you know he does not speak Urdu?”
Khan laughed. “He is in the main dining room. I am upstairs. But I doubt he speaks Urdu.”
“Very well, Saddiq. I will meet with him and then send him on his way. I have too much to do to listen to an old man from the mountains of Russia yell at me.”
Rehan hung up and looked at his watch. His Mercedes slowed on the small street to let a car from the protection detail that had been following it pass and rush ahead to the house.
Rehan always traveled abroad with a security detail one dozen strong. They were all ex-Special Services Group commandos, specially trained for bodyguard work by a South African firm. Still, even with this large entourage, Rehan found a way to move in a relatively low-profile manner. He ordered his men to not pack his car with bodies; instead his driver and his lead personal protection agent rode with him, just three men in his SUV. The other ten normally stayed with them in traffic, moving around them like spokes to a hub in their unmarked and unarmored sedans.
A general in the Pakistani Defense Force, even one seconded to the Directorate of Inter-Services Intelligence, would not normally operate from a safe house abroad, especially one with an address as opulent as Palm Jumeirah, Dubai, United Arab Emirates.
But there was nothing about the life or career of Riaz Rehan that could, in any conceivable way, be considered normal. He lived and worked at the property in Palm Island because he had wealthy benefactors in the Persian Gulf who had supported him since the 1980s, and he had these benefactors because, for thirty years, Riaz Rehan had been something of a wunderkind in the world of terrorist operations.
Rehan was born in Punjab, Pakistan, to a Kashmiri mother and an Afghan father. His father ran a midsized trucking concern in Pakistan, but he was also a devoted Islamist. In 1980, shortly after Russian Spetsnaz soldiers parachuted into Kabul and Russian ground troops rolled in to begin their occupation of Afghanistan, fourteen-year-old Riaz traveled with his father to Peshawar to help organize convoys to resupply the mujahideen fighting over the border. Rehan’s father used his own resources and personality to assemble a convoy of light weapons, rice, and medicine for the Afghan rebels. He left his son behind in Peshawar and set off to return to the country of his birth with his load.
Within days, Rehan’s father was dead, blown to bits during a Russian airstrike on his convoy in the Khyber Pass.
Young Riaz learned of his father’s death, and then he went to work. He organized, assembled, and led the next shipment of weapons over the border himself on a donkey caravan that bypassed the highway of death that the Khyber Pass had become, instead heading north over the mountains of the Hindu Kush into Afghanistan. It was only the hubris of the young and his faith in Allah that sent him through the mountains in February, but his caravan arrived unscathed. And although it delivered nothing more than old British Army Lee-Enfield rifles and winter blankets for the mujahideen, ISI leadership soon learned of the bold actions of the young boy.
By his third trip over the mountains, the ISI was helping him with intelligence on Russian forces in his area and within months powerful and wealthy Wahhabi Arabs from oil-rich Gulf States were footing the bill for his shipments.
By the time he was sixteen, Riaz was leading huge convoys with Kalashnikov rifles and 7.62 ammunition over the border to the rebels, and by 1986, when the American CIA delivered the first lot of shoulder-fired Stinger missiles to Peshawar to the ISI, the ISI entrusted the twenty-year-old operative from Kashmir with getting the high-tech weapons over the border and into the hands of the missile crews who’d already been trained and were now just waiting for their launchers.
By the time the war ended, the ISI had Rehan pegged as a prime candidate to be a top-flight international operative, so they sent him to school in Saudi Arabia to improve his Arabic, and then to London to properly Westernize himself and study engineering. After London he joined the Pakistani Defense Force’s officer corps, rose to the rank of captain, and then left the military to become an agent of, but not an employee of, the ISI.
Rehan was used by Pakistani intelligence for recruiting, organizing, and orchestrating the operations of the smaller terror groups active on Pakistani soil. He served as something of a liaison between ISI leadership and the criminal and ideological groups who fought against India, the West at large, and even Pakistan’s own secular government.