Rehan almost stood and left the room. He was about to do just that, but Murshidov kept talking. The old man appeared to be nearly in a trance, unconcerned about the impropriety of the words that came from his mouth.
“I know that you wish to give the bombs to an organization outside of Pakistan. When you do this, when the world learns nuclear weapons have been stolen, then your weak civilian government will fall, and you will take power in a coup. My men, general, can take your bombs.”
Now Rehan forced a laugh. “I do not have any bombs. And if I did have them, I would not need your men. I respect you, old man. I respect your sacrifice and your submission to Allah, and the wisdom you have gained just by virtue of being old. But you come here to my home and say things like this?”
“We have a need for the bombs. And we are not afraid.”
Rehan stood now. Angry and tired of the old man from Russia. “What bombs? What bombs are you talking about? Yes, my country has nuclear weapons. This is common knowledge. They were designed and manufactured under the direction of A. Q. Khan, a Pakistani patriot and a good Muslim. But I am a general in the Army and a member of external intelligence. I cannot just back a truck up to a warehouse and ask the men there to load nuclear missiles into the bed of the truck. That is foolishness!”
Murshidov looked at Rehan through his cataract-clouded eyes. “Your plan has been explained to me in great detail. It is remarkable, and it can work. But you have failed in one respect. You made your offer to the wrong people. The others you invited into your scheme have refused you, and now you can do nothing. I am here to show you that Jamaat Shariat is the right path for you. We will help you, and you will help us.”
Rehan looked to Khan. Khan shrugged. What the hell.
General Rehan sat back down on the sofa. “You think you know things that are not true, old man. But you make me curious. What will you and your poor mountain men do with nuclear bombs?”
Murshidov’s glassy eyes seemed to clear suddenly. He smiled, exposing thin, brittle teeth. “I will tell you exactly what we will do with nuclear bombs.”
Ninety minutes later, Rehan rushed toward the helipad behind his house and leapt into his Eurocopter EC135. The aircraft’s rotors were already turning, their pitch increased as soon as the door was locked, and in seconds the helo lifted over the house, dipped a little as it headed out over the gulf, then banked toward the incredible skyline of Dubai.
Khan sat next to him in the back of the six-seat chopper. The colonel spoke into his headset, told his general that he had made the secure satellite connection with Islamabad, and Rehan need only speak into his microphone. “Listen to me, brother,” Rehan said, nearly frantic with excitement. “I am leaving now for Volgograd.” He listened. “Russia. Yes, Russia!”
The Eurocopter headed toward the skyscrapers of downtown Dubai. Just on the other side of these was Dubai International Airport. There, the crew of a Rockwell Sabr Rocopeliner jet was scrambling to prepare their aircraft for immediate flight.
“I will know by tomorrow, but I think we are in position to begin Operation Saker. Yes. Get everyone ready to move at a moment’s notice. I will come to Rawalpindi and brief the committee myself just as soon as I am finished.” He listened to the other man for a moment, and then said, “One more thing. Last month I met a contingent of four Chechens in Grozny. I want you to draw up a plan to eliminate these four men, quickly and quietly. One of them talks too much. I am glad he did it in this instance, but I cannot have him talking to others. I want them all out of the way to make certain that we plug this leak before all the water passes through the dam.”
Rehan nodded to his second-in-command, and Khan then disconnected the call.
“It is too much to wish for?” Rehan asked Khan.
“Allah is good, General.”
Brigadier General Riaz Rehan smiled, and he willed his helicopter to fly faster, because he had no time to waste.
If all the polls in America were correct, then Jack Ryan would be President of the United States again soon, and once Ryan was back in the White House, Operation Saker would not stand a chance.
27
Charles Sumner Alden, deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency, sat in the back of a Lincoln Town Car that rolled through the gates of the Newport, Rhode Island, estate of Paul Laska. The DD/CIA was dressed for dinner but hoped this evening would involve business as well as pleasure.
He’d been to Laska’s Rhode Island home on several occasions. A lovely garden wedding for a Democratic Congressman, a fund-raiser for Ed Kealty’s run against Robby Jackson, highbrow cookouts and pool parties, and a Christmas soirée a few years back. But when Laska called him and invited him for dinner tonight, the old man made it plain it was to be just the two of them.
This was a big deal, even to a political insider like Charles Sumner Alden.
Alden assumed — no, he knew — that he was going to be offered a position in one of Laska’s think tanks, contingent on the obvious: that the Kealty administration would cease to exist on January 20 of next year.
The Lincoln drove through the beautiful garden and parked in a parking circle next to the house, overlooking the water. The perimeter of the grounds was patrolled by armed security, and every inch of the property was wired with cameras, security lighting, and motion sensors. Alden’s driver and bodyguard were armed, of course, but no one expected trouble here worse than the DD/CIA potentially burning the roof of his mouth on the lobster bisque.
Alden and Laska were served drinks in the library by the staff, and then they dined on a windowed back terrace that sheltered them from the cold air but still gave them a great moonlight vista over Sheep Point Cove. The conversation never strayed from financial matters, politics, and social issues. Alden knew enough about Laska to realize there would be little in the way of lighthearted banter. But it was a good conversation between men who were in general agreement with each other, enhanced somewhat by a gentle dose of Charles Alden’s ass-kissing of his presumed future employer.
After dinner they walked out back for a moment, sipping Cognac and discussing events in Hungary and Russia and Turkey and Latvia. Alden felt he was being tested on his knowledge and his views, and he did not mind. This was a job interview, or so he’d told himself.
They moved to the library. Alden commented on the man’s great collection of leather-bound tomes, and as they sat across from each other on antique leather sofas, the CIA political appointee praised the magnificent home. Laska shrugged, explained to the younger man that this was his summer cottage, or at least that’s what he called it in front of those with whom he did not keep up the façade of being a populist. He told Alden that he also owned a twenty-two-room penthouse apartment on New York’s Upper West Side, a beach house on Santa Barbara that was the largest in the county and one of the largest oceanfront properties in California, as well as a lodge in Aspen, which was the site of an annual political retreat that hosted four hundred.
Alden had been to the Aspen retreat, twice, but he did not want to embarrass his host by reminding him of this.
Laska refilled both men’s snifters with another splash of impeccable Denis-Mounié Cognac from the 1930s. “Any idea why I’ve asked you here today, Charles?”
Alden smiled, cocked his head. “I’m hoping it’s about a position, should President Kealty fail to win reelection.”
Laska looked above the eyeglasses resting low on his nose. He smiled. “I’d be proud to have you come aboard. I can think of a couple of key spots right off the top of my head where we could use you.”