“Nothing worthwhile, except he and the PM knew that I was CIA and considered me enough of a threat to have the ISI arrest and interrogate me.”
Fishbine glanced back at Pete, who was still asleep. “She said that you escaped.”
“Didn’t have much of a choice; they were going to kill me.”
“The Messiah beheaded the TTP’s mouthpiece and disappeared. And last I heard General Rajput was assassinated and the military took over. But the entire country is falling into civil war and India is doing some serious saber rattling. So what happens next? A nuclear exchange, maybe even all-out war?”
“That’ll probably depend on the Messiah.”
“What if the son of a bitch wanted this all along? What if he’s got a hard-on for all Pakis and just came over to stir the pot? He’s sitting somewhere safe now, sipping a mai tai, surrounded by beautiful naked women. His idea of Paradise. Fiddling while Rome burns.”
The thought was startling and it caught McGarvey somewhat off guard. “It might be just as simple as that, Mr. Secretary.”
“Well, we sure as hell aren’t going to put boots on the ground. I just hope that Miller has enough moxie to hold the Indians at bay, and that the Pakistani army can keep the remainder of their nukes out of the hands of the Taliban.”
“Four were taken from Quetta.”
“What?”
“Four tactical weapons, all of them mated, went missing from Quetta. One of them was detonated, leaves three at large, and almost certainly in the hands of the Taliban or one of their factions.”
“Yeah, ain’t it a bitch?” Fishbine said softly.
Fishbine went aft to the compact communications center in its own compartment.
Five minutes later McGarvey’s breakfast arrived, along with a bottle of water and a refill on his coffee and brandy. When he was finished the assistant sec def still had not returned, and Pete had not awakened.
It was just possible that Fishbine’s explanation was correct. Perhaps Haaris had merely shown up in Pakistan to stir the pot; maybe his mission had simply been to lead his country of birth first into a civil war and then into an all-out nuclear war with India.
But why? Where was his personal gain? Simply revenge for being mistreated? But that hadn’t been the case in Pakistan, and in any event, he’d been taken to England by an uncle and had led a privileged life there that had continued when he moved to the States and become a U.S. citizen. His position at the CIA was top level, and he was even a regular at the White House.
A man of his education, intelligence and charm could well have eventually become the CIA’s director or even the director of National Intelligence. Except for his illness.
What was so important to him that he was willing to spend his last few months doing it?
McGarvey went back to his seat, strapped in and went to sleep again.
Pete woke him. “We’re about forty minutes out of Andrews; how are you feeling?”
“Glad to be getting home,” McGarvey said, gathering himself. “But still no answers.”
“I talked to Otto. He and Louise are coming out to pick us up; they’re bringing fresh clothes and a razor for you. Nothing much I can do about my hair, though.”
“You look good to me.”
Pete grinned. “Thanks.”
“Actually, when it comes to your hair—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Pete said.
McGarvey went to the head and splashed some water on his face. His eyes were a little bloodshot and it was obvious he’d been under some sort of duress recently. But except for his uncertainty about Haaris’s plans he felt in good shape.
Pete had a cup of the chief’s coffee for him.
Fishbine came back to them. “I talked to Bill, and he’s taking what you said over to the White House.” William Spencer was the secretary of defense. “I don’t mind admitting that he was just as concerned as I am that the Taliban might have the nukes. We thought it was a possibility, but you seem to think it’s a fact.”
Otto and Louise came aboard as soon as the pilot taxied over to a hangar, shut down the engines and the chief opened the hatch and lowered the stairs. They brought clothes, even underwear, and something for Pete to use in her hair that didn’t require a shower.
Mac let Pete use the head first.
“Haaris showed up in London,” Otto said. He was perched on the armrest of the seat across from McGarvey. “Denied he was the Messiah, claimed he was in Paris and Istanbul recovering from his wife’s murder, and told Boyle that he was ready to get back to work.”
Nothing surprised McGarvey any longer. “Where is he now?”
“About one hour out. Boyle put him under arrest, at Marty’s insistence, and sent a couple of embassy types with him. Page and just about everyone else is on Campus, not only because of the situation in Pakistan but because both you and Haaris are back. The president wants to meet with both of you ASAP.”
“Keep Dave away from her. No telling what he’s capable of doing.”
“What about you?” Otto asked.
“I assume we’re going to Langley to answer some questions, but afterwards I’ll have a few things to tell the president. Stuff she’s not likely going to like.”
“I want to be on the team interviewing Haaris,” Pete said.
“And I want to listen in,” Mac said.
SIXTY-SIX
The two minders Boyle had sent with Haaris handed him over to a pair of Langley muscle who’d shown up at Andrews with a Cadillac Escalade. Actually, it felt good to be back, not because this was home — he’d never felt that — but because this was the end game that had been in the planning stages for more than five years.
By now the three packages had arrived at their points of entry. Two had been sent to the joint base at Dover and the third to Farnborough, outside London. They would be isolated with other hazardous materials.
Messy, full of potential troubles just waiting to happen. But the outcome was inevitable. The firing circuits had been connected to cell phones. Any incoming call would immediately start the detonation cycles. All three of the phones had the same number.
He’d given his word not to be difficult, so he’d not been handcuffed by Boyle’s people. And the pair from Langley saw no need for restraints either. Haaris was one of theirs.
“Gentleman, thanks for the ride across the pond,” he told the two from London. “Must you turn around and get back immediately?”
“I’m afraid so, sir,” the one named Masters said. They were both kids, barely in their late twenties.
“Too bad, I would like to have taken you to dinner this evening,” Haaris said. They shook hands. “My compliments to Mr. Boyle.”
All very civilized, Haaris thought, getting into the backseat of the Caddy. But it was happening the way he’d expected. There’d been accusations that he was the Messiah, but there could be no proof of it yet. On top of that he was cooperating, and he had the sympathy vote on two counts — his wife’s murder and his own terminal cancer. And sympathy almost always blinded the observer.
They were passed through the gate, and once they were on the ring road, the security officer riding shotgun turned in his seat. “I was told to ask if you needed to stop first at All Saints, sir.”
“Thanks, but no. Nothing Franklin can do for me at this point. I’d like to get my debriefing over with. The situation is spinning out of control and my people need to be on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marty Bambridge, his tie correctly knotted, his suit coat buttoned, met them at the elevator in the underground VIP parking garage beneath the Original Headquarters Building.