At roughly the same time, on the other side of the world, Richard and Jennifer were walking across a narrow cobblestone street toward the small pipe store that Mahari had entered. The Peshawar marketplace was rich in memories for Richard. Every fragrance, every image and sound, released another swarm of childhood experiences. Memories of parents. Memories of Zak. Memories that were bittersweet. He was trying to keep the memories of their deaths at bay. Now wasn’t the time for an emotional breakdown. But the longer they stayed in the atmosphere, the more difficult it became. The gnawing pain in his forehead was reaching a crescendo, and that wasn’t helping matters. He was slipping, mentally, and the pressure in his head was building. He didn’t think it would be long before the emotional problem became physical as well. The sooner they completed this mission, the better.
They stopped momentarily outside the little shop, and then stepped inside. Richard took off his sunglasses and blinked his eyes, trying to accustom them to the dim room. Jennifer picked up some of the ornately carved hardwood and bronze pipes, using the action to disguise her eyes, which were feverishly scanning the small shop. Richard cautiously stepped further into the dusky interior, every bit as alert as Jennifer. There was a faint smell of opium and hashish in the air.
When no one came to the counter, Jennifer put the pipes down and stepped behind it, parting the hanging bead curtain that separated the main shop area from a smaller back room. In the back room, a young man looked up from a computer keyboard, startled at their sudden appearance. Both Jennifer and Richard recognized him immediately.
“What do you want?” Mahari asked.
“We would like to buy some pipes,” Jennifer replied. “Nice carved wooden pipes. What do they cost?”
Mahari got up from his small workstation. “Yes, my name is Mahari. Let me help you. Let me show you our best.” He had already identified both as foreigners, regardless of the skillful attempt at disguise. Mahari had grown up in Peshawar, and the pipe shop they were in was owned by his uncle, an old and faithful acquaintance of Yousseff. He knew what kind of people came into the shop, and this man and woman didn’t fit.
As the reporter got up and entered the display area, Richard, in one smooth motion, slipped by him and sat down at the keyboard. It was a new computer, equipped with Windows. In an instant he had opened the “Files” menu, and before Mahari could protest, had clicked on the “Open” option.
Mahari, hearing the clicking of the keyboard, darted toward Richard, his hands outstretched. “Excuse me sir. You cannot do that. Get off the computer now or I will call the police.”
Jennifer pulled out her gun. “Actually, we are the police. The real police. The police who want to prevent another terrorist attack. Sit down or I’ll blow your balls off.”
Mahari suddenly grew unsure of himself. He seemed ready to fight, but hesitant over whether he really wanted to.
“Don’t even think about it, camel shit,” said Richard, as he pulled out his gun. “Sit down on the floor right there, and we may let you live.” Richard motioned to the corner of the back room with his gun.
As Mahari seated himself, Richard looked over the file list that he had activated. It was an amazingly long list. One entry seemed interesting. It contained the single word, “Messages.” Richard clicked on it. Six sub-files appeared. “Message One,” then “Message Two,” running all the way down to “Message Six.”
“Well, what do we have here, Mahari? These wouldn’t be the Emir messages that Al Jazeera has been broadcasting, and is going to broadcast in the next few days, would they?” asked Richard.
Mahari said nothing, but Jennifer could swear that he was smirking at them both. “Richard, just go to the last message. Let’s see where this nonsense ends.”
Mahari was in fact gloating to himself. In his eagerness, Richard had not seen the knee switch that Mahari had activated. He didn’t realize that virtually the entire bazaar was controlled by Pashtun drug smugglers. Mahari played a key role in a complex mission, and was closely protected and watched as he delivered the messages, one by one, to Al Jazeera. If it weren’t for Richard’s deteriorating condition, he would have immediately grasped the complexity of the situation.
Instead, Richard casually clicked on the final message, ignoring the reporter. The media file loaded itself and began to play. It took all of three minutes. Richard and Jennifer watched and listened to it in rapt fascination and horror, silent for a few seconds after the last word had been uttered.
Finally Richard roused himself into action. “Holy shit, Jen. Call the Embassy right now. We know where this thing is going, and we may still be in time to stop it. This is worse, much worse, that we thought. Call them now.”
Jennifer touched the speed dial on her cell phone with shaking fingers, ringing through to the American Embassy. She reached Buckingham’s personal secretary. “Lauralee, get me Michael now,” she said, her voice shaking. She heard Buckingham’s rough voice in the background. “Give me a minute,” she heard him say.
Precious seconds ticked by. Finally she heard Buckingham shuffle toward the phone. “Buckingham,” he said.
“Mike,” breathed Jennifer. “We’ve seen the last message. The sixth message. We know the target.”
That was as far as she got before an enormous hand pulled the flip phone from her hands. In a second it was twisted into two pieces. The remnants were thrown onto the floor of the shop. Richard, who was still staring at the computer, heard Jennifer gasp, and half rose from the computer table, turning and receiving a vicious kick to the head for his trouble. Pain spidered through his skull, and he sank to his knees. Four other people came in, through both the back door and the beaded curtain.
Richard was thrown to the floor and brutally handcuffed, with his hands in front of him. The attackers kicked him a few more times, in both his head and ribs. He gasped in pain, feeling reality begin to fade away in a pink and frothy haze. He heard the click of another set of handcuffs, then felt a constriction around his hands as he and Jennifer were imprisoned in a connected set of manacles.
“I’d kill you both now, but I need a little bit of information from you. I hope you don’t mind,” one of the men said in heavily accented English. “It’ll only take an hour or two, I can assure you. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I will.” He motioned to his men. “Take them both back to the van. Go to the Inzar Ghar fortress. Put them in one of the basement cells. I’ll let you play with them after I’m done.”
Having grown up in Islamabad, Richard had heard the stories about Inzar Ghar, and felt his blood run cold. He looked groggily over at Jennifer. Her face was white as a sheet, and blood ran freely from her nose and one ear. He was on the verge of saying something when he received another blow to the head and, in a shattering of pain and black spots, lost consciousness.
“What to do, what to do…” Baxter was now talking to himself. He played the call back several times. There was some significant information there. “The sixth message…” They had only received four so far. What did the other two say?
He copied the sound file to his computer and then sent an email to Big Jack, the executive directors of most other Intelligence Agencies, the SECDEF (new at his job, since his predecessor hadn’t survived the Haramosh Star affair), and Dan Alexander and his crew at TTIC.
Attached find a phone call that the Islamabad Embassy received at 18:30 today, Karachi time. Richard Lawrence and Jennifer Coe have been either captured or killed. Note that there are six messages, according to Jennifer. The most significant message is apparently the last. Jennifer was captured before she could give full details. There is some background chatter in the phone conversation; I suggest that the NSA or the FBI analyze that for more information. We need to organize a rescue mission now or we’ll lose them like we lost Goldberg.