That headlong dash to complete their mission was resulting in a lack of caution and a lowering of awareness of what was really happening. And as the agents swam deeper into his net in Pakistan, the Prince was already tightening things behind them.
Back in Washington, the politicians were about to haul in the CIA director of intelligence, who would obviously stonewall any questions about an ongoing operation. That would make the politicians angry, and they would retaliate by expanding the circle of knowledge. He’d always found it fascinating that a single pebble tossed into a pond could cause ripples that would go on and on. In this case, the pebble was the ambitious widow from Nebraska. Within twenty-four hours, the rumors that the CIA was running drugs out of Afghanistan would be in the briefing papers of power-wielders from the White House on down. Nobody wanted to be unprepared for the coming barrage of media questions.
And questions there would be. Some reporters would start receiving leaks from pet sources: There’s something weird going on over at Langley. Congress is asking for answers, but not getting any. The Prince gauged that it would be fresh meat for the TV talking heads by tomorrow evening.
And then the name would be dropped. Kyle Swanson would be outed as a secret agent who had gone bad. Then the average man and woman, boy and girl with an iPhone would start constructing the social-media noose around Swanson’s neck. No proof would be offered, but speculation would be more than enough.
As if with the snip of a ribbon by sharp scissors, that would be the end of the top-priority hunt for Nicky Marks. The agency, having been tarred with scandal, would terminate the mission and all support of Swanson even without admitting or denying anything. Supplies would stop. Intelligence wouldn’t reach him. Friends would become enemies, and co-workers wouldn’t trust him. Marty Atkins would be forced to recall the sniper from the field and place such a distance between Swanson and Langley that it might never again be bridged.
Swanson’s reputation would go up in flames, and he would be fortunate to get out of this without being arrested by his own people. The Prince didn’t really want him arrested. Ruining his reputation was important, but he had a more unpleasant fate in store for the man.
For now, just leave things alone. Every ingredient of the trap was simmering nicely on a low heat. He turned his attention to other matters.
Everybody does it. Even Maroof Sherdil of the Pakistani ISI had dreams. As an important man in Joint Intelligence X, which coordinated and processed everything from the other three branches, Sherdil carried the rank of an army full colonel. For most men, that would have been enough. Not only did he have a decent salary; the agency provided a free car, a furnished home, medical care, schools, and other attractive benefits. The colonel wanted more.
Climbing the ladder of rank and power simply didn’t pay enough in these days of economic uncertainty, and he had to be on the lookout for a way to increase his savings if he was ever to achieve his dream of moving out of the grim government-sponsored lodgings and into the commodious home whose construction he’d been watching in the capital’s prestigious F-10 Markaz area of Zone 1.
He frequently played the Internet lotteries, but that was a waste. Petty blackmail would land him in prison. Special-mission bonuses and the usual bribes had helped. They simply weren’t enough. The new four-bedroom home close to McDonald’s and Pizza Hut and the golf course and excellent shopping was priced at a bit over fifty million rupees.
He toyed with a scratch pad. One strong American dollar was worth about a hundred and four rupees on the exchange today, so fifty million rupees was equal to roughly half a million U.S. dollars. The colonel had saved only half that amount, even when he factored in the special breaks that the seller would grant to a rising ISI official who could make him disappear.
He fed the paper into the shredder beside his desk in the ISI central headquarters. Enough worrying for one day. He put on his uniform jacket, checked his appearance in a bathroom mirror, then went upstairs to the Office of the Director General.
The suave Lieutenant General Zahid Ali Khan was polite enough to stand and shake hands when Maroof Sherdil entered the office. Khan had the cut of an Egyptian film star and was unfailingly mannered in his dealings with others. He invited Sherdil to have a chair. “I regret not having much time for you today, Colonel. How are Sarah and the children?”
“God has blessed me, sir. My family is well, and I wish similar good fortune for yours.”
“My thanks,” said Kahn. “Now, is this unfortunate business done?” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
“Yes, sir. The Americans should be on the way even now. They sounded pleased to find the exact location of Nicky Marks.”
“The man is a danger to all around him, including us, and it is time for his exit. The Prince was agreeable?”
“It was his suggestion, sir. Marks has apparently become a liability for him, too. There will be no blowback from that direction.”
The lieutenant general slid his right index finger across his bristly mustache. “The U.S. Rewards for Justice Program?”
Nicky Marks had a million dollars on his head. Sherdil and his boss would split it evenly. Tomorrow, he would have the needed cash for the house, his superior officer would be even richer, the drug money would continue to flow, and the American government would have its terrorist scalp. Everybody wins. Almost everybody.
Maroof saluted and left the building through the lobby, adjusting his black beret once he was outside. As he walked across the manicured grounds to his silver Volvo, he thought about Sarah, their two boys and one daughter, and how they would be opening a new chapter in their lives. Insh’Allah. God willing.
He tapped his blinker and moved smoothly into the traffic, heading up to see the house once again. The cement foundation had been braced with steel girders and deep pilings as protection against earthquakes, and the wooden frame was far enough along that the workmen were able to work beneath the roof they had put on. Greenery would be plentiful.
At the turn on the Ibn-e-Sina Road, traffic began to flow better. Five cars back was a black Audi, with Nicky Marks at the wheel, listening to music and cool in the air-conditioning. He knew exactly where the ISI officer was heading, for hadn’t the colonel been jabbering non-stop about finding this special house? Lost in his fantasy, Sherdil had hardly checked his mirrors during the trip from the ISI headquarters to the little lane that angled up to the new home, and then into what would become his private driveway.
“Bye now, Maroof,” Marks said with a quiet laugh as he hit the Send key on a pre-dialed cell phone number, triggering the bomb beneath the Volvo. It went off in splash of flame and clouds of smoke, scattering chunks of metal and flaming debris. The house caught fire as Marks wheeled about and drove away.
15
Lucky Sharif drove to Savannah because flying down from Washington meant changing planes in Atlanta, an experience that most sane people tried to avoid. Of course, following the interstates also meant going through Atlanta. It was believed down South that when you die there will be a stopover in Atlanta on the way to heaven or hell. Instead, he meandered down the older coast routes, through miles of pine trees and azaleas that ran wild and the choking tendrils of green kudzu vines; he smelled the stench of the Union Bag — Camp Paper Corporation plant and slapped his first mosquito before he’d crossed the Talmadge Bridge and dropped downtown.