“Hey, what the-Stop! Both of you! Get back here!”
Jonathan heard the shouts of the soldiers behind him, but he refused to look back. He stayed a half-step behind Danni, zigging when she zigged, zagging when she zagged. They negotiated the midday traffic as if threading their way through an angry, smoke-belching maze, dodging cars and bicycles, flying past bewildered vendors, sprinting at full clip. At some point the sound of the combat boots thudding the pavement behind them receded, and then it died off altogether.
Danni took a sharp right at the next crossroads. The side street was narrower and only half paved. A deep, wide ditch ran down one side of the road. It was a nullah, used to capture water during the monsoon season and keep the streets from flooding. Danni hopped into it and climbed out the other side. A low wall bordered the ditch, and behind it was a slum of corrugated tin shacks and slapdash hovels. Danni vaulted the wall and motioned for Jonathan to keep up.
They ran down alley after alley, turning right and left, until finally Danni stopped, pushing her back against a kiosk selling European magazines two years out of date.
“See?” she said, peeking her head around the corner to verify that no one had followed. “I told you they wouldn’t shoot.”
Jonathan bent double, fighting for breath. “How’d you know?”
“This is Islamabad-the capital. An American soldier opens fire here, he’ll have half the population swarming over him inside a minute and a full-fledged diplomatic scandal an hour after that. Officially, American soldiers aren’t even supposed to be on Pakistani soil. The raid at the airport-there were no Americans there. For the record, it was a Pakistani job all the way.”
“Call Connor. Now. We’ve got to tell him what happened. He has to know that Haq has the warhead.”
Danni’s mouth tightened, then she nodded and dialed the number. The call went directly to voicemail and she hung up. “He’s not answering.”
Jonathan stood and wiped the sweat from his brow. “You know where we are?”
“No idea,” said Danni. “Islamabad isn’t high on my list of vacation hot spots.”
“Great. Now we’re lost, too.”
Danni set off down the road at a determined pace. “But I know where to go.”
70
The house belonged to a wealthy Jewish merchant of English extraction whose family had lived in India and, more recently, Pakistan, since the Raj. The faded glories of a lost empire decorated every corner of the colonial mansion, from the marble foyer to the teak-paneled den: carved elephant tusks, ornate copper teakettles, a miniature replica of Zamzama, the “fire-breathing” cannon made famous in Rudyard Kipling’s Kim. The merchant’s position in the trading community granted him access to the highest levels of the Pakistani government and made him privy to the government’s economic secrets. As his father had done before him, he passed along information he deemed would be of interest to his ancestral homeland. The Mossad had a word for men like him the world over: sayyan. Friend.
The merchant, a short, gray-bearded man, showed Jonathan and Danni to his study and without a word closed the door behind them.
Jonathan sat at his desk, with Danni close beside him. He set to work immediately, writing down the information he’d memorized in Balfour’s office. Some numbers came back easily; others proved maddeningly elusive, slipping from his grasp like a morning dream. He had no problem recalling a batch of six-digit alphanumeric sequences which Danni recognized as SWIFT codes for wiring funds between international banks. He had more problems with longer sequences, and it was decided that these could not be relied upon. After fifteen minutes, he was spent.
“That’s it,” he said. “That’s all there is.”
And for the first time Danni did not prod him for more. “It’s enough.”
Besides the SWIFT codes (which Danni wrote down on a clean sheet of paper, folded neatly, and placed in her shirt pocket), several notations stood out as being worthy of scrutiny. The first was the phone number he had recognized as having an Afghan country code, the initials MH inscribed next to it.
“MH has to be Massoud Haq,” said Jonathan.
Danni agreed and said she would pass the number to the technical services branch of the office, “the office” being professional’s shorthand for her own intelligence service. “It may take some time, but they’ll be able to create a network of his associates from the calls placed and received.”
“How quickly?” asked Jonathan.
“That’s always the question,” said Danni with exasperation. “With a little muscle, I think we can count on sooner rather than later.”
Jonathan’s finger rested on a grouping of letters he recalled seeing on Sultan Haq’s desk. The first line read “METRON,” and the successive lines below it “HAR” and “NEWH.” “Ring any bells?”
Danni said the words aloud. “It sounds like it’s only part of each word.”
Jonathan tried sounding out additional syllables to form a word, but came up with nothing. “Let’s move on.”
“What interests me is this name.” And here Danni pointed to where Jonathan had written “Pasha” and “PARDF.” “Wasn’t Pasha the name of our American major’s most trusted colleague?”
“It’s common enough.”
“PARDF stands for Pakistani Army Rapid Deployment Force,” Danni went on. “How many Pashas do you think they have?” She pushed back her chair. “Pasha was on Balfour’s payroll all along. He was there to look after Haq and make sure he got the warhead to its destination. If Haq escaped through the back, it was with Pasha’s help.”
Jonathan returned his attention to the pad where he had written down “N14997.” “I recognize this. It’s an N number-an aircraft registration code. Every country has its own code. G is for England, F for France.”
“And N?”
“N is for the United States.”
“Are you a pilot?”
“No, but when I was working with Doctors Without Borders, Emma used to ferry medicine from one country to another. We were required to list the registration code of the aircraft flying the supplies on our customs declarations.”
“I see,” said Danni. “So I imagine there’s a central registry that keeps track of these.”
“Absolutely,” said Jonathan.
“Let me run it by the office.” Danni placed a call to Israel and rattled off a series of instructions in Hebrew. Jonathan listened patiently as Danni fought her position with her colleagues in Herzliya. Unable to understand a word, he found himself thinking once again about Emma.
There was not a moment since he’d arrived in Pakistan that he had not felt her invisible hand lurking above him, guiding events to her advantage. He had no doubt that it was she who had placed the spyware-encoded flash drive into Balfour’s computer. Working under Connor for so many years, she would have known that his response would be to immediately dispatch the special ops boys stationed in Pakistan. But why would she want to thwart Balfour’s plans after she had risked her life, and the life of her child-no, their child!-to help bring them to fruition?
“Jonathan, we’ve got a hit.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“N14997 is a C-141 Starlifter registered to Blenheim Cargo Corporation of Miami, Florida, which in turn is owned by East Pakistan Airways, Balfour’s private airline. Apparently the plane is being leased by the United States Army Materiel Command to transport military equipment back from Iraq to the States.”
“Do they know where it is?”
“According to Plane Tracker, the aircraft landed in Islamabad this morning.”
“A cargo plane,” said Jonathan. “It figures. The last I saw Haq, he was headed toward the freight terminal.”
“Hold on,” said Danni, picking up her conversation where she’d left off, jotting notes furiously on her pad. “Okay, shalom. Thanks.”
“And?”
Danni’s eyes were wide. “The plane took off at eight p.m.”