“Not yet, and Shahid hasn’t even mentioned him, at least not by name. But he admits that he’s not the only man in charge of the government. And if Haaris is the Messiah, all we have to do is keep a tight rein on him, which shouldn’t be so tough so long as he stays in Washington.”
“He’s taking his wife’s ashes to London tonight. Says that she wanted them to be spread on the Thames. Page will have Tommy Boyle put someone on him.”
“Okay, same difference. As long as we can see him anywhere but Islamabad he won’t be able to get into much mischief.”
“I need a new ID set — driver’s license, credit cards, passport, family photos, medical insurance card. I don’t want to use ones I’ve already fielded.”
“By when?”
“In the morning at the latest. Page is going to get me a slot on Power’s team when they return to Islamabad. Should be tomorrow or the day after.”
“Everybody knows your face, so we’ll need to change it. Saul Landesberg over in Technical Services is about the best around. I’ll give him the heads-up. When do you want to do it?”
“Now. I want to see how it plays here first, because if it doesn’t I’ll have to find another way.”
Otto gave him a long, odd look but picked up the phone and called Technical Services. “Saul, Otto. I have a job for an old friend. But this would have to be totally off the grid. And quick. Like right now.”
Landesberg was a short, slightly built man with thinning fair hair and wide, serious eyes, who seemed to have a perpetual broad smile plastered on his wide face. He’d cleared the two technicians from his small studio before McGarvey and Otto showed up.
“Judging from Otto’s call, I thought it might be you, Mr. Director, but I didn’t breathe a word to anyone. Where are we off to?”
McGarvey had never actually met the man, but he’d heard of him. He’d been named by a number of NOCs as the “Artist.”
“Pakistan, in a couple of days,” McGarvey said.
“Good Lord, not as a Paki? You’re too damned big.”
“No, I’m going in with our embassy staff as an observer.”
“So everyone will know that you work for the CIA but as a wonk, not a spook. An intellectual. An academic. Maybe Harvard or some such on contract to the Intelligence Directorate.”
He had McGarvey take off his jacket and shirt, and sat him down in a swiveling salon chair in front of a bank of mirrors, some of them reflecting close-up views of McGarvey’s face, neck and upper torso.
“Do we have a name?” he said, brushing his fingers though McGarvey’s hair. Feeling the structure of his forehead, cheeks, nose, chin. Peering into his eyes.
“Travis Parks.”
“Dr. Parks. Cultural anthropology, but only as the first layer of your cover. It’s a subject almost nobody knows anything about. Your real specialty, of course, is government studies. You’re on board to take a close look at what’s really happening in Islamabad. Friend or foe.”
Landesberg shut off the lights in the mirrors so that they went blank. “We’ll make you a little older, gray at the sides, shorter hair. Do you tolerate contacts?”
“I don’t want to fuzz out if I’m in the middle of a shooting situation,” McGarvey said.
“No contacts. Gray green it is. A little broader nose, thicker eyebrows, heavier cheeks, maybe a jutting chin. Sallow complexion. A little sagging of your jowls, a few wrinkles on your neck, same complexion on your chest and back, gray hair. Nothing over the top, but cumulatively the effect should be enough that your own mother wouldn’t recognize you, and yet you’ll have complete mobility.” Landesberg laughed. “Won’t run or fall off. You’ll even be able to take a cozy shower for two.”
THIRTY
Haaris never had trouble adjusting to time zone changes. His body clock was on U.S. eastern, where it was one in the morning, while it was six in the morning when he arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport. He’d only napped for an hour or so, but walking through the concourse to Immigration Control he was alert.
Several international flights had arrived at about the same time and the terminal was very busy; even so he spotted his tail within twenty-five feet of his gate.
He presented his U.S. passport to the agent at one of the windows.
“Good morning, Mr. Haaris. What is the purpose of your visit to Great Britain?”
“I’ve brought my wife’s ashes over, she wanted to be buried here.”
The uniformed agent looked up, startled. It was an answer she’d not often heard. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. Was she a British citizen?”
“No. But she loved everything here, especially the countryside in spring and summer.”
“You might need a permit, sir.”
“Actually, no, unless you want to scatter them on private property or in a public park.”
The woman stamped the passport and handed it over. “Do you have friends here?”
“Yes,” Haaris said, and he pocketed his passport as he moved down the hall to Baggage Claim and Customs.
Deborah’s ashes were in a small cardboard carton that he had packed into a zippered nylon bag. The only other luggage he’d brought over was a wheeled bag. When it was his turn at one of the counters, he handed over his passport and customs declaration.
“Anything to claim, sir?” the agent asked. “Tobacco, spirits, plant matter?
“Only my personal belongings plus my wife’s cremated remains.”
“May I see?”
Haaris opened the nylon bag. The box had been sealed in Washington with tape from the funeral parlor. He handed the agent the death certificate.
“Sorry to do this, sir, hope you understand,” the agent said. He handed the box to another agent, who stepped across to a baggage scanner and ran it through. A few moments later he brought it back.
The customs agent cleared both bags. Haaris walked out into the main terminal and headed toward the ground transportation exit, where the man in the dark blue blazer and open-collared white shirt who’d tailed him from the gate unobtrusively fell in behind him.
Just at the doors to the cab queue, Harris suddenly turned and walked up to the agent. “I assume that Tommy Boyle has sent you to watch over me.”
The CIA officer, caught out, smiled and shrugged. “Mr. Boyle thought you might spot me, sir. But considering what happened to Mrs. Haaris, he thought it might be wise to watch your back.”
“Good enough. I assume you have a car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you can save me the cab fare and drive me into town. I’m staying at the Connaught, actually, just around the corner from our embassy.”
“Yes, sir, I know it.”
Haaris arched an eyebrow. “You do?”
Caught out again the young officer could only smile. “I meant to say I know where it is.”
The officer’s car was a white Ultima, and he was a good driver. The traffic was heavy on the M4 into the city center, and they didn’t speak much except about the weather in London versus Washington.
At the hotel a uniformed bellman opened the door for Haaris while another opened the boot and took out the two pieces of luggage.
Haaris looked back through the open door. “Tell Tommy that I’m sorry but I don’t want any company this time around. But if he wants to keep a tail on me, stay out of sight. He’ll understand.”
The young officer didn’t know what to say.
Haaris had made reservations for five days in a corner suite, and after check-in he ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon. He took off his jacket and tie and laid them on the bed. When the wine came he sat by the window looking out of one eye down on Mayfair toward Buckingham Palace and out of the other toward the nylon bag with his wife’s remains.