“The diplomats. Not us. Ever since Lundgren went missing we’ve been keeping a low profile.”
“Was he the one caught in the nuclear incident?”
“He was out there, and we haven’t heard from him since.”
“What about you guys? Is the ISI dogging you? Or are you being left alone?”
Thomas hesitated for just a moment. “If they were on us, I’d understand it; we’ve always had our rat packs. Twenty-four/seven, usually four teams rotating. In and out of the embassy, to and from our quarters, restaurants. Christ, even if we had to take a dump someone was always watching. But not in the past couple of days. Same with the British embassy staff, the French, Germans, Italians, everyone.”
“Unless they got better and no one has made them,” McGarvey suggested.
“I wish it was that simple,” Thomas said. “At least we’d know what to expect. But trust me, Parks, no one is following us. It’s one of the reasons Mr. Austin wants you to go back home. If you create an incident there’s no telling what the ISI will do. It’s like walking across a field of broken glass with bare feet: the wrong move and it’ll be a bloody mess.”
Powers was already inside the embassy, his limo and the four military escort vehicles gone when the five vans pulled up and their escorts left. Two marine guards at the main entrance stayed out of sight as much as possible, only opening the gate electrically when the drivers radioed ahead.
Thomas and the other escort brought McGarvey into the embassy past the security desk and up to the third-floor rear, where the CIA maintained a suite of offices under the guise of the American Information and Cultural Exchange Section.
Chief of Station, Pakistan, Ross Austin, alerted that they were on the way up, was waiting at the open door to his office, his jacket off, his collar open, his tie loose, sleeves rolled up: the pose of a man, who looked like a Packers’ linebacker, obviously deeply at work. He was a career intelligence officer who hoped one day to raise to at least a deputy director slot. His mentor was Marty Bambridge and at forty Austin fashioned himself after the DDO — pinch-nosed, disapproving, feigning surprise whenever something was set before him. But despite all of that the scuttlebutt was that he was a damned fine COS.
But, and it was a very large but, in McGarvey’s thinking, Ross Austin, like many chiefs of station, was the CIA in Pakistan. He was not only bright, he knew Pakistan and its government and especially its secret intelligence services better than just about anyone — other than Dave Haaris. At the very least he deserved the truth.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he told Thomas and the other officer, and motioned for McGarvey to join him.
Austin’s office was a mess of files, maps, newspapers and the translations of dozens of Pakistani magazines and television and radio broadcasts. He went behind his desk and McGarvey sat across from him.
“I talked to Walt Page last night, and he asked me to at least hear you out before I sent you away. I have an aircraft standing by to take you to Turkey — Incirlik — right now. Talk to me, Parks.”
McGarvey had met Austin twice before, once at the Farm and once at Langley. The first time McGarvey had been deputy director of operations, and the second time he’d been the DCI. In each instance the meeting had not been one-on-one.
“I’m leaving the embassy within the hour, but I am not leaving Pakistan. I have a job to do here.”
“No.”
“There’s not much you can say about it, Ross.”
“Where the hell do you get off addressing me by my first name? Who the hell do you think you are?”
“My name is Kirk McGarvey. I’m here to assassinate the Messiah and I’ve just put my life in your hands.” He took out his pistol and laid it on the desk.
THIRTY-FOUR
McGarvey left the embassy on foot shortly before noon and walked down the driveway and out the gate past the two marine guards, who watched but said nothing. The streets here in what was known as the diplomatic enclave of the city were as safe as any streets could be right now in Pakistan, but McGarvey still felt naked without his pistol, though he understood the theater of leaving it with Austin. An unarmed McGarvey was no immediate threat. It was what he wanted the COS to believe.
Two blocks away, he got a cab in front of the Canadian embassy and directed the driver to take him to the Marriott Hotel near the Aiwan and the prime minister’s residence. A lot of foreign businessmen and journalists stayed there, and with its double walls and bomb-proof entrance gate, it was among the most secure spots in the city.
Otto had made the reservations for five nights. “It’ll be a reasonable jumping-off place for you, but you might run into a problem right from the start. They scan people’s luggage at the gate. If they find your gun, they’ll hold you until the cops get there. But the good news is they profile. And you don’t fit the image of a suicide bomber.”
“I’ll leave it at the embassy until I need it,” McGarvey had said.
“You’ll have to let Austin in on your plans.”
“He’s a good man. He won’t want me there, but if Page tells him that I’m staying, he’ll wash his hands of the op but he won’t do anything stupid to put me in harm’s way.”
“Just being in Pakistan puts you in harm’s way.”
“Keep an eye on Pete for me.”
“Louise wants her to stay with us.”
It went against McGarvey’s better judgment, but he’d agreed. “Make sure that she stays out of sight, she’s supposed to be dead.”
Passing the Aiwan on Constitution Avenue he saw no signs of the mass demonstration that had taken place only a few days before. Traffic was normal. Like the FSO in the van had said: it was spooky.
The nation was waiting for the Messiah to show up, to tell the people what to do next. Haaris had said that he was betting that the man was going to push Pakistan into war with India, which was in itself a bizarre position for him to announce so openly if he was in fact the Messiah. Something was missing. But Haaris was probably insane because his advice to the president was to make preemptive strikes on Islamabad and Rawalpindi.
“Cut the head off and the monster will die,” he’d said.
The president was certain that Pakistan wouldn’t dare start anything. With their reduced nuclear arsenal, they’d lose.
Neither Rajput nor anyone else in the government had made any mention of the U.S. strikes against their weapons. Not even the international press corps had broken the story, though there were plenty of witnesses on the ground. Nearly everyone’s attention was still focused on the nuclear incident near Quetta, for which no one in the government had offered an explanation.
Security at the Marriott’s front gate was tight. One of the uniformed security officers led a bomb-sniffing dog around the cab, while another checked McGarvey’s diplomatic passport and a third looked inside the trunk.
“If you want to check my luggage I have no objection,” McGarvey told the officer.
“It is not necessary, Dr. Parks,” the officer said.
The busy lobby was sleek and new, and the check-in went smoothly. He was given a suite on the fourth floor that looked out toward the Margalla Hills. which at night would be alive with the lights of homes.
As soon as the bellman left, McGarvey used his encrypted phone to call Otto. “I’m in. Has Powers scheduled a news conference yet?”
“One-thirty local, you’ll have just enough time to get over there. How’d it go with Austin?”
“He didn’t like it, but he wasn’t about to go head to head with me. Did he call Page?”
“No. But what’d you tell him?”