The driver nodded and stepped away from the open rear door.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I must ask if you expect trouble this morning?” the man with the H & K asked. He was young, possibly in his early twenties, but he had the thousand-yard stare of someone who’d taken incoming fire somewhere.
“No,” Haaris said.
“There have been people on Constitution Avenue off and on ever since you…” He hesitated. “For the past several days.”
“Avoid them,” Haaris said, and he got into the car.
Within minutes they drove away from the airport and took the old main highway up to Islamabad. The morning was cool, as were many mornings in this part of the country. It was a contrast to muggy Washington. Haaris neither liked nor disliked Pakistan and its people, nor had he ever thought that he would be returning until eight years earlier when he first began to conceive a plan not only for revenge against too many people for him to count — except that he knew all of their names and positions — but for his immortality.
He did not believe in Paradise with its willing virgins and endless milk and honey, but as a boy in school in England he had developed the notion of an existence after life. The history professors taught him that. Almost no one remembered most of the players in the Trojan War, but everyone knew the name Achilles. Everyone knew the names Caesar and Marc Antony, but especially that of Caesar. German generals were famous, but Hitler’s name rose to the top of every schoolboy’s list of the most recognizable. George W. Bush was known, but not as well as Osama bin Laden. And in the end no one would ever forget the name Messiah.
The Presidential Palace was in the Red Section of the city, the area where most of the government buildings and foreign embassies were located. A small crowd of several hundred people were gathered in front of the imposing building, and as before they burned trash in barrels. Armed guards on the street just outside the fence looked out at the people but did nothing to send them away. The foreign press had dubbed them “the Messiah’s people.” It was they who had named him and it was they who continued to keep watch for his return.
They drove around to the rear entrance that led into the president’s colony, where his staff and families were housed. Though the gate was guarded by two armed soldiers — who admitted them without question — the colony itself seemed to be deserted. After President Barazani’s assassination his staff had fled for their lives.
According to Rajput the Aiwan itself had been deserted as well. Not even a maintenance staff had remained. It was as if the seat of power had been deserted so that the prime minister could govern Pakistan without interference.
Ghulam Kahn was the first president to live there, in 1988, and Barazani was the last. But Pervez Musharraf had lived elsewhere during his presidency. The real seat of Pakistan’s power was gone from this place. The PM was the chief administrator of the country, but the president had been the leader.
Until now.
They pulled up at one of the service entrances. The armed guard riding shotgun jumped out and opened the rear door.
As Haaris got out the guard saluted. “Do you wish us to stay here, sir?”
“No, you are finished for the morning. Thank you. And remember, do not discuss this with anyone. My reasons will become evident soon enough.”
Haaris waited just inside what had been a security vestibule, with a heavy steel door leading into the main floor of the building. Under normal circumstances the door would be opened electronically from the inside, but only after the visitor was positively identified and searched for weapons or explosives. This morning it stood wide open to a marble-floored corridor that led straight to the ornate entry hall where visiting heads of state or other VIPs arrived.
He could see the SUV through one of the small bullet-proof windows but could not see the driver or the armed guard because of the deep tinting of the car’s windows. After a moment or two, however, the Toyota moved off and disappeared around the corner.
Haaris remained for a full three minutes longer to make sure that guards did not return on Rajput’s orders.
He walked down the long corridor to the ceremonial staircase and went up to the president’s residence on the third floor.
The building was totally deserted, but the electricity hadn’t been shut off, the security cameras were still operating and the battery-powered emergency lighting had not activated.
Enough light came from outside that he could make his way to a window that looked down on the street to the people gathered there. They were actually very stupid. He had held Barazani’s severed head for everyone to see-the severed head of the properly elected president — and one of Rajput’s shills had shouted “Messiah” a couple of times and the sheep had taken up the chant.
He’d made a brief speech that was broadcast over television, and here they were camping out on Constitution Avenue. Waiting for him to show up, to give them meaning in their meaningless lives.
That fact of the matter was, none of them realized that all life was pretty much without purpose unless you were willing to make it so for yourself.
He didn’t bother with lights as he got undressed, took a shower and went to bed. In a few hours the situation would change, because he would make it so. In a few hours he would lead the country in exactly the direction he’d planned for it to go.
When he slept it was without dreams. The sleep, he told himself when he awoke briefly just before dawn, of a man with a clear conscience and an even clearer purpose.
FORTY-ONE
Upstairs it took Pete less than ten minutes to change into jeans, a white blouse and dark blazer. When she was done she phoned Otto, who answered on the first ring as he usually did.
“Oh, wow, that went fast.”
“The guy’s a stage actor. He admitted that Haaris hired him to hang out. But the point is he told me that his contract would be up in two days. So whatever Haaris is trying to pull off, having an imposter here won’t matter because it’ll be too late for us to change anything.”
“Did he give you any hint what that might be?”
“None, but Haaris wouldn’t have told him something like that in any event,” Pete said. She went to the window. Nothing looked out of place on the street. “Get word to Mac, he’ll want the timetable. In the meantime I need to go to Islamabad as fast as possible and I don’t think a commercial flight will get me there in time.”
“You don’t want to go there.” Louise had come on the line. “Mac already has his hands full, he won’t be happy to have you jump into the mix.”
Pete wasn’t surprised that Louise had joined in. “Otto’s already filled me in, and it’s exactly what I need to do. The ISI won’t know about me, so I’ll be the loose cannon watching his back.”
“Ross Austin knows about Mac’s situation. You’re not going to be of any use out there.”
“I’m going with or without your help,” Pete said, the strident note again in her voice. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea, huge waves crashing into the rocks below. If she fell she knew that she would be dashed to pieces, and yet Kirk was there. She could see his head in the crest of a wave. He was motioning for her to stay away from the edge, but at the same time she knew that she would have to try for him. Because of her love.
“I’ll arrange something,” Otto said. “But first you’ll have to get past Boyle; he’s already on his way to your hotel.”