“Peace within our borders.”
“The war here against our brothers is at an end for now,” the mufti said. “But we will send our fidayees back to New York and Washington to continue their work.”
“And to London.”
The mufti raised an eyebrow.
“Great Britain is infidel America’s staunchest ally,” Haaris said. “When we strike it will be swift as lightning and just.”
The mufti took a step closer. “Urge the people to join the jihad, but first study Islam, quote the Quran and then come to us; whatever your skills we shall put them to use against the infidels.”
It was the same diatribe the Taliban had repeated over and over again, of which only since 9/11 did people in the West take notice.
“We will train you to stand with us.”
Haaris turned again to look out the windows. People from the side streets were joining the increasing crowd, and it seemed almost as if they were in a celebratory mood. Some of the men were dancing in the streets. And unlike previous demonstrations no one was shooting Kalashnikovs into the air.
In came to him that the situation was unfolding just as he had planned for it to do. Despite all the variables, for which he had to deal with by hiring an imposter in London, this was working. Two days.
He turned back. “We will go to the prime minister now to complete our government and plan for jihad against the West.”
“The whore will not give up military aid from the U.S. It is too precious.”
“Money that was used to equip the war against you,” Haaris said. “It ends now.”
“You understand.”
“I’ve always understood my people.”
“Our people,” the mufti said.
Downstairs in the main reception hall, where flowers wilted in vases around the central statue of Islamic figures, and a huge chandelier hung from the high ceiling in front of massive double doors of polished oak, Haaris stopped.
He’d been here before. A pair of ornate sofas in a corner, so large that the room did nothing to dwarf them, was where he’d sat sipping sweet tea talking with General Rajput for the first time shortly after he had conceived his plan for revenge. He remembered his first impression: the man was not particularly bright, but he was a good administrator, a decent leader, he had connections throughout the government and especially the military, but above all he was devious.
Haaris had decided on the spot that he would make good use of the man and had begun sharing intelligence that had allowed the government to anticipate every objection the U.S. raised to its policies, especially concerning Pakistan’s movement of nuclear weapons around the country, and developing responses that if not believed were at least placating.
Pakistan was helping the U.S. continue the war against the terrorist groups within its borders, and with staging rights for the war in Afghanistan.
No one in Langley or especially in Washington liked the alliance, but no one was bright enough to see the liars for what they were and do something about it.
“Thou dost not trust General Rajput,” Haaris said. The Punjabi words and grammar that had always seemed so formal, even ancient, to him had begun to sound normal. Even right.
“We have been enemies too long for that,” the mufti replied.
“But you must trust me.”
“Why?”
“Give me two days, and you will see.”
The mufti laughed.
“I am the Messiah,” Haaris said dramatically. “Pakistan’s savior.”
He adjusted the scarf over his features then threw open the doors and strode outside, down the broad stairs and across the complicated green spaces, past outer buildings, prayer halls and across the circular driveway up which VIP guests of state would be driven, and past the long, narrow reflecting pool.
The two soldiers manning the ceremonial iron gates that opened to the sidewalk and broad Constitution Avenue turned around in surprise as the first shouts of “Messiah!” came from the crowds.
“Be careful what you aspire to,” the mufti said to his left.
Haaris looked at him.
“Consequences that are unintended often arise.”
Haaris almost laughed out loud. Unintended consequences indeed. It was a CIA term, which meant, in essence, be careful what you plan for because you just might get something else — something that could jump up and bite you in the ass. And it was especially funny to him at this moment, because the comment had come from a hated enemy of the CIA to a CIA operative.
The soldiers opened the gates and stood back to let Haaris and the mufti walk out onto the broad avenue. The crowd immediately surged forward, men touching Haaris’s shoulders, women holding their babies for him to bless with a fingertip to their foreheads.
“Allah’s blessing be upon you, my children,” he said.
The mob went wild, chanting, “Messiah,” over and over again, the volume rising.
“A lasting justice is at hand for all of us.”
FORTY-FOUR
McGarvey wiped down the pistol he’d taken from one of the ISI officers who’d tried to kill him and put it in the woman’s hand in such a way that at least a couple of partial prints could be lifted.
He laid it on the floor next to her blood, and as soon as the SEALs left with her body, he walked the couple of blocks up to Luqman Hakeem Road, where he got a table at a small café and ordered a coffee with milk.
The waiter was distant, but he came back immediately with the coffee.
It should have been the start of the morning rush hour, but the street was all but deserted of traffic, and he was the only customer.
“Where is everybody?”
The waiter shook his head and started to leave.
“Do you speak English?” McGarvey asked.
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said.
“Where is everybody?“
“I do not know,” the waiter said and again walked away.
McGarvey phoned Otto. “Something is going on, the streets where I am are all but empty.”
“Oh, wow, Mac, the shit has started big-time now. Louise is with me. She’s brought up real-time satellite images of the Red Section, right in front of the Presidential Palace. There’s another mob there, and two figures are right in the middle of it.”
“Haaris?”
“We can’t tell. Austin is sending someone over to find out what’s going on, but I think that it’s a safe bet that it is Haaris as the Messsiah and he and whoever is with him are on the move.”
“To where?”
“Straight up Constitution Avenue toward the Secretariat.”
“Rajput’s office,” McGarvey said. “How long will it take them to get there?”
“It’s not far. A hundred meters or so, but the crowd is slow, they’re barely crawling. I’d say an hour, maybe longer.”
An army jeep, a green flag on its radio antenna, its blue lights flashing, turned the corner and headed at a high rate of speed toward the apartment building where McGarvey had been staying. Two men in civilian clothes, one of them talking on a radio, who could have been the twins of the two ISI officers McGarvey had taken out.
“A couple of ISI officers just went past me, and in a few minutes they’re going to find Judith Anderson’s blood all over the apartment, and the gun I took from one of the ISI officers I killed. Her fingerprints are on it.”
“The SEAL operators finally showed up?”
“Yes,” McGarvey said, and he explained everything that had happened, including her death. “They probably know that she was with me.”
“You have to get out of there right now, Mac. I’ll arrange a military flight out for you as soon as you can get out to the airport.”