“The White House didn’t and the president’s national security adviser wants the mission scrubbed. She wants McGarvey recalled.”
“I tried to make him get out,” Otto said. “But he’s not going to back off. We have confirmation that the man who we thought was Dave Haaris in London was in fact an imposter, which makes it even more likely that the Messiah is Dave.”
“Not likely at all,” Patterson said, surprising them all. “Before he took his wife’s ashes to London he confided in me that he was tired, that he needed a vacation. Said he was going to disappear for five days, and that if something should come up about his whereabouts to inform everyone that there was nothing to worry about.”
The timing struck Otto. “That was two days ago,” he said.
“So he’ll be gone another three days,” Patterson said. “There’s no reason to suspect that he was lying, especially dealing with the grief of losing his wife so tragically. And learning that he has an inoperable cancer.”
“Pete Boylan confronted his imposter in London, who told her that his contract was for two more days only.”
“Tommy Boyle told me that he arranged an RAF flight to Islamabad for her,” Bambridge said. “I ordered him to have it recalled but he couldn’t without burning a favor, something neither of us wanted to do. She’ll be on the ground in the next few hours.”
“That’s not the point,” Otto said. “Whatever Dave’s planned will presumably happen in two days.”
“It’s actually a moot point, because McGarvey will be under arrest and on his way home before then,” Bambridge said.
Otto’s temper spiked, but he held himself from lunging across the coffee table between them and breaking the stupid bastard’s neck. “What have you done?”
“I authorized it with Sue Kalley’s blessing, who thought it was a brilliant way out of the situation,” Page said. “The fallout from any more killings over there will be far too costly for us, but outing Mac as a whistle-blower who we wanted returned immediately was something that could be handled politically.”
Otto didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. “Mac is either on his way to meet with Rajput or he’s already there in the Secretariat.”
“Yes, we know,” Bambridge said.
“Don’t tell me that you actually identified Mac?” Otto asked, surprised by his control.
“Of course not. What do you take me for?” Bambridge said. “Austin told Rajput that Travis Parks worked for us, but that he fancied himself to be another Snowden, seeking asylum in exchange for information on this agency’s top operations. Ambassador Powers has an appointment with Rajput later today to demand that Parks be turned over to us. On the line will be a significant portion of our continued military aid.”
Otto got to his feet.
“Sit down, please,” Page said. “We’re not done here yet.”
“Not by a long shot.”
“Where the hell do you think you’re going, mister?” Bambridge shouted, jumping up.
“To try to undo the damage you’ve done before it’s too late.”
“I’ll have Security up here before you get halfway down the hall.”
Otto shrugged. “Marty, you little prick, you cannot in your wildest nightmares imagine the rain of shit that is a hair’s breadth away from falling on you — on this entire agency.”
“Mr. Director!” Bambridge shouted.
“Before you go any further, ask yourself how much Kirk McGarvey has given this country and how much he’s lost for it. He’s in badland at the president’s behest to try to stop something terrible from happening. With no interference from you his chances for survival were next to nothing. He knew it going in, and yet he thought the risk was worth taking. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do catching up.”
Otto headed for the door.
“Goddamnit, come back here,” Bambridge said.
“Be careful that your political ambitions don’t rise up and bite you in the arse one of these days, Marty,” Otto said, and he left.
Page’s phone call came as Otto got to his office. “Can you repair the damage?”
“I don’t know, but first I’ll try to save his life.”
“This came from the White House.”
“From the president herself?” Otto asked.
“Not directly,” Page admitted.
“Just understand, Mr. Director, that Bambridge and Susan Kalley are best buds. Talk to the president.”
FORTY-SEVEN
In the last hundred meters before the ceremonial front gate to the Secretariat, Haaris felt like Jesus Christ himself — or more like Lawrence of Arabia strutting in his costume. Arms outstretched to either side, he picked up the pace, so that he and the mufti were practically running. The crowd fell mostly silent and those in front respectfully parted for them.
Two armed guards swung open the iron gates at the foot of a shallow rise up which a paved driveway made its way through a stand of trees to the Secretariat’s main entrance.
Haaris suddenly stopped and turned to face the crowd that stretched down Constitution Avenue for as far as the eye could see. Now there were absolutely no sounds.
“My dear people,” he shouted theatrically, though only the people at the head of the mob could possibly hear him. He felt strong, even invincible.
All of America’s nuclear might had not stopped the 9/11 attacks from happening. Nor would her awesome power be able to stop him in time.
“The TTP’s mufti has come with me to this place to form Pakistan’s new government. A government of peace. A government to serve the people. A government to feed the poor, to heal the sick.”
Haaris was aware that the mood of the mufti beside him and the crowd stretched in front had immediately begun to change. Some of the people seemed confused. He looked at the mufti and smiled, then he turned back to the crowd.
“We will be a government of Islami qanun,” he shouted — sharia law, which meant actual legislation that dealt with everything from crime, to economics, to politics, as well as hygiene, diet, prayer, etiquette, even fasting and sex. All of it based on a strict interpretation of God’s infallible laws versus the laws of men.
Sharia was the real reason many Muslims gave for the jihad against the West. Until sharia was universal there could be no peace with the infidels.
Haaris meant to give it to them — or at least the promise of it — for the next two days. In his estimation the righteous attacks of 9/11, in which fewer than three thousand people had died, had not gone far enough. If they had, the backlash would have been even more severe than it had been. More terrible than the killing of bin Laden.
Had the plan been bolder the West would have shoved Islam back to the dark ages.
It’s what they wanted and Haaris would give it to him, insha’ Allah—God willing.
“Read the Quranic verses and follow the examples of our dear Muhammad set down in the Sunnah,” Haaris cried. “Be one with Allah, be one with us!”
The mob roared, and Haaris felt not only all-knowing, all-powerful; he also could feel his sanity slipping away bit by bit.
He started up the driveway, the mufti at his side.
“Did you mean all of that?” the Taliban spokesman asked.
“Of course, didn’t you believe me?” Haaris asked. “And I will require your help as well as the help of the military, the same as in Quetta.”
The mufti did not answer.
McGarvey heard the roar of the crowd as did Rajput, and the prime minister got up from behind his desk and went to the window. “He’s here and he’s brought someone with him.”
“Who is it?” McGarvey asked.