The Invisible

“What about the other two?” Walland demanded. “At least two guards are unaccounted for. And what about Fitzgerald? Mengal is in there with her . . . If we reveal our position, he might kill her before we can get to the barn.”

Good point, Kealey thought, but he said, “Massi’s right . . . We’re going in. These guys are operating without NVGs, so wait until they’re outside the arc of the lights, then hit them while they’re trying to acclimate.” Kealey was thinking about what he’d seen with the hostage, the way the he had lost his bearings once he could no longer see. He wasn’t thinking about the fact that the hostage had died when he could have stopped it from happening; at the moment, that was completely irrelevant. “If we wait until they’re all the way in, they’ll be able to pick out our muzzle flashes. We have to time it right.”

“I’ve got the Algerian,” Owen said.

“No,” Kealey shot back, “we need him alive, Paul. He knows where the rest of the hostages are, so in Saifi’s case, shoot to wound only. Same with the general.”

“And the others?” asked Manik.

“You all have your fields of fire,” Kealey replied calmly. “You know which sector you’re responsible for, so when they come in, you know who to hit. Here’s what we’re going to do. . . .”

He outlined a quick plan, allowing for several contingencies. He had his weapon trained on the enemy force the entire time he was talking, tracking their every move. The guards at the top of the hill were still fanning out, but they had yet to enter the field. When he was done with the short explanation, the other men voiced their understanding and agreement.

“Wait until I give the word,” Kealey reminded them, “and then start taking them down. Remember, guys, we’re only going to get one shot at this, so let’s do it right.”

When Benazir Mengal heard the Algerian screaming, he resisted the urge to run outside and see what was wrong. Instead, he backed farther into the barn, doing his best to stay away from the doors. He saw the hopeful, defiant expression in Fitzgerald’s eyes, but he ignored it and raised the two-way to his mouth. “What the hell is going on?” he hissed. “Balakh, what do you see? What’s happening out there?”

There was a long delay, during which Mengal screamed the question several more times. He heard a long burst of automatic fire, then nothing, then another, shorter burst. He was about to transmit again when one of the guards came on. In a shaky voice, he said, “General, the American doctor knocked down the Algerian. He escaped. He . . . ran into the field, and Balakh went after him. There were shots. . . .”

“I heard them, you idiot!” Mengal screamed. “Where is the doctor?”

“General, I . . . He hasn’t come back. Balakh hasn’t come back, I mean, and we can’t raise him on the radio. I don’t know where the doctor is.”

“Send some men after them,” Mengal shouted. “I want you to comb the entire field until you find them, and I want the doctor alive, you hear me? The man who kills him will answer to me. Is that understood?”

“Yes, I—”

“Where are Amir and Qazi?”

“They’re inside the house, General. They’re guarding the surgeon, as you instructed.”

“Do they have radios?”

There was a brief hesitation, then, “No.”

“Bring them two radios. In fact, give Qazi yours. Tell them to circle around and flank our men, and make sure they go out the front, where it’s dark. Tell them not to fire unless they are fired upon. If anyone is out there, we must be able to hold them off until we can get the woman out of here. Understood?”

“Yes, General.”

“Then go.”

Release the TRANSMIT button, Mengal swore under his breath, closed his eyes, and resisted the urge to hurl the handset across the room. This is all Saifi’s fault, he thought to himself.How could he have let this happen? How could he be so careless? How fucking hard could it be to bring one man from the house to the barn . . . ? Opening his eyes, Mengal inadvertently caught the eye of Brynn Fitzgerald. They had covered her mouth with silver duct tape between takes. It was still in place, so she couldn’t speak. At the same time, her eyes seemed to convey everything she was feeling. It was a strange mixture of hate, satisfaction, and relief. Mengal didn’t understand the source of the second two emotions, but then it hit him. She didn’t speak Urdu, so she didn’t know that her fellow hostage had tried to escape. Apparently—based on the commotion she had heard—she was under the impression that she was about to be rescued. When he realized what was running through her head, he laughed, then watched as the confusion spread to her eyes. Walking over, careful to keep away from the open doors, he crouched so that their faces were nearly level. When she met his gaze, he said, “Ms. Fitzgerald, did you really think they were coming to get you?” He gave another mocking laugh, the sound rising up from deep in his chest. It was partly forced, but at the same time, he was genuinely amused. “If that is the case, I’m afraid you were wrong . . . Nothing so dramatic has happened. You see, your fellow American tried to run. My men are tracking him down right now, and he won’t get far. That is all that you heard. I’m sorry to let you down, but no one is coming to get you. I’m afraid it’s just you and me, Dr. Fitzgerald . . . just you and me. I think you had better get used to that idea.”

He saw the spark of hope in her eyes begin to fade, and he couldn’t restrain another bout of contemptuous laughter. How pathetic, he thought. People with Fitzgerald’s kind of power always seemed so assured on television, so sure of their place in the world, but put them into any sort of danger, and they folded right up on themselves. It wasn’t just American officials, either; he had seen the same thing the previous year, when he and his men had kidnapped a low-level Indian minister. The man had been attending talks in Islamabad, and his security had been all but nonexistent, which allowed them to grab him without firing a shot. They had taken the minister’s eightyear-old son as well, and the boy had proved to be an excellent bargaining chip.

It had not taken much to extort the money they wanted; in fact, they hardly had to cut on the child at all before the man caved in. That event had netted Mengal a decent sum, but it was nothing like the windfall he would reap if his current plan was seen through to fruition. It all came down to the next twenty-four hours. By then, the American president would have the tape in hand, and he would have no choice but to accept their demands. Either that, or he would see how serious they actually were . . .

At that moment, Mengal’s thoughts were cut off abruptly by the sound of screams and automatic weapons firing. He whipped his head toward the sound but saw only the stone wall of the barn. After a moment of stunned disbelief, he raised the radio to his lips and shouted for a situation report, but there was no reply. Swearing loudly, he didn’t register the renewed glimmer of satisfaction in Brynn Fitzgerald’s eyes as he moved to the doors of the barn. He hesitated before looking out. He desperately wanted to see what was happening for himself, but experience and caution got the better of him, and he stayed where he knew he couldn’t be seen.

Holding the radio an inch from his face, he demanded once again to know what was happening. Finally, he heard the voice of one of the men he had just ordered to join the search.

“General, this is Qazi.” The man sounded shaken, but still in control. “There are enemy soldiers in the fields. At least three, maybe four, and they’ve taken down most of the men. Only three are left, not including Amir and myself.”

“What about Shaheed?”

“Shaheed is dead.”

Dead? My old comrade and most trusted lieutenant, gone . . . ? Mengal let that sink in for a moment, and then he dismissed his natural, emotional response. That was one thing he’d always been able to do, and this was not a time to indulge in sentiment. “Where are you?”

“Approaching from the other side of the barn. I can’t see the enemy fighters, but once they fire again . . .”

Mengal nodded to himself, knowing what he meant. The moment the enemy soldiers fired again, they would reveal their positions, which would make them easy targets for the men he had just dispatched. Amir and Qazi were two of his best. Both had served on a sniper-observer team in the Special Services Group for years, and like Balakh Shaheed, both had fought in Kargil in ’99. Combined, they had thirty enemy kills to their credit, twenty of which they had racked up during a two-week reign of terror in the Drass sector of the Kargil Mountains. The snipers carried identical custom Sako TRG-22s. Each .308-caliber rifle was fitted with an ATN night-vision scope, as well as a muzzle brake to reduce the weapon’s powerful recoil. In retrospect, Mengal realized he should have had them in