areas had settled.
Gertz’s people wouldn’t have time to organize surveillance, but at least they would know where he was. Egan typed the coordinates into his BlackBerry and obtained a Google map. The address was thirty minutes away in evening traffic, not counting the surveillance detection run. He would just make it by nine.
The safe house where he would meet Uncle Azim was in a different district, to the east of downtown, near the university. If everything went right, he and the Darwesh Khel clan leader would get there around ten. Bottles of whiskey and cartons of cigarettes had been stashed away in the hideout weeks before.
Egan rode the taxi down Mohammad Ali Jinnah Street past the MCB Tower. A black sedan was cruising behind, two car lengths’ distant. It turned when Egan’s taxi did. The American exited the cab and walked back to the shopping mall. He entered the lower arcade, took the elevator up one flight, then a staircase down, and then left the building by a different route and flagged another taxi. A few minutes later he stopped and made another switch, using the arcade by the railway station.
Egan was habituated to the manic ballet of these surveillance detection runs: Back and forth, in and out, never looking behind or over your shoulder, or doing anything that betrayed the reality that you were concerned that someone might be following you. An SDR was like the dust baths taken by desert rodents, who rolled themselves in the sand to blot up the grit. It was getting dirty that made you clean.
Egan had authority to break off the run if he sensed danger. They always said that: You don’t need proof that something is wrong; someone looks at you cross-eyed, bam, that’s enough. Stop the run and skip the meet. The ops plan always had a fallback, and if you missed that, too, so what?
Gertz loved to say it: Safety first, brother. If it feels wrong, it is wrong. Bail out. But he didn’t mean it. If you aborted too many meetings, people began to suspect that you were getting the shakes. You were having “operational issues.” Which meant it was time to send out someone younger, who hadn’t lost the protective shell of stupidity that allows you to believe, in a strange city, that you have vanished into thin air.
Egan tried to will himself into imbecility: Be the taxi. Be the briefcase. But he could hear his pulse in his eardrums, and he was sweating again. His chest was tight, the same way it had been on the last Karachi run. “We need big hearts.” That was another of Gertz’s admonitions. Egan’s heart was ready to bust.
Gertz was right: He was losing it. He had stopped believing and started thinking. He wasn’t a winner. He had a small heart.
Egan wasn’t supposed to look behind, but he did. He could feel the surveillance, like a laser on the back of his head. And when he looked, he saw the same black sedan that had been following him earlier, near the MCB Tower. The driver looked different now, different clothes, anyway, but they would do that. He knew he should break off the run right there. He had the authority. And it hadn’t felt right all day: Pieces were out of focus, or in the wrong place.
Egan’s taxi was an old Toyota Corolla with a Koran on the dashboard and baubles hanging from the rearview mirror to keep away the evil eye. The driver was wearing a knit prayer cap, like everyone else in this Allah-dazed city. The seat cushions were threadbare. The metal springs pressed against his bottom.
The driver was lighting up a cigarette. Two boys were cursing each other in the street. “Gandu!” said one, using the local slang that means, colloquially, “You faggot!” “ Bahinchod,” roared back the other. “Sister fucker.”
Egan was claustrophobic. He told the taxi driver to stop. His forehead was bathed in sweat. He opened the door, then closed it again. The driver was asking for directions. Come on, think: What were his options? He could get out of the car. He could take another taxi back to the hotel, and be on the plane the next morning.
What address? the driver was demanding again. The little bastard wanted his money.
What would it be? Egan closed his eyes. There was no quitting this one, not now. It was too late, too many plans, too much momentum. He formed the words, just as he had memorized them: 11-22 Gilani Buildings, Sector 2, Baldia Town. He rasped out the address to the greedy driver, and the cab pulled away.
Egan never made it to the pickup site. He just vanished. Overhead surveillance didn’t have a fix on him in the jumble of traffic. Headquarters confirmed from the reconnaissance log later that he had never arrived at the rendezvous. His contact, Azim Khan, had been there waiting for him, right where he was supposed to be in Baldia Town. Overhead showed the Pakistani arriving a little before nine. He waited until after eleven and then left in his chauffeured Mercedes back to his villa in a posh suburb. What did it mean that the Darwesh Khel leader had shown up for the meet? Nobody could be sure then, or for a while after.
They tried to find Egan all night and into the next day. They mobilized a paramilitary rescue team from Bagram, ready to shoot the shit out of everyone in the effort to find him, but they never got close. The Pakistani police were given the GPS coordinates from his BlackBerry, which indicated that he was in Ittehad Town north of the city center. The police moved quickly into that raw neighborhood, but all they found was the phone. It had apparently been discarded on the run, thrown into a dumpster, where the police fished it out.
They never found Egan’s body. It was just gone. That was all you could say. A photo surfaced on a jihadist website, showing a man strapped to a table. There was a cloth over his mouth, and you could see a hand holding an earthen jug, pouring a cascade of water down the man’s throat.
They couldn’t be sure that it was Egan, or even an American. There was just a glimpse of one of his eyes, contorted by suffering and the instant of agony in which the picture was taken. He was dressed in an orange T- shirt. What you could see of the body were the marks from the cigarette burns and the gruesomely precise cuts of the hacksaw. People who saw the picture never forgot it.
5
Jeffrey Gertz spent his last minutes of ignorance in his car, driving over the mountains to work from an appointment with his dentist in Beverly Hills. That was what made him late. The operations center hadn’t wanted to call him until they were sure they had a problem, what with the twelve-hour time difference from Pakistan. And then, when the ops center tried, they couldn’t reach him. So he didn’t get the news that Howard Egan was missing until he got to work. Gertz fired the watch officer later, as if it had been his fault.
It was a June morning, the air so clear and fluffy it might have been run through the washer-dryer. Gertz steered his shiny red Corvette through the downward slope of Coldwater Canyon, chewing sugarless gum and listening to a military history audiobook on the car stereo. It was just past nine, and the sun was streaming into the San Fernando Valley. He was listening to An Army at Dawn, the first volume of Rick Atkinson’s history of World War II. When he was done, he would buy the second volume and listen to that, too. Like every warrior, he wanted a good war.
The cassette ended as he neared Ventura Boulevard. The only sound in the car now was the air-conditioning and the murmur of traffic. Gertz let his mind wander. Maybe The Hit Parade needed a motto, he mused. Every successful organization had one, including secret organizations. “The invisibles: We deliver”…or: “The shadow service: Reinventing intelligence.” He thought about it, and wondered if maybe he should order up a secret logo, as well, with something spooky like a half-moon or a lightning bolt and no words, no explanation at all.
Gertz had a face that was all angles: raised cheekbones; a firm chin; sharp eyes. He had started wearing a goatee a few years ago, to soften his appearance and make him look less like an Army Ranger. He had short brown hair, trimmed once a month by a stylist in Beverly Hills. He had stopped challenging colleagues to do push-ups on the office floor a few years before, but that was mainly because a superior had advised him it was offensive to women and would hurt his career.
Gertz’s nickname had been “Killer” when he joined the agency fifteen years before. People who met him back then weren’t sure whether he had acquired the name because he had actually killed someone, or because he was so ambitious. He had tried to tone down his tough-guy image when he moved to Los Angeles, and had even sought the advice of a wardrobe consultant at a clothier on Rodeo Drive. That was characteristic of Gertz. He studied everything. He wanted to get it right.
Today Gertz was dressed in a royal-blue blazer, a blue so bright it reminded you of a Caribbean cruise, with an open-neck black shirt and a pair of light charcoal slacks. He looked like one of the thousands of people in West
