The Invisible

divide in terms of training and weaponry, a divide that could not be ignored. Then again, he had speed and surprise on his side, two essential elements of any successful ambush. Ironically, the Diplomatic Security Service also relied heavily on these elements, especially when moving a senior official in and out of hostile territory.

And this was hostile territory, at least as far as the Americans were concerned. There could be no mistake about that. Rawalpindi was home to army headquarters and a number of lesser military complexes, and Mengal knew the area like the back of his hand. It was a key advantage. He knew what would happen in the aftermath of the attack. He knew precisely where the police would set up their emergency checkpoints, and he knew which roads they would overlook. More importantly, he knew exactly how to find the small clearing where, in twenty minutes’ time, he was scheduled to meet a pilot assigned to ISI, a man who’d once served under him at the Mountain Warfare School in Abbottabad. A man who knew the meaning of loyalty. If all went according to plan, Mengal would be onboard when the helicopter lifted off, but he wouldn’t be the only passenger.

“General.”

Mengal turned to his left, where one of his men was gesturing insistently toward the waiting sedan. “Of course.” The general walked to the car and slid into the passenger seat. A man was already waiting behind the wheel. “Drive.”

CHAPTER 8

RAWALPINDI

Special Agent Petrina absently tugged on the credentials still clipped to his suit jacket as he glared through the windshield of the armored Suburban. It was called “forward orientation,” and it was one of the first things he’d learned at the evasive-driving course he’d attended twenty years earlier. There had been additional courses since then—for obvious reasons, DSS agents underwent constant training, even to the point of relearning fundamental tasks—but the general principles remained the same. The reason behind forward orientation was as simple as it was obvious: looking as far forward as possible allowed one to identify potential threats before they became a real hazard. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much help at the moment, as they were hardly moving at all. They’d been able to maintain a high rate of speed along Islamabad’s broad avenues and boulevards, but traffic had slowed dramatically over the past few minutes. The road ahead was lined with cars, and beyond, Petrina could make out iron support beams towering over the traffic. Pedestrians and people on bicycles were streaming by on either side of the motorcade, but people on foot weren’t much of a danger to the heavily armored vehicles. Petrina was more worried about the beams in the near distance, which could only belong to a small bridge. With this realization, his dark mood grew darker still. Bridges were natural choke points. Typically, they were avoided at all costs; it was a maxim of any protective detail, and it should have been caught by the advance team.

He turned to the driver. “Why the hell did we pick this road? There have to be faster routes between the palace and the air base.”

“It was Edsall’s call,” the driver protested, waving an angry hand at the traffic in front of them. “There are construction crews on the other routes. We didn’t have time to clear them out, and this was the best alternative.”

“That isn’t saying much. He should have brought this to—”

Petrina stopped talking when a clear voice sounded over his earpiece. “Mike, we’ve got a truck parked off the side of the road up ahead. It’s about two hundred feet from our position.”

“Where’s the driver?”

“The hood is up, and the driver appears to be checking something in the engine compartment. He looks pretty pissed. Over.”

“Yeah, I see it,” the lead agent responded, tilting his head to see around the line of cars. The transmission was coming from the third car in the motorcade, which was already halfway over the bridge. The traffic had started to move a little, and the principal vehicle—the Suburban carrying Petrina, Fitzgerald, and Patterson—was nosing up to the bridge. “The cargo area is covered . . . Can you see inside from where you are?”

“Negative, Mike. I suggest we call our escorts and ask them to check it out on foot. Over.”

“Jesus Christ,” Petrina muttered under his breath. The whole situation was going from bad to worse in a hurry, and it was exactly why he’d suggested the use of aerial transport in the first place. Helicopters were much harder to target than vehicles on the ground, and they also had the advantage of unlimited air space. Unfortunately, the secretary of state had personally requested a vehicular motorcade, citing the fact that one had been used in India. It would have been noticed if different security measures—especially those that were obvious—were employed in different countries, and it would have set the wrong tone for the discussions at Aiwan-e-Sadr. Petrina could understand her reasoning, but it didn’t change the fact that they were taking a serious, unnecessary risk in the name of diplomacy. Still, that decision had not been his to make, and he couldn’t change it now. What happened next, on the other hand, was up to him. The last thing he wanted was to have the secretary of state’s vehicle on the bridge in the event of an attack, as they would be completely boxed in. The first two vehicles in the motorcade were marked Pakistani police cars; Petrina could see their lights flashing up ahead. The officers were armed only with handguns, and they wouldn’t be much use in the event of a well-planned attack. On the other hand, they were best prepared to deal with this particular situation. Not only did they know the language, but the driver of the truck would be more likely to cooperate with his own countrymen.

“Okay,” he said at length. “Ask them to approach on foot, and have them perform a visual check on the cargo area. Over.”

“Will do,” the other agent said. Petrina listened as the request was relayed to the lead cars over a secure channel. The police officers agreed a moment later. Just then, he heard the small motor kick in as the partition behind the seats came down. He turned to face the officials in the backseat.

“What’s going on, Mike?” Fitzgerald asked. The answer became immediately clear when she looked through the windshield. “Oh, I see. Isn’t there another road we can take?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am.” Petrina’s voice was low and tight; he was embarrassed that he’d allowed this to happen on his watch. “The police are going to try and clear the road. It shouldn’t take too long.”

The cars edged forward again. Up ahead, the police officers had stepped out of their vehicles and were moving toward the truck. As he watched through the windshield, Petrina inadvertently nudged an object on the floor, by his right foot. The weapon—a Heckler & Koch MP5 with a 3-round burst trigger group—was perfectly suited to his current task. It was easy to use, extremely versatile, and accurate out to 200 meters in the hands of a skilled operator. A 30-round magazine was already loaded, the first round chambered. The safety was on. The weapon’s proximity afforded Petrina a small degree of comfort, but he knew it wouldn’t make much difference if the worst were to happen.

The detail leader tried to push away his lingering doubts as the Pakistani officers finished questioning the driver. As they moved toward the back of the truck, Fitzgerald said something behind him. Petrina was turning to address her when something flashed in the corner of his eye. A split second later, the vehicle was violently rocked by a pressure wave and the deafening sound of a massive explosion. Swinging back to the front, Petrina looked on in disbelief as the shattered remains of the truck crashed to the ground, some of the burning debris landing in the trees on either side of the road. Most of the blast had clearly been pushed out the back of the vehicle; the officers had been killed instantly, along with the driver of the truck. Both police cars had been pushed off the road, completely gutted by the force of the explosion. As Petrina took in the devastation, he focused on the third vehicle in the motorcade. The armored Suburban had been flipped onto its side by the blast, and from the state of the vehicle, it didn’t look as if the agents inside had survived. Less than two seconds had elapsed, but for Mike Petrina, it felt like an eternity. He couldn’t react; all he could think about was how fast it had happened. Nothing could have prepared him for the speed of it, but as intense as it was, the shock couldn’t last. Petrina was too well trained for that. He forced himself to block out the sounds of fear and disbelief in the backseat, listening instead to the frantic traffic coming over his earpiece. “Get us out of here!” he screamed to the driver as he reached for the MP5 at his feet. There was nothing he could do with the weapon, but that didn’t stop his instinctive reaction to arm himself. A split second later, the driver threw the SUV

into reverse and slammed down on the accelerator. The Suburban rocked to the right as the driver swung the