the moment his flight had touched down in Rawalpindi. It never ceased to amaze him how the Pakistani people could make so much with so little. When he took in the poverty that surrounded him daily, he couldn’t help but wonder how this country had managed to become a nuclear power. Nevertheless, over the past couple of weeks, he had seriously considered cutting his work at Sheikh Zayed short. Ever since the announcement of the upcoming Israeli arms sale to the Indian government, the tension in the streets—particularly in the heart of Islamabad—had become nearly tangible. The abduction of Secretary Fitzgerald in Rawalpindi had brought things to a boiling point. In the end, though, he’d decided against leaving. Pakistan and India had engaged in conflicts before, he reasoned, and it had never really amounted to anything. Even the Kargil war in ’99 could hardly be described as anything more than a cross-border skirmish. Hardly worth fleeing the country over, he thought, especially since he was so close to leaving, anyway. It had been ten months since he’d departed the University of Washington for Sheikh Zayed on a yearlong visit, and he was more than ready to get back. In truth, the first of September couldn’t come soon enough for Randall Craig.
He left the locker room on the ground floor shortly after eight in the evening, pausing on the way out to examine his reflection over the sink. A former girlfriend had once described his face as “kindly,”
though Craig had no idea what in the hell that meant. His lantern lower jaw was completely concealed by a thick beard, which he’d worn as long as he could remember, and despite a fair degree of worrisome searching, he had yet to find a trace of gray in his light brown hair.
Overall, he was pleased with what he saw. At thirty-eight, he was still carrying more muscle than fat on his six-foot, four-inch frame, despite an appalling diet that consisted of two to three servings of McDonald’s a day. It was something he never remarked upon in the presence of his patients, even though few of them—including the very few who spoke fluent English—would have been able to decipher his strong Southern dialect, a remnant of a youth spent in the soft, wooded hills of Etowah, Tennessee. The fast-food chain had recently opened a few restaurants in Lahore, and though the closest was something of a drive from his apartment in New Garden Town, it was well worth the trip. He simply couldn’t abide the local cuisine, which typically seemed to consist of overcooked rice and some kind of rubbery, unidentifiable meat. Even the Pakistani version of McDonald’s was preferable to that.
Craig passed through the waiting area at a brisk pace, nodding to a few of his colleagues as he approached the front entrance. Before long he was making his way through the tightly packed parking area. As he approached his vehicle, he was startled by the sound of squealing tires to his right. He stopped, then took a quick, unconscious step back as a black van came to a sharp halt a few meters away. The driver’s-side door was flung open, and a young man jumped out. His hair was askew, arms flapping out by his sides. He looked extremely agitated, but despite his distracted state, he seemed to lock on Craig instantly.
“Doctor? Are you a doctor? I need help!” he shouted frantically. Half the words came out in fractured English, the rest in a language Craig recognized as Urdu. He’d made a genuine attempt to learn the various languages of Pakistan over the past ten months, but there were just too many. Urdu, Punjabi, Pashto, Balti . . . the list went on and on, and not one of them seemed to be common to all his patients. Despite his inner drive to succeed at all things, he could recognize a hopeless endeavor when he saw one. He’d finally given up back in January. As a result, he had no idea what the young man was saying. The only thing he caught was the word
“Yes,” he said quickly, taking a few steps forward. “I’m a doctor.”
Thinking fast, he uttered one of the few phrases he knew in Urdu.
“
The man seemed to freeze, but only for a second. “Yes!” he shouted triumphantly. “I speak English!” It was almost as if he was just realizing he had the ability. “It’s my brother. He’s badly hurt. . . .”
The man was babbling as he moved fast to the back of the van, reaching for the handle. “He was hit by a car. I saw it happen, but the car drove away before I could do anything. I didn’t want to wait for the ambulance. Please, help me. . . .”
Craig moved forward instinctively, despite the warning bells going off in the back of his mind. If he’d thought it through a little longer, he would have realized that it didn’t make sense. The emergencyroom doors were on the other side of the lot and clearly marked. A person arriving with a patient would naturally try to get as close as possible to those doors before getting out of a vehicle. Unfortunately, the truth dawned much too late. As the rear door of the van swung up, Craig moved round the rear of the vehicle to get a better look. He froze when he saw that the cargo area was empty, except for a spare tire and a few ratty blankets.
Suddenly, he was wrapped up from behind. The same man who had drawn him in was now holding him in place, or at least trying to. It was a near-impossible task, given that he was much smaller and lighter than the man he was trying to control, but he was strong and determined. Craig shouted for help and started to struggle, but just as he was about to break free, the right side of his head exploded with pain. He had enough time to realize he’d been hit with something hard before the blackness moved in, his legs collapsing beneath him. He slumped forward, his limbs turning to water. He heard a hissed command in Urdu, then sensed a shadow darting in from the right, a person moving forward to break his fall. Then the dark tide swept over him, clouding out all thought, and the pain gave way to nothing at all.
CHAPTER 22
CARTAGENA, SPAIN
It was just after nine in the evening when Kealey woke with a start. Slowly but surely, his surroundings began to swim into focus. He lay still for a moment, trying to piece it together, and then it came back to him. Swinging his feet to the floor, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, aware of low voices drifting into the room. There was the sound of the wind as well, and as he stood and walked over to the open French doors, the brightly colored curtains rippled gently against the interior wall.
Stepping outside, he moved to the railing and put his hands on the waist-high bar of the balcony. Night had settled over the landscape, but small lights scattered round the perimeter helped illuminate the garden below. It was obviously well kept, a thick line of Spanish fir blocking the view of the road beyond. The trees were swaying in the cool, salty breeze moving in from the Mediterranean Sea, which wasn’t more than a mile to the east. The towering pines were positioned just inside a black fence of wrought iron, where they framed a large square of grass. Although it was dark, the grass appeared as green as it would have during the day, the lawn luminescent in the clean white light. A white aluminum table was centered on the grass, and two figures were seated there. One was a woman in her midfifties. Her dark, shoulder-length hair was touched with gray, but otherwise, she appeared far younger than her years. Her complexion was fair, her face remarkably free of wrinkles, and she was dressed in a pair of tan slacks and a green cotton cardigan.
The other person at the table was Marissa Petain. Her dark brown hair was damp, shining wetly in the moonlight, and she was wearing a cream-colored blouse and a pair of wrinkled chinos. It was different clothing from what she’d arrived in; obviously, she’d taken the time to shower and change. The two women were talking quietly in French, but from where Kealey was standing, the conversation was barely audible. As he looked down at them, Petain glanced up, as though sensing his presence. She smiled pensively and gave a little wave, but before Kealey could acknowledge the gesture, he heard a gentle tap behind him. He turned as the door opened slightly, a sliver of light creeping into the room.
“Kealey? ?Estas despierto?”
“Yeah, I’m up. Come on in.” The door opened a little wider, and a large man with dark features, unkempt eyebrows, and long, iron gray hair appeared in the doorway, his bulk drowning out the light in the hall. Born in Valencia in 1937, Javier Machado had graduated from the Autonomous University of Barcelona in 1960, before immigrating to the United States, where he’d earned a master’s in economics at the University of Southern California, followed by a doctorate at Princeton. It was there that he’d been recruited by the CIA. He’d served as a case officer for more than thirty years, running agents in Mexico, Morocco, Algeria, Portugal, and France, among other places. According to Marissa Petain, he’d spent the better part of that time trying to get out from under the shadow of his own father, Luis Mendez Machado, a famed poet who’d served a lengthy prison term for opposing the rule of Francisco Franco during the sixties. Petain had been unwilling to provide many specifics, but based on what
