but a star nonetheless, and she is only the main attraction.”
“What do you mean?” Craig repeated, but he didn’t really need to ask. Somewhere, deep down, he already knew.
Saifi put a hand on his shoulder and smiled. This time there was nothing friendly about it. “Doctor, you didn’t think you were brought here for just one reason, did you? You’ve performed admirably so far, but your work is far from done. You’re going to be famous, my friend . . . more famous than you ever dreamed possible.”
It hit him then, what was going to happen. It was everything he’d seen in the news over the past few years, the grainy images out of Iraq, Afghanistan, and Karachi, a city less than 900 miles from his current location. It was what had happened to Daniel Pearl and so many others, and though he’d never seen the footage, he could see and hear it all in his mind: the masked men standing on either side of an Islamic flag; the resigned look in the eyes of the victim; the voice reading out the demands that would never be met; the blade coming down in a sweeping, glittering arc. . . .
The decision to act was not a conscious one, but he found himself moving forward, reaching out for the Algerian’s throat, eyes fixed on the sensitive bundle of nerves beneath the chin. He heard the shouts rising up from the back of the house, the sound of legs swishing through the damp, knee-high grass on the hill, but it was all meaningless background noise; he was entirely focused on killing the man in front of him. The Algerian moved to the left and raised an arm to ward off the attack, but he didn’t fight back, and Craig—having missed with his first strike—turned to mount a second attack. He launched himself forward, head down, and felt his shoulder connect with the man’s midsection, the air coming out of the Algerian’s lungs in a great rush. He felt a moment of profound satisfaction before the first of the soldiers arrived. Suddenly, his head exploded with pain, a heavy blow landing exactly where he’d been hit before, and he slumped to the ground.
Despite the overwhelming odds he was facing, he tried to hold on, knowing this might be his last chance to resist. It just wasn’t working; the black sea was moving in with incredible speed, and the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was the sound of the Algerian’s laughter. To Craig’s ears, it sounded like a harsh, grating tear, as if the laughter itself was ripping a hole in the still night air. And then he was gone.
CHAPTER 30
LAHORE
The flight had been rough, particularly the seven-hour stretch between Rome and Tashkent, the plane rocked hard by a highpressure front building over the Black Sea. From his seat near the back of the plane, Kealey had been in a position to see Petain jump up from her seat on numerous occasions, practically sprinting to the bathroom each time. On each occasion, she’d returned to her seat looking decidedly queasy, her face even paler than usual, one hand pressed over her mouth as if to suppress what might come up. Normally, Kealey might have been amused by her slightly theatrical gestures, but he couldn’t help but notice the attention she was drawing from the other passengers. Each time she got up to run to the front of the plane, he wanted to drag her back by the hair. They weren’t even in harm’s way yet, and she was already doing things that people would remember. He would have preferred to leave her behind, of course, but that wasn’t anything new; he’d felt that way from the moment Machado had made his proposal.
Kealey was still thinking about it as the plane—a UZB Airbus A310300—landed with a slight jolt, slowed, and began taxiing toward the main building. After a few minutes, the plane stopped moving, and the seat belt light blinked off. As the passengers sprang out of their seats to dig for their cell phones, Kealey remained seated. He preferred to wait for the other passengers to disembark before leaving the plane himself, just as he preferred to wait for everyone else to board before doing so himself. It had nothing to do with tradecraft; he simply hated waiting in lines. Especially lines that weren’t going anywhere.
Once the last passenger walked down the aisle, Kealey stood and collected his carry-on. It contained nothing more than a change of clothes and a paperback novel, but it was better to have a carry-on than nothing at all, particularly on a long flight. It was one of the things that other passengers expected to see, and in the post-9/11 world, people—especially air travelers—had become remarkably aware of their surroundings. Not all of them, but certainly enough to justify the extra precaution.
Making his way through the Jetway, he entered the cool expanse of the terminal. Petain was nowhere to be found, so—taking a guess—he located the nearest women’s restroom and stood where he could see who was coming and going. Before long she emerged, spotted him, and walked over. As she approached, Kealey could see that her legs were still shaky, her face pale.
“That was the worst flight of my life,” she groaned, adjusting the strap of her carry-on. Before they’d left Cartagena, she’d changed into beige linen pants, a black pin-tuck blouse, and plain white tennis shoes. Her face was framed by a brightly colored head scarf, the gauzelike material patterned in shades of violet and blue. The scarf she’d managed to dig up was more colorful than Kealey would have liked, but better than nothing at all, and they’d be able to pick up something less noticeable before long. Thankfully, the loose-fitting blouse did little to flatter her shape. Kealey was still wearing the charcoal T-shirt and dark jeans he’d put on nearly eighteen hours earlier.
“I kept thinking my stomach was empty,” Petain was saying, “but then it would hit me again. I have no idea what was coming up . . . I just hope it wasn’t important, whatever it was. . . .”
They were making their way toward the baggage claim. Like their carry-on luggage, the bags they had checked were filled with the usual clothes and toiletries; they contained nothing that couldn’t be left behind in an emergency. The things he and Petain needed—
money and passports—would be on their bodies at all times. It was the same for the rest of the team. Paul Owen, the Delta colonel seconded to the Agency for this particular operation, had already managed to secure a sat phone for Kealey’s use. According to Harper, the phone was waiting in a locker at the railway station, just east of central Lahore. The key to the locker was taped behind the toilet in a stall at the local Pizza Hut. The restaurant was located off Shahrah-iQuaid-i-Azam, a few kilometers southwest of the station. It would take a little running around to get the phone, but Kealey would have expected nothing less. Success, as always, hinged on precaution; it was the same for each and every operation. He wasn’t going to pick the phone up for a while, anyway; he wanted to meet with Machado’s fixer first.
Kealey could remember the Spaniard’s precise words, but that wasn’t the problem. It wasn’t what Machado had said that was bothering him, but what he
At the same time, part of him was saying that Machado was not the kind of man to fuck around, that once he gave it, his word was good. Kealey couldn’t explain it, but somehow, he knew that if he did what was asked of him, Machado would hold up his end of the bargain. He felt sure that Machado could get them closer than surveillance could, and more importantly, it would happen much faster. As for the rest of it, Kealey agreed with Harper; once he found Benazir Mengal, he’d find Fitzgerald. The only question was what kind of shape he would find her in.
The afternoon air outside the terminal was heavy and damp, the sky like a grayscale image: flat, somber, and absent of anything bright.
