served with the 10th Special Forces Group—then at Fort Bragg, where they served with the 3rd SFG. At first, Owen had been impressed with Kealey’s ability to lead troops and make fast, effective tactical decisions, both in training and in combat. For this reason, he had pushed to put the young first lieutenant on the fast track for promotion, but before his efforts could yield results, Kealey had made the first of two grievous errors, effectively ending his own career before it could really get started. The first incident occurred in Sarajevo, during the last few months of the Bosnian War. In September of 1995, Kealey had been implicated in the murder of a Serbian warlord, a man by the name of Stojanovic, who had raped and killed a thirteen-year-old girl. The particulars of the case were not a factor. It didn’t matter that Stojanovic had gotten what he’d deserved, and it didn’t matter that the case against Kealey was circumstantial at best; it only mattered that the entire incident threatened to make an already volatile situation worse. Perhaps more importantly, if it had come to light, it would have reflected poorly on the U.S. Army and the troops it had committed to the NATO multinational force. As a result, Kealey was not subjected to a court-martial. Instead, he was eased out in the fall of 2001, but not before a disastrous operation in Syria that nearly cost him his life, not to mention the tattered remains of his career. Nevertheless, Kealey remained a highly trained operator, and it wasn’t long before he found a new home at the CIA, an agency he had already worked for on multiple occasions.
Owen had also been recruited by the Agency for a few covert operations around the world, most notably in Somalia, where he had played a minor role in the Battle of Mogadishu and the events leading up to that disastrous conflict. Following Kealey’s dismissal from the army, they had operated together on several occasions: Kealey as an independent contractor of sorts, Owen as an active-duty officer on TDY (temporary duty) assignment to the Agency. The first two operations had come off without a hitch, but it was the third, a meeting with a former general of the Republican Guard in Iraq the previous year, that had decisively changed the Delta colonel’s opinion of his former subordinate, and not in a positive way. Owen had been watching the house for two hours, shifting position every twenty minutes or so. Three other operatives, Mark Walland included, were watching the house as well; Walland was on a mobile route throughout the square, while the other two were in static positions on the other side of the house. The building belonged to Tahira Bukhari, a twenty-four-year-old Pakistani who had just returned from the United States, where she’d been training at the University of Virginia’s School of Nursing. What had brought Bukhari to the forefront of the investigation was her father, an army officer who had served with Benazir Mengal for nearly fifteen years. In effect, Colonel Amir Fariq Bukhari had served as Mengal’s aidede-camp for the duration of his career. During that time, he’d amassed nearly three hundred thousand dollars, which he’d left to his daughter prior to his death in 2005. The source of the money, which was presently sitting in Tahira Bukhari’s Citibank account, could not be traced, though the general assumption at Langley was that her father had come into the money through Mengal’s illicit activities, which included cross-border smuggling and illegal arms sales to Kashmiri militants. That kind of money could create a lasting loyalty, and if Bukhari knew where it had come from, it was reasoned, then she might be the person for Mengal to turn to. The only obstacle was her training; if Fitzgerald’s injuries were, in fact, life threatening, a licensed nurse would be able to do only so much. Nevertheless, the decision was made at Langley to add Bukhari to the list, which explained why Owen and the rest of the team were watching her house. Owen’s cell phone began ringing on the cast-iron table. He snatched it up, hit the TALK button, and lifted it to his ear. “What’s happening?”
It was Walland. “She’s on the move. She just left the house and turned left. It looks like she’s going to stay on foot . . . .She’s heading north right now.”
“Okay. Call Massi and Manik and let them know. We’re switching to alternate comms.”
“Will do.”
“Who’s driving?” Owen asked. The CIA station chief in Islamabad had already procured a car for them, an old Toyota four-door sedan, in addition to supplying the Motorola earpieces and lip mics they would use to communicate while on the move. He had also provided cell phones of the pay-and-go variety, which rendered them all but untraceable. He had supplied it all gladly and would have done more without being prompted by Langley. During their brief discussion the previous day, it had become clear to Owen that the station chief and Lee Patterson, the late ambassador to Pakistan, had been good friends.
“Massi will wait by the car . . . We can call him up if she hails a taxi.”
Owen nodded to himself; they were already fairly certain that Bukhari didn’t own a car, but they couldn’t afford to take the risk. Like in many Pakistani towns and cities, it was easier to get around in Sharakpur Sharif in taxis and rickshaws than in one’s own vehicle. Bukhari had left the house once before since they’d started the surveillance. She’d only walked down to the cafe for a pastry and a cup of coffee, but it was enough time to get a positive ID. Given the fact that they still had three other people to look at, they couldn’t afford to waste time following the wrong person, and they certainly couldn’t risk letting her slip through the coverage.
Owen stood, nodded his thanks to the proprietor of the tea stand, and began making his way through the throngs of shoppers. He mulled things over as he walked, listening to the traffic coming over his earpiece. Personally, he didn’t think that Bukhari was involved. For one thing, her house was in a clamorous residential area, and Sharakpur Sharif was a fairly small town. A foreigner being brought in on a stretcher would definitely earn her some unwanted attention, so it seemed unlikely.
At the same time, Owen wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. It was the reason he had lobbied so hard for this assignment, despite the fact that he had to work with Kealey. Unlike many of the other prominent figures in the U.S. government, Brynn Fitzgerald commanded his deep respect. In part, he thought, it was probably because she wasn’t really a politician. The vast majority of her years in government service had been spent behind the scenes, which was something that Owen could definitely relate to. At the same time, she had made an irrefutable difference. In short, she was one of the few people in Washington for whom Owen would gladly risk his life. The crowd ahead began to clear; the road was just beyond. There was a sputter of radio traffic, and Owen quickly adjusted his fleshcolored earpiece.
“Owen, this is Walland . . . What’s your twenty?”
“Just coming into the main road from the east,” Owen murmured. It was one of the first things he had learned about communicating over a radio net; people had a tendency to talk too loud, which rendered the words inaudible on the other end. It was a common problem, especially in a firefight, when clear communication over the net could mean the difference between life and death. That didn’t mean that he was always disciplined when it came to radio procedure. U.S. Special Forces operators were a different breed. They operated outside the lines, and unlike the regular army, they tended to refer to each other by name, as opposed to rank. In an operational detachment, it wasn’t unusual for a staff sergeant to refer to a first sergeant by his first name, just as it wasn’t unusual for operators to leave out the unnecessary radio jargon, such as adding “over” at the end of every transmission. In a small, cohesive unit, all that did was slow things down.
“She’s approaching from your right,” said Mark Walland, a former army ranger and a four-year veteran of the Special Activities Division, the paramilitary branch of the CIA. “You want to take point?”
Walland was asking if Owen wanted to take a position forward of Bukhari. The trick to good surveillance was to form a sort of mobile, shifting perimeter around the target. Sometimes a specific operator might stay 20 to 30 feet ahead of the target; other times, he might drop back and take up the rear. One man stayed back with the car at all times, in case the target caught on or otherwise moved unexpectedly.
“You right behind her, Walland?”
“Ten meters back, same side of the street.”
“What about you, Manik?”
“I’m on the other side, moving parallel.” The speaker was Husain Manik, an eight-year veteran of the Operations Directorate. A native of the Maldive Islands, Manik had immigrated to the States at the age of twenty- four. He’d joined the Agency after earning his master’s in electrical engineering at MIT. Owen had yet to figure out why the man was stuck on surveillance, unless he spent most of that time developing new tools for the watchers. Perhaps he wanted to see what his tools were used for in the field, or perhaps he just fit the physical profile needed for this particular job. Either way, he seemed to know his business, and Owen was glad to have him along.
“Okay, drop back, Manik. Walland, cross the street and get in front of her. Get over there quick . . . Let her see you moving. I’ll move in behind, and you can shift to Manik’s current position, Mark. Got it?”
Both men reported back in the affirmative. Owen was watching carefully as he approached the sidewalk, checking and discarding each passing face. Bukhari came into view, and he caught her profile for a few brief seconds: a large nose, sallow skin, a full face, with rosy red lips turned down at the corners. She wasn’t wearing a head scarf, and her clothes were very American: jeans, a short-sleeve T-shirt, and Nike running shoes. She was
