reconsidered the whole thing.
“I don’t know,” he finally said in response to her question, “but it’s like I said before . . . We don’t really have a choice. We aren’t setting the rules here . . . They are.”
Abdul had reached a gate in the chain-link fence. As they watched from a distance, he seemed to open it without any real trouble, leaving Kealey to wonder if it had been locked to begin with. Then he slipped inside the perimeter. He passed under an A-frame structure, moved around one of the bulky gray transformers, and was gone from sight. Two minutes later, he reappeared at the gate and gestured for them to follow. Neither of them moved for a few seconds, and then Kealey started across the parking lot. Behind him, Petain hurried to catch up. When they reached the gate, Abdul tilted his head inside and said, “He’s waiting for you.”
“That’s it?” Petain asked, a perplexed expression crossing her face. Kealey couldn’t help but wonder what she had been expecting.
“That’s it,” the Pakistani said, his face an impassive mask. “I will wait here until you’re done. It shouldn’t take long.”
“Fine,” Kealey said. He put a hand on Petain’s back and pushed her gently through the opening, but she resisted and dug her heels in, firing another series of questions back in Abdul’s direction.
“Who are we meeting?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard above the driving rain. “What’s his name? How is he connected to Mengal?”
“Stop,” Kealey said through clenched teeth, pushing her forward a little more firmly. “We’ll find out soon enough. Just keep moving.”
She relented, went through the gate, and fell into step beside him, shooting one last look over her shoulder at the stoic driver. “I don’t trust him,” she muttered.
“Join the club.”
“I’m serious, Ryan. Something isn’t right with this whole—”
He stopped and grabbed her arm, turning her to face him. Shooting a quick glance at the gate, he saw that Abdul was already walking back toward the car. Coming back to Petain, he found her staring up at him. Her eyes were wide and expectant, and her dark hair was plastered to her forehead, long strands clinging to her pale cheeks.
“Marissa, listen to me,” he said in a low voice. “I happen to agree with you. I don’t want to be here, either, and I don’t feel great about this scenario. But it’s worth the risk. This guy, whoever he is, can give us Mengal’s exact location, and we need that info. We can’t afford to waste any more time. We can’t afford to screw things up, either, so do me a favor, okay? Try to relax, and stop asking questions. All that’s going to do is put this guy on edge, and that’s the last thing we need.”
She didn’t reply for a long moment, looking up at him silently, rainwater streaming down her face. Then, finally, she nodded her consent.
“Good,” Kealey said, “and thank you. Believe me, this will all be over soon. I’m as ready to leave as you are.”
“Well,” she said as they continued walking through the maze of transformers, “that all depends, doesn’t it?”
“On what?”
“On whether or not we’re going someplace nicer.”
Kealey smiled and shook his head, impressed despite himself. Petain was showing remarkable poise. They were walking through a thunderstorm, soaking wet, operating illegally in a foreign country without backup of any kind, and still, she was making jokes. That was something to admire, he decided, but he pushed the thought away as they passed an elevated structure bearing a circuit switcher. A figure, slightly blurred by the rain, was standing in the middle of the gravel walkway to the right, just in front of the small control building.
“I guess that’s him,” Petain whispered needlessly. They walked forward, Kealey taking note of the man’s appearance. He was wearing a long raincoat, which fell just short of his knees, and a black knit cap beneath the coat’s oversized hood. The knit cap was a strange choice, Kealey thought, given the oppressive heat. The man’s slacks were tucked into the tops of his rubber boots, revealing just a swath of black fabric between the coat and the boots, both of which were olive drab in color.
As they approached, he lifted his head and smiled out from beneath the hood. Through a gray curtain of rain, Kealey had an impression of pale green eyes, a thick black mustache, and a bulbous nose. Then the man pulled off the hood and studied them both in turn. Kealey saw that his first impression had been correct, but now he saw something else: like their driver, this man had obviously been exposed to the elements for months, if not years, at a time, his face as rough and battered as a chunk of worn granite.
“Welcome to Pakistan,” he said, looking at them both in turn. “I apologize for the lengthy, somewhat circuitous trip, but thank you for indulging me.”
“Who are you?” Kealey asked.
“My name is not important, but for the purposes of our brief association, you may call me Fahim.”
“Fahim?” Petain murmured. She leaned in to make herself heard over the driving rain and the incessant thunder. “I thought you said his name was Khan.”
Kealey ignored her, choosing instead to focus on what he had just heard, as well as what he could learn from it. Fahim’s English was remarkable; it was word perfect and tinged with a slight British accent. He had clearly spent a prolonged period of time in England, probably at one of the better universities, such as Cambridge, Oxford, or King’s College in London. At the same time, his physical appearance seemed to speak to a very different kind of existence. Kealey was struck by the obvious paradox, but he shook off his curiosity, remembering why they were in the Islamic republic to begin with.
“So where is he?” he asked finally. “Where’s Mengal? We need to—”
“Forgive me for interrupting, but there is one small matter we need to discuss before we get to business,” Fahim interjected. He raised a hand, palm out, as if to plead for their patience. “Mr. Kealey, my associate has informed me that you stopped to make a purchase in the Anarkali Bazaar. Is that correct? And before you answer, let me remind you that you were followed the entire time.”
Kealey hesitated, then reached behind his back and under his shirt. A worn leather sheath was secured at the small of his back, hooked onto his belt and positioned horizontally. Finding the wooden grip of the 6-inch knife with his hand, he pulled it out and held it up in a nonthreatening manner.
Fahim smiled mildly. “Toss it over here, please.”
Kealey obliged, the knife falling onto the gravel 5 feet in front of the other man. He walked over, picked it up, and examined the blade.
“Not much good, is it?” he said. “Still, I suppose it’s the best you could do on such short notice. I thought this was supposed to be a friendly meeting, Mr. Kealey, arranged by one of our common associates. I wonder why you felt the need to arm yourself.”
“Your driver was armed,” Kealey pointed out calmly, “and I expect you are as well. You know how this works.”
“Yes,” Fahim said, “I
“Oh no,” Petain whispered. Kealey wanted to look over, but he couldn’t shift his gaze from the gun in the other man’s hand. He should have expected it, he thought bitterly, but he hadn’t really considered the possibility of a trap. Clearly, Machado’s man had gone over to the other side. Perhaps he even worked for Mengal directly. It didn’t really matter, Kealey thought. Not anymore. He felt rooted in place, completely helpless, and he realized, with a sense of complete self-loathing, that he had made a terrible mistake in coming to this place. “Ryan, what are we going to . . .”
The rest of Petain’s question was lost in the driving rain. She repeated it, louder this time, but Kealey couldn’t concentrate on the words. He was still focused on the other man, who was now walking toward them. When he was 5 feet away, he stopped, reached into the deep left pocket of his raincoat, and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. He tossed them over to Kealey, who managed to catch them. Gesturing to Petain, Fahim said, “Cuff her. One hand only, to that transformer over there.”
He gestured to a large gray box, which was positioned to Kealey’s left. Petain looked over, then snapped back to Fahim and screamed,
