had reached the border, and Machado was talking with the entry officials. Lost in her thoughts, she had missed the jerky stopand-go movements that the vehicle had made as it moved forward in the queue.
Pressing her ear to the thin metal wall, she held her breath and listened hard, trying to catch the gist of the conversation. Machado’s voice—a quiet, confident baritone—was easy to recognize, and she couldn’t detect a hint of unease; he seemed as relaxed as he had the day before. She wondered if she had imagined his strange mannerisms earlier that afternoon and decided that she probably had. She wasn’t herself, she knew, caught up in all that had happened, and she was just seeing things that weren’t really there. The Portuguese official was saying something, but even though he was speaking in English, Naomi couldn’t decipher the words, which were distorted by the metal wall of the cab and the vibration of the engine. Machado said something back, which was followed by a burst of shared laughter. Then the truck dropped into gear and jolted forward. Naomi slumped to the floor and closed her eyes, as relieved as she’d ever been. She was well concealed by a group of rough wooden boxes, which Machado had told her contained automotive parts bound for Peniche, but even a casual search would have resulted in her arrest. She couldn’t believe they had gotten away with it, but the truck was still rolling forward, and now it was picking up speed. . . .
They continued on for another twenty minutes or so, the Mitsubishi rising and falling over a series of gentle hills. The ride was much smoother than it had been on the Spanish side of the border, and with the crossing over and done with, most of Naomi’s tension had faded away, leaving her utterly exhausted. She didn’t feel the sleep coming on, but it did, and when she woke with a start a short while later, she realized that they were no longer moving. In fact, the engine was shut down completely; all she could hear was the sound of cicadas or tree frogs, or whatever it was that they had in Portugal. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she heard a movement at the back of the truck and tensed, her breath catching in her raw, parched throat. It hurt to breathe, let alone speak, but she relaxed when she heard Machado saying her name.
“Yeah, I’m . . .” She cursed as her knee banged painfully against one of the wooden boxes. “I’m here,” she said, the words coming out in an awkward rasp. She moved blindly through the cargo area, hunched at the waist to avoid the tarp, which drooped overhead. She extended her arms and moved them back and forth in an effort to detect any obstacles before she ran into them. A blinding white light suddenly pierced the darkness, catching her full in the face. She squeezed her eyes shut again and glanced away, but not before she caught a glimpse of Javier Machado’s bulky profile. Someone was standing next to him, a smaller, slender figure, but she couldn’t see his face, as she was still blinking the dancing spots from her vision. She had seen something else in that brief moment, something that looked like . . . a gun in the smaller man’s hand, but that didn’t seem right. Still, she hesitated before moving forward, and Machado seemed to catch her reluctance.
“Come on, Naomi,” he said quietly, but there was something in his voice that touched off her internal alarm. “It’s time to go.”
“Go where?” she said. She could hear the nervous tension in her own voice, and she hated it. The last thing she wanted was to appear weak in front of them, even though she knew that Machado had already seen her at her worst. “I thought we were—”
“Change of plan, Ms. Kharmai,” he said. “Now please, get out of the truck.”
Naomi hesitated again, but there was nothing to do but follow his instructions.
Carefully, she edged forward, the spots still dancing in front of her eyes, and Javier Machado stepped up to offer his hand.
CHAPTER 39
WASHINGTON, D.C.
It was just after one in the afternoon as Jonathan Harper entered the secure conference room beneath the West Wing of the White House. It had been a long couple of hours—a long couple of weeks, actually—and the stress had been building steadily. Now, judging by the lingering ache in his chest and the perspiration building beneath his arms, it had finally reached its peak.
There were about 20 people in the room, he guessed, not a huge number, but that was only because the confined space could not fit more, at least not comfortably. He knew maybe half of them by name; the rest were technicians and assorted aides, many of whom were in military uniform. Kenneth Bale was seated at the large table, engaged in quiet discussion with Robert Andrews. Stan Chavis was seated across from them, on the president’s right. Both men were listening to a briefing being delivered by a brigadier general in army uniform. The west wall, Harper saw, was dominated by three large monitors. Shooting a quick glance at them, Harper was drawn first to the second monitor, which displayed hundreds of lights spread over a large landmass. After staring at the multicolored lights for a second, he realized they denoted the location of ground-based radar stations in Pakistan, along with confirmed SAM missile sites and areas of concentrated troop movements. The first monitor displayed what Harper guessed was a higherresolution view of a specific point on the ground—probably the AfghanPakistani border itself, he decided after a moment—and the third showed nothing but a test pattern. That one would display the feed from the 8X recon satellite that was currently moving into position over Sialkot. Harper was not surprised to see it was still en route to its new destination. Unlike the smaller Keyhole series of satellites, the 8X weighed close to 22,000 pounds, and though it had been positioned over the Kashmir Valley that same afternoon—a relatively short distance from Sialkot—it would still take some time to reach its destination. Adjusting a satellite’s orbit was no easy feat to accomplish, particularly in the space of a few hours, but it was certainly easier when the satellite was already fairly close to its new objective. Despite the obvious tension, there was an air of anticipation in the room, and that—in Harper’s mind, at least—was cause for concern. It was too early to get overly excited. They had yet to confirm that Fitzgerald was in the surgeon’s house, and if she was not, it wouldn’t matter what else they managed to accomplish. Fortunately, Harper had managed to talk the president into letting Kealey and his team move into position prior to the insertion of the assault team. With any luck, they would be able to verify the secretary of state’s presence before the lives of dozens of men were put on the line. Given Pakistan’s escalating conflict with India, just entering Pakistani airspace without permission was a huge risk. Unfortunately, Mengal’s connections to ISI and the Secretariat itself were not factors that could be safely overlooked, and the only solution was to keep the entire Pakistani government in the dark. Once the president had approved the rescue operation, things had moved with incredible speed. Ninety minutes after he’d called with Mengal’s location, Kealey had called back with additional info, including GPS coordinates for the surgeon’s house in Sialkot. Harper had since relayed all of that information to the Pentagon’s National Military Joint Intelligence Center. From past experience, he knew that the material would be used for “IPB,” or Intelligence Preparation of the Battlefield. This consisted of examining known enemy locations, force size, and possible extraction points, all in the hope of minimizing risk, while at the same time increasing the probability for success once the op began.
The assault team—an amalgamation of 24 SF operators that had been culled from three different units, including the 1st SFOD-D—
was probably doing that right now, Harper realized. And when it came to IPB, Kealey’s team on the ground would continue to play a vital role. Once they were in position, they would be able to send updates regarding the enemy’s force concentration—where the guards were situated on the grounds. Their primary task, however, remained the same: to verify whether or not the secretary of state was even in the building.
Thinking about Kealey and the rest of the surveillance team, Harper shot a quick glance at his watch. They would still be prepping as well, he realized, even though it was already dark in Pakistan. They wouldn’t even try to approach the house until they were completely ready to move, and even then, it would likely take them several hours to get into position. From that point forward, it would just be a matter of watching, relaying updates as needed, and trying to stay out of sight until the assault team arrived.
They were still hours away, Harper realized. And now there was nothing to do but wait. Resigning himself to this fact, he drifted over to join the DCI at the conference table.
