satellite to make the connection. Once he had the deputy DCI on the line, he quickly relayed the new developments.
When he was done with the thirty-second explanation, Harper said, “Thank God she’s there.” Kealey could hear genuine relief in the other man’s voice, as well as a sudden surge of voices in the background. Kealey suddenly wondered if he was on speakerphone.
“What kind of shape is she in?”
Kealey hadn’t asked before, so he put the question to Massi, who answered promptly. Then he got back with Harper and said, “She appears to be unharmed. She’s secured to a chair—we can’t see how—
and it looks like they’ve erected some kind of film set. Massi can see cameras, portable lights, and a flag in the background.”
“But she’s still in one piece?”
“Yes.”
There was a long delay, the only sound that of the rain, the distant rumble of diesel engines, and the slight hiss of the satellite connection in Kealey’s ear. He could almost hear the argument that must have been going on in the Situation Room. Finally, Harper said, “We need to know more, Ryan. Can you get closer without being spotted?”
“Probably not,” Kealey said impatiently. “Look, John, we’re right there—”
“I know. You want to get her, and we will. Just maintain your position. The assault team lifted off from Bagram an hour ago. ETA is thirty-five minutes.”
“No, we need to get her
“Hold your position, Ryan. That’s an order.”
“Fuck.” Kealey muttered the expletive under his breath, but he wasn’t trying to hide his anger; Harper would have caught it over the line. Slightly raising his voice, he acknowledged the order, then ended the call.
Less than five seconds later, he heard Owen’s voice in his ear.
“Kealey, what’s happening?”
Kealey relayed what Harper had said, then checked with each operative to make sure they were all on the same page. That done, he returned his attention to the back of the house. Through the nightvision scope, the green-tinted guard beneath the tree was incredibly clear; magnified, his head was about the size of a small pumpkin. All it would take was one gentle squeeze on the trigger, Kealey thought. It was incredibly tempting. Owen, Walland, or Massi would drop the second guard a tenth of a second later, and then they’d be down from ten hostiles to eight, a very manageable number. . . . Kealey pulled his eye back from the glass and took a deep breath, shaking it off. His finger had actually been tightening on the trigger, as if of its own accord, and now he made a conscious effort to move it outside the trigger guard. The urge to fire was overwhelming. She was right there, less than 100 feet away, and the enemy had no idea they were being watched. It would be so very easy. . . . He took another deep breath and wrapped his right hand tightly around the plastic grip of the rifle. Part of him wanted Mengal to try something. Part of him wanted the guards to spot the surveillance. Part of him wanted to end it now, but he forced himself to relax, knowing that Harper was right; it just wasn’t time. All they had to do was hold on for another half hour, and then it would be done.
CHAPTER 41
SIALKOT
From the moment Benazir Mengal first laid eyes on Said Qureshi’s home, he had been holding out possibilities for the barn. It was a fine two-story structure, built with the same fieldstone Qureshi had used on the house, and topped with the same slate roof. The only thing it was missing was windows, but for Mengal, that was part of the building’s appeal; after all, he didn’t want to advertise the things he was planning to use it for. There was a solid oak staircase against the north wall, which led up to a hayloft, but otherwise, the ground floor was completely empty, which made it ideal for the film set. As far as sets went, it was extremely crude, but that was fine by Mengal. No one who watched the tape would be worried about the quality of the production. The tripod-mounted camera was bracketed by a pair of portable halogen lights and centered on a white flag bearing the symbol of the Salafist Group for Call and Combat. The oval-shaped symbol depicted an open Koran resting on a wall of gray stone, which was topped by a turquoise sky. The Koran was framed by a sword and an AK-47, and directly above the open book, a sun bearing seven rays seemed to illuminate the glorious teachings of the prophet Muhammad. There were also scrolls bracketing the central image. The banner beneath the wall marked the name of the group, and the banner above the Koran read, “And fight on until there is no more tumult or oppression, and there prevail justice and faith in Allah.”
It was, Mengal thought, a thoroughly ridiculous symbol. Almost as ridiculous as the aims of the group itself, but using the flag was better than the alternative, which was to face the camera himself. It was the same reason he had recruited Saifi in Algiers. When he had first arranged the interview with Saifi in the Algerian prison, he had, for the most part, explained exactly what he intended to do, leaving out only the specific identity of his target. In return for Saifi’s promise of assistance, Mengal had offered him freedom, which he could arrange through his friends in the Algerian government, as well as money and arms, everything Saifi would need to rebuild his faltering terrorist network in North Africa. He had also promised the Algerian center stage in the attack on the motorcade, the kind of attention that would guarantee instant fame, equating him with the top figures in international terrorism—Carlos, bin Laden, and Abu Nidal—virtually overnight.
Saifi had leaped at the opportunity, which wasn’t surprising, Mengal reflected, given that the alternative was another twenty years behind bars. So far, the terrorist leader had proved reliable, but there was something about his manner that Mengal found distinctly unsettling. Qureshi had caught it as well, and while Mengal had deflected the surgeon’s concerns, they had secretly added to the doubt he was already feeling. Mengal had very few moral qualms; he would gladly kill Fitzgerald if and when the time was right. The Algerian, on the other hand, was unpredictable, and that made him dangerous. Mengal had been careful about this; he’d never left his hostage alone with the Algerian, and now, as he glanced at the man whose freedom he had arranged for eight weeks earlier, he saw a perfect example of what had piqued his concerns to begin with.
The Algerian was standing to Mengal’s right, next to one of the portable lights. He was staring intently at Fitzgerald, who was bound to a chair in front of the flag. Fitzgerald, in turn, was staring stubbornly down at her lap, her battered face contorted with pain. At first, she had refused to speak into the camera, and Saifi had been eager—perhaps overly eager, Mengal reflected—to elicit her cooperation. Still, her bruised, bloody appearance did little to deter the Algerian’s interest. Saifi’s expression was constantly shifting and hard to decipher, falling somewhere between lust, admiration, and pure hate. His eyes were slightly too open, his mouth fixed in a permanent smile. His gleaming white teeth were constantly visible, it seemed, fixed in the center of a tangled black beard, and his hands, with their long, spidery fingers, were wrapped in the folds of his robes. Mengal had to speak his name several times before he turned, and even that was unnatural. His head was the only thing that moved, swiveling slowly as if it were mounted on a fixed platform.
“Go and get the American doctor,” Mengal instructed quietly, leveling his gaze on the bridge of the man’s nose. He could not meet the Algerian’s eyes: he was worried the man might see his concern and mistake it for fear. “Get him and bring him here.”
“We’re going to use him?” Saifi asked in Arabic, one of their several shared languages.
“Yes.” It was a decision Mengal had been weighing for the past several hours. They had already performed several takes using only Saifi and Fitzgerald, and it just wasn’t working. They needed something more to get the message across, Mengal thought. They needed something that would leave an . . .
“And what of the surgeon?”
Mengal considered briefly. Balakh Shaheed, his top lieutenant, had locked Qureshi in his surgical suite several hours earlier, and he saw no reason to bring him out now. For the moment, Craig would suffice.
“Leave him. Just get the American.”
The Algerian nodded, then pushed open the heavy door and stepped out. A minute later, a sudden crackling
