killer, but he was, after all, a veteran field agent of the Central Intelligence Agency. He was a spy, as was she. Another major difference was that Lauren had never killed anyone, not that she objected to the possibility of having to do so.
She felt a tug of regret that it was going to all be over for him, for them, so soon. There was also a twang of guilt because his retirement also represented an opportunity for her. Finally, she would be able to leave the administrative side and take an assignment in a field office abroad to punch that necessary career ticket.
Lauren knew she was ready for field work and would prove that once again in Pakistan. She picked up a phone built into a wall holder and spoke softly to the two pilots up in the flight deck. Nothing of interest. Stay focused.
THE TWO TALIBAN FIGHTERS who were spared at the wall of the execution yard, Makhdoom Ragiq and Mohammad Sial, understood that they were living on borrowed time. They could only trust their future to the will of Allah and the whims of the Leader of the Bright Path. So far, things had worked out well, although in a very strange manner, for while they were safe and being well treated, no one shared information with them.
It was easily determined that they were being contained within a Class A prison near Peshawar, close to the Khyber Pass in the rugged northwest. In the morning light, they were pleased to be able to see the mountains from the windows of their rooms. The domed towers of the Islamia College were to the left. Most of the doors remained open at the prison, and there was plenty of tasty food served by attractive girls who also offered other pleasures.
The open doors did not mean freedom of movement. The pair were told they would remain in the prison while Muhammed Waleed completed his thoughts about how best to employ them. Waleed’s representatives also assured the fighters that they were being kept out of sight for their own safety in case of further reprisal attacks by the Americans, and their incarcerations would be brief.
They leaped to their feet when a young man in a tan Western suit, light blue shirt, and matching tie entered their rooms, wearing a small silver falcon, wings outspread, in his lapel. The hunting falcon was the symbol of the Bright Path Party. His beard barely covered his face, as if he shaved frequently.
“Ah, thank you for being here today,” the man said in a polite tone. “Please excuse my being late. You both are aware of the need for secrecy and deception in operational situations, so it would be better if you do not know my real name. I am here to represent the Wise Ones.” He dipped his head as if in modest apology, then brightened. “You may call me Selim. And please sit down and be comfortable. We have something to discuss.”
The room became still as he looked them over-wiry tribal men with smoldering dark eyes, ashamed that their beards had been trimmed and their fingernails cleaned. They were both in Western-style clothing, clearly uncomfortable. “You look perfect,” Selim said.
“I am a mountain fighter and would rather blow up a building than wear these clothes,” declared Makhdoom Ragiq. The taller, older man, with his mustache and beard cut back, displayed bad teeth within a narrow mouth when he spoke.
Selim shrugged his shoulders. “You both will soon be transferred to lodgings in Islamabad, to a place in which rough mountain fighting clothes would be too different. You have to blend into your surroundings, just as on a battlefield.”
“What do you want of us, Selim?” The second man, a short fellow with a moon face, a muscular body, and oily hair, asked the question directly and in a firm voice.
Selim responded with a further helping of praise. “You are both very valuable fighters, and the Leader and the Wise Ones were correct in recommending that I be responsible for you while the Americans are hunting you. I have agreed to keep you safe, but you will have to endure the dreadful ways of the Western world for a little while longer. Then you can go back home, back to your mountains out there, if you so wish. Do you understand?”
The two fighters looked at each other. They were true soldiers and followed orders. Someday, God willing, they would figure out how they had gone so quickly from being battlefield specialists to having to dress and act like infidel tourists. All they knew was that they were kept alive after the fiasco initiated by Fariq, that son of a whore dog. They would do the bidding of the Wise Ones without question, although it was something too complex for them to fathom.
“You brought great honor to our cause by participating in the death mission of the American. It was a daring and courageous act that struck fear into the infidels, Allah be praised. All true Muslims cheer you.” He skipped over any mention of the kidnap and Fariq.
“Thank you. But what do you want?”
“We need your services again.”
That brought a sense of swift ease to the pair of soldiers. The short man asked, “Where will we do this favor? Will we go back into Afghanistan again?”
“No,” Selim answered. “This time it will be right here in Pakistan. You will be housed in an apartment in the best part of Islamabad until you are required to act.”
“We need to train our bodies and our spirits, sir,” said Makhdoom Ragiq. “We will need details. Many details, to make our plans.”
“There is little time. You can exercise in the privacy of the apartment suite. I am personally handling the planning. Once you are in Islamabad, I shall give you the details. Tell me at that time whatever other information you need and it will be provided.”
The tall man spoke again. “And when do you want this, this
“Very soon. Perhaps just a few days. Everything is being arranged. Rest here until I call for you with a car. We will make the trip down to Islamabad together.” Selim smiled a final time and left the room as quietly as he had entered.
9
BAGRAM AIR BASE
AFGHANISTAN
TUESDAY
THE CITATION SETTLED OUT of the predawn sky, blacked out even on the landing approach into Bagram Air Base. The mottled black-and-gray paint scheme blended seamlessly with the surrounding darkness. Cockpit avionics did most of the heavy work as the control tower cleared a path through all of the air and ground traffic. The plane whispered down onto a concrete runway that was almost ten thousand feet long, rolled to a stop, and scooted in behind a little tractor that guided the humming aircraft plane over to the Special Operations ramp, and then into a secure hangar. All interior lights had been turned off. Big doors rumbled closed, the lights came back on, and the engines shut down.
The ground crews jumped to work, preparing the bird for a quick turnaround. It was not the kind of plane that kept a strict schedule, and this was not a normal airport. This particular Citation was to be ready to go at a moment’s notice, with never an official flight plan on record. Everybody who needed to know about it would be advised at the proper time, given what they needed, and no more. Cargo manifests and passenger lists did not exist.
Two crewmen popped the hatch from the inside. They sauntered down the small staircase and walked a short distance from the plane, where they stopped and looked around while stretching their arms, twisting and bending to loosen the muscles that had cramped during the long trip. There were no salutes. The flight line workers gave the air crew no attention: just another couple of pilots.
A man in a dark suit appeared at the top of the stairs, and he reeked of authority. He stood motionless and looked around the vast hangar, but the angular face registered no emotion. It was only a moment of passing interest for the technicians, who did not pause in their jobs of servicing the plane. He was just another of the many
