dignitaries would be held at the Anadolu Auditorium of the Istanbul Convention and Exhibition Center, a world-class facility that could handle the international affair with ease in the center of the bustling city. Security was a standard item in such a place that was frequented by world leaders, and police would be out in force, inside and on the streets.
Even presidents have to sleep and walk around in their underwear sometime, and the chief executive would be staying overnight in one of the Palace Roof Suites of the Four Seasons on the European side of the Bosphorus Strait. The rest of the Pakistani delegation would share the other rooftop suites. Jim Hall was in a one-bedroom suite five stories below in the same hotel. Meetings of national leaders happened all the time, and in an elite hotel, they could be accommodated while regular paying guests would not be disturbed. It was almost too easy. Hall had already figured out three different ways to kill the man and successfully escape. Security off-site from the convention center was not much stronger than a team of rent-a-cops, and he also had an inside guy.
A million-dollar payday from the Taliban and head for the cabin, which was fully stocked and ready in the Bavarian Alps, where he would remain hidden until springtime, when he could shake off the snow and begin his new life. Jim Hall did not kid himself. He suddenly needed this money, badly, because Kyle Swanson, Lauren Carson, and that electronics geek at Trident had raped and pillaged his secret accounts. There was no sign that the CIA had helped, so he would still abide by the earlier deal to leave the Agency alone if they would leave him alone. Best deal he had ever made.
He had only three open accounts left-one in Havana under his French pseudonym, one in Sydney under a British identity, and his fail-safe stack of real money in a big vault in Bern. He had always believed in diversification, and if the authorities did not know of a bank account, then they could not hit it. Lauren knew some, but not all, of the locations. It was all a matter of timing now, careful planning, and he had laid it out carefully. Pull the trigger on the Paki dude, and only then transfer all of the remaining funds to Switzerland, to be put into cash into a separate vault that was already waiting for it. After the hit, he had reservations for Switzerland, where he would collect the cash and vanish.
The disturbing buzzing in his brain was Kyle Swanson, who would probably be figuring the same way and planning some way to turn it to his own advantage. That was why Jim Hall, at the same time he had hired the late Nicky Shaw, had also contacted a burly, bald German freelancer to organize some extra muscle and place a surveillance team in Bern. That was the best bet for Kyle to set an ambush.
Hall had taken dinner in his room, had a few drinks, and was watching the plasma TV screen as darkness came over the city that separates Europe from Asia. It was the German.
“We found them,” said the German. “Our watchers spotted them at the clock tower in the middle of town and took some pictures. I enhanced the images, and they match the photos you sent.”
Hall smiled to himself and made a vigorous
“Yah. They met some civilian for coffee right across from the bank.”
“You have somebody on them now?”
“Yah.” The deep voice had a sinister rumble.
“Kill him. Take the girl. I have one more item of business to take care of tomorrow, but barring any unforeseen problems on this end, I will be there on schedule.” With Kyle dead and Lauren captured, the CIA still on the sidelines, what could go wrong?
“Yah.”
46
ISLAMABAD
SELIM WALEED WAS SEATED on a silk-covered cushion, with his legs crossed, modestly basking in being so publicly displayed at his father’s right hand. The entire leadership of the Bright Path Party was gathered in a spacious room to officially launch the Taliban’s candidate for the presidency of Pakistan, and everyone was aware that it was the son who had engineered bringing his father to power.
Only a day earlier, Selim had been in the remote mountain hideaway of the legendary warlord Muhammed Waleed and had spoken the words that both men had wanted and had waited for so long to hear. “My father, it is time,” said the young man. “Allah, praise be unto him, has given us everything we have asked. You can now arise from the wildness of our mountains and move into the city to prepare for the final event.”
The older man paused, never one to act in haste. “You are certain of my safety?”
The son nodded and stroked his mustache lightly. “Absolutely. I would never put you at risk. I am in constant contact with our ally General Nawaz Zaman of the ISI, who assures me that all is ready. He has cast his lot with us in exchange for the promise that he will be appointed minister of defense in your new government, giving him control of the army. As the head of the secret police, he is even now starting to crack down on the political opposition. Our own men are assisting in the population centers throughout the country.”
A large white cloud that had drifted through the blue sky opened, as if in a heavenly sign, and sunshine flooded their home. Every window seemed to leap with the sudden illumination. Surely a sign from Allah! “The election is to be announced for next month?”
“Yes, Father. Not that it will matter. When the president is assassinated in Istanbul by Jim Hall, you will be the only candidate in position with a functioning and powerful political movement, and the backing of brokers such as General Zaman and the other tribal warlords. When the president falls, we-
So they came out of the mountains, surrounded by a ragged convoy of media vehicles that shielded them from the Americans’ hungry Predator drones and missiles. The caravan grew ever larger as it drove through the villages, trucks and automobiles and tractors, and they arrived in Islamabad as if leading a parade. Crowds jostled along the streets for a view of the famous guerrilla leader who would bring Pakistan back to its rightful position in the community of nations. Then, with his hand on Pakistan’s nuclear missiles, silent but ominous for now, he would have a guarantee that other countries would listen to him.
In the meeting room, the bearded leader was greeted as if he had already taken office. In his humble robes, he moved with ease among the rich supporters, the experienced political teams, and the powerful men who recognized the wave of the future and were clambering aboard his golden train. The conference was called to order by none other than General Nazam, who pledged his loyalty and spoke in glowing terms of young Selim Waleed, hailing him as a patriotic young man who had almost single-handedly transformed the Taliban into a legitimate political organization, the Bright Path Party, with the respected Muhammed Waleed as its presidential candidate.
The general hugged the smiling, bearded warlord as the international film crews buzzed around them. The audience erupted in sustained applause that shook the squares of the soundproofed ceiling. As arranged by Selim, General Nawaz then quietly departed from the platform and left the room so as not to distract any further from the attention being lavished upon Muhammed Waleed. Also on Selim’s instructions, the general was handling a final task of weakening the president’s personal protective services for the Istanbul conference by infiltrating men loyal to him into the inner security ranks. There was much work to do.
General Nawaz was back behind his desk within fifteen minutes, and he immediately placed a scrambled, secure call overseas. When a voice answered, Nawaz asked, “Football?”
“Soccer! Good to hear from you.” CIA Director Geneen was in a sealed communication cubicle adjacent to his office. He had been expecting the call.
“And you. By any chance are you watching television?”
“Why, yes, I am. One of the news channels.”
“Hold on for a second, would you, Football? I have to make another call. Will only take a moment.” General Nazam pulled open the right-hand drawer of his polished desk and picked up a cell phone. He dialed. The signal was received by a little phone, and the battery sparked a detonator embedded in blocks of plastic explosives that were
