“There’s a decent-looking Honda Pilot running, no driver,” said Richard, pointing. “Let’s go.”
They were in the Honda, negotiating past the wreckage and heading away from the scene. A good half hour had passed before the Honda owner realized he had been rolled. They were heading in the general vicinity of Karachi. “Look, Zak, I think we’re screwed here. There is no place we can go. First of all, we have no passports. Sure we can get them. Now we’re heading to Karachi and we can get some good fakes put together. That costs money, which we don’t have. But where does that get us? If we get out of Pakistan, we still need to get into the US. If we get into the US, we somehow need to get this story public. If Kumar here survives long enough to be put in front of a TV camera, without corroborating evidence he’ll be stir-fried in the media as just another crazy old loon with a conspiracy theory to peddle. What’s the strategy here?”
“Rich, we start the impossible journey one step at a time. The first step is to get the hell out of Pakistan, to find safe ground somewhere.”
“That’s the point. There is no safe ground. If our own country thinks we’ve gone rogue, if somehow it was the US that tipped off the ISI and told them we were terrorists, and told them to shoot first and then ask questions, if the US is behind that, we’re not safe anywhere.”
“Well, there’s always North Korea, bro.”
“Fuck you, Zak. Don’t want worms.”
They switched vehicles a number of times. Both Zak and Richard were technically clever, and Zak had an endless supply of electronic gadgets embedded in his forearm so that the theft of vehicles, especially older models, was not particularly problematic.
They were nearing the outskirts of Karachi when Kumar spoke. “Shayam,” he said, using the name that Zak had used when he was undercover riding with Yousseff in Afghanistan before the Colorado River attack. “Shayam, I have a plan. I think I know how at least we can get out of Pakistan.”
22
November 16, 1984
The flames raged skyward, making terrifying whooshing sounds. The smell of incinerating rubber and burning roof tar was sickening, and the heat rolled out of the burning orphanage in waves. Reflections of flames and emergency lights of various hues and colors lit up the night sky. Orders were being barked, rescue ladders were erected and extended, and fire hoses pumped thousands of gallons of water into the nineteenth-century St. Louis building. First responders were frantically attempting to dampen the flames. From somewhere within the burning structure came the piercing screams of children.
A small twelve-year-old girl covered in soot and ash was sitting on the curb nearby. She was holding a small stuffed tiger and wearing a torn pink dress. An enigmatic smile flickered around the corners of her lips. The sirens, screams, searing flames, and sounds of destruction swirled and morphed together in a compressed flow of noise . . . and became the pressurized internal airflow system of Air Force One.
Tyra snapped out of her reverie and fell back into the moment in the main conference room in the midsection of the 747. One of CJ’s aides had entered a boardroom with an email from the Islamabad embassy. Tyra was now wideawake. The president had poured himself a shot of Jack and CJ was foraging for a beer. All three were tired and not particularly pleased. They had returned from a five-day whirlwind tour of European allies. It pissed Tyra off to smile nonstop for substantial periods of time five days in a row. She was even less happy when CJ read the email from the American embassy in Islamabad.
“Those morons at the ISI. Sounds like they had it nailed and let them get away,” Tyra groused.
“Did they really try and lob an RPG into a vehicle from one highway lane away?” The president sounded impressed.
“Yeah, they did. And Kumar and his supporting cast promptly switched vehicles and disappeared again,” Tyra added. “The problem is that now they know the ISI is on to them, which means they will deduce that we are on to them, so they will now know that they are on every terrorist-wanted and nofly list in existence. They will definitely stay under the radar.” “They can’t do that forever,” said CJ.
“Don’t count on that, fats,” Tyra rebuked. “Zak and Richard both grew up in Islamabad. Kumar grew up in Karachi. In fact, his main business, Karachi Dry Dock and Engineering, is headquartered on the Karachi docks. There are 20 million people living in the metropolitan area, if not more. They will have many friends there. They can, in fact, stay below the radar for a year or two. That would give them plenty of time to dig up corroborating evidence to show that Yousseff Said al-Sabhan was the directing mind and will of the terrorist attack. We would lose Afghanistan for sure.”
“And our many investments there,” added the president.
“So what do we do?” CJ was coloring up a bit. He, too, had all manner of exposure in the situation.
“We put some guns on the ground in Karachi. We can run a hit squad out of the consulate in that city. I will talk to the deputy secretary of state personally, if you are fine with that, sir,” Tyra said, looking at the president.
“Sorry,” he responded. “You’re going to have to enlighten me here. So we burn some diplomatic capital and we get a crew in Karachi. So what? Karachi is bigger than New York. What’s the plan, Tyra? A door-to-door search?” CJ was looking at Tyra, equally perplexed.
“You two are not thinking. You need to figure out what their destination is. And it can only be one place.”
“What would that be, Tyra?” asked the president, a hint
