76
Chavez, Ryan, and Caruso met with Mohammed al Darkur shortly after touchdown at Allama Iqbal International Airport in Lahore, the capital of the state of Punjab. The Americans were pleased to see that the ISI major had recovered from his shoulder wound for the most part, though it was evident from his stiff movements that he was still dealing with some issues.
“How is Sam?” Mohammed asked Chavez as they all climbed into an ISI van.
“He’s going to be okay. The infection is clearing up, wounds are healing, he says he’s a hundred percent good to go, but our bosses wouldn’t hear of him coming back to Pakistan just yet.”
“It is not a good time for anyone to come to Pakistan. Especially Lahore.”
“What’s the situation?”
The van headed toward the airport exit. In addition to the driver, Mohammed had one other man in front, and he passed loaded Beretta 9-millimeter pistols out to the Americans as he talked. “It is getting worse by the hour. There are nearly ten million people here, and anyone who can get out of town is doing just that. We are only ten miles from the border, and the public fully expects an invasion by India. There are reports already of artillery crossing in both directions.
“The PDF has moved armor into the town, you will see for yourselves. There are police and military checkpoints going up even now amid rumors of foreign agents in the city, but we will not have any problems passing.”
“Anything to those rumors about Indian spies?”
“Maybe so. India is agitated. Understandably in this case. Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous has fomented a real international crisis, and I do not know if we can be pulled back from the brink.”
Caruso asked, “Is your government going to fall, especially now, after your bombs turned up in the hands of Dagestani terrorists?”
“The short answer, Dominic, is yes. Maybe not today or this week, but certainly very soon. Our prime minister was not strong to begin with. I expect the Army will depose him in order, they will say, to ‘save Pakistan.’”
Chavez asked, “Where is Rehan now?”
“He is in a flat in the old section of Lahore called the Walled City, near the Sunehri Mosque. He does not have a lot of men with him. We think just his assistant, Colonel Saddiq Khan, and a couple of guards.”
“Any idea what he’s up to?”
“None, unless it is to meet with Lashkar terrorists. This is an LeT stronghold, and he has been using them in operations over the border. But, honestly, Lahore seems like the last place for Rehan to be right now. The city is not a fundamentalist stronghold like Quetta or Karachi or Peshawar. I have a pair of men near his flat, so if he leaves for any reason we can try to follow him.”
Al Darkur took the Americans to a nearby apartment. They had just settled in when Chavez’s mobile phone rang.
“Go for Ding,” he said.
“Hey.” It was John Clark.
“John! Are you okay?”
“Makin’ it. Remember when you said that if I needed you, you’d come running?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Then get your ass on a plane, pronto.”
Chavez looked across the room at the two younger operators. He’d have to leave them on their own, but there was no way he wouldn’t be there for Clark. “Where am I heading?”
“Center stage.”
“’Fraid so.”
John Clark had changed into Russian camo fatigues and a heavy coat by the time he climbed out of the helicopter in the parking lot of the Sputnik Hotel. The bandaging on his hand and his head was of a professional grade, Biryukov had seen to it that an orthopedic surgeon had flown along with them from Moscow to attend to the American’s wounds.
It hurt like a bitch. John was pretty certain his hand would bother him as long as he lived, even after the God knows how many surgeries he’d require to have the bones put back together, but that was a worry for another day.
The snow fell heavily during his arrival. It was eight a.m. local time, and the Sputnik looked to Clark to be in near chaos. Different organizations of men, both uniformed and in civilian dress, had staked out tiny kingdoms both outside and inside, and there seemed to be no one in charge.
While John walked from the chopper to the hotel everyone in his path stopped and stared. Some knew he was the former commander of Rainbow, here to take control of the situation. Others knew he was John Clark, the international fugitive wanted by the United States for multiple murders. Many simply re?cognized the presence of the man, who walked with purpose and authority.
But everyone saw the bruised face, a dark purple jaw and black eyes, and a right hand encased in fresh white dressing.
Stanislav Biryukov was by his side and a dozen more FSB and Alpha Group men followed them as they entered the hotel and marched through the lobby. In the hallway leading to the main conference room military officers and diplomats and rocket scientists alike all stepped aside for the procession.
Biryukov did not knock before entering the command center. He had spoken with President Rychcov moments before landing at Yubileinaya and, as far as Biryukov was concerned, he had all the authority he needed to do whatever he goddamn well pleased around here.
The command center had been notified of the arrival of the American and the FSB director, so those working there were seated and ready for a conversation. Clark and Biryukov were asked to sit at the table, but both men remained standing.
The director of the Russian intelligence agency was first to talk. “I have spoken with the president directly. He has had conversations with the commanders of NATO regarding Rainbow.”
The Russian Ambassador to Kazakhstan nodded. “I have spoken with the president myself, Stanislav Dmitrievich. Let me assure you, and let me tell Mr. Clark, that we understand the situation and we are at your service.”
“As am I.” General Lars Gummesson entered the room. Clark had met Gummesson when he was a colonel in the Swedish Special Forces, but he did not know the man, other than the fact he was the current head of Rainbow. He’d expected friction from the officer, it would be only natural for someone relinquishing command, but the tall Swede saluted Clark smartly, even while looking curiously at the older man’s beaten face and wounded hand. He recovered and said, “I’ve talked to the leadership at NATO, and they have explained that you will be commanding Rainbow for this operation.”
Clark nodded. “If you have no objections.”
“None at all, sir. I serve at the pleasure of my government and at the pleasure of NATO leadership. They have made the decision to replace me. Your reputation precedes you, and I expect to learn much in the next twenty-four hours. Back when Rainbow was actually used in direct action, that is to say, back when you were in charge, I am sure you learned many things that will be helpful in the coming hours. I hope to see action tonight in any way you can use me.” Gummesson finished with, “Mr. Clark, until this crisis has passed, Rainbow is yours.”
Clark nodded, not as happy about taking on this responsibility as the Swedish general seemed to think he would be. But he had no time to worry about his own circumstance. He immediately began working on the operation. “I need plans of the launch control center and the missile silos.”
“You will get them immediately.”
