day of investigations, analysis, fishing in the murky waters of the cyberworld to find the enemies of the state who lurked there.
The analysts sifted through their traffic feeds, applied pattern analysis and link analysis to the data, hoping to unlock some critical piece of information America’s official intelligence communities had missed, or exploit some intelligence find by American intelligence in a way the overly bureaucratic agencies could not.
The field operatives spent their days testing equipment for the field, training, and sifting through the analysis to look for potential operations.
Two weeks after the Paris op, Gerry Hendley entered the conference room fifteen minutes late. His key operatives and analysts were already there, as well as Sam Granger, director of operations. All the men were sipping coffee and chatting when he arrived.
“Interesting new development. I just got a call out of the blue from Nigel Embling.” “Who?” asked Driscoll.
Chavez said, “Ex — MI6 guy in Peshawar, Pakistan.” Now Driscoll remembered. “Right. He helped you and John last year when you were tracking the Emir.” Clark said, “That’s right. Mary Pat Foley tipped us off to him.” Hendley nodded. “But now he’s coming straight to us and he’s bringing an interesting lead. He’s running a source in the ISI. A major who suspects a coup is in the works. He wants to help Western powers stop it.” “Shit,” mumbled Caruso.
“And who do you think this major’s best guess is as to who is behind this coup?” The men at the table looked at one another. Finally Jack said, “Rehan?” “You got it.”
Chavez whistled. “And why did this major tell Embling about this? Obviously he knows Nigel is a spy?” “Knows or suspects. Problem for Nigel is he’s
Gerry smiled but said, “So Nigel went back to Mary Pat and said, ‘I want to talk to those guys I met with last year.’” “When do we go?” asked Clark.
Gerry shook his head. “John, I want you to take another couple weeks off before you return to fieldwork.” Clark shrugged. “Hey, it’s your call, obviously, but I’m good to go.” Chavez disagreed. “You are healing up nicely, but a GSW is nothing to mess with. Better you stay around here. A wound infection would take you off the active roster real quick like.” Clark said, “Guys, I’m too old to give you any macho shit about how I’m one hundred percent. It’s stiff and sore. But I sure as hell am fit enough to fly over to Peshawar and drink some tea with Embling and his new friend.” But Sam Granger made it clear the matter was not up for debate. “I’m not sending you this time, John. I can use you around here. We have some new gadgets to test out. Some remote surveillance cameras came in last night, and I’d like your input.” Clark shrugged but nodded. Clark was subordinate to Granger, and like most every military veteran, he understood the need for a command structure, whether or not he agreed with the decision.
“This Embling guy. What does he know about The Campus?” Driscoll asked.
“Nothing, other than that we aren’t ‘official channels.’ His mates at MI6 trust Mary Pat, and Mary Pat trusts us. Also John and Ding made a good impression on him last year.” Ding smiled. “We were on our best behavior.” The men laughed.
Granger said, “I’m going to send Sam this time. This is a one-man op; just go over and meet with this ISI major, get a feel for him and his story. Don’t commit to anything, just see what he will offer up. In this business we don’t trust anyone, but Embling is as solid as they come. He’s also been in the game for pushing a half-century, so I’ve got to assume he knows how to ferret out disinformation. I like our chances here, and the more we can learn about Rehan, the better.” The meeting broke up soon after, but Hendley and Granger asked Driscoll to stay behind for a moment. “You good with this?” Granger asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Go on down to the support desk and draw your docs, cards, and cash.” Granger shook Driscoll’s hand and said, “Listen. I’m not going to tell you anything you don’t know here, but Peshawar is a dangerous place, and getting more dangerous by the day. I want your head on a swivel twenty-four /seven, okay?” No, Sam Granger
Granger nodded thoughtfully. “If there is a coup being planned by the ISI, too much digging around by an American is going to draw a lot of attention. Debrief Embling and his asset, an hiIfd then come on back. Okay?” “Sounds good to me,” said Sam.
26
Brigadier General Riaz Rehan of the Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous Division of Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence Directorate cut an impressive figure in the back of his silver Mercedes sedan. A lean and healthy forty-six years old, Rehan was nearly six-two, and his round face was adorned with an impressive mustache and a trim beard. He wore his military uniform on most occasions when he was in Pakistan and he looked intimidating in it, but here in Dubai he looked no less powerful, dressed in his Western business suit and regimental tie.
Rehan’s property here was a walled two-story luxury garden villa with four bedrooms and a large pool house. It sat at the end of a long curved road on Palm Jumeirah, one of five man-made archipelagos off the coast of Dubai.
Coastal property in Dubai used to be markedly scarcer, as nature blessed the Emirate with only thirty-seven miles of beaches, but the leader of Dubai did not see the geographical realities of his nation as geographical boundaries, so he began crafting his own changes to their coastline through the reclamation of land from the sea. When the five planned archipelagos were completed, more than five hundred fifty miles of coast would be added to the nation.
As General Rehan’s luxury vehicle turned onto al Khisab, a residential road of stately homes that also, when viewed from high altitude, served as the top-left frond of a palm-tree-shaped man-made island, Rehan took a call on his mobile. The caller was his second-in-command, Colonel Saddiq Khan.
“Good morning, Colonel.”
“Good morning, General. The old man from Dagestan is here now.”
“Extend my apologies for the delay. I will be there in minutes. What is he like?”
“He is like my crazy old grandfather.”
“How do you know he does not speak Urdu?”
Khan laughed. “He is in the main dining room. I am upstairs. But I doubt he speaks Urdu.”
“Very well, Saddiq. I will meet with him and then send him on his way. I have too much to do to listen to an old man from the mountains of Russia yell at me.”
Rehan hung up and looked at his watch. His Mercedes slowed on the small street to let a car from the protection detail that had been following it pass and rush ahead to the house.
Rehan always traveled abroad with a security detail one dozen strong. They were all ex — Special Services Group commandos, specially trained for bodyguard work by a South African firm. Still, even with this large entourage, Rehan found a way to move in a relatively low-profile manner. He ordered his men to not pack his car with bodies; instead his driver and his lead personal protection agent rode with him, just three men in his SUV. The other ten normally stayed with them in traffic, moving around them like spokes to a hub in their unmarked and unarmored sedans.
A general in the Pakistani Defense Force, even one seconded to the Directorate of Inter-Services Intelligence, would not normally operate from a safe house abroad, especially one with an address as opulent as Palm Jumeirah,
