The Invisible. Andrew Britton

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СКАЧАТЬ unmanned aerial vehicles, fifty Raytheon battlefield surveillance radars, and twenty-five SPYDER mobile firing units. Perhaps the most controversial part of the deal, each SPYDER unit carried four missiles capable of engaging aerial targets from a distance exceeding 15 kilometers. When news of the impending sale became public, the Pakistani president, Pervez Musharraf, had immediately launched a very vocal, public campaign condemning it. He’d implored the United States to step in and call a halt to the sale, but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. To make matters worse, the Indians were seeking additional hardware from Israel, including submarine-launched cruise missiles, and Israel looked ready to deal.

      In response, the Pakistani army had begun increasing its presence on the disputed border in Jammu and Kashmir. Over the course of two short months, more than 10,000 troops had amassed on the Line of Control, and India had responded in kind. The White House had remained relatively quiet on the matter, and while many other world leaders had made remarks pleading for restraint on both sides, President Brenneman had yet to directly intervene in the Israel-India deal. Many saw this as a tacit approval of the transaction, including General Musharraf, who had recently boycotted a White House function while attending a peace symposium, of all things, in Washington, D.C.

      “Secretary Fitzgerald arrived in Islamabad several hours ago,” Harper said. Brynn Fitzgerald was the acting secretary of state. Two months earlier, her predecessor had suffered a fatal heart attack while attending a summit in Geneva, and Fitzgerald had been elevated to the top job, making her just the third woman to hold that position in U.S. history. The president, impressed with her work in the past, had immediately submitted her name to the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, but the Senate as a whole had yet to confirm the nomination.

      “She’s expected to meet with Musharraf both tonight and tomorrow,” Harper continued. “With any luck, she’ll be able to convince him that we have limited influence over whom the Israelis do business with. Needless to say, it won’t be an easy sell. Everyone knows that Brenneman could squash that deal with a single call.”

      “I agree,” Kealey said. “But what does this have to do with Amari Saifi?”

      Harper pointed toward the photographs spread over the table. “These images were captured by a professional photographer named Rebeka Česnik. She, along with fourteen of her fellow passengers, disappeared on the Karakoram Highway in Pakistan two weeks ago. Three other people were killed as the kidnapping took place, along with the driver of the bus. Their bodies were left behind, along with the bus itself and all the passengers’ luggage.”

      “If everyone is missing or dead, how did we get these shots?”

      “Apparently, the kidnappers didn’t realize that Česnik had removed the film from her camera. She hid it in her pack, and they settled for taking her camera. At least, that’s the assumption, as it was never recovered.”

      “Okay, but how does this figure into Fitzgerald’s visit? And why is Amari Saifi, the leader of a North African terrorist group, operating in Pakistan all of a sudden?”

      “Fitzgerald is going to make a few gentle inquiries in Islamabad,” Harper said in response to the first question. “She’ll inquire about their efforts to track down the kidnappers, but Saifi is off-limits until we have more information on what he’s doing there. When the secretary of state meets with Musharraf tomorrow morning, she won’t mention al-Para once. You may not be aware of this, Ryan, but twelve American tourists have gone missing in Pakistan over the past several months. Some disappeared individually, others in groups of two or three. A ransom demand has yet to be made, and nobody’s claimed responsibility. We’re looking at Saifi for all of it. It’s almost an exact replication of what he did in Africa, only this time he’s taken our people, which makes it our business.”

      “So to summarize, the president wants the hostages released unharmed as soon as possible, and he’s asked you to get it done.”

      “Exactly.”

      “Why should I care?” Kealey said, looking directly into the other man’s eyes. A brief, awkward silence ensued. “I don’t work for the Agency anymore, John. I don’t want to leave you hanging, but I want to be involved even less. Besides, it sounds like you need someone who speaks the languages. Someone who knows the area. More importantly, you need a place to start. A lead of some kind.”

      “We have a lead,” Harper assured him. “All we need is someone to follow it up. That is, someone with a proven track record. Someone such as yourself. Remember, Ryan, the president asked for you by name on this. What happened in New York is not exactly a distant memory. He remembers what you did there. He remembers how many lives you saved that day, and he’s grateful for it. He wants someone who knows how to get results.”

      “Then we’re back to why I should care.”

      The deputy DCI leaned back in his seat and shook his head wearily. He looked for all the world like a guidance counselor who’d failed to get through to a wayward student. Instead of answering the younger man’s question directly, he pointed toward the other side of the room. “See that woman over there?”

      Kealey turned in his seat to study the small, slender figure at the bar for the first time. He couldn’t see her face, but nevertheless, it clicked in a matter of seconds. His mind went blank, and it was like the air had been sucked right out of the room. For once, he’d been caught completely off guard.

      “That’s why,” Harper said. His voice carried a hint of regret, as if he’d been pushed into something he found distasteful. “That’s why.”

      CHAPTER 3

      ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN

      The three-story apartment building, located in the G7/1 sector of Islamabad, was just one of many similar dwellings on Khayaban-e-Suharwardy, a major street that marked the southern edge of the Pakistani capital. On the third-floor balcony of the end unit, close to the point where the thoroughfare met the Sahar Road, a solitary figure lifted a cigarette to his lips with a shaking hand. As he breathed in the calming smoke, he gazed out across the lush green grass and narrow, sinuous canals of Sector H7. In the distance were the lights of the Rose and Jasmine Garden, and beyond, the dark silhouette of the sports complex. The night air was warm and still, and traffic was almost nonexistent at three in the morning. It was quiet and peaceful, a marked contrast to the constant, clamorous din of the daylight hours. Behind him, through the open patio door, his wife stirred, moaned softly in her sleep, then fell silent once more.

      A lifelong insomniac, Naveed Jilani frequently ventured onto the balcony to gather his thoughts and while away the early-morning hours. On this occasion, though, he wasn’t just trying to pass the time. Instead, he was completely focused on the day that lay ahead. The fear and stress had been building up for the past two weeks, and he knew he hadn’t hidden it well. He didn’t know when his wife had first caught on, but he felt sure she had sensed it right from the start. Parveen was a fine woman, a good wife, an attentive mother to their three-year-old son. She was accustomed to his dark moods, his prolonged bouts of strained silence, and she knew when to give him his space. Being the devoted wife she was, she’d sought to relieve his stress in other ways, but even her gentle touch in bed had not been enough to quell his fears. It was something he could not have explained to her. She wouldn’t have understood, and he had no desire to trouble her with the true cause of his anxiety. She wouldn’t have been able to fix it anyway, but he couldn’t fault her for that. Even in the early hours of the morning, when the regret and bitterness left their deepest impressions, Naveed couldn’t bring himself to blame her. Sometimes it seemed as if his whole life had been leading up to this point, and there was nothing that he—or anyone else—could do to change it.

      Jilani СКАЧАТЬ