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-you, Father!-will step forward and assume the leadership. The public will demand that it be so because of the destruction in Islamabad by our bomb and the killing of the president. You will be the only one who can bring stability. The election will become a mere formality. Once in power, you will never surrender it.”
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 hidden in the false ceiling directly above the speaker’s platform at the headquarters of the Bright Path Party just as Muhammed Waleed was making his acceptance address.
The general strolled to his large window and looked out over the city and saw a mushrooming cloud of smoke and debris rising into the afternoon sky. He went back to the phone. “Football? I fear that something terrible has happened that will be requiring my attention. It seems to be a car bomb or some such thing.”
“Yes, Soccer. I understand that you must tend to your duties.”
“Oh, before we go, I also mentioned our friend Jim Hall to the Turkish police handling the security for our president’s appearance tomorrow. They will deal with it. No trace of your company’s involvement.”
“Best of luck, my friend.”
Both men hung up at the same time. Waleed went back to his window to watch and heard the first sirens of the emergency responders heading toward the scene. In the United States, Bart Geneen made no notes about the brief conversation. He just smiled.
ISTANBUL
TURKEY
JIM HALL ALSO HAD been watching an all-news channel on television while building a bomb of his own. Wires, battery, detonator, and four powerful blocks of C-4 imbedded with hundreds of marbles were being fashioned into a makeshift claymore mine that he would place at the head of the president’s bed. A pressure switch would be stuffed into the mattress, and when the man lay down to sleep, the circuit would snap shut and the explosion would result. One of Selim’s henchmen on the security team was to allow him entrance to the room. He worked slowly and carefully.
The irritating little news banner crawling along the bottom of the CNN broadcast caught his attention.
NEW EXPLOSION ROCKS PAKISTAN… ISTANBUL POLITICAL MEETING TARGET… POLICE CLAIM TALIBAN LEADERSHIP KILLED… NEW EXPLOSION ROCKS PAKISTAN
Ten minutes later, a Turkish tactical police antiterrorist team rushed into the Four Seasons Hotel in Istanbul, sealed off an entire floor, and breached the door to a small suite. The bed was covered with the makings of a bomb, and explosives experts moved in to secure it.
Jim Hall was gone.
BERN
SWITZERLAND
KYLE AND LAUREN HAD spent much of the afternoon resting and making love in their hotel room and now lay beneath the light duvet. They had fallen asleep with her head on his arm and her free hand resting on his chest, registering his strong heartbeat. It was a struggle to come awake again and hit the shower, but Lauren’s appointment was at seven o’clock for dinner with the CIA assistant station chief who was driving in from Zurich to reinstate her to duty and return her credentials. Basically, the man was apologizing for the CIA’s hurried investigation, which had leaped to an incorrect conclusion about Agent Carson. Those words would never be spoken.
“What are you going to do while I’m at dinner?” she asked, clipping on a new set of earrings that she had bought earlier that day. Little silver bears.
“I’m going to do some more walking around, try to get a better feel for the area around the bank and check out how things look when it gets dark.”
“You never stop, do you?” She gave him a bright smile. “The Swiss Gestapo or Cheesemakers or whoever they are will handle this now, Kyle. We’re done except for pointing a finger at Jim when we see him tomorrow.”
“I’m concerned that they want to just catch him without firing a shot. It could still all go to hell.”
“Kyle, the Swiss guard the pope. They were Europe’s best mercenaries for hundreds of years. Trust them.”
“I do, but they don’t know Jim like we do. He will have a good plan, which is why I want you to get an armed CIA escort tonight. The assistant station chief can arrange that. Also he gives you a ride back to the hotel in a company car.”
“Yes, teacher. You know best, teacher. Anything you say, teacher.” She somehow smiled and frowned at the same time. “Tonight, I get my creds back and can start legally carrying a weapon again. I can take care of myself, Kyle. Don’t worry. I will be the one of us with a gun. C’mon.” She moved toward the door.
Swanson picked up his jacket and walked out behind her, locking the door. She waited beside the elevator, and when she turned to look at him, he was again struck by the beauty of the woman. From hair to eyes to toes, everything seemed to just fit her perfectly. He gave her a slight kiss and was scolded for risking the makeup job.
Downstairs, he led the way out of the elevator into the busy lobby, which had the look and feeling of normalcy. Two female clerks behind the front desk, a young couple talking with the woman concierge about affordable restaurants, a uniformed bellman pushing a handcart stacked with luggage. Then out the door, Kyle first, looking both ways. The front of their hotel was easy to identify, not because of its own signage, or the set of columns beside the door, but because some unhappy tagger had written YANKEE GO HOME in red paint on one of the cornerstones. Traffic was flowing smoothly, and he told the green-uniformed doorman to get a cab. Behind them, the young couple emerged, chattering in French, and waited their turn. A little Nova Taxi with its distinctive red sides and yellow top swung out of the flow and pulled to a stop.
As the hotel doorman reached for the handle, a dirty painter’s van swerved out of the traffic and slammed into the rear of the taxi, throwing it forward and knocking the doorman to the ground. Everyone automatically took a step back at the moment of grinding impact, with Kyle already changing into combat mode. He grabbed Lauren’s arm as the side door of the van opened and a huge man lumbered out. He was totally bald but for a mustache and goatee and wore a black leather jacket and biker boots. He had a knife in his right hand. “Back inside! Quick,” yelled Kyle.
The young couple behind them slammed into Lauren like a pair of charging linebackers, sweeping her away from Kyle’s grasp and pushing her in a single motion into the van, where more hands gripped her. The man with the knife lashed out at Kyle, who danced to the side, reaching for Lauren but seeing the door already closing. He could hear the van’s engine roar and her scream.
The man with the knife stood easily, dominating the space between Swanson and the vehicle, with his mouth curved down into an evil smile. When the young hotel doorman struggled to his feet, he was slashed on the arm and kicked by the thug with a hard karate-style thrust of his right foot, the leg fully extended in a practiced move. It was a moment Kyle would not let pass. The guy had been watching too much television.
Using the side kick had left the thug standing for an instant on one foot, tilting his body to the other side for balance and his attention drawn to the newest threat, the doorman. Kyle took a single step forward and delivered a powerful kick to the totally exposed groin, grabbed the knife hand itself to take it out of play, and delivered a flat-hand punch into the assailant’s throat. The big man staggered back, choking and hurting and suddenly uncertain of his strength. Kyle followed with a single, flowing right-side attack-a right cross deep into the gut, then bringing his elbow up hard into the man’s chin, which rocked the head back. Swanson’s fist was now cocked right beside his own ear, and he finished the combination with a downward hammer strike that crushed the man’s nose. The thug was staggering, so it was easy to snatch the knife from him, which Kyle did, then flipped it and slashed him across the stomach. The man grabbed for the cut as he toppled like a fat tree. Kyle moved aside to let him fall and then made two more quick cuts that severed the Achilles tendons behind both ankles. The man wasn’t going anywhere.
When the frenzy of the fight cleared, Kyle turned to the street as his breathing returned to normal. The white van was nowhere to be seen. Lauren had been professionally kidnapped, slickly taken right out of his arms. Damn it all!