carrying Brynn Fitzgerald and Lee Patterson was the fifth vehicle in the motorcade making its way from Aiwan-e-Sadr, the presidential palace at the top of Constitution Avenue, to the air base south of Islamabad. Four cars back, Naveed Jilani, the senior assistant to the Pakistani chief of protocol, was doing his best to disguise his rising tension. He was waiting on the phone call that would seal the commitment he’d made two weeks earlier, and while he didn’t regret his decision, his sense of personal conviction wasn’t doing much to relieve his physical discomfort. He knew that what he was presently feeling was only to be expected, that the cold sweat running over his skin was completely natural, along with the tight ache in his chest and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. When the call finally came, the shrill tone caused him to jump in his seat. Lifting the phone to his ear, he recognized the gravelly voice on the other end immediately.
“Naveed, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“I assume Mirza is with you.”
Jilani instinctively glanced to his left, where Ghulam Mirza, the chief of protocol, was studying his schedule for the following day. “Yes.”
“Which car are you in? The last?”
“No.” Jilani paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He could tell that Mirza was listening to his end of the conversation, which was only making him more nervous. “That is much too late. I think we should move it up a couple of hours.”
“The third from the last vehicle?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Good. Now, the secretary of state. Which car is she in?”
“I think it’s the fifth number in the book,” Jilani said. He glanced out the window for the tenth time in as many minutes. Although he had not been informed of the motorcade’s specific route, he made the trip to Chaklala Air Base dozens of times each month in the course of his duties. He knew all of the roads by heart, and he had already figured out which route they were going to take. It was simply a process of elimination. “I can be there by ten. Unfortunately, I have prior obligations. Call Bashir if you need someone to sit with her.”
There was a pause as the other man interpreted. The crude code had been decided upon at the meeting in Peshawar. Jilani had just stated that the secretary of state was in the fifth vehicle. He’d also informed the general that the motorcade would cross a narrow bridge on Airport Road in approximately ten minutes. Jilani didn’t know the specifics, but he knew that armed gunmen were waiting on the road in question, as well as on two other frequently used routes from Aiwan-e-Sadr to the air base.
“So she’s in the fifth car,” Mengal repeated. “Are you certain? Because there’s no room for—”
“I’m certain.” Jilani froze involuntarily, his hand like a stone around the fragile plastic. It was the first time he had ever interrupted Benazir Mengal, and for a second, he felt something close to blind panic. “Forgive me, I didn’t—”
“I understand.” The older man’s voice had dropped to a dangerous murmur. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure, Naveed, but you’ve done well, and I’m grateful for your loyalty. Remember, when you hear the first rocket, put your head down and stay very still. You have nothing to fear. My men are well trained, and they won’t miss. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”
“No, that is all.”
“Then good-bye, my friend, and good luck. Asalaam aleikum.”
“Yes, wa aleikum asalaam.”
The phone went dead in Jilani’s ear, and he lowered it slowly to his lap. His mind was blank, and it was some time before he realized that the chief of protocol was asking him a question.
“Who was it, Navi?”
“A personal call, jan
The other man removed his glasses, his thin lips creasing into a frown. “That explains a great deal. You’ve been very distracted over the past few weeks.”
“Forgive me, but—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mirza said, waving away the apology. “I just hope it isn’t serious. Your wife’s illness, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t be too concerned, jan
CHAPTER 7
RAWALPINDI
As Brynn Fitzgerald’s motorcade moved steadily toward his position, Benazir Mengal tossed his phone to one of his subordinates, then quickly relayed the news he’d just been given. As the young man dialed through to the other members of the team, Mengal pinched the tip of his nose and studied the road to the rear of his vehicle. By chance, he had been waiting on the exact route the Americans had decided upon. It was just one of three possibilities, but it comprised the shortest distance between the presidential palace and the air base, which made it the most likely choice. It was a fortunate coincidence, Mengal thought, as it allowed him to gauge the lay of the land one last time.
The iron truss bridge, which crossed a small gully filled with brush, small trees, and litter, was less than 100 yards away. The road beyond was lined on both sides by small houses and shops. It was a poor sort of place, a general air of neglect and poverty hanging over everything in sight. Airport Road was one of the major routes between Islamabad and its sister city to the south, Rawalpindi. As a result, both sides of the narrow road were occupied by pedestrians and people on bicycles, and there was a fair amount of vehicular traffic on the bridge itself.
“General?”
He turned to face his subordinate, who had the phone pressed to his ear. In his distracted state, Mengal had not heard it ring. “Yes?”
“The motorcade just passed through a checkpoint less than a mile from here. It’s time for you to leave. The second vehicle is waiting.”
Mengal nodded brusquely. “The men are ready?”
The former soldier gestured toward the bridge. A heavy Nissan truck had just started to cross from the north, its bed covered by supporting poles and a thick canvas tarp. “They’re ready. We have a spotter in place. He’ll remain on the north side until the motorcade approaches, and then he’ll place the call.”
“Good.”
The subordinate shifted impatiently as Mengal stared at the approaching vehicle. The cars behind the slow-moving truck were honking incessantly, the drivers clearly impatient to get to the other side. Mengal felt no sympathy for the people delayed on the bridge; in fact, he was vastly reassured by the heavy traffic. It would require the motorcade to slow dramatically as it approached the crossing, making it an easier target. Once the first rockets were fired, the cars that were hit would serve as obstacles for the following vehicles, and the high number of civilian casualties would only add to the confusion. In short, it was the perfect place for an ambush. Mengal had seen it work before.
Still, the retired general couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had seized hold of him hours earlier. It was something he rarely experienced, but he believed in precedence. He believed in tactical decisions based on past success, and given what was about to take place, he couldn’t help but reflect on recent events in his country’s