Collateral Damage (6 page)

“Thank you, Felicity. I will see that your position is known here in the places where it’s important.”

“I’ve no wish to be a loose cannon in this,” Felicity said.

“The loose cannon, in this instance, is Jasmine Shazaz,” Holly said. “Did you find anything at all in the house that might help us locate and identify her?”

“I’m afraid not. She may have a place of her own, but if so, we haven’t found it.”

“Do you think she’s still in London?”

“If I were she, I would not wish to be traveling at this moment in time. I’d go to ground, perhaps for quite a while, until things are cool, even cold.”

“This will not cool off for us, Felicity.”

“Nor for us. Remember that our losses in this are greater than yours, but I understand your position completely, and I will see that any new knowledge of Jasmine reaches you.”

“We are all grateful to you,” Holly said. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Holly believed everything Felicity had told her, and she felt better for it.

—

Architect hung up her phone and looked at the photograph of the beautiful young woman on her desk. “Circulate this,” she said to the man across from her. “Find her and take her alive, if at all possible.”

Holly found Stone in his study, and he poured them both a day’s-end drink.

“God, I need this,” Holly said, sinking some bourbon.

“Rough day?”

“A fairly fruitless day. It got rough when I had to issue some instructions.”

“Dare I ask what instructions?”

“Don’t ask. Suffice it to say that I gave someone permission—no, that’s weaseling. I very nearly ordered someone to commit murder.” She took another swig of the amber liquid.

“Don’t you do that practically every day?”

Holly looked at him sharply, then realized he was just kidding. “Normally, no more than three or four times a week.”

“You didn’t see this sort of thing coming when you got your promotion?”

“When I worked for Lance he was a little protective of me, and he would give some orders to operatives himself.”

“He was probably just eliminating you as a witness at some congressional hearing.”

Holly laughed. “That’s exactly what he was doing, but I also thought he didn’t want me to get my hands too dirty, maybe because he thought I couldn’t handle it.”

“Was he right?”

“Oh, I’m handling it,” Holly replied ruefully. “It didn’t take me long to rationalize the whole thing.”

“That’s good self-protection.”

“Maybe, but you know what I keep thinking? Somehow, during my meager childhood religious experience, I formed the view that when my life ended I would have to face God and . . . well, not confess the bad things I had done, because He would already know. I would just have to face Him knowing that He knows. That’s pretty scary stuff, because at that point I wouldn’t know where I was going to end up for all eternity.”

“Scary stuff for a little girl,” Stone agreed. “God will also know why you did what you did, and maybe he’ll confirm your judgment, instead of drop-kicking you into hell.”

“What an image! God coming down from his skybox and booting me between the goalposts, right into the flaming end zone seats!” She tossed off the rest of her drink and poured herself another. “Do you ever feel guilty about anything?” she asked.

Stone sighed. “When Arrington died, one of my first thoughts was the irrational feeling that I was somehow responsible.”

“But you didn’t do anything. . . .”

“I know, I know. I repeatedly worked my way back through the weeks before her death, and the worst I could come up with was that, if she hadn’t married me, she wouldn’t have died.”

“As you say, irrational. I mean, she would have eventually dumped the guy, even if you weren’t around, wouldn’t she?”

Stone brightened. “Funny, I didn’t think of that. Yes, she would have, surely.”

“And then he probably would have done what he did anyway.”

“That’s an awful thought, but it makes me feel slightly less guilty.”

“Well, your average shrink would probably tell you that a lot of people irrationally feel guilt when they lose somebody.”

“Your average shrink? Have you ever talked to one of those?”

“Oh, I’ve talked to somebody like that once or twice a year since I’ve been with the Agency. The brass is always on the lookout for somebody who is about to bring an assault weapon to work. I mean, it’s a lot more pressure than working at the post office, isn’t it?”

“I can only guess.”

“You know who I think never has a moment’s guilt or a second thought about anything?”

“Who? Kate Lee?”

“Oh, no, Kate has a very active conscience—she’s a Democrat, after all. No, I was talking about Felicity Devonshire.”

“Well, Felicity is a pretty cool customer.”

“When we were all in L.A. I had a chance to talk to her for the first time, and she was very warm and helpful. We were working out scenarios together.”

“That’s good, I guess.”

“Yes, it is, and yet the whole time, I was wondering if she had her own agenda, which did not resemble mine in any way.”

“Felicity is, in her way, impenetrable,” Stone said.

“I hope that was unintentional humor,” Holly said, laughing.

Stone laughed, too. “Well, all right, not
entirely
impenetrable.”

“We talked on the phone today, and what she said was exactly what I wanted to hear, and yet, immediately after I hung up, I had the awful feeling that she had just lied to me.”

Stone nodded. “I think Felicity would prefer to tell you the truth. I also think that if it were in her interests, or those of her service or government, she would not hesitate to lie to you or anyone else.”

“Maybe that’s part and parcel of what we both do,” Holly said. “I suppose I’ve got to learn to do that.”

Jasmine Shazaz sat on a bagged life raft in the rear of an old, unmarked American Huey helicopter and gazed out the open door at the terrain, lit by a rising sun. Her ears popped as the machine kept up with the elevation. They had been flying for a little over two hours. She turned to the Pakistani ISI agent on the bench next to her, leaned closer, and shouted, “Why would you have a life raft aboard a helicopter in a region with no water?”

The man shouted back, “Because if we have to ditch up here somewhere, we inflate the life raft, and it becomes a ready-made tent, complete with emergency food and water—also flares and a radio.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh,’” he shouted back.

The chopper was suddenly closer to the ground, but it had not slowed. She looked more closely at the life raft and located the lanyard that inflated it, then she felt marginally better. The pitch of the rotors changed and the machine slowed. Moments later, the nose lifted, and the Huey settled to earth.

“Out!” the agent shouted.

Jasmine jumped to the ground, and she was immediately struck in the back by something soft. She turned and found a small duffel on the ground, along with her backpack.

The ISI agent was getting into a robe and turban. He bent, unzipped the duffel, removed a bundle of black cloth, and tossed it to her. “From here on, you wear the burka,” he said.

“I’m not wearing that fucking thing!” she shouted at him.

The helicopter suddenly lifted off, revealing a couple of other men in native dress and a dozen mules, most of them heavily laden, on the other side of where the chopper had landed.

Jasmine looked at the mules incredulously. “And if you think I’m going to ride one of those things, you’re completely crazy!”

The man’s face changed, and he backhanded her, dumping her on her ass. “Now you listen to me, you stupid bitch: you will do whatever I tell you to do. If I tell you to strip, you’ll strip, and if I tell you to fuck us all, you’ll fuck us all. And if you don’t do exactly what I tell you to do, I’ll shoot you in the head and leave you here for the vultures. Do you understand?”

She stared at him blankly, unbelieving. “Do you know who I am?” she demanded, and regretted it immediately.

The ISI man unholstered his Beretta, racked the slide, and pointed it at her head.

“All right, all right,” she muttered, getting to her feet. She held up the garment and tried to figure it out.

He snatched it away and threw it over her head, like a sack, and she managed to get her arms in the sleeves and settle it on her body. He grabbed the hood and pulled it over her head, until only her eyes could be seen. “There,” he said, “that’s very becoming. And by the way, I don’t give a shit who you are. You are alone with three horny men in the middle of nowhere, and you will do as I say and quickly. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said.

He pointed at a mule. “Get on that animal, and don’t speak again unless you’re spoken to.”

Jasmine grabbed her backpack, slung it over the horn of the saddle, and managed to get aboard. The mule didn’t seem to care one way or another. A moment later there was a jerk as the rope leading from her mule’s bridle to the saddle of the mule ahead became taut.

—

Eleven hours later the little caravan wound along a steep, narrow trail. The air had become thinner, and the animals sucked and blew. They rounded a corner, and before them was a wide arch, covered by camouflage canvas. Everybody dismounted.

They had had only two breaks all day, and her bladder was bursting. “Where can I pee?” she asked one of the native men in Arabic.

He pointed. “Behind rock,” he replied.

She ran around the big stone, hoisted the burka, dropped her jeans and squatted, leaning against the rock. When her stream made noise, the men on the other side of the rock laughed.

When she returned, the canvas had been pulled back, and the men and animals were inside a cave, lit by dim electric lights. The ISI agent grabbed her elbow and pointed at another woman in a burka. “Go with the women,” he said. “You will be called when he is ready—maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe tomorrow? I’ve got to—” She stopped as he drew back his hand. “All right.” She followed the woman along a passage and a moment later they emerged into a roundish cavern, perhaps twenty feet in diameter. Half a dozen women sat around a small fire that was lit in the middle, its smoke disappearing into the darkness above.

She was told she could take off the burka, then she was given a surprisingly good stew of lamb and vegetables, which she ate greedily. Then she was given a small pillow and a blanket and told to sleep. She had no trouble doing so.

—

She was shaken awake. Light was coming through a hole in the top of the cavern, and the other women were moving about. She was handed a bowl containing a hunk of bread and goat cheese. She ate the breakfast and washed it down with water from a canteen.

“You!” a man shouted.

She turned to find him pointing at her. “Put on the burka and come!”

She did as she was told and followed him back to the main passage and for perhaps a hundred paces, making several turns. She emerged into a well-lit room with carpets and pillows on the floor and several pieces of ornate furniture. Five men sat in a circle, eating. She was told to sit and be quiet.

Half an hour later four of the men left, and the fifth man beckoned her to come and sit before him. He seemed to be in his fifties, with a graying beard and broad shoulders.

“Listen to me,” he said, and she nodded.

“Remove burka.”

She pulled the garment over her head and smoothed her hair back.

“Stand there,” he said, pointing at a white cloth hung on a nearby wall. “Brush your hair—look presentable.”

She did so, tucking in her shirttail. A man appeared with a Polaroid camera and took her picture. When it developed, four images appeared and he took the photos away.

The man beckoned her to return to him, but he did not tell her to put on the burka again. “You are the sister of Ari and Mohammad, are you not?”

“I am.”

“My condolences. I knew your father. My condolences for him, too.”

“Thank you. My only wish from now on is to take revenge against British and American intelligence for their deaths. It would be my father’s wish.”

“I understand. It was important that I see you,” he said, “before you continue your work. You are intelligent and, I suspect, very wily.”