“Hector, Jessica, are you both on?” asked Polk.
“Yes,” said Jessica. “You have me here.”
“Me too,” said Calibrisi. “What’s the latest?”
“We need to talk about succession,” said Polk. “Who we’re going to install as the next president of Pakistan.”
“All right, before we start, I want to make something crystal clear,” said Calibrisi. “The most important qualification for the next president of Pakistan is not whether or not President Allaire likes him, Jessica Tanzer likes him, I like him, or if he’s a good guy or not. This is an
operational
decision. Who can we install by noontime tomorrow. That’s it. This is not highfalutin geopolitical strategy. It’s tactical on-the-ground feasibility. Dewey, you’re the one who has to execute this. So listen carefully and make sure you’re comfortable getting the job done with the limited amount of time you have.”
“Got it,” said Dewey.
“What do we have, Will?” asked Calibrisi.
“Three options,” said Drake, leaning back in his chair. “First, General Persom Karreff.” Drake punched his laptop. Photos of an olive-skinned man with longish gray hair and glasses, a military uniform on. “Karreff was the number two at ISI, then he ran Special Services Group until earlier this year when El-Khayab promoted him. He’s a career soldier; grew up in Rawalpindi, went to Pakistan Military Academy, then the Command and Staff College in Quetta. He’s smart and noncontroversial. He’s Muslim, but as far as we know, he’s not a jihadist.”
“So what’s the problem?” asked Dewey.
Drake looked at Polk.
“I don’t have a problem with Karreff,” said Polk. “Hector does.”
“That’s right,” said Calibrisi over the speaker. “Look, on the positive side, Karreff is obviously capable. He controls the military. He knows the ranking hierarchy because he put them there. They’re loyal to him. He’s gotten rid of the Zardari loyalists in the upper ranks. More important, he’s kind of a Renaissance man; he loves Paris, wine, women. He has a mistress. In other words, he would, I think, fancy himself presidential material. He understands how the world works and my guess is he has no interest in fighting a nuclear war with India.”
“Why don’t you like him?” asked Dewey.
“I’ve met Karreff at least a dozen times,” said Calibrisi. “Despite the fact that he’s running the armed forces, he’s weak. He’s risen because he doesn’t offend people. It’s why he was selected. Khan, their defense minister, selected him, not El-Khayab, because he knew he could manipulate him. This worries me. Either he agreed to the dropping of the bomb on Karoo or he didn’t. If he did agree with it, he’s not our man. If he disagreed with dropping a nuclear device but didn’t stop it, then it’s worse. If we ask Karreff he’ll read the situation, agree to do it, then back off before the confrontation that will need to take place with El-Khayab and Khan. You and your team would be highly vulnerable at this point. In fact you’d be dead, and you wouldn’t even know it. The other thing is, even if Karreff were to go through with the coup, a more ambitious general is going to put a bullet in him. It would only be a matter of time. And if that guy is not the guy America puts in there—if it’s a jihadist like Osama Khan—we could in fact be in a worse predicament than we are today.”
“Keep moving, Will,” said Polk.
“The second option is the man who runs Special Services Group,” said Drake. He typed again and the photos of Karreff were replaced by a picture of a younger man, in his forties with short-cropped black hair and dark skin, tough-looking. “Itrikan Parmir. He’s young and talented. Very ambitious. His mother, believe it or not, is Indian, born in Punjab. My guess is he’s extremely pissed off about the bomb that was dropped on Karoo. Parmir was an SSG commander during the early years of the Operation Enduring Freedom, and one of the good ones. He and his men have killed literally thousands of Taliban. Some of the more corrupt members of armed forces have targeted him; he was shot by a Pakistani lieutenant in 2009 while on convoy outside of Landi Kotal. The bullet struck him in the chest, but he had armor on.”
“What’d he do?” asked Dewey.
“He stabbed the guy in the throat,” said Drake.
“He’s got balls,” said Polk. “I would go with him. He’ll not only have no problem working with the U.S., with making peace with India, but he also understands the politics inside PDF.”
“It sounds like he has enemies,” said Dewey.
“Everyone has enemies,” said Polk.
“I like Parmir,” said Calibrisi. “We’ve studied him for several years now. He’s a rising star. The only reason Khan didn’t have him shot like he did so many others who had been loyal to Zardari is because he needs him. He’s one of the best field commanders Pakistan has.”
“So let’s get this over with,” said Dewey. “He sounds fine. Let’s get on with designing the operation.”
“There’s a problem,” said Bradstreet.
“What?” asked Polk.
“We can’t find him,” said Bradstreet. “As of yesterday morning, when we started tracking replacements for El-Khayab, we’ve been unable to locate General Parmir. Last known whereabouts was Lahore a little over a week ago. We might get lucky here; Lord knows we have a ton of feelers out there. But we just don’t know where the fucking guy is.”
“Who’s the third option?” asked Dewey.
“The third option is the commanding field marshal prosecuting the war against India,” said Drake. He punched up another photo on the plasma screen, this one a black-and-white head shot of a Pakistani man with longish dark hair, slightly messed up, his face a little jowly, and a mustache. “Xavier Bolin. He’s popular with the grunt-level troops, less so with the upper ranks. Career soldier who came in as an enlistee. He grew up in a poor neighborhood in Karachi. He’s kind of a street thug, if you know what I mean. But, he’s not a jihadist. In fact, we know from NSA wiretaps that he despises Omar El-Khayab.”
“What’s the issue with him?” asked Dewey, holding the photograph and studying it.
“First of all, he’s as corrupt as they come,” said Drake. “For several years, Bolin has been working with a contracts officer on his own staff to manufacture fake contracts payable to a dummy corporation, which he, of course, approves. The Ministry of Defense pays them. Bolin has stolen more than thirty million dollars, it’s sitting in a Swiss bank account. He’s not the first to do it. But it is troublesome.”
“He wouldn’t be the first scumbag America worked with,” said Dewey.
“And he won’t be the last,” said Calibrisi.
“Can he deliver the upper ranks of the military?” asked Jessica.
“Yes,” said Drake. “He’s feared. If he would work with us, the hierarchy, for the most part, will go along. Those that don’t would, no doubt, die a very quick death.”
“The goal here is someone who will make peace with New Delhi,” said Calibrisi. “Bolin will make peace. The other stuff is window dressing. I don’t see how Bolin’s corruption could endanger the mission.”
“We might have to pay him,” said Drake.
“That’s not a problem,” said Calibrisi. “Dewey, you’re authorized to offer him whatever you want. Ten, twenty, thirty million.”
“So other than the fact that he’s a dirtbag, what’s the problem?” asked Dewey, leaning back in his chair.
“In this case, the problem is, we
do
know where he’s located,” said Bradstreet. “He’s moving between encampments in the Mushkoh Valley, around Drass, in the middle of the battle theater. He’s running the war. It’s a logistical nightmare just getting you there. Then there’s the assault. That won’t be easy either. He’s going to be extremely well guarded.”
Dewey closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, deep in thought.
“What are you thinking?” asked Polk.
“I think we should focus on Karreff,” said Dewey. “If we have to go to the war front. We’re going to be pressed for time.”
Dewey looked up at the clock. It was 7:30
A.M.
The thirty hours he’d started with was already down to twenty-eight and a half. He watched as the red second hand swept quickly across the clock face.
“So you want Karreff?” asked Calibrisi over the speaker. “That’s fine. You’re the one who’s running the operation. But we have to disclose something to you. There’s evidence showing that before Karreff was appointed head of the armed forces, when he was number two man at ISI, that he was helping the Taliban.”
“So what?” said Dewey. “Sounds like we’re already working with the Taliban.”
“The people we’re working with aren’t trying to kill Americans,” said Calibrisi.
“Karreff supplied Taliban with mines that were used on roads in Afghanistan,” said Polk. “Roads used by U.S. troops. In 2006 alone, he authorized four different shipments of mines.”
“Now, did Karreff order the mines be used on U.S. troops,” said Calibrisi, “or did he simply turn a blind eye to some of the collaboration that was going on, and that is still going on, between Pakistan and the Taliban? That we don’t know.”
“NSA has one recording of a cell phone call that took place between Karreff and an unidentified Taliban operative in which Karreff tells him to quote ‘warm the snows in Kabul,’” said Drake.
“Let me get this straight,” said Dewey. “Karreff supplied bombs used to kill U.S. troops?”
“Or knew of them being supplied,” answered Drake.
“This might surprise you but I don’t have a problem with it,” said Calibrisi. “It’s not disqualifying, in my opinion. The fact that he’s weak is. No one is clean over there, Dewey. No one. Next to Iran and Syria, Pakistan is the most corrupt place on earth. The generals and politicians in these countries have been pulled in different directions for so long, conflicting directions, by greed and money, religion and politics. Frankly, even by us. At some point, there’s no moral compass. Having one just gets you killed. We’re deluding ourselves if we think we’re going to find Abe Lincoln over here. Even if Karreff did help the Taliban, it doesn’t matter. We have a larger goal here. At the end of the day, we’re trying to save U.S. lives by not having to fight a war with China.”
“I’m not going to risk my life for a guy who helped kill U.S. soldiers,” said Dewey. “Period. End of statement. Let’s go find Bolin.”
There was a long silence in the room, interrupted only by the steady din of the E-3’s engines.
“You realize this means a trip to the war front?” asked Calibrisi.
Dewey was silent.
“It also means we’ll have to kill Karreff,” said Bradstreet. “He has too many generals that are loyal to him. If he’s alive, he could create real problems.”
“The schedule is getting tighter,” said Jessica. “Do we know where Karreff is?”
“Yes,” said Bradstreet. “He’ll be in or around Islamabad and Rawalpindi.”
“Twelve hours to take out Karreff, then go and find Bolin,” said Calibrisi. “You okay with that?”
“Piece of cake,” said Dewey.
BATH & RACQUETS CLUB
CLARIDGE’S HOTEL
MAYFAIR, LONDON
Alex Millar pushed open the thick glass door and stepped onto the brightly lit squash court. He was half an hour late for his match.
“Where the fuck were you?” Goodale asked. “Five more minutes and I would’ve DQ’d you.”
Millar didn’t know his opponent, but he knew of him. Tim Goodale was a brash American and reigning club champion. At Yale, he’d won two NCAA championships. Everyone knew he was the best player at Bath & Racquets. Everyone, that is, but Millar.
Millar had learned to play squash in Karachi, winning the Pakistan ten-and-unders at age seven, eight, and nine, before he and his father moved to Chicago. He’d played through high school, dropped it in college, and when he was assigned to London, he’d picked the game back up.
Millar and Goodale were supposed to have started their match at four. It was the semifinals of the Bath & Racquets annual club championship. Goodale was the heavy favorite. Millar was unknown, but en route to the semis, he had dispatched a former British Open champion. A lot of people at the club were wondering who the quiet American with the nasty backhand was.
“Nice to meet you too,” said Millar, placing his racquet cover and warm-up jacket in the front corner of the court.
Goodale moved to the left and snapped a shot to the forehand court, which Millar hit back.
“Look, I wouldn’t be such a dick except I have dinner with a lingerie model,” said Goodale, pounding the ball back to Millar. “I’m going to have to drop you in three so I’m not late. Don’t take it personally.”
The two players hit the ball back and forth for the next five minutes, getting warmed up. The small white ball was a blur; Goodale and Millar moved in rhythm, anticipating each other’s next hit and rallying in a series of perfectly executed shots. By the time they started practicing serves, a crowd of more than twenty people had gathered in the gallery to watch.
“I heard you beat Bern,” said Goodale.
Millar didn’t respond.
“Thanks for doing that. He actually made me work for the cup last year. I might not have to break a sweat this year. You warmed up?”
“Yeah,” said Millar.
Goodale served first. From the forehand court, he hit a high, soft lob that landed in the back corner and didn’t bounce so much as a foot.
Goodale 1, Millar 0.
“Nice serve,” said Millar.
“Get used to it.”
Goodale swatted a serve from the left, hard, into the forehand court. Millar caught it behind the tee and put the ball high and right, into the back corner. Goodale caught it near the back wall and hit a crushing shot into the front left corner an inch above the tin, which Millar anticipated and met halfway between the tee and the front wall; he snapped it into the corner, where it died.
Goodale 1, Millar 1.
The first game lasted half an hour, with long rallies, as two athletes in prime condition played as if their lives depended on the outcome. Goodale took the first game 9–6. Millar took the next two, 9–7, 9–4.
The crowd had grown to more than fifty people, and with every point, a small eruption of clapping or cheering arose from the crowded gallery. Goodale took the fourth game 14–12. After a long water break, the two players caught their breath near the front of the court before beginning the deciding fifth game.