The Devil's Light (4 page)

Grey nodded. “A classic illustration of what I call Cheney's Law: Theorists sit in Washington jabbering about the world like the inmates of an asylum, until they create their own reality out of fantasy, never imagining the havoc they'll wreak. As for the Democrats, a lot of them live in the wing reserved for manic-depressives—on any given day, you don't know who they'll be. In either case, we become their whipping boy when things go wrong.”

“I'm sick of it,” Brooke said bluntly. “The Outfit's job is to prevent the Apocalypse. But what have we learned as a society since Bin Laden took down the World Trade Center? Our political dialogue is even more empty and corrosive. As long as neocons like Cheney invoke terrorism and adopt an air of gravity, the right listens even when they're babbling in tongues. Throw in the Tea Party folks, who think the president is ten times more dangerous than any external enemy. Then there are liberals like my mother and her rich friends, who have no more idea of what we're facing than a gaggle of spoiled children.” Brooke's voice quickened with the frustration he could seldom express. “On 9/11 we were badly wounded by men without a country. Bin Laden's death won't change that. These people want weapons of mass destruction; sooner or later, they'll have some. And unlike the Soviets or Saddam or the Iranians, you can't find them.”

“But that's why you joined up,” Grey argued. “In five years, someone like you will be the station chief in a tough place like Beirut. You represent the new breed of talent we've recruited since 9/11.” He paused for emphasis. “Even among them, you stand out. You're an artist—imaginative, with a rare combination of operational and analytical skills. You can quote poetry in Arabic. You challenge conventional wisdom. Your guts and instincts kept al Qaeda from taking you out in Lebanon.” Wryly, Grey concluded, “With a little extra seasoning, you'll be the equal of any terrorist.”

“Or of any desk jockey in Washington.”

“That shouldn't have happened,” Grey replied. “But now they've brought back Noah Brustein as deputy director. He'll be quick to see you're being wasted.”

“And when Brustein goes?” Brooke asked. “Our leadership has become a game of musical chairs where the occupants change at the whim of the political classes. Good or bad, they're gone in two years. And with every change, more good people think about leaving.”

“Maybe so. But al Qaeda never quits, and now they'll be looking to avenge Bin Laden, soon or even years in the future.” Grey placed a hand on Brooke's shoulder. “Give it time. There's nothing more important than what we do, and nowhere else to do it—”

From inside they heard a soft cry. At first, Brooke thought Anne had fallen; fearing both for her and Grey, he rushed inside.

Pale, Anne looked up from her chair. Pointing at the television, she said, “Someone just hit the Taj Mahal.”

On CNN, the sacred site was rubble in which the marble domes had vanished, the graceful spires turned to stubs. Shocked, Brooke murmured, “Like Mumbai.”

He felt Grey behind him. In a low voice, he said, “Then India will blame Pakistan. Pray they keep a lid on it.”

Suddenly the image changed. In a tone he fought to keep professional, Anderson Cooper said swiftly, “Another plane has struck the Indian Parliament at the beginning of its morning session—”

The stately structure, Brooke recalled, also had a dome, this one ringed by ornate pillars. Now the dome was gone, and so must be many lives. Brooke had no more words. The thick black plume of smoke evoked a sickening memory of September 11—the day had transformed Brooke's life, when he had begun to fear the next attack that could transform the country that had made him who he was.

I
n Peshawar, Al Zaroor watched the television, pulse racing, as the shell of the Taj Mahal crumbled into ruins. When the picture changed, the Indian Parliament was charred concrete surrounded by ambulances whose sirens sounded like squeals of agony. Then the screen caught the anguished features of a female parliamentarian, a Hindu who described the carnage with tears running down her face.

Each image was as Al Zaroor had envisioned. He could almost feel the hatred searing the souls of Indians. His plan had sprung to terrible life.

The summer before, he had met with Ahmed Khan in the tribal areas near the Khyber Pass, a stronghold of the Taliban. Though the jagged hills were cooler, a pleasant change, both men were tired and sore—each had made the last leg of the trip on horseback. But this did not dim their pleasure in meeting again. At first sight they had embraced, smiling, two veterans who had survived the wars of their youth.

Much had happened since. In the time since the Mumbai attacks, Khan's master achievement, Al Zaroor felt an admiration tinged by envy. But he knew that Khan would not be satisfied until Pakistan, not India, held dominance over the Muslims of Kashmir.

The two men sat together on a rock, gazing out at the expanse of valleys and mountains still capped with snow. Studying Khan, Al Zaroor saw a stringy man on whom God had wasted no fat, his look of alertness hardened by time into adamancy. For a while they spoke of old comrades
and where their lives had brought them. Khan had more to say: Fortune had given him a family and a home in Karachi, his safety protected by the ISI and friends in the Pakistani military—a difference that both saddened and freed Al Zaroor. As a principle of operational security, he had nothing to lose but his life.

At length, their talk became philosophical. “After all the years and battles,” Al Zaroor asked rhetorically, “what have you left to fear?”

“Softness.” Khan spat the word. “Our government's, not mine. America's civilian puppets in Islamabad desire a truce with India. The terms will no doubt be shameful: India's retention of Kashmir, which by rights should be a land for Muslims. There will be pressure from the West to shut us down.”

Al Zaroor eyed him keenly. “So you're waiting for this to happen?”

“No,” Khan rejoined. “And you? Is the Renewer resting on his laurels, watching Iran and the Shia Hezbollah wage their tepid version of jihad?”

The corner of Al Zaroor's mouth flickered at the jibe. “You and I still have much in common, Ahmed. On behalf of Muslim Kashmir, you were at pains to kill Jews and Zionists in Mumbai. We want to banish the Zionist entity from Palestine. Yet matters remain as they were. That should shame us both.”

Khan gave him a sideways look. “Bravely spoken.”

“We're not done yet,” Al Zaroor said flatly. “Nor, I assume, are you. But your patrons grow too circumspect. Perhaps you need an investor to help you strike again.” Al Zaroor softened his tone. “You want Pakistan to wrest Kashmir from India. The ‘normalization' of relations between the two would utterly defeat your purpose. Despite your masterstroke in Mumbai, you did not succeed in estranging them. That calls for a shot to the heart of India.”

Khan appeared nettled. Sardonically, he asked, “What greater act of boldness do you suggest for us?”

“To succeed where al Qaeda failed. On September 11, we dispatched two passenger planes to destroy the World Trade Center. Another damaged the Pentagon, the seat of America's military power. But a fourth plane was meant to level the Capitol and slaughter the senators and congressmen inside. Only a few unruly passengers thwarted us from wreaking utter psychic devastation on America, eclipsing two ruined towers
filled with Jewish stockbrokers.” He paused, finishing quietly, “Imagine that the face of our attacks was Capitol Hill in ashes. Then ask yourself what the infidels of India hold closest to their hearts.”

Considering, Khan flicked his tongue across parched lips. “And you would help finance this?”

“We have the resources, certainly.”

“And your reasons?” Khan paused, then added slowly, “I recall introducing you to my cousin, the general.”

“Yes. Thank you for your courtesy.”

Khan stared at him. “An attack of the kind you suggest would have consequences. The she-males in our civilian government would recoil; even our friends in the ISI might disapprove. The risks are considerable.”

“As are the rewards.”

“Perhaps. But there is also the question of methods. Do you expect us to hijack passenger planes? The martyrs of September 11 made that much more challenging.”

Al Zaroor shrugged. “If this is a matter of airplanes, we can help you acquire your own.”

“And fill them with explosives?”

Al Zaroor smiled a little. “You can supply the explosives, along with the martyrs to fly them.” His tone became practical. “The Indian air force is very professional. But they have too much territory to cover, and too many sites to defend. In this they are like the Americans.”

Eyes narrowing, Khan stared at the mountains. At length, he said, “The Americans are pushing the eunuch who masquerades as our prime minister into further talks with India. The goal is to emasculate our country, forcing it to abandon Kashmir.” Khan faced Al Zaroor squarely. “I will use my sources to explore the risks of peace. Then I will meet with you again, if only as a courtesy. Whatever else I do will be in the interests of our brothers in Kashmir.”

In the soft glow of the television, Carter Grey lit a cigarette, his first since Brooke had arrived.

Briefly, Anne glanced at him, then resumed watching CNN. Amid the rubble of the Indian Parliament, soldiers and emergency responders
searched for survivors or the dead, giant figures on an oversized flatscreen. The images revived the most searing hours of Brooke's life.

“Lashkar-e-Taiba,” Grey said without turning. “This is an act of desperation.”

Anne glanced at the cigarette burning in his hand. “Why do you say that?”

“It's all about Kashmir. Most Kashmiri are Muslim, but the province belongs to India. The ISI wants to change that: Within the government of Pakistan, the military intelligence service operates as a shadow state of its own. The ISI helped create LET to fight a guerrilla war in Kashmir. A potential détente between India and Pakistan would be a mortal threat to their ambitions. That's why LET attacked Mumbai.”

“Why didn't the Pakistanis shut them down?”

Stirring himself from the past, Brooke said to Anne, “The ISI won't permit it. After Mumbai, there were a few ‘punitive' measures, all a charade. With the ISI's protection, LET continues to train hundreds of jihadists every year. Pakistan's nuclear arsenal gives LET a shield; if India invades Pakistan in reprisal for the actions of LET, it runs the risk of a nuclear attack.” Turning to Grey, Brooke asked, “What odds would you quote me on reprisal now? Or nuclear war?”

Grey watched the picture shift to thousands of Indians in New Delhi, flooding the streets to express their grief and anger. “You know the history,” he said wearily. “Before 9/11, LET hijacked an Air India flight to swap hostages for prisoners jailed by India, including an ally of Bin Laden's. A month after 9/11, they launched a failed assault on the Parliament they've now destroyed. That time, only the attackers died. But both countries mobilized for war. President Bush and Colin Powell had to use every ounce of influence to head off a nuclear nightmare.”

Anne gently took the cigarette from his hand, grinding it out. “The Mumbai attack was far worse,” she said. “Why didn't that cause another crisis?”

“Calculated restraint by India. But LET achieved its immediate goal—disrupting a rapprochement between India and Pakistan.” Grey glanced back at the television. “Like this one, that attack involved intricate planning and operational sophistication. The fact that LET didn't claim credit allowed the ISI to protect its operations, using its cover as an Islamic charity. Now this.”

In the semidarkness, Brooke forced himself to turn from the screen. “I assume this is LET's reaction to our pressure on Pakistan to focus on the Taliban.”

“In part. Some senior officers in the Pakistani military resent that—as does the ISI, which provides the Taliban with clandestine support and allows it to move back and forth across the border to Afghanistan to kill American soldiers. But on a deeper level, this is about who controls Pakistan's nuclear arsenal—the civilian government or the army. Right now, the army does; the prime minister wants some say. My guess is that the army will use this opportunity to remind the civilians who decides when the arsenal gets deployed.” As he studied the images of the dead and injured on the screen, both Indians and tourists, Grey's tone became somber. “After Mumbai, the Indians held back. But this time the bombs and missiles may be coming out of their hiding places. God help us if this tragedy goes nuclear.”

Turning to the screen, Brooke watched an EMT carry a corpse from the wreckage of the Taj Mahal. Bowing his head, he summoned as much of a prayer as his tattered beliefs could muster.

In Peshawar, Al Zaroor pulled aside the blind, peering into the crowded street. When he saw the car, he closed the blind, pausing only to watch the riot beginning in Mumbai, the faces of Hindus suffused with hatred as they started hunting down Muslims. Then he switched off the television and left.

The operation had begun.

A
s dusk fell, Al Zaroor waited for the warrior so essential to his dream.

Back against the thick trunk of a tree, he looked down from rolling hills at a two-lane road that ran through the verdant farmland of the Punjab. The air was hot and humid, very different from the place where he had first encountered Ismail Sharif a year before. But he still recalled the jolt of recognition: in the face of this stranger, Al Zaroor had seen his younger self.

They sat at an outdoor café in the village of Madyan, a Taliban stronghold in the Swat, sampling pastries and drinking thick black coffee. The café was set on a green hillside sloping to a narrow river whose rushing current carried its own echo. Moved by the beauty of their surroundings, so different from the flat horizons of his homeland, Al Zaroor allowed himself a moment of serenity. Then he turned to face Sharif.