The Devil's Light (5 page)

Despite his beard, the man looked alarmingly young, with a lineless face and liquid eyes in which pride warred with a curious vulnerability. But by reputation, Sharif was a skilled tactician who had mastered the art of ambush and surprise, slaughtering government troops through swift assaults in carefully chosen terrain. According to Al Zaroor's sources, Sharif was barely more Taliban than al Qaeda, a man impatient with inaction and devoted to God. But Sharif's hatred of the army involved more than principle: Government soldiers had raped his sister and killed a younger brother by driving nails into his skull. The coolness with which he exacted his revenge was a tribute to self-discipline.

For a moment, Al Zaroor looked deeply into the young man's eyes. Then he said, “I bring greetings from Osama Bin Laden, our Renewer, and Ayman Al Zawahiri. As I do, they wish to know if you're unafraid to die.”

Sharif's eyes hardened abruptly, casting his face in a new light. “I'm more prepared to kill,” he answered coldly. “Were that not so, I would not have killed so many soldiers in this land.”

“Are you prepared to kill them in the Punjab?”

Sharif hesitated, then shrugged. “For jihad, it does not matter where. Only who, and why.”

Al Zaroor nodded. “The assignment comes from the Renewer himself, and is vital to our cause. It will also require great skill.”

“What is it?”

“On short notice, I will ask you to marshal three trucks and fifty or so crack fighters. For safety's sake, you will bring them through Baluchistan, where the army does not go, to a site at the edge of the Punjab. There you will assault an armed convoy of Pakistani soldiers, leaving no survivors, and seize an important piece of property.”

Sharif cocked his head. “Gold?”

“It is gold to Osama. That is all I can tell you, my brother.”

The young man put a finger to his lips, regarding Al Zaroor with a chill curiosity. Al Zaroor admired his self-possession—Sharif had mastered the human need to fill silence with words. At length, he said, “Describe the site.”

“It is a road at the bottom of foothills near Multan, with ditches on both sides. The countryside is agricultural, the road lightly traveled. The convoy will come at night.”

“How many soldiers?”

“Also around fifty, the best the army has.”

Silent, Sharif turned, gazing pensively into the gorge below. Then he faced Al Zaroor again. “I will want photographs of the site, an air map of its surroundings. That will help define the operation. Likely I'll need plastic explosives, claymore mines, and rocket-propelled grenades. That requires money.”

“You will have it.”

“I'll also need to recruit men. My people prefer to fight in the Swat. Punjab is not their home.”

“It is, however, where they can strike a great blow against those who invade their lands. Those who value money over jihad will have more than they've ever imagined.”

Sharif studied him. “You're ripe with promises, brother. To what end?”

Al Zaroor gave him a look of deep sincerity. “Only the Renewer and Zawahiri can know. This much I will say to you: Our aim is to wound our enemies on a scale beyond anything you've ever dreamed, or will be able to dream again. Not just the infidels in Pakistan, but the Zionists, the Americans, and the Shia. You will avenge your brother and sister a thousandfold. You might even live.”

“I plan to,” Sharif said calmly. “We outnumber the army in the Swat. But in the Punjab the soldiers are many, and move with greater confidence. If this prize is as important as you say, an attack will bring them swarming like bees.”

Al Zaroor sat back. He dipped his fingers in a bowl of water, removing the sticky residue of pastries. “Bring me a plan,” he said. “By the night we carry it out, I will have arranged a great distraction for the army.”

When Brooke arose before dawn, Carter Grey was switching from channel to channel. It was reflexive: For decades, Grey had been at the center of crises, making judgments that helped to shape events. Now he took painkillers and watched CNN.

Its focus was India. In communal prayer and protest, Indians filled the streets of major cities. The images saddened Brooke, and the next few sickened him—Hindus with guns and knives slaughtering hundreds of Muslims in Mumbai.

“Bad to worse,” Grey said. “The Indians have bombed Pakistani army bases in Punjab. Troops on both sides have mobilized near the border, and there are rumors the Pakistani military has declared a state of nuclear alert.”

“What's the White House doing?”

“What you'd expect. At our urging, the UN is meeting in emergency session. The president has asked for restraint. The secretary of state is on the way to New Delhi, then Islamabad, trying to stave off disaster.”

Brooke's thoughts moved quickly, the residue of a broken sleep spent arranging puzzle pieces. “Let me try something on you,” he said. “Suppose these attacks are about more than Kashmir.”

Grey looked up. “In what way?”

“The stakes for LET are high. There'll be international pressure on Pakistan to shut them down; the civilian government will be forced to
try. But what if this crisis results in a military coup by commanders sympathetic to Islamic extremists?” Brooke sat down. “To me, it's at least not unimaginable that the attacks in India didn't result from some reckless plan by LET alone, but from an agreement between LET and elements of the ISI, the army, and, conceivably, the Taliban and al Qaeda.”

Though his eyes remained serious, Grey gave him a quizzical smile. “An all-star team of co-conspirators? It's possible, I suppose—the ISI is like the center of a wheel with jihadist spokes. It didn't just help create LET. The ISI supported the Taliban when they fought the Soviets in Afghanistan, and introduced its leaders to Bin Laden. Once the Soviets left, the Taliban became al Qaeda's host and protector with the ISI's blessing—when we tried to take out Bin Laden in a missile attack on a Taliban training camp, the ISI warned them in advance. After that the agency realized that the ISI was so riddled with jihadist sympathizers that joint operations were impossible.

“As for LET and al Qaeda, from the beginning al Qaeda helped fund LET. When al Qaeda operatives fled Afghanistan, they hid in LET safe houses. LET operatives helped support al Qaeda's attack on the London underground in 2005. All of which is known to senior leaders within the ISI.” Brooke sat across from his friend, regarding him intently. “Consider what happened after 9/11. When we invaded Afghanistan, Bin Laden and al Qaeda took refuge in Pakistan—along with the leader of the Taliban, Mullah Omar, whose presence in Quetta is an open secret. As for Bin Laden, for almost a decade we couldn't find him, though he was hiding in plain sight. There's too much support for al Qaeda and the Taliban within the ISI and the military—”

“No doubt,” Grey interjected. “But the Taliban and al Qaeda aren't synonymous. LET cares most about Kashmir; the Taliban is focused on Afghanistan and Pakistan; al Qaeda dreams of a worldwide Islamic caliphate. Some Taliban despise Bin Laden for bringing America down on their heads.”

“True. But LET, the Taliban, and al Qaeda are all Sunni. Their leaders know each other, and many trained together. They're more than capable of making common cause against America or Israel.” Brooke's tone became sharp. “When Benazir Bhutto returned to Pakistan with our encouragement, supposedly to stabilize civilian rule, she was assassinated in a crowd of ten thousand people. How do you suppose that happened?”

“My best guess?” Grey said. “A joint operation of al Qaeda and the
Taliban, perhaps countenanced by her enemies within the ISI. But no one knows for sure.”

Brooke nodded in acknowledgment. “What we knew well before Bin Laden's death is that senior leaders in the army and ISI hate America more than ever, as demonstrated once more when the ISI blew the cover of our station chief in Islamabad, forcing him to leave the country. Even moderates resent our pressure for an offensive against the Taliban, believe our buildup in Afghanistan is driving more jihadists into Pakistan, and think civilian deaths from American drone attacks have increased support for the Taliban. No matter that Pakistan is al Qaeda's epicenter, or that our drones have killed key leaders like Bin Laden's lieutenant Al-Masri. Our actions have tightened the operational links between the Taliban and al Qaeda, which may figure into what we're seeing now.

“The WikiLeaks and the Bin Laden operation made public what we've known for years: that the ISI is still playing a double game—ostensibly supporting our operations, yet still aiding the Taliban and, at certain levels, al Qaeda. What matters to the ISI is control, which is why they arrested the Pakistani Taliban leader who started negotiating with the Afghans without the ISI's permission. The ISI may not mind weakening the Taliban enough to keep them at bay, while leaving them strong enough to represent the ISI's interests in a future Afghan government once we bail out.” Brooke finished his coffee. “In the minds of the ISI and the military, the Pakistani army has a choice—focus on India and Kashmir, or fight a bloody war against the Taliban and al Qaeda. What LET may have done is bring matters to a head.”

“Perhaps. But some of your overlords in the Outfit will suggest you're turning boredom into fantasy.”

This was true, Brooke understood. “Still, look at what the parties stand to gain. The military and the ISI can pursue their enmity with India, strengthening LET. The Taliban gets control of huge swaths of Pakistan without having to fight the army. Al Qaeda's haven becomes much safer. But there's far more. A lot of Pakistanis loathe their civilian government, not least for its incompetence in the face of last year's floods. And for al Qaeda, a coup in Pakistan would be the global game changer they're looking for—a jihadist state. The prize is access to its nuclear arsenal.”

For a long time, Grey thought, motionless. “We can be sure about one thing,” he said at last. “Nuclear weapons make Pakistan the most dangerous place on earth.”

W
aiting in the moonlit foothills, Al Zaroor saw a shadow moving toward him, then another, until they became a line of men moving single file, their bodies and weapons outlined against the night sky. Either they were allies or General Ayub had betrayed him. He reached for his Luger, prepared to kill himself or die.

Pausing perhaps thirty feet away, the leader raised one hand. In a quiet but resonant voice, Sharif said in passable Arabic,
“Shalom aleichem.”

Peace be with you.

The younger fighter, Al Zaroor realized, had a certain dark humor. He wiped the sweat off his forehead; even at night, the humid air was searing. “You have the trucks?” he asked Sharif.

“Of course,” he answered tersely. “They're waiting near the road.”

The men with Sharif formed a semicircle. Turning from side to side, Sharif gave several curt orders. Then his men broke into groups, filtering silently down the grassy slopes toward the road—some carrying rifles, rocket launchers, or pickaxes, others burlap bags filled with claymore mines or plastic explosives. Scanning the hillside, Al Zaroor counted the fifty fighters Sharif had promised.

Now it will happen, he told himself—a kind of prayer, a homage to Osama Bin Laden.

In the dim light, the road was a dark ribbon on a ridge defined by an irrigation canal and, on the other side, the ditch dug to elevate the road above the farmlands. Men with RPGs and rifles hid in the canal; crossing the road, others vanished in the ditch. Two figures scrambled onto the road with pickaxes, perhaps two hundred feet from each other, and began
pounding holes. The blows of metal on asphalt echoed up to Sharif and Al Zaroor.

Toward the bottom of the slope, a tier of men deployed claymore mines at ten-foot intervals. “We tried them on mud walls,” Sharif remarked. “Placed in this formation, they should be far more deadly than machine guns.”

The men with the pickaxes finished their work. Kneeling, they hastily planted plastique, smoothing the road before stringing wire that ran to the irrigation canal. Al Zaroor's cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

“Is it ready?” he asked.

Ayub answered rapidly, as though not trusting the untraceable cell phone Al Zaroor had provided for this call alone. “The package should reach you just before midnight. The earlier delivery is not for you.”

“Will there also be a party?” Al Zaroor asked. Meaning a state of war.

For a moment Ayub was silent. “That is unclear,” he finally said, then added in a lower voice, “The sky above you will be quiet; with so much commerce, we have no planes to spare. Receiving the delivery is your sole concern.”

The phone went dead. Turning to Sharif, Al Zaroor said, “They're sending a decoy, but no air cover. Darkness will be our friend.”

Wincing, Carter Grey approached the shooting station behind his home. He set down the rifle, bending backward to relieve the spinal pain that shortened his useful hours.

“Why not concede now,” Brooke said, “and spare yourself the humiliation?”

The jibe—intended as an offer unpoisoned by sympathy—produced a grunt from his mentor. “When I'm dead,” Grey said between gritted teeth. “Maybe not then.”

Brooke understood. To watch a crisis deepened Grey's loathing of passivity and the injuries that had compelled it; to forfeit their annual shooting match would sharpen his sense of defeat. The hour Grey had chosen, ten in the morning, exposed the diminishing time wherein he continued to function well. “First or last?” Grey inquired.

“Last. That way I'll know how hard to try.”

Grey picked up the M-14 that he had acquired during the Vietnam
War, scrupulously maintained ever since. Then he turned and aimed at a target stretched over an armor plate sixty yards away. His shot—punctuated by the ping of metal—was three inches from the bull's-eye. Silent, he peered through the scope at the bullet hole, then gave the weapon to Brooke.