The Prisoner's Wife (31 page)

Shawn breathed in the spreading smell of close-packed human bodies and was, for a moment, overcome by the terror he hadn't felt minutes before. He recalled the claustrophobia he'd felt when, as a kid, he'd been trapped beneath his pop's Buick as it fell from its jack. He stopped, leaning against a wall, waiting for the feeling to pass.

Bobby, breathing hard, clutching his doubtful heart, picked up a little boy lying, face upward, in the alley's dust. Hunkering down, he soothed him, brushing his face where tears made tracks through dirt. After some moments, the child's mouth twitched in what might have been the start of a smile. Then he turned fast, looked back once, and ran.

Bobby stood. He led Shawn down a narrower and quieter alley toward the Peshawar station of America's now-merged Central Intelligence Agency and Office of Special Plans.

 

36

PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN, 3 JUNE 2004

When Shawn and Bobby emerged from the Peshawar alley, they fought their way through market squares now so crowded as to be nearly impassable.

Before them lay a sea of turbaned heads. On the square's periphery, women crouched over tiny braziers. Hooded, ignoring the heat, they offered cooked meats for sale. Around them swirled the scents of sweat and spice. Men milled, moving this way and that, jostling for position, reaching up, stretching to see over those in front: alert, excited, anticipatory. The crowd reminded Shawn of games he'd played in Tuscaloosa—massed fans of the Crimson Tide, tense, restless, and noisy, waiting for their team to hit the field.

Across the square, Shawn saw flag-decked floats, pulled by straining men. Bands played, competing; discordant voices were raised someplace in what might have been song. In this enclosed arena, the sheer volume of sound amazed him. If Nashida Noon planned to speak, how would anyone would hear?

Bobby, gripping Shawn's arm, pointed left, toward a four-story building. On it, a sign, in both Urdu and English, read
PESHAWAR USEFUL STATIONERY SUPPLIES, PVT.

He said, “We're meeting Calvin. He's my—” Bobby paused. “My boss.”

“Jesus,” Shawn said. “They promoted him? Over you?”

Bobby nodded.

“Whyn't you resign?”

“I told you,” Bobby said. “Cash flow. Wives. Alimony.”

He used a smart card to open an electronic lock not installed, Shawn guessed, by the Useful Stationery Supplies. He struggled with the jammed door. “Pakistan,” Bobby said. He was breathing hard, the effort a visible strain. “What can I tell you? Third fucking world.”

The door, when it opened, revealed Calvin McCord holding an M-24 sniper rifle. In shadow stood Hassan Tarkani.

Calvin pressed the weapon into Shawn's hands. “Jesus God,” he said. “You look like shit. Death on a soda cracker. What in hell is wrong with you?” Without waiting for answers, he threw an arm around Shawn's shoulders. “But good to see you, son. Your lucky day.”

“What kind of luck would that be?” Shawn asked. Watching Calvin, he held up the sniper rifle, feeling its weight, checking out the sights. “What's this for?”

Bobby said to Calvin, “We were just talking about Nashida Noon. Me and Shawn here. We got interrupted. They bombed the jail.”

“They what?”

“Bombed the jail. I tried stopping them.” Bobby nodded toward a window looking out on the crowded intersection of Shahrah-e-Quaid and Rafique Road. “More important—I was telling Shawn here—she's on her way.”

“AfPak time.” Calvin wore his watch on the hand that didn't shake. “Late.”

“Going to be speaking,” Bobby said to Shawn, “right out there. Out that window.” To Calvin he said, “Shawn here, he's up with the play. Girlfriend reads the paper.”

“Local news?”

“He tells me.”

“In Urdu?”

Bobby nodded.

“This is Danielle Baptiste?”

“Whoever,” Bobby said. “Thing is, sonny here's up to speed. Knows about Nashida. Knows she's coming through from Quetta.” Speaking directly to Shawn, he said, “Here's the plan. PM comes into town, her car stops, ragtop Lincoln, she stops”—he pointed—“right there. In the crowd. That's the plan. She speaks, five, ten minutes. You know, politicians, give them a break, run off at the mouth. Five, ten minutes, that's the plan. Then drive on.”

Shawn said, “To where?”

Bobby said, “Classified.”

“Airport,” Calvin said. “Rawalpindi.”

“I'm not Pakistani,” Shawn said. “I never got a vote. I should be interested because?”

“Because,” said Bobby, “we infiltrated Hezb-i-Islami. You know who they are? Hekmatyar's boys. Terrorist cell.”

“Extreme crazies,” Calvin said. “Out to fucking lunch.”

“Bitch of a job,” Bobby said. “You're Muslim, you're a double agent. Short life span, those boys.”

“Useful, though,” Calvin said, watching the crowd outside. “Till they fall over.”

Outside the window, men fought for vantage points. The noise was deafening. Shawn shook his head. He hadn't known the town could cope with crowds like this. “What's he say, your little valley-of-the-shadow hajji?”

“I'll tell you,” Bobby said. “Latest heads-up, hajji-guy says, Nashida's car stops right out there—”

“Then,” said Calvin, “some crazy”—he pointed outward—“guy's likely there right now, he brings a baby to be blessed.”

“Blessing?” Shawn said. “Nashida's a politician.”

“Correct.”

“Not a saint.”

“This place,” Bobby said, “ask your girlfriend, you don't have to be a saint. Politicians bless babies.”

Men in the street were restless now: Through the window Shawn saw sections of the crowd stirring this way and that. Eddies in a trout stream.

Bobby was thoughtful, watching the throng. “Thing of it is, this baby that's brought to be blessed—we hear it's not a baby.”

“What else would it be?” Shawn asked.

“It's a bomb.”

“Okay,” Shawn said, thinking it through. “Okay. This has something to do with me?”

“What we hear,” Bobby said, “the bomb's wrapped like a baby. Phone detonator. Chatter we're getting, this big guy—assassin—he's going to offer the baby—”

“—the bomb—”

“—whatever the hell—offers it to Nashida, like, you know, like he wants the kid blessed. Then he tosses the thing in her car.”

“If it works, then what?”

“If it works,” Bobby said, “that's all she wrote. Pakistan missing a prime minister.”

Calvin's phone rang. He listened, then said, “Jesus Christ. She's here.” He pointed outside, to the restless crowd that was now, for a single moment, still, anticipatory. “Nashida's here.”

Calvin grabbed Shawn's arm. He pointed upward. “Top floor. Move your ass.”

Shawn followed Calvin and Bobby up concrete stairs. “You don't have an elevator?”

Bobby, climbing, drew a gasping breath. “On the fritz.”

“Why the hell”—Shawn paused—“why didn't you get Nashida to change her route?”

Calvin was three steps ahead. “You think we didn't try? I mean, damn, not just us. Ambassador tried. She won't do it. Woman says, you know, she changes plans every time there's a death threat, she'll never leave Islamabad. So, last option, you shoot the guy.”

There was a moment's silence. Shawn paused, holding the stair rail. “Say what?”

“You're a fuckup, Maguire,” Calvin said, without emphasis. He was on the second flight of stairs. “Any way you slice it. Only thing you do is shoot.”

“Which,” Bobby said, from behind, “you do a damn sight better than the rest of us.”

Calvin was climbing again, his breathing even. “It's something we can use. Guys that shoot like you.”

Shawn's gut made him feel he needed a bathroom.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You're telling me I have to kill someone? Some Pakistani out in that crowd?” He glanced down at the M-24. “That's what this is for?”

Calvin paused, staring down at Shawn. “You have a better plan?”

They were climbing again. “If I take out some father—some father's brought his kid, his baby, to see a moment of history? What happens then?”

“You do that,” Bobby said, from behind Shawn, “we put you in a chopper, so fucking fast your feet won't touch the ground. Plane waiting at Shamsi Air Base.”

“Shamsi's ours?”

“It is now,” said Calvin. “Don't worry about your ass. We'll get you the hell out.”

“Anyway,” said Bobby, breathing hard, “trust me, it's not going to happen. You'll know you got the right guy. Word is, he's tall. I mean, way tall. Like Osama.”

As he reached the third floor, Shawn's mind went back to a notably tall white-robed man, working at the task of hacking the head of Rafe Ramirez from his blood-drowned neck.

Calvin, climbing slower now, pointed in the direction of the market. “Head and shoulders higher than the rest of them, is what we hear. Guy's going to hold up this bomb, looks like a baby—you know, wrapped in whatever the fuck they wrap babies in. You just have to hit him before he throws it in the car.”

“Just,” Shawn said.

“If you can't do it, believe me, no one can.”

“She doesn't have security? Nashida?”

“Sure she does,” said Calvin. He was on the fourth floor now, looking back at Shawn. “Security detail from ISI. The boys who brought us the Taliban. Are they going to protect her? You believe that? They're keeping calendar days free for the fucking funeral.”

Calvin's phone rang. Still climbing, he listened, then said, “Nashida's car, moving into the square. They're going to park. Roll down the hood.”

“I don't believe this,” Shawn said. “Open car? In this crowd? Sitting fucking duck.”

“What I been telling you,” Calvin said. “Unless you get the guy first. So move.”

Bobby collapsed on a concrete stair. “You guys,” he called. “I'll catch you.”

“Fat fuck,” said Calvin. Then, to Shawn, “Through that door, east wall window, you got a great view. Whole square.”

In the doorway Shawn paused. “I do this, what do I get? What's in it for me?”

“Here's the thing,” said Calvin. “Do this, we take you in. You're back working. Medical, pension, all on track.”

“For this, I have to kill someone?” said Shawn. Bile, acid bile, welled in his throat, and in his mouth. ‘That's the deal?”

Calvin was at the window. “Don't jerk me around. It's not your first time.”

“That was war,” Shawn said. “I was young. You're young, you do all kind of crazy shit.”

“Look at it this way,” said Calvin. “You're not terminating a hajji. You're working for America. Saving the life of this woman, as of this week she's prime minister of Pakistan.”

“Langley doesn't want her dead,” said Calvin.

“Not here they don't.”

 

37

PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN, 3 JUNE 2004

Shawn, carrying the scope-sighted rifle, walked to the fifth-floor window of the stationery office building. Looking down, he saw houses and floats festooned with symbols: flags, banners of the Pakistani Democracy Party, and photos of heroes: Nashida, Sylvester Stallone, Bruce Lee. On opposite sides of the square, two amplified bands played two different martial tunes.

The prime minister's car, an armored Lincoln, edged its way through the crowd.

To Shawn's left, Calvin loaded shells in the chamber of a backup M-24.

“Little something, might interest you. Your girlfriend's guy? The missing boyfriend—Osmani?”

Shawn was adjusting the sights of his sniper rifle. He didn't look around. “Osmani's not her boyfriend. He's her husband.”

“Uh-uh. Osmani, Baptiste, not married. We checked.” Calvin set the second M-24 aside. “You know there's hajjis, just opened up the jail—let him loose?”

Shawn trial-sighted on the prime minister's open car. “We were there.”

“Your girl organized that. We tracked a call. She has your satphone.”

From the square below, sound swelled, breaking like ocean waves against the building.

“Bullshit.”

Calvin closed the chamber of the second rifle. “Who else knew where Osmani was? We did. You did, right? Ashley told you; we know that. None of us here's going to call up Kandahar, organize a bunch of banditos, come across the border, break open a jail. We even wanted to, we can't fucking do it. The girlfriend has your phone. She could do it.”

Midsquare, the prime minister's Lincoln slowed. Men sang. Band music swelled.

“Bullshit,” Shawn said again, more to himself than anyone else. “Bull. Shit.”

“Do you have your phone?” Bobby asked. “I mean, right now?”

Shawn shook his head. “Does it matter?”

“Does it matter, Osmani's gone? Not a lot. We leaned on him a little. Got him talking like he was on the news. Told us about A. Q. Khan. We sent some guys to look around Turquoise Mountain, see if he's right about the nukes. Which I personally doubt.” Calvin, too, was watching the prime minister's car. “You want to watch that girl you're traveling with. Watch what she does.” He picked up binoculars and scanned the crowd. “Like that kidnap in Cairo.”

“What about it?”

“Kidnap? Give me a break. You're running around town, she's up there in al-Masri's apartment, making sure he destroys his damn laptop so we don't read the disk.”

Bobby came back into the office, feeling his way along the wall, as if he were blind. His hand was on his heart. “Crazy fibrillation,” he said. “Pacemaker out of whack. Bupkis.”

Calvin said to Shawn, “Run-through. Paint me a picture.”

“You do this for Uncle,” Bobby said, still massaging his heart, “Uncle's happy. Uncle's going to write off debts.”