Sons of Valor Page 22

  “About a month ago,” Whitney said, “US Navy SEALs raided a vessel in the Arabian Sea suspected of carrying WMD precursor components, but what they found instead were Chinese-made HJ-10 air-to-ground missiles and crates of electronic parts which have since been identified as drone components manufactured by CAIG. The cargo was bound for the port of Gwadar in western Pakistan. What if these parts were purchased by the Taliban after they got their hands on the drone? I mean, they would need the parts and the missiles, right, if they had acquired the drone?”

  “I don’t think it’s Taliban, or I would have heard something supporting by now. But there is another nascent organization here in Pakistan that’s more likely to be involved—an al-Qaeda splinter faction I’ve been trying to penetrate, operating right here in the Swat River Valley.”

  Whitney scooted her chair closer. “What splinter faction?”

  “They call themselves al Qadar.”

  “I don’t speak Arabic. What does it mean?”

  “It means, roughly, a goal or event which is predetermined to happen.”

  “You mean destiny?”

  “Yeah. In their case, the predestined goal is a global Islamic caliphate,” Theobald said, his gaze ticking left, over her shoulder. “My contact has arrived. Why don’t you pull your chair around to the end of the table?”

  She did as instructed, guessing that good tradecraft meant using geometry to make it difficult for everyone to be photographed, in case they were being surveilled.

  “Hello, my friend,” Theobald said, standing momentarily to greet a young Pakistani man who looked nervous as hell.

  “Hello, Bobby.” The man took a seat but didn’t move to shake hands with either of them.

  “Bezerat this is Rebecca,” Theobald said. “She works with my group.”

  Bezerat nodded at her. “Hello.”

  “Hi,” she said and forced a smile.

  “Have you heard anything from your brother, Mohamed?” Theobald asked, his voice ripe with concern.

  “No, nothing. I’m very worried, Mr. Bobby,” Bezerat said, his expression pained. “I think they killed him.”

  The compulsion to jump into the conversation and ask, “Who killed him?” was almost overpowering, but Whitney forced herself to just listen.

  Theobald nodded. “I’m nervous too. I have my people and other trusted friends looking for him, but we need to take precautions now. Especially with you. This should be our last meeting for a while, and so I need you to tell me everything you know, including rumors and details you might have withheld before.”

  “Okay, okay,” the nervous Pakistani said, scratching at his thin juvenile beard. “I think Mohamed had a run-in with ISI.” When Theobald said nothing, Bezerat said, “Did you know about the meeting?”

  “No,” Theobald answered.

  “You swear you did not tip them off?”

  “I swear,” Theobald replied. “You know how I feel about ISI.”

  Although she’d never had any dealings personally with Pakistani intelligence, Whitney understood the subtext. Inter-Services Intelligence, Pakistan’s version of the CIA, was an uncomfortable bedfellow for any foreign intelligence service to work with, because for every honorable officer or agent, an equal number of snitches, thugs, and terrorist sympathizers worked there.

  “Well, ISI came to see my brother. Unannounced. Two agents showed up at the store.”

  “Were you there at the time?”

  “No. I was out making deliveries. My brother told me. He called me and sounded quite agitated.”

  Theobald nodded. “Go on.”

  “When I got back, Mohamed was gone.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I think he went to see Hamza.”

  “Why?”

  “My cousin said that my brother was convinced Hamza was watching him. He wanted to head off any problem.”

  Whitney looked at Theobald, the question poised on her lips.

  Theobald met her gaze and said, “Hamza al-Saud, the suspected leader of al Qadar.”

  She nodded and committed the name to memory.

  “Did you ever tell your brother you were working with me?” he asked Bezerat.

  “No.”

  “What about your cousin?”

  “No.”

  “Are you certain? Not even in a moment of weakness?”

  “No, I swear. Never,” Bezerat said with conviction.

  “Okay,” Theobald said and blew air through his teeth. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, then turned to Whitney. “Rebecca, I know you have some questions for Bezerat.”

  “Um, yes I do,” she said, swallowing. “Do you know of, or are you aware of the brokering of, HJ-10 air-to-ground missiles to al Qadar?”

  Bezerat screwed up his face at her. “I don’t even know what that is, HJ-10?”

  She cleared her throat, silently chastising herself for the way she’d asked the question.

  Theobald probably thinks I’m an idiot.

  “It’s a drone-fired missile. We have a working theory that Hamza has either acquired or is trying to acquire a drone capable of firing missiles at US military targets.”

  “Okay, this is interesting,” Bezerat said, nervously knitting his fingers together and cracking his knuckles. “I overheard my brother and cousin just a few days ago. They were talking about a drone.”

  “That’s good, Bezerat. What exactly did they say?” Theobald pressed.

  “I . . . I don’t know. It was hard to hear, and I didn’t want them to know I was listening. I was behind the shelves in the back of the store, and they didn’t know I was there. Mohamed was talking about a drone shooting a convoy. I assumed it was the Americans blowing something up—the Taliban, maybe, like they always do. I’m sorry, but I was very nervous and that’s all I could hear.”

  Theobald glanced at Whitney, his gaze speaking volumes.

  “Did your brother sound excited or upset, talking about the drone?” Whitney asked.

  “Now that you make me think about it, when I came into the store, my cousin and my brother were in very happy moods,” Bezerat said.

  “What did your brother do for al Qadar exactly?” she asked.

  “My family has an electronics store in Mingora. My brother is—well, he is not a terrorist, but he’s a true believer. He wants to see Muslims rise. He wants a world where the West is not the boss. My cousin is in the middle. When he is around me, he is not caring about politics, but around Mohamed he is supporting a strong Muslim rise. I think my cousin has always looked up to Mohamed and tries to impress him.”

  “I understand,” she said, nodding, “but do you know if your brother was an active member of al Qadar? Was he supporting operations or involved in the planning of operations?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But he was trying to make a profit from Hamza. He wanted to be a supplier of components and information.”

  “Why do you think ISI came to see your brother? I mean, how would they know to suspect Mohamed was working with al Qadar?” She felt herself getting drawn into the spider-

  web now.

  “I don’t know,” Bezerat said, then nervously began looking over his shoulder. “I have been here too long. I . . . I need to go.”

  “One more question,” Theobald said, calm and languid as a lullaby. “Did you ever make electronic component deliveries on behalf of your brother to Hamza or his people?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know. They don’t tell me about all the customers, and I don’t ask.”

  “Okay, I understand, but if Hamza al-Saud does have a drone, and we’re talking about a big drone, a machine the size of a small airplane, do you have any idea where he might hide it? It would need to be in a warehouse or a big garage . . . somewhere near the airport, maybe?” he coaxed the young Pakistani.

  Bezerat’s eyes flashed with epiphany. “Yes, yes, possibly. During the last few weeks, Mohamed was making deliveries to a building in Kanju, the area just west of the airport. He was taking them himself instead of having me make the trip.”

  “Do you have an address?” Whitney asked.

  “I maybe could find it for you. I need to look through the papers. See if my brother kept a record or not.”

  “Will you do that for us?” Theobald asked.

  “It is a big risk, if my cousin sees me. What will you do for me if I do this for you?” Bezerat said.

  “What do you want?” the DIA man said.

  “You know this. I’ve told you many times, Bobby. I want to go to university. I don’t have the money or the connections. You need to get me in.”

  “Yes, but we’ve talked about this. A big reward requires a big win. So here’s what I can promise. If you get us the address and it is valid intelligence that leads to a successful counter-terror operation against al Qadar, then I will make good on my end of the bargain.” Theobald’s gaze was earnest and unwavering.

  “You swear?” Bezerat said, his jaw tight.

  “I swear, and you know I always keep my promises.”

  “If I succeed, I text you the address.” Bezerat shoved his chair back from the table and stood up. “Okay?”

  Theobald nodded but stayed firmly planted in his seat.

  “Okay, goodbye,” the young man said, and with a curt nod to Whitney, he departed.

  “So what do you think?” Theobald said, turning to look at her.

  “A couple of things. First, if Bezerat gets us an address, we can compare it to the transmissions we collected during the time leading up to the drone strike. If the coordinates match, then we have
compelling reason to conduct ISR on the facility and potentially make a move against it.” The gears in her head were really churning now.

  “Okay, and second?”

  “Maybe you query your network of assets about the crashed Wing Loong drone and see if anyone might have heard whispers about that. And maybe question airport employees about late night or unauthorized aircraft flying out of the local airport.”

  A broad smile arched across Theobald’s face.

  “What’s that look for?” she said, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

  “Oh, just that if I didn’t know better, I’d say you caught the bug.”

  “What bug?”

  “The field ops bug,” he said with a smile. “It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, maybe a little,” she said, her lips curling up at the corners.

  “You were having so much fun there at the end, you forgot all about being nervous. Didn’t ya?” he teased.

  He was right, she had, but the recognition of this lapse in attention mortified her and instantly sent her stomach fluttering with renewed anxiety. “Yeah. Rookie mistake. Won’t happen again.”

  “Ah, don’t be so hard on yourself. For your first field engagement, you did pretty damn good,” he said, ripping off a hunk of naan and stuffing it in his mouth. “Now let’s scarf down some lunch, then I’ll get to work shaking some trees and we’ll see what falls out.”

  CHAPTER 25

  al qadar warehouse and drone hangar

  mingora, pakistan

  2050 local time

  Qasim looked at Eshan, then back at the Pterodactyl drone and its new paint job. The Chinese eagle emblem on the nose of the drone had been covered and a US Air Force roundel insignia had been expertly added onto the fuselage and the wings. A retired Predator tail number and squadron insignia shield had been stenciled onto the tail fins to complete the deception. He hadn’t seen Eshan in nearly two weeks, and the initial excitement of his best friend’s arrival had soured to acrimony born of abandonment.

  “It looks exactly like an American drone,” Eshan said walking to stand at Qasim’s side. “It’s remarkable.”

  “A trained eye would recognize it as a counterfeit, but it’s good enough to fool most people,” he replied, trying to keep his voice neutral.

  “Hamza told me you were able to penetrate the satellite network and now we can fly the drone using satellite signal relay instead of line of sight,” Eshan said.

  “That’s not entirely true. We weren’t successful piggybacking off the Americans’ satellite network like I’d hoped. Hamza’s hacker got into the Relay Tracking Station at Diego Garcia, but he couldn’t figure out how to hack into the uplink. So I suggested he try hacking into the PakSat-1R. It’s a DFH-4-type satellite in a geostationary orbit, giving it signal coverage for all of Pakistan and Afghanistan. Moreover, it was built by a Chinese contractor, which I thought might make both the encryption and firewall easier for Fun Time to crack. Turns out I was right.”

  “So it’s a Pakistani military satellite?”

  “Technically, the satellite was procured by the Space and Upper Atmosphere Research Corp. And SUPARCO has made a point of publicly downplaying the military applications of the 1R in the press, but it’s no coincidence it has eighteen Ku-band transponders.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s the same frequency band that Predator and Reaper drones use, and it’s the same band this Pterodactyl drone uses as well. The Pakistanis have been planning on integrating Chinese UCAVs for years now. Getting that satellite in orbit was the first step.”

  “Well, regardless of the specifics, Hamza seems pleased.” When Qasim didn’t answer, Eshan said, “What’s wrong, Qasim? I can tell something is bothering you.”

  “Hmm, I wonder what it could possibly be?” Qasim said, his voice ripe with sarcasm as his gaze drifted to the maroon stain on the floor, not two meters from where they stood. In a harsh whisper he added, “Maybe it’s that I watched a man have his head cut off right over there.”

  “Let’s go for a drive,” Eshan said with an easy smile, while eyeing a group of bearded fighters who were talking in a cluster, just out of earshot. “This is not the time or place to have this discussion.”

  “Maybe you’re free to come and go as you please, but I certainly am not,” Qasim said, looking at his feet.

  “Not true. Follow me and I’ll prove it,” he said and started walking toward the exit.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Qasim followed, positive he would be detained. But when they reached the door, Bacha greeted them both and let them pass, asking only if they would be coming back and the approximate time. Eshan explained they’d be back before sunrise. They departed without incident.

  “Where are we going?” Qasim said after climbing into the passenger seat of Eshan’s car.

  “To my hotel. I’m giving you my room for the night. You can take a hot shower, sleep in a real bed, and have some time alone. Allah knows you deserve it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll sleep at the safe house in Kanju. It’s fine, Qasim. I insist.”

  “No, don’t be ridiculous,” Qasim said, stubbornly shaking his head.

  “I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Qasim sighed and looked out the window. Despite his protestations, he reveled at the prospect of privacy and sleeping in an actual bed. He didn’t feel safe at the warehouse, and the stress of being trapped with so many hypermasculine, gun-toting fighters was doing terrible things to his nerves.

  Several minutes passed before Eshan broke the silence. “What’s wrong, Qasim?”

  “Where have you been? It’s been forever since I’ve seen you.”

  “I’m sorry, Qasim,” he said, with a parental, almost patronizing tone to his voice. “I’ve been very busy with work and trying to spend some time with my bride.”

  Qasim nodded but didn’t offer any grace.

  “Do you remember that day when we were kids and you challenged me to a breath-holding competition?” Eshan asked after a moment.

  Despite his best effort to remain stoic, Qasim began to smile. He did remember it, as clear as yesterday. How ridiculous they’d been. “I remember that you tried to cheat.”

  “True, but only after my lungs were on fire and my eyeballs felt like they were going to pop out of my head,” Eshan said with a laugh. “I remember looking at you—cheeks puffed and pinching your nose—wondering if you were really holding your breath or just pretending to. That’s when I realized that if I eased the pressure off one nostril just a little, I could breathe a tiny bit without you noticing.”

  “But I did notice.”

  “Eventually, but not until you were on the verge of passing out.”

  “Why did you cheat?” Qasim asked, suddenly feeling a little sad at the memory.

  “Because I knew it was the only way I could beat you,” Eshan said. “Why did you challenge me to a breath-holding competition in the first place?”

  “I think it’s obvious. You were better than me in everything we did. Running, wrestling, backgammon . . . so I started practicing holding my breath to build up my endurance so I could finally beat you at something.” Qasim turned at last to look at his friend. “But, of course, you couldn’t even give me that.”

  “What do you expect? We were eleven!”

  “Well, thankfully, I found a procedural solution you couldn’t cheat your way around. Remember?”

  “Oh, I remember the bucket of water all right. And you got Saida to be the judge and timekeeper. Losing is bad enough, but losing in front of a girl . . .” Eshan shook his head. “That’s the ultimate humiliation.”

  “Actually, losing in front of a girl and puking your guts out is the ultimate humiliation,” Qasim said, finally allowing himself to laugh. “Even now, I still can’t believe you vomited.”

  “I know! At least after that I had the good sense to stop, or who knows, I’d probably have given myself an aneurysm trying to beat your record.”

  “But in the end, it didn’t matter, did it? You lost the challenge but got the girl anyway.”

  “Yeah, I suppose I did,” Eshan said, his voice trailing off before adding, “I’m sorry I manipulated you, Qasim. It was not my intention.”