The Invisible. Andrew Britton
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of those attempts had come in 2003, and on one of those occasions, Musharraf’s survival could be directly attributed to a jamming device that blocked all cell phones within several hundred meters of his motorcade. Through Naveed Jilani and his close relationship with the American embassy, Mengal knew that the vehicles in the embassy pool did not employ such devices. However, this was a minor detail, and one that didn’t concern him either way. Technology could be easily defeated; it didn’t count as a real obstacle. The former general was far more concerned with the human element of the secretary’s security.
In Mengal’s mind, this was the most probable barrier to success. During his military service, he’d once attended a welcoming ceremony for President Clinton at Chaklala Air Base. He had seen the Secret Service in action. He remembered how alert they’d been, the way they moved in synchronous, rehearsed fashion. In particular, he recalled the way they had watched him with ill-concealed suspicion. It was almost as if, even then, they could see into the darkest corners of his mind. He had quickly realized they had a file on him, and since that incident, he’d come to appreciate just how thorough the Americans were. The secretary of state was protected by a different agency, Mengal knew, but her security would be just as vigilant. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected her permanent detail was composed of at least seven men. Probably closer to ten. He had superior numbers at his disposal, but the Americans held the advantage in so many ways. The agents were trained to the point where they reacted instinctively and correctly every time, and they enjoyed access to the best weapons money could buy.
Mengal’s men had all served under him at some point, and most had fought in the volatile Northwest Frontier Province. They were hardened combat veterans, and he was confident in their abilities. Still, there was a noticeable divide in terms of training and weaponry, a divide that could not be ignored. Then again, he had speed and surprise on his side, two essential elements of any successful ambush. Ironically, the Diplomatic Security Service also relied heavily on these elements, especially when moving a senior official in and out of hostile territory.
And this was hostile territory, at least as far as the Americans were concerned. There could be no mistake about that. Rawalpindi was home to army headquarters and a number of lesser military complexes, and Mengal knew the area like the back of his hand. It was a key advantage. He knew what would happen in the aftermath of the attack. He knew precisely where the police would set up their emergency checkpoints, and he knew which roads they would overlook. More importantly, he knew exactly how to find the small clearing where, in twenty minutes’ time, he was scheduled to meet a pilot assigned to ISI, a man who’d once served under him at the Mountain Warfare School in Abbottabad. A man who knew the meaning of loyalty. If all went according to plan, Mengal would be onboard when the helicopter lifted off, but he wouldn’t be the only passenger.
“General.”
Mengal turned to his left, where one of his men was gesturing insistently toward the waiting sedan. “Of course.” The general walked to the car and slid into the passenger seat. A man was already waiting behind the wheel. “Drive.”
CHAPTER 8
RAWALPINDI
Special Agent Petrina absently tugged on the credentials still clipped to his suit jacket as he glared through the windshield of the armored Suburban. It was called “forward orientation,” and it was one of the first things he’d learned at the evasive-driving course he’d attended twenty years earlier. There had been additional courses since then—for obvious reasons, DSS agents underwent constant training, even to the point of relearning fundamental tasks—but the general principles remained the same. The reason behind forward orientation was as simple as it was obvious: looking as far forward as possible allowed one to identify potential threats before they became a real hazard. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much help at the moment, as they were hardly moving at all.
They’d been able to maintain a high rate of speed along Islamabad’s broad avenues and boulevards, but traffic had slowed dramatically over the past few minutes. The road ahead was lined with cars, and beyond, Petrina could make out iron support beams towering over the traffic. Pedestrians and people on bicycles were streaming by on either side of the motorcade, but people on foot weren’t much of a danger to the heavily armored vehicles. Petrina was more worried about the beams in the near distance, which could only belong to a small bridge. With this realization, his dark mood grew darker still. Bridges were natural choke points. Typically, they were avoided at all costs; it was a maxim of any protective detail, and it should have been caught by the advance team.
He turned to the driver. “Why the hell did we pick this road? There have to be faster routes between the palace and the air base.”
“It was Edsall’s call,” the driver protested, waving an angry hand at the traffic in front of them. “There are construction crews on the other routes. We didn’t have time to clear them out, and this was the best alternative.”
“That isn’t saying much. He should have brought this to—”
Petrina stopped talking when a clear voice sounded over his earpiece. “Mike, we’ve got a truck parked off the side of the road up ahead. It’s about two hundred feet from our position.”
“Where’s the driver?”
“The hood is up, and the driver appears to be checking something in the engine compartment. He looks pretty pissed. Over.”
“Yeah, I see it,” the lead agent responded, tilting his head to see around the line of cars. The transmission was coming from the third car in the motorcade, which was already halfway over the bridge. The traffic had started to move a little, and the principal vehicle—the Suburban carrying Petrina, Fitzgerald, and Patterson—was nosing up to the bridge. “The cargo area is covered…Can you see inside from where you are?”
“Negative, Mike. I suggest we call our escorts and ask them to check it out on foot. Over.”
“Jesus Christ,” Petrina muttered under his breath. The whole situation was going from bad to worse in a hurry, and it was exactly why he’d suggested the use of aerial transport in the first place. Helicopters were much harder to target than vehicles on the ground, and they also had the advantage of unlimited air space. Unfortunately, the secretary of state had personally requested a vehicular motorcade, citing the fact that one had been used in India. It would have been noticed if different security measures—especially those that were obvious—were employed in different countries, and it would have set the wrong tone for the discussions at Aiwane-Sadr. Petrina could understand her reasoning, but it didn’t change the fact that they were taking a serious, unnecessary risk in the name of diplomacy.
Still, that decision had not been his to make, and he couldn’t change it now. What happened next, on the other hand, was up to him. The last thing he wanted was to have the secretary of state’s vehicle on the bridge in the event of an attack, as they would be completely boxed in. The first two vehicles in the motorcade were marked Pakistani police cars; Petrina could see their lights flashing up ahead. The officers were armed only with handguns, and they wouldn’t be much use in the event of a well-planned attack. On the other hand, they were best prepared to deal with this particular situation. Not only did they know the language, but the driver of the truck would be more likely to cooperate with his own countrymen.
“Okay,” he said at length. “Ask them to approach on foot, and have them perform a visual check on the cargo area. Over.”
“Will do,” the other agent said. Petrina listened as the request was relayed to the lead cars over a secure channel. The police officers agreed a moment later. Just then, he heard the small motor kick in as the partition behind the seats came down. He turned to face the officials in the backseat.
“What’s going on, Mike?” Fitzgerald asked. The answer became immediately clear when she looked through the windshield. “Oh, I see. Isn’t there another road we can take?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am.” Petrina’s voice was low and tight; he was embarrassed that he’d allowed this to happen on his watch. “The police are going to try and clear the road. It shouldn’t take too long.”