Warlord, page 23
"We know the type all right," Stoke said to Michelle. "She's working South Beach now. Or, at least she was. Right, Harry?"
"We've got Bashi in custody, Michelle," Harry said, a teeny bit defensive. "Illegal entry, attempted murder."
"Who the hell he try to off?" Michelle asked.
"Me," Stoke said.
"Why?"
"I know what his girlfriend looks like."
"And now?"
"Not talking. He's all clammed up."
Brock said, "Waterboard the fat piece of shit, then."
"Can't. Now illegal to get prisoners wet. Might catch a case of the sniffles. End up in their jammies in sick bay. Do you know how much that would cost the government in Cold Care Plus alone?"
"God save America," Brock said. "I think we've lost it."
"Airboard him," Stoke suddenly said, "is what I'd do."
"What?"
"Nothing. These guys Bashi's been bringing in from the Middle East," Stoke said. "They come here, scatter, disappear after a month or so. Maine to California. But one thing. Know where they all end up? Same damn place. Stir. Commit some crime, armed robbery, assault, anything sufficient to land them in the joint. So you gotta ask yourself why?"
"Missionaries," Michelle Garcia said. "That's what we call 'em anyway."
"What's that?" Harry asked.
"It's what they are in prison for," Detective Garcia said. "Spread the word of radical Islamism throughout this country. And tell the newly converted what they are supposed to do with that new knowledge. Primarily, what these young men are brought to America for is to spread the gospel. It is ridiculously obvious. But you think anyone in D.C. is concerned about this? Masses of immigrants here to recruit naive U.S. prisoners, in effect, captive audiences, to earn the Islamic Gangbanger Ph.D. degree? Doctorates in hating the American infidels? No one is even looking at this problem, much less talking about it. It is, or will be, a huge problem for this country when these guys start hitting the street and spreading the word. Believe me."
"I believe you, Michelle," Stoke said.
"Great. I got one guy who thinks this is serious."
Harry said, "So this is the deal. They do the crime to do the time, get released, hit the Greyhound stations, get anonymous jobs all over the country, and then--"
Stoke sighed and rubbed his reddened eyes with his knuckles and said, "Blow us up. Scare the living shit out of all of us. From the inside out. Cheapest damn form of warfare in history. Get enough of these assholes operating around the country, raising hell in every town, sooner or later they shut us down, the whole damn country. Nazis couldn't do it. Japanese couldn't do it. Russians couldn't do it. But these guys? Shit."
Harry said, "I'm with you, Stoke. I'm down with everything you just said. I really respect what you're doing today. Going inside, I mean." Stoke just stared at him until he turned away.
Garcia said, "Big Black Muslim gang operating inside the Glades. Recruiting migrant workers, hardened cons, and anyone else they can get their hands on. It's one of the first fully franchised gangs we saw in the system. Now they number in the thousands. Sword of Allah. Get cane workers, local black and white farm kids, in for minor offenses, kids who don't know any better, talk about how America enslaves them all, always has, how to do something about it. Strike back at the Great Satan."
The food came and Stoke was happy to see it. He shut up, just thinking about not this gorgeous cheeseburger, or the next one after that, but the one after that. When he was out. When he'd learned whatever he had to learn inside the Glades, got his friend Sharkey out alive, his virginity intact. But first he'd figure out who was behind the radical gang culture growing in the prison system.
Not just Florida, either, or California; these gangs were everywhere, ultimately threatening everybody in his whole damn country. It was just a matter of time until they started running around like those ragheads in Kabul, blowing shit up. These guys really pissed him off, threatening Americans on their home turf, still the home of the brave and the land of the free.
He hadn't spent the best years of his life in Nam for this. Lost all those brave boys, his buddies, the SEAL platoon he commanded and loved with all his heart, all those young kids calling out to their mamas when they died, ripped to shreds by Charlie, guts spilling out of their stomachs, Stoke trying to hold their insides inside them with his hands.
This new enemy would pay, all right, just like he'd made the VC pay, one way or another. You could listen to the media. Or you could listen to your heart. This was the greatest country the world had ever produced. And anyone who wanted to try and bring it down was going to pay dearly for the privilege.
He knew a whole shitload of people who felt exactly the same way he did. Take the fight to them. Wherever you found them, get right up in their face. And keep fighting until every last one of the bastards bit the dust.
He stuck an onion ring inside his burger and took a big bite, feeling a whole lot better about what he was about to do inside the Glades. He was doing his duty and that was the only thing he knew that was really worth doing. One thing for damn sure. He was going to penetrate these radical Islamic sons of bitches, learn their plans, and break their goddamn backs on the wheel of American justice.
And if he couldn't waterboard 'em, he'd airboard their asses. At night. That's right. Threaten to throw them the fuck out of Black Hawk choppers deep into the Everglades. Talk, or you're gator bait, pal. Congress hadn't outlawed that yet, had they? Airboarding? You always had to stay one step ahead of these criminal-coddling nannies up in Washington, else they'd put an end to America soon as they could.
"Stoke?" Michelle said. "Sorry. Time to go."
"Yeah," Stoke said, looking at his watch. "Listen up, Harry."
"Yeah?"
"You take the turnpike back to Miami. Not 95, OK? Safer. No trucks allowed. You keep your speed at 55. Not 56, 55. You don't talk on your cell, you don't text anybody, you don't even turn on the radio. All you do is drive. Okay? Eyes on the road, hands on the wheel. Thing is, I don't want anything bad to happen to you, see? You're my bud, right? We partners, right? Got each other's backs?"
"And all this has got absolutely nothing to do with the GTO, right, Stoke?"
"The GTO? Damn, you insult me. That GTO sitting out there? Stopping traffic on Worth Avenue even as we speak? That's just metal, my brother. Metal and rubber and plastic. You? You're a human being, Harry. You are a gift from God."
"Gee, thanks, Stoke. I love you, too, man."
"But I swear to God, Harry, you put one scratch on that car and I will rip your tiny testicles off and feed them to you one at a time. I will then stick cotton so far down your throat it will come out your ass, make you look like a goddamn Playboy Bunny. Are we clear?"
"You two boys having a problem or something?" Michelle asked innocently.
"Problem? Nah, we cool," Stoke said. "Cool Hand Brock here is driving my GTO back to Miami. Most likely with the top down. While I'm going straight to goddamn jail. You see a problem?"
THIRTY-THREE
LONDON
C'S OFFICE ON THE TOP FLOOR of MI6 Headquarters, an odd architectural mix of the new, the newer, and the newest, was located at 85 Albert Embankment in Vauxhall on the banks of the Thames. It was a far cry from the Service's rather grotty old digs near Regent's Park, but then Hawke usually preferred the old rather than the new when it came to architecture.
Sir David Trulove's private sanctuary, however, was pleasantly reminiscent of a captain's cabin dating from Admiral Lord Nelson's era. Varnished wood paneling, electrified oil lamps on gimbals, period mahogany furniture, valuable marine art on the walls, a brass chronometer and barometer standing to either side of the model of Admiral Lord Nelson's Victory atop the carved mantelpiece.
The only things missing in C's lovely office, Hawke observed once to Congreve, were portholes.
It was Monday morning, a few days following the harrowing but profitable visit he and Congreve had paid to Mutton Island. After Hawke had a series of meetings with British Army intelligence officers for Northern Ireland, Ambrose had remained in Ireland, he and Drummond returning to the island with the Yard's Scene of Crime lads for a thorough forensic examination of the entire scene. Lab results from the human gallstone found at the scene had not yet been released.
Hawke, who loathed meetings of any type, now found himself in the middle of yet another one, no matter how congenial he found the surroundings. In addition to Hawke, C had invited his protege Montague Thorne to this command performance. Thorne, the reigning expert on all matters Pakistani, Indian, and Afghani, and an American fellow, CIA, who introduced himself to Hawke as Abdul Dakkon.
Dakkon was tall and lean with black eyes, swarthy good looks, and a neatly trimmed black beard. Hawke put him in his late thirties. He was Moroccan, he said, born in Tangier. Despite his navy suit, white shirt, and red tie, he had the unmistakable look of an agent who'd spent most of his life out in the field. An unremittingly harsh field, Hawke surmised from the looks of him. Somehow, he'd lost his right arm. The empty sleeve of his jacket was sewn across his chest, in the same fashion that Admiral Lord Nelson had dealt with the issue.
Also present, his old friend and new lover, the nuclear physicist and counterterror expert from MI5. Sahira seemed to have dressed knowing Hawke would be present. A short blue skirt and a tight-fitting white silk blouse that left little to the imagination. She was wearing glasses, perusing an impossibly thick binder, presumably filled with schematics of fission-fusion thermonuclear weapons. Fascinating stuff, Hawke imagined, from the intensity with which she studied each page. He could hardly wait to read it himself.
Anything to keep him from staring at Sahira.
Genius, Hawke had read somewhere, was the ability to hold two completely discrete thoughts in your mind at the same time. Miss Karim, in addition to studying her binder, was simultaneously carrying on a very involved conversation with Montague Thorne regarding the resurgence of the Taliban in Helmand Province, Afghanistan.
The only one missing at the moment was Sir David himself, running late apparently, and Hawke contented himself with sipping the horrid company coffee and gazing surreptitiously at Miss Karim while she and Thorne now chatted about the very real possibility of war breaking out between Pakistan and India.
The Allies were tiring of this seemingly unwinnable war even though the consequences of losing it could be apocalyptic.
C burst in suddenly, apologized in his typically perfunctory manner, and eased himself into his leather chair just to the right of the fireplace. He looked frightfully cheerful for this ungodly hour on a Monday morning, and Hawke's guard went up involuntarily.
Sir David got his pipe going, smiled at Hawke, and said, "How was your abbreviated island holiday in Northern Ireland, Alex?"
"Adrenaline fueled, I would say, sir."
"So I gather. You made good progress, however?"
"We did indeed."
"If you could possibly spare a few minutes after this meeting, I'd like to hear about it in some detail. Are you available?"
One was always available.
"Of course, sir," Hawke said.
"Well, then, let's get down to the matters at hand, shall we? In light of the current events in his specific region of interest, Mr. Thorne has agreed to provide a brief overview of the current political situation vis-a-vis Pakistan. Monty?"
Thorne stood and began passing around thin MI6 binders marked "MOST SECRET" on the red covers. Even his physical movements, Hawke noticed, were polished, at once economic and elegant. He glanced at Sahira to see if she was watching him too. She wasn't.
Thorne sat down and said, "Thank you, sir. Inside those binders you'll find a summary of what we in my section have taken to calling the 'Second Nuclear Age.' To say what we've learned is 'disturbing' would be a grave understatement. We estimate that Pakistan has at least one hundred nuclear warhead-tipped missiles hidden inside the country. Some of them are known to be located just beyond the perimeter of the Islamabad airport. The infamous Dr. Khan has reestablished a facility for creating nuclear weapons there as well.
"We have no idea where, of course, and their government refuses to tell us despite our expressed concerns about the security of those weapons. To make matters worse, they are building more all the time in laboratory compounds on the edge of the Islamabad airport. You will find sat recon photos of the referenced area in Section Two.
"What happens or fails to happen at those two compounds is far more likely to save or lose a British or American city than are the billions our two countries spend each year maintaining our nuclear arsenals. Designed for a different age, America and Britain's combined nuclear arsenals are, in my opinion, the new Maginot Line in the age of terror: huge, scary, and, I'm afraid, fundamentally useless.
"Most states have an army. Pakistan's army has a state. The country's leaders operate at the army's pleasure. And their ability to control their own nuclear arsenal is the most frightening nuclear challenge facing the West today.
"Pakistan is the only nuclear state on earth with a powerful military insurgency in its very midst. We know for a fact that the combined forces of the Taliban and al Qaeda, now grown immensely strong under a single command and known as the 'Sword of Allah,' definitely have aims to take over the country by force or intimidation, and the insurgents most assuredly want to acquire the bomb."
Thorne paused a moment and turned his gaze toward each person in the room to ensure he had their undivided attention.
"It is hardly reassuring that the Pakistani government has veered between a dictatorship that has supported both the United States and the Taliban simultaneously, and now has a democratic leadership known chiefly for its corruption and ineptitude.
"An urgent new wave of intelligence has recently been flowing through MI6, MI5, CIA, and the Pentagon. Taliban and al Qaeda forces along the northern Pakistan-Afghanistan border are focusing anew on the Holy Grail of terrorism that eluded them before 9/11. They are unswerving in their determination to acquire either the secrets to the Pakistani bomb...or the bombs themselves."
Hawke held up a hand.
"It's been over a year since Sword of Allah struck Heathrow. Perhaps American Predators have beheaded the leadership, Monty?" Hawke asked.
Thorne paused a moment before replying. "It's true we've succeeded wildly with the drones. Many key leaders have been killed. But I think they're stronger than ever. I think their influence is growing around the world. They have Iranian funds, Russian funds, cells around the world, and now, someone at the very top who has considerably more brainpower than Osama bin Laden. Sheik Abu al-Rashad."
"Nevertheless, Monty, Alex is right," C said. "At least we, I mean Five and Six, seem to have driven this Sword of Allah underground here in the United Kingdom."
"Perhaps that is true," Thorne said, but Hawke got the distinct feeling Monty didn't mean it.
"So. Where are we?" C said.
"I must tell you. Two things keep me awake at night. One, recent intelligence concerning the steadfast efforts to infiltrate the labs and put sleepers inside the nuclear arsenal storage facilities at Islamabad."
"And the second?" C said, patience wearing thin.
"And, two, the rising internal threat levels against our own population and infrastructure. And, finally, this new 'Real IRA' rising up in Northern Ireland and their recent threats to the Prince of Wales and the Royal Family itself."
"Good Lord," Trulove muttered. "A plateful."
"Yes. When the world's biggest threat looks more like loose nukes escaping Pakistan rather than launched nukes out of Russia, all of our old Armageddon avoidance tricks go out the window. The world has suddenly become a far more dangerous place, I'm afraid."
There was no disagreement.
THIRTY-FOUR
SIR DAVID SAID, "I BELIEVE ALEX Hawke has a question."
"Monty," a thoughtful Hawke said, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin on it, "it might be helpful to describe explicitly a 'day after' scenario for us. To be clear, could you tell us exactly what, precisely, happens the day after a nuclear weapon goes off in a major British or American city?"
"Good question, Alex. There is a 90 percent probability the weapon will have come out of either North Korea, the old Soviet arsenal, or Pakistan's arsenal. If I had to guess, I'd definitely say Pakistan. But, once you figure out the guilty party, then what? Launch a nuclear strike against a quasi ally for something that country's president probably didn't even know was missing? When he's still sitting on a ton of nukes? Not happening, Alex. Which leaves us only one option: find a way to lock down Pakistan's nuclear storage facilities. Find out where the holes are and close them. And do it now, before it's too late."
C turned those crafty blue eyes on Alex. "And that, my Lord Hawke, is your next mission."
"And when do I depart?"
"As soon as humanly possible. I'll need time to organize logistics at the other end. A week at the outside. I know you wish to continue with your investigation in Northern Ireland. You've got a week, maybe less if I can speed things up in Islamabad."
Hawke sat back and silently regarded his boss, deeply conflicted by what he'd just heard. He craved this new mission, literally hungered for the great game now going on in Pakistan and Afghanistan.
Still. He had sworn a solemn oath to Charles, and he believed he was on the right track after Mutton Island. Not to mention the conversation with McMahon. To abandon all that now would be tantamount to--
"Alex? Did you hear what I just said? You've got perhaps a week before you depart."
"Yes, sir. I know. It's just that I'm still concerned about my efforts on behalf of the Prince of Wales, sir. Congreve and I are, well, we are quite confident we have made significant progress--but a week may not be sufficient."
"Alex, with all due respect, you do not work for the Prince of Wales. You work for MI6. And that means me. And it means investigating and stopping internal and external threats to our entire country such as those presented by this 'Sword of Allah' that Montague is so rightfully concerned about. There are literally hundreds of men and women whose sole responsibility is the safety and security of the Royal Family. They've rather proven themselves fully up to the task over the centuries. Wouldn't you agree?"
"We've got Bashi in custody, Michelle," Harry said, a teeny bit defensive. "Illegal entry, attempted murder."
"Who the hell he try to off?" Michelle asked.
"Me," Stoke said.
"Why?"
"I know what his girlfriend looks like."
"And now?"
"Not talking. He's all clammed up."
Brock said, "Waterboard the fat piece of shit, then."
"Can't. Now illegal to get prisoners wet. Might catch a case of the sniffles. End up in their jammies in sick bay. Do you know how much that would cost the government in Cold Care Plus alone?"
"God save America," Brock said. "I think we've lost it."
"Airboard him," Stoke suddenly said, "is what I'd do."
"What?"
"Nothing. These guys Bashi's been bringing in from the Middle East," Stoke said. "They come here, scatter, disappear after a month or so. Maine to California. But one thing. Know where they all end up? Same damn place. Stir. Commit some crime, armed robbery, assault, anything sufficient to land them in the joint. So you gotta ask yourself why?"
"Missionaries," Michelle Garcia said. "That's what we call 'em anyway."
"What's that?" Harry asked.
"It's what they are in prison for," Detective Garcia said. "Spread the word of radical Islamism throughout this country. And tell the newly converted what they are supposed to do with that new knowledge. Primarily, what these young men are brought to America for is to spread the gospel. It is ridiculously obvious. But you think anyone in D.C. is concerned about this? Masses of immigrants here to recruit naive U.S. prisoners, in effect, captive audiences, to earn the Islamic Gangbanger Ph.D. degree? Doctorates in hating the American infidels? No one is even looking at this problem, much less talking about it. It is, or will be, a huge problem for this country when these guys start hitting the street and spreading the word. Believe me."
"I believe you, Michelle," Stoke said.
"Great. I got one guy who thinks this is serious."
Harry said, "So this is the deal. They do the crime to do the time, get released, hit the Greyhound stations, get anonymous jobs all over the country, and then--"
Stoke sighed and rubbed his reddened eyes with his knuckles and said, "Blow us up. Scare the living shit out of all of us. From the inside out. Cheapest damn form of warfare in history. Get enough of these assholes operating around the country, raising hell in every town, sooner or later they shut us down, the whole damn country. Nazis couldn't do it. Japanese couldn't do it. Russians couldn't do it. But these guys? Shit."
Harry said, "I'm with you, Stoke. I'm down with everything you just said. I really respect what you're doing today. Going inside, I mean." Stoke just stared at him until he turned away.
Garcia said, "Big Black Muslim gang operating inside the Glades. Recruiting migrant workers, hardened cons, and anyone else they can get their hands on. It's one of the first fully franchised gangs we saw in the system. Now they number in the thousands. Sword of Allah. Get cane workers, local black and white farm kids, in for minor offenses, kids who don't know any better, talk about how America enslaves them all, always has, how to do something about it. Strike back at the Great Satan."
The food came and Stoke was happy to see it. He shut up, just thinking about not this gorgeous cheeseburger, or the next one after that, but the one after that. When he was out. When he'd learned whatever he had to learn inside the Glades, got his friend Sharkey out alive, his virginity intact. But first he'd figure out who was behind the radical gang culture growing in the prison system.
Not just Florida, either, or California; these gangs were everywhere, ultimately threatening everybody in his whole damn country. It was just a matter of time until they started running around like those ragheads in Kabul, blowing shit up. These guys really pissed him off, threatening Americans on their home turf, still the home of the brave and the land of the free.
He hadn't spent the best years of his life in Nam for this. Lost all those brave boys, his buddies, the SEAL platoon he commanded and loved with all his heart, all those young kids calling out to their mamas when they died, ripped to shreds by Charlie, guts spilling out of their stomachs, Stoke trying to hold their insides inside them with his hands.
This new enemy would pay, all right, just like he'd made the VC pay, one way or another. You could listen to the media. Or you could listen to your heart. This was the greatest country the world had ever produced. And anyone who wanted to try and bring it down was going to pay dearly for the privilege.
He knew a whole shitload of people who felt exactly the same way he did. Take the fight to them. Wherever you found them, get right up in their face. And keep fighting until every last one of the bastards bit the dust.
He stuck an onion ring inside his burger and took a big bite, feeling a whole lot better about what he was about to do inside the Glades. He was doing his duty and that was the only thing he knew that was really worth doing. One thing for damn sure. He was going to penetrate these radical Islamic sons of bitches, learn their plans, and break their goddamn backs on the wheel of American justice.
And if he couldn't waterboard 'em, he'd airboard their asses. At night. That's right. Threaten to throw them the fuck out of Black Hawk choppers deep into the Everglades. Talk, or you're gator bait, pal. Congress hadn't outlawed that yet, had they? Airboarding? You always had to stay one step ahead of these criminal-coddling nannies up in Washington, else they'd put an end to America soon as they could.
"Stoke?" Michelle said. "Sorry. Time to go."
"Yeah," Stoke said, looking at his watch. "Listen up, Harry."
"Yeah?"
"You take the turnpike back to Miami. Not 95, OK? Safer. No trucks allowed. You keep your speed at 55. Not 56, 55. You don't talk on your cell, you don't text anybody, you don't even turn on the radio. All you do is drive. Okay? Eyes on the road, hands on the wheel. Thing is, I don't want anything bad to happen to you, see? You're my bud, right? We partners, right? Got each other's backs?"
"And all this has got absolutely nothing to do with the GTO, right, Stoke?"
"The GTO? Damn, you insult me. That GTO sitting out there? Stopping traffic on Worth Avenue even as we speak? That's just metal, my brother. Metal and rubber and plastic. You? You're a human being, Harry. You are a gift from God."
"Gee, thanks, Stoke. I love you, too, man."
"But I swear to God, Harry, you put one scratch on that car and I will rip your tiny testicles off and feed them to you one at a time. I will then stick cotton so far down your throat it will come out your ass, make you look like a goddamn Playboy Bunny. Are we clear?"
"You two boys having a problem or something?" Michelle asked innocently.
"Problem? Nah, we cool," Stoke said. "Cool Hand Brock here is driving my GTO back to Miami. Most likely with the top down. While I'm going straight to goddamn jail. You see a problem?"
THIRTY-THREE
LONDON
C'S OFFICE ON THE TOP FLOOR of MI6 Headquarters, an odd architectural mix of the new, the newer, and the newest, was located at 85 Albert Embankment in Vauxhall on the banks of the Thames. It was a far cry from the Service's rather grotty old digs near Regent's Park, but then Hawke usually preferred the old rather than the new when it came to architecture.
Sir David Trulove's private sanctuary, however, was pleasantly reminiscent of a captain's cabin dating from Admiral Lord Nelson's era. Varnished wood paneling, electrified oil lamps on gimbals, period mahogany furniture, valuable marine art on the walls, a brass chronometer and barometer standing to either side of the model of Admiral Lord Nelson's Victory atop the carved mantelpiece.
The only things missing in C's lovely office, Hawke observed once to Congreve, were portholes.
It was Monday morning, a few days following the harrowing but profitable visit he and Congreve had paid to Mutton Island. After Hawke had a series of meetings with British Army intelligence officers for Northern Ireland, Ambrose had remained in Ireland, he and Drummond returning to the island with the Yard's Scene of Crime lads for a thorough forensic examination of the entire scene. Lab results from the human gallstone found at the scene had not yet been released.
Hawke, who loathed meetings of any type, now found himself in the middle of yet another one, no matter how congenial he found the surroundings. In addition to Hawke, C had invited his protege Montague Thorne to this command performance. Thorne, the reigning expert on all matters Pakistani, Indian, and Afghani, and an American fellow, CIA, who introduced himself to Hawke as Abdul Dakkon.
Dakkon was tall and lean with black eyes, swarthy good looks, and a neatly trimmed black beard. Hawke put him in his late thirties. He was Moroccan, he said, born in Tangier. Despite his navy suit, white shirt, and red tie, he had the unmistakable look of an agent who'd spent most of his life out in the field. An unremittingly harsh field, Hawke surmised from the looks of him. Somehow, he'd lost his right arm. The empty sleeve of his jacket was sewn across his chest, in the same fashion that Admiral Lord Nelson had dealt with the issue.
Also present, his old friend and new lover, the nuclear physicist and counterterror expert from MI5. Sahira seemed to have dressed knowing Hawke would be present. A short blue skirt and a tight-fitting white silk blouse that left little to the imagination. She was wearing glasses, perusing an impossibly thick binder, presumably filled with schematics of fission-fusion thermonuclear weapons. Fascinating stuff, Hawke imagined, from the intensity with which she studied each page. He could hardly wait to read it himself.
Anything to keep him from staring at Sahira.
Genius, Hawke had read somewhere, was the ability to hold two completely discrete thoughts in your mind at the same time. Miss Karim, in addition to studying her binder, was simultaneously carrying on a very involved conversation with Montague Thorne regarding the resurgence of the Taliban in Helmand Province, Afghanistan.
The only one missing at the moment was Sir David himself, running late apparently, and Hawke contented himself with sipping the horrid company coffee and gazing surreptitiously at Miss Karim while she and Thorne now chatted about the very real possibility of war breaking out between Pakistan and India.
The Allies were tiring of this seemingly unwinnable war even though the consequences of losing it could be apocalyptic.
C burst in suddenly, apologized in his typically perfunctory manner, and eased himself into his leather chair just to the right of the fireplace. He looked frightfully cheerful for this ungodly hour on a Monday morning, and Hawke's guard went up involuntarily.
Sir David got his pipe going, smiled at Hawke, and said, "How was your abbreviated island holiday in Northern Ireland, Alex?"
"Adrenaline fueled, I would say, sir."
"So I gather. You made good progress, however?"
"We did indeed."
"If you could possibly spare a few minutes after this meeting, I'd like to hear about it in some detail. Are you available?"
One was always available.
"Of course, sir," Hawke said.
"Well, then, let's get down to the matters at hand, shall we? In light of the current events in his specific region of interest, Mr. Thorne has agreed to provide a brief overview of the current political situation vis-a-vis Pakistan. Monty?"
Thorne stood and began passing around thin MI6 binders marked "MOST SECRET" on the red covers. Even his physical movements, Hawke noticed, were polished, at once economic and elegant. He glanced at Sahira to see if she was watching him too. She wasn't.
Thorne sat down and said, "Thank you, sir. Inside those binders you'll find a summary of what we in my section have taken to calling the 'Second Nuclear Age.' To say what we've learned is 'disturbing' would be a grave understatement. We estimate that Pakistan has at least one hundred nuclear warhead-tipped missiles hidden inside the country. Some of them are known to be located just beyond the perimeter of the Islamabad airport. The infamous Dr. Khan has reestablished a facility for creating nuclear weapons there as well.
"We have no idea where, of course, and their government refuses to tell us despite our expressed concerns about the security of those weapons. To make matters worse, they are building more all the time in laboratory compounds on the edge of the Islamabad airport. You will find sat recon photos of the referenced area in Section Two.
"What happens or fails to happen at those two compounds is far more likely to save or lose a British or American city than are the billions our two countries spend each year maintaining our nuclear arsenals. Designed for a different age, America and Britain's combined nuclear arsenals are, in my opinion, the new Maginot Line in the age of terror: huge, scary, and, I'm afraid, fundamentally useless.
"Most states have an army. Pakistan's army has a state. The country's leaders operate at the army's pleasure. And their ability to control their own nuclear arsenal is the most frightening nuclear challenge facing the West today.
"Pakistan is the only nuclear state on earth with a powerful military insurgency in its very midst. We know for a fact that the combined forces of the Taliban and al Qaeda, now grown immensely strong under a single command and known as the 'Sword of Allah,' definitely have aims to take over the country by force or intimidation, and the insurgents most assuredly want to acquire the bomb."
Thorne paused a moment and turned his gaze toward each person in the room to ensure he had their undivided attention.
"It is hardly reassuring that the Pakistani government has veered between a dictatorship that has supported both the United States and the Taliban simultaneously, and now has a democratic leadership known chiefly for its corruption and ineptitude.
"An urgent new wave of intelligence has recently been flowing through MI6, MI5, CIA, and the Pentagon. Taliban and al Qaeda forces along the northern Pakistan-Afghanistan border are focusing anew on the Holy Grail of terrorism that eluded them before 9/11. They are unswerving in their determination to acquire either the secrets to the Pakistani bomb...or the bombs themselves."
Hawke held up a hand.
"It's been over a year since Sword of Allah struck Heathrow. Perhaps American Predators have beheaded the leadership, Monty?" Hawke asked.
Thorne paused a moment before replying. "It's true we've succeeded wildly with the drones. Many key leaders have been killed. But I think they're stronger than ever. I think their influence is growing around the world. They have Iranian funds, Russian funds, cells around the world, and now, someone at the very top who has considerably more brainpower than Osama bin Laden. Sheik Abu al-Rashad."
"Nevertheless, Monty, Alex is right," C said. "At least we, I mean Five and Six, seem to have driven this Sword of Allah underground here in the United Kingdom."
"Perhaps that is true," Thorne said, but Hawke got the distinct feeling Monty didn't mean it.
"So. Where are we?" C said.
"I must tell you. Two things keep me awake at night. One, recent intelligence concerning the steadfast efforts to infiltrate the labs and put sleepers inside the nuclear arsenal storage facilities at Islamabad."
"And the second?" C said, patience wearing thin.
"And, two, the rising internal threat levels against our own population and infrastructure. And, finally, this new 'Real IRA' rising up in Northern Ireland and their recent threats to the Prince of Wales and the Royal Family itself."
"Good Lord," Trulove muttered. "A plateful."
"Yes. When the world's biggest threat looks more like loose nukes escaping Pakistan rather than launched nukes out of Russia, all of our old Armageddon avoidance tricks go out the window. The world has suddenly become a far more dangerous place, I'm afraid."
There was no disagreement.
THIRTY-FOUR
SIR DAVID SAID, "I BELIEVE ALEX Hawke has a question."
"Monty," a thoughtful Hawke said, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin on it, "it might be helpful to describe explicitly a 'day after' scenario for us. To be clear, could you tell us exactly what, precisely, happens the day after a nuclear weapon goes off in a major British or American city?"
"Good question, Alex. There is a 90 percent probability the weapon will have come out of either North Korea, the old Soviet arsenal, or Pakistan's arsenal. If I had to guess, I'd definitely say Pakistan. But, once you figure out the guilty party, then what? Launch a nuclear strike against a quasi ally for something that country's president probably didn't even know was missing? When he's still sitting on a ton of nukes? Not happening, Alex. Which leaves us only one option: find a way to lock down Pakistan's nuclear storage facilities. Find out where the holes are and close them. And do it now, before it's too late."
C turned those crafty blue eyes on Alex. "And that, my Lord Hawke, is your next mission."
"And when do I depart?"
"As soon as humanly possible. I'll need time to organize logistics at the other end. A week at the outside. I know you wish to continue with your investigation in Northern Ireland. You've got a week, maybe less if I can speed things up in Islamabad."
Hawke sat back and silently regarded his boss, deeply conflicted by what he'd just heard. He craved this new mission, literally hungered for the great game now going on in Pakistan and Afghanistan.
Still. He had sworn a solemn oath to Charles, and he believed he was on the right track after Mutton Island. Not to mention the conversation with McMahon. To abandon all that now would be tantamount to--
"Alex? Did you hear what I just said? You've got perhaps a week before you depart."
"Yes, sir. I know. It's just that I'm still concerned about my efforts on behalf of the Prince of Wales, sir. Congreve and I are, well, we are quite confident we have made significant progress--but a week may not be sufficient."
"Alex, with all due respect, you do not work for the Prince of Wales. You work for MI6. And that means me. And it means investigating and stopping internal and external threats to our entire country such as those presented by this 'Sword of Allah' that Montague is so rightfully concerned about. There are literally hundreds of men and women whose sole responsibility is the safety and security of the Royal Family. They've rather proven themselves fully up to the task over the centuries. Wouldn't you agree?"
