Дэвид Балдаччи - King and Maxwell

Wingo had read Rudyard Kipling, who had described the Khyber Pass as a “sword cut through the mountains.” This was an apt description, he felt, only unlike a sword blade the road was far from straight. The area here could have been the landscape on another planet that did not allow for human life. It was beyond bleak, beyond foreboding. No trees grew here. No animals made their homes here. No humans really lived here. It was simply here so one could go from one country to another as fast as possible, with “fast” being a relative term.

The pass was largely shut down in the late fall and winter. The grade was too steep and the climate too dangerous during those times. And Wingo was perilously close to “those times.” He could feel the winds coursing through the mountains settling under his car and lifting it slightly. The pass was essentially a series of switchbacks connected by short distances of straight roads and tunnels through the Hindu Kush Mountain Range. It could be nauseating to drive even at slow speeds.

Wingo was not driving slowly. He was channeling his inner Formula One driver. The wind was blowing in through the shattered window and making his teeth chatter despite his having the heat cranked.

As he raced along, in his mind he was sorting through the possible scenarios and his counter for each one. He checked his watch and calculated how much farther it was to Peshawar. Then he debated whether he needed to even go there. Peshawar was a large city, with more than two and a half million residents spread over nearly five hundred square miles. That was good in that it was easier to hide among so many people. But it was bad in that you had many more eyes that might be spying on you, and the authorities would be only minutes away no matter where you were.

He decided to head directly to the Indian border. The documents that he had been given by Adeel should be sufficient to get him across. However, if Adeel had betrayed him, tipping off the men in the destroyed car, these documents were useless.

Wingo had to make a judgment call. Trust Adeel or not?

Normally, the answer would be an easy one for Wingo. You couldn’t trust anyone. But he had looked the man in the eye. He had heard his words for himself. He decided that he trusted Adeel. The men in the car coming after them might have simply been criminals looking to rob or kidnap an American and hold him for ransom. That was not unusual in these parts.

Once through the pass he pulled off the road and changed into fresh clothes from his knapsack, burying the bloody ones. He drove into a small town late that night and left the shattered and bloodied taxi on a side street. He took a room in a local hotel where the manager accepted cash and asked no questions. The next morning he arranged for the rental of a motorbike using the document that Adeel had provided. He rode off on the bike. His next goal was to make the Indian border. Pakistan’s national highway system was a good one, and the kilometers flew past. He stopped to eat and refuel. As he neared the border, he slowed.

This would be the real test of Adeel’s loyalty. Or betrayal.

Wingo had been through this border before. The crossing was right down the middle of the village of Wagah. It had been split in half when demarcation took place in 1947, creating the country of Pakistan from land that had formerly been part of India. Wagah had perhaps the most elaborate border closing ceremony in the world. It took place right before sunset each day and involved the Indian and Pakistan border guards putting on an elaborate dance of exaggerated marching and high stepping with feet routinely reaching above heads. Crowds gathered, music was played, and the opposing guards would confront each other with aggressive posturing and grim faces, like two roosters about to duel.

Wingo didn’t care about the performance. He simply wanted to hit the crossing shortly before the performance was to begin, because the crowds would have gathered and the guards would be focusing more on their upcoming performances than on border scrutiny. He timed it well, because he was the last person to cross the border before it was closed. When he reached Indian soil he looked back only once as the music started, the guards marching out to do their dancing battle. No one would remember the sole American on the motorbike who was so eager to leave Pakistan.

“I SEE WHAT YOU MEAN,” SAID Michelle to Sean as she watched the lady walking toward them.

They were sitting in a food court at a local mall. It was late afternoon so there were few patrons at the court. They were at a table as far away as possible from the other diners eating there.

Approaching from one end of the food court was Dana Brown. She was dressed down from the last time Sean had seen her, but her black tights and long white shirt rode well on her curvy and buxom figure.

“Pretty complete package, at least on the surface,” noted Michelle, staring at the approaching woman.

“Yeah,” said Sean. “But just keep any and all thoughts like that to yourself. We’re here for information, and to get that we have to play nice.”

“I always play nice.”

He glanced at her, shook his head, and looked back at his ex as she arrived at their table. They rose and Sean said, “Michelle Maxwell, Dana Brown.”

The two women exchanged tight, polite smiles and a quick handshake. They all sat and Sean said, “I’m assuming you have something for us since you called to meet?”

Dana kept her gaze on Michelle for a second longer and then turned to Sean.

“It was harder than I thought.”

“Did you think it would be easy?” remarked Michelle.

“Since I was dealing with my husband, yes, actually. I’m sure you know how easily a man can be manipulated if a woman merely addresses his basic needs.” She glanced demurely at Sean. “Pillow talk, like you said.”

Michelle shot a glance at Sean and said, “I’m sure.” She added, “But it sounds like addressing basic needs wasn’t enough here.”

Dana smiled and sat back. “That’s why you have a Plan B, which I did. I won’t go into great detail about how I accomplished it. I’m assuming you simply want the results.” She turned to Sean. “This Wingo situation is being treated very seriously at the Pentagon.”

“But how did you broach it with him?” asked Sean. “Like I said, I didn’t want you to go out on a limb.”

“I told him I was worried about him. He hasn’t been eating; he’s been moody. I knew something was up. So I just flat out asked him what was wrong and I wouldn’t take national security BS for an answer. I was his wife and I trumped that. And if he couldn’t trust me we had big problems.”

“And what did he tell you?” asked Sean.

Dana looked down, her features not nearly as confident. “I know this might sound somewhat surprising for me to say at this point, but I do feel guilty about doing this, Sean. He told me certain things in the strictest confidence, and I guess I’m having some doubts.”

“He will never find out you told us, Dana. I promise you that. I don’t care if they subpoena us and we have to commit perjury and go to prison. Your name will never come out from us.”

He glanced at Michelle, who nodded. “You have my word too, Dana. As you know, we’re former Secret Service agents, with emphasis on the ‘secret.’ We’re just trying to help a kid who’s trying to find out the truth about his dad.”

Dana took a deep breath and leaned in closer. “Sam Wingo wasn’t really in the reserves. He was still regular Army, but he left a year before his pension technically would have kicked in.”

“Why?” asked Sean.

“To establish himself as a civilian. To take a job with a company.”