Tom Clancy - Locked On

So he kept quiet and concentrated on their roud o bete.

The ISI’s main HQ in Peshawar is just off Khyber Road in Peshawar’s western suburbs, which would have required the SUVs to turn left onto Grand Trunk, but instead they continued on, into the northern suburbs. Embling imagined he was being taken to one of the God-knows-how-many off-site branch locations. The ISI kept a number of safe houses, simple residential flats and commercial office space, all over the city, so that they could cause more unofficial mischief than they could during an official visit to the HQ. The senior Brit expat’s suspicions were confirmed when they pulled up in front of a darkened office building, and two men with radios on their vests and Uzi submachine guns hanging from their shoulders stepped out from behind the glass door to greet the vehicles.

Without a word, some six men walked Nigel Embling across the pavement, through the doorway, and then up a narrow staircase. He was led into a dark room — he fully expected it to be a cold and stark interrogation cell, but when someone flipped on the fluorescent lighting he saw it to be a well-used small office, complete with a desk and chairs, a desktop computer, a phone, and a wall full of Pakistani military banners, emblems, and even framed photos of cricket players from the Pakistani national team.

The armed men put Embling in the chair, unlocked his handcuffs, and then left the room.

Embling looked around, surprised to be left alone in this small but not uncomfortable office. Seconds later, a man entered from behind, stepped around Embling’s chair, and slid behind the desk. He wore the tan uniform of the Pakistani Army, but his green pullover sweater covered any insignia that might have revealed information to the man sitting across from him. All Embling could discern was that the man was in his late thirties, with a short beard and mustache and a ruddy complexion. He wore narrow frameless glasses that were propped halfway down his angular nose.

“My name is Mohammed al Darkur. I am a major in the Inter-Services Intelligence Directorate.”

Nigel opened his mouth to ask the major why he’d been dragged from his bed and driven across town for the introduction, but al Darkur spoke again.

“And you, Nigel Embling. You are a British spy.”

Nigel laughed. “Kudos for getting right to the point, even if your information is incorrect. I am Dutch. True, my mother was from Scotland, which is technically part of the British Empire, although her family preferred to think of themselves as—”

“Your mother was from England, from Sussex,” al Darkur interrupted. “Her name was Sally, and she died in 1988. Your father’s name was Harold, and he was from London, and his death predated the death of your mother by nine years.”

Embling’s bushy eyebrows rose, but he did not speak.

“There is no use in lying. We know all about you. At different times in the past we have had you under surveillance, and we are quite aware of your affiliation with the British Secret Service.”

Embling composed himself. Chuckled again. “You really are doing this all wrong, Major Darkur. I certainly won’t tell you how to do your job, but this isn’t much of an interrogation. I believe you need to take a few lessons from some of your colleagues. I’ve sat in a few ISI dungeons in my time here as a guest of your delightful nation; I’ve been suspected of this or that by your organization since you were in nappies, I’d wager. This is how you do it. First, you are supposed to start with a little deprivation, maybe some co ma yold—”

“Does this look like an ISI dungeon?” asked al Darkur.

Embling looked around again. “No. In fact, your overlords might want to send you back for some remedial training; you can’t even get the scary environment down. Doesn’t the ISI have decorators who can help you create that perfect, claustrophobic ‘modern horror’ look?”

“Mr. Embling, this is not an interrogation room. This is my office.”

Nigel looked the man over for several seconds. Shook his head slowly. “Then you really haven’t a clue how to do your job, do you, Major al Darkur?”

The Pakistani major smiled, as if indulgent of the old man’s taunts. “You were picked up this morning because another directorate in the ISI has asked that yourself, and other suspicious expatriates like you, be brought in for interrogation. After interrogation, I am ordered to begin the process of having you expelled from the country.”

Wow, thought Embling. What the bloody hell is going on? “Not just me? All expatriates?”

“Many. Not all, but many.”

“On what grounds would we be given the boot?”

“No grounds whatsoever. Well… I suppose I am to make up something.”

Embling did not respond. He was still gobsmacked by this information, and more so by the frank way this man was delivering it.

Al Darkur continued, “There are elements in my organization, and in the Army as a whole, who have enacted a secret military intelligence order that is only to be used in times of high internal conflict or war, in order to lessen the risk of foreign spies or agents provocateurs in our country. We are always in times of high internal conflict here, this is nothing new. And we are not at war. Therefore, their legal grounds are shaky. Still, they are getting away with it. Our civilian government is not aware of the scope or the focus paid to this operation, and this gives me great pause.” Al Darkur hesitated for a long moment. Twice he began to speak but stopped himself. Finally he said, “This new edict, and other things that have been going on in my organization over the last months, have given me reason to suspect some of my high-ranking colleagues of planning a coup against our civilian leadership.”

Embling had no idea why this military officer, a stranger, would be telling him all this. Especially if he really did believe him to be a British spy.

“I hand-selected your case, Mr. Embling, I made sure that my men would pick you up and bring you to me.”

“What on earth for?”

“Because I would like to offer my services to your nation. It is a difficult time in my country. And there are forces in my organization that are making it more difficult. I believe the United Kingdom can help those of us who… shall I say, do not want the type of change that many in the ISI are seeking.”

Embling looked across the desk at the man for a long time. He then said, “If this is legitimate, then I must ask. Of all places, why are we doing this here?”

Al Darkur smiled a handsome smile now. He spoke in an attractive lilting cadence. “Mr. Embling. My office is the one environment in this country where I can be absolutely sure no one is listening in on our conversation. It is not that this room is not bugged, of course it is. But it is bugged for my benefit, and I can control I cre the erase function on the recorder.”

Embling smiled. He loved nothing more than clever practicality. “What division do you work for?”

“JIB.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t recognize the acronym.”

“Yes you do, Mr. Embling. I can show you my file on your associations with other members of the ISI in the past.”

The Brit shrugged. He decided to drop the pretense of ignorance. “Joint Intelligence Bureau,” he said. “Very well.”

“My duties take me into the FATA.” The Federally Administered Tribal Areas, a sort of no-man’s-land of territory along the border with Afghanistan and Iran, where the Taliban and other organizations provided the only real law. “I work with most of the government-sponsored militias there. The Khyber Rifles. The Chitral Scouts, the Kurram Militia.”

“I see. And the department that is working to have me kicked out of the country?”