Tom Clancy - Locked On

“The order has come through normal channels, but I believe this action is being initiated by General Riaz Rehan, the head of Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous Division. JIM is responsible for foreign espionage operations.”

Embling knew what JIM was responsible for, but he allowed al Darkur to tell him. The Englishman’s fertile brain raced through the possibilities of this encounter. He did not want to admit to anything, but he damn well wanted more intelligence about the situation. “Major. I am at a loss here. I am not an English agent, but were I an English agent, I would hardly want to involve myself in the middle of the nasty infighting that goes on, as a matter of course, in the Pakistani intelligence community. If you have some quarrel with Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous, that’s your problem, not Britain’s.”

“It is your problem, because your nation has picked sides, and they have chosen poorly. Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous, Rehan’s directorate, has been given a great deal of support by the UK, as well as the Americans. They have charmed and fooled your politicians, and I can prove it. If you can provide me the back channel access to your leadership, then I will make my case, and your agency will learn a valuable lesson about trusting anyone in JIM.”

“Major al Darkur, please remember. I never said I worked with British intelligence.”

“No, you didn’t. I said that.”

“Indeed. I am an old man. Retired from the import/ export field.”

Al Darkur smiled. “Then I think you need to come out of retirement, maybe export some intelligence out of Pakistan that might be useful to your nation. You could import some assistance from MI6 that might be useful to my country. I assure you that your nation has never had an asset in Pakistani intelligence as well placed as myself, with as much incentive to work for our joint interests as myself.”

“And what about me? If I am given the boot from Pakistan, I won’t be much help.”

“I can delay your departure for months. Today was just the initial interview. I will drag my feet through every phase of the process after this.”

Embling nodded. “Major, I just have to ask. If you are so sure your organization is rife with informants for General Rehan, how is it you are able to trust all these men working for you?”

Al Darkur smiled again. “Before I w jusas ISI I was in SSG, Special Services Group. These men are also SSG. Commandos from Zarrar Company, counterterrorism operators. My former unit.”

“And they are loyal to you?”

Al Darkur shrugged. “They are loyal to the concept of not getting blown to bits by a roadside bomb. I share their allegiance to that concept myself.”

“As do I, Major.” Embling reached out and shook the major’s hand. “So nice to find common ground with a new friend.” It was a polite thing to say, but neither man in this room trusted the other so early in such a risky relationship.

Two hours later, Nigel Embling sat at home, drank tea at his desk, and drummed his fingers on a well-worn leather blotter.

His morning had been interesting, to say the least. From a dead sleep to a pitch from a highly placed intelligence asset. It was enough to make his head spin.

Houseboy Mahmood, sporting a nasty purple-and-red gash on his head, brought his employer a plate with slices of suji ka, a coconut flour, yogurt, and semolina-based pastry. He’d brought it home from the neighbor’s house when Embling was returned by the SUVs from ISI. Embling took a sweet cake and bit into it, but he remained lost in thought.

“Thanks, lad. Why don’t you go play football with your mates this afternoon? You’ve had a long day already.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nigel.”

“Thank you , my young friend, for being brave this morning. You and your mates will inherit this country someday soon, and I should think they will need a good and brave man like you will turn out to be.”

Mahmood did not understand what his employer was talking about, but he did understand that he had the afternoon free to kick the soccer ball in the street with his friends.

As his houseboy left him alone in his study, Embling ate his cakes and drank his tea, his mind filled with worry. Worry about the potential for him to be expelled, for the dangers of high-level infighting in the Pakistani Army’s spy service, for the work that he would need to do to check out this Major al Darkur to see if he was, in fact, who he said he was, and not affiliated with any of the naughtier elements roaming around.

As worrisome as all this was, the chief concern of Embling’s right now was supremely practical. It appeared, to him, as if he’d just recruited an agent to spy on behalf of a nation that he did not represent.

He’d had no direct working relationship with London for years, though a few of the graybeards working at Legoland, the nickname of London’s SIS headquarters on the Thames, gave him a call from time to time to check up on this or that.

Once, the year before, they’d actually passed his name off to an American organization that he’d helped with a small matter here in Peshawar. The Yanks who’d arrived had been top-notch, some of the sharpest field operators he’d ever worked with. What were their names? Yes, John Clark and Ding Chavez.

As Embling finished the last of his mid-morning snack and wiped his fingers clean with a napkin, he decided he could, if this al Darkur chap checked out, run a very unusual version of the “false flag.” He could operate al Darkur as an agent without Embling actually revealing to al Darkur that he had no one, officially speaking, to pass his intelligence up the chain to.

And then, when Ed t almbling had something important, something solid, Embling would find a customer for his product.

The big Englishman sipped the rest of his tea and smiled at the audacity of his new plan. It was ridiculous, really.

But why on earth not?

Jack Ryan Sr. stepped over to a full-length mirror on the wall between two sets of lockers. Tonight’s presidential debate at Cleveland’s Case Western Reserve University was being held in the Emerson Physical Education Center to accommodate the huge crowd. It was also known as the Veale Center, and Ryan had no trouble picturing this venue hosting a basketball game. Around him on the walls of the locker room that had been converted into a dressing room for the presidential candidate, big Spartan silhouettes looked back at him. The adjacent bathroom set aside for Ryan’s needs had a dozen showers.

He’d needed none. He’d showered at the hotel.

Tonight’s debate was the second of three scheduled between himself and Kealty, and this was the one of the three Jack had insisted on. Just one moderator asking questions of the two men, seated at a table. Almost like a friendly conversation. It was to be less formal, less stiff. Kealty had objected at first, saying it was also less presidential, but Jack had held firm, and the backroom dealing of Jack’s campaign manager, Arnie van Damm, had won the day.

The theme of tonight’s debate would be foreign affairs, and Jack knew he had Kealty beat on the subject. The polls said so, so Arnie agreed, too. But Jack was not relaxed. He looked into the mirror again and took another sip of water.

He liked these all-too-brief moments of solitude. Cathy had just left the dressing room; right now she would be finding her seat in the front row. Her last words to him before leaving chimed in his ears as he looked at himself in the mirror.

“Good luck, Jack. And don’t forget your happy face.”

Along with Arnie and his speechwriter Callie Weston, Cathy had been his closest confidante on this campaign. She did not get into policy discussions very often, unless the subject of health care came up, but she had watched her husband closely during his hundreds of television appearances, and she gave him her opinions on how he conveyed himself to the public.