Tom Clancy - Locked On

His benefactors in the UAE, those who knew him (or more precisely knew of him) since his days as a teenager humping mule trains over the mountains solidified their special relationship with Rehan by giving him access to a walled compound on Dubai’s Palm Islands. This became, for all intents and purposes, his office. Yes, he had an office in Islamabad at the beautifully maintained headquarters of the Directorate of Inter-Services Intelligence in Aabpara, but as often as not he was in Dubai, away from those in the government of Pakistan who did not know he existed, or in the Army of Pakistan who did not support his goal for a caliphate.

And away from those few in the ISI who actively sought to bring him down.

General Rehan arrived at his compound a short time after his call with Colonel Khan, and a few minutes after that he sat across the table from Suleiman Murshidov, the venerable spiritual leader of Jamaat Shariat of Dagestan. The old man must have been eighty, Rehan thought, as he looked at eyes milky from cataracts and skin like beach sand blown into folds by the wind. He was of the mountains of the Caucasus, and Riaz assumed he had never been to Dubai, had never seen skyscrapers higher than the squat Soviet-era concrete monoliths in Makhachkala, and had never met with a person in power in a foreign intelligence organization.

A few of Rehan’s officers and guards ss aer tood around the dining room, and the old man was in the company of four others, all younger, some much more so. They didn’t look like security, more like sons and grandsons. They also appeared as if they were here under duress. Perspiration glistened on their foreheads, and they glanced around at the armed security walking the grounds and the house as if they might, at any moment, be taken prisoner by these dark-skinned men.

The Dagestani spiritual leader had asked for this meeting several days ago, and Rehan knew why. The general thought it was childish, really. Rehan had been traveling the world in the past few months, meeting with insurgent groups and international terror outfits in Egypt, Indonesia, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Chechnya, and Yemen.

But he had bypassed Dagestan. Jamaat Shariat, the main Dagestani Islamist group, took a backseat to the Chechens in the eyes of Rehan and his men. More so now that Jamaat Shariat had lost the commander of their armed wing, Israpil Nabiyev. But even before Nabiyev had been captured by the Russians, Riaz Rehan had not bothered to include the Dagestanis in his meetings. The Chechens worked with the Dagestanis, so he had met only with the Chechens.

And now, Rehan assumed, the Dagestanis were mad. Offended at the slight. They had sent their spiritual leader here to explain that they were still viable and only Jamaat Shariat spoke for Dagestan, blah, blah, blah.

Rehan looked at the old man across the table. The Pakistani general was sure he was about to be lectured by this holy man from the mountains.

Everyone in the room spoke Arabic. Rehan greeted the contingent from Dagestan, asked after their needs, and inquired about their journey.

With the niceties out of the way, Rehan was anxious to finish his morning meeting. “How may I be of service to you today?”

Murshidov said, “I am told by my friends in Chechnya that you are a man of God.”

Rehan smiled. “I am a humble follower.”

“My people have been dealt a painful blow with the capture of Israpil Nabiyev.”

“I have seen this. I know he was a valiant commander of your troops.” In truth, Rehan did not think much of the Dagestanis. He knew the Chechens better, had more respect for their abilities as fighters. Still, this Nabiyev fellow had impressed the Chechens. They said he was supposedly a cut above the other Dagestani fighters who’d been, by Rehan’s way of thinking, little more than cannon fodder for the Russians.

Murshidov nodded, appreciative of the kind words. “He was my great hope for the future of my people. But without him, I believe now we must look outward for assistance.”

Oh, so there is a pitch to be made today. Rehan was pleased. If this old man needed something, then maybe he wouldn’t have to sit through a tongue-lashing. “I am at your service. How can I help you?”

“The Chechens say you will soon lead Pakistan.”

Rehan’s face remained impassive, but inside him his blood began to boil. He had sworn all the attendees at his meetings to secrecy. “That is premature. Right now, the situation is difficult for—”

But the old man kept talking, almost as if he were talking to himself and did not know Rehan was in the room with him. “You have told the Chechens you will gain control of nuclear weapons, and you have offered these weapons to the Chechens. They have refused you, because they are afraid that if they possessed heyld the Chnuclear weapons they would become a nuclear target themselves.”

Rehan did not speak. The muscles in his face flexed under his trim beard. He glanced up at Khan and the other colonels in the room with him. He gave them a look that he knew would indicate to them that they would never work with those Chechen fools again if they could not keep a conversation like that to themselves.

Rehan almost stood and left the room. He was about to do just that, but Murshidov kept talking. The old man appeared to be nearly in a trance, unconcerned about the impropriety of the words that came from his mouth.

“I know that you wish to give the bombs to an organization outside of Pakistan. When you do this, when the world learns nuclear weapons have been stolen, then your weak civilian government will fall, and you will take power in a coup. My men, general, can take your bombs.”

Now Rehan forced a laugh. “I do not have any bombs. And if I did have them, I would not need your men. I respect you, old man. I respect your sacrifice and your submission to Allah, and the wisdom you have gained just by virtue of being old. But you come here to my home and say things like this?”

“We have a need for the bombs. And we are not afraid.”

Rehan stood now. Angry and tired of the old man from Russia. “What bombs? What bombs are you talking about? Yes, my country has nuclear weapons. This is common knowledge. They were designed and manufactured under the direction of A. Q. Khan, a Pakistani patriot and a good Muslim. But I am a general in the Army and a member of external intelligence. I cannot just back a truck up to a warehouse and ask the men there to load nuclear missiles into the bed of the truck. That is foolishness!”

Murshidov looked at Rehan through his cataract-clouded eyes. “Your plan has been explained to me in great detail. It is remarkable, and it can work. But you have failed in one respect. You made your offer to the wrong people. The others you invited into your scheme have refused you, and now you can do nothing. I am here to show you that Jamaat Shariat is the right path for you. We will help you, and you will help us.”

Rehan looked to Khan. Khan shrugged. What the hell.

General Rehan sat back down on the sofa. “You think you know things that are not true, old man. But you make me curious. What will you and your poor mountain men do with nuclear bombs?”

Murshidov’s glassy eyes seemed to clear suddenly. He smiled, exposing thin, brittle teeth. “I will tell you exactly what we will do with nuclear bombs.”

Ninety minutes later, Rehan rushed toward the helipad behind his house and leapt into his Eurocopter EC135. The aircraft’s rotors were already turning, their pitch increased as soon as the door was locked, and in seconds the helo lifted over the house, dipped a little as it headed out over the gulf, then banked toward the incredible skyline of Dubai.

Khan sat next to him in the back of the six-seat chopper. The colonel spoke into his headset, told his general that he had made the secure satellite connection with Islamabad, and Rehan need only speak into his microphone. “Listen to me, brother,” Rehan said, nearly frantic with excitement. “I am leaving now for Volgograd.” He listened. “Russia. Yes, Russia!”