Yet.
“Just so I understand,” Nash said, “are you objecting to our raid’s target or the manner in which it was carried out?”
Nash wore his best earnest expression as he spoke. The one he’d perfected during spats with Maggie. He loved his wife deeply, but when it came to arguing with her, Nash was at a severe disadvantage. First off, Maggie was hot, and her attractiveness increased in direct proportion to her anger. Second, she was a lawyer.
A damned good lawyer.
Which meant that when it came to verbal jousting, Nash did not often win the day. Accordingly, he’d adopted the strategy he was now employing—look earnest and try for the sympathy win.
“Both. You targeted a Pakistani citizen in Pakistani-controlled territory without our knowledge or permission. This is not how allies behave.”
So apparently Nash’s earnest expression worked best on Maggie.
Or maybe only on Maggie.
The rejoinder had come from a gentleman seated on the couch to General Davi’s right. Unlike the general’s tan dress uniform adorned with flashy medals and colorful ribbons, the man who had spoken wore a Western-style suit, white shirt, and conservative blue tie.
“Sorry,” Nash said with a smile. “Who are you exactly?”
The room in which the meeting was taking place had a décor reminiscent of a 1970s-era funeral home. Dark wood paneling covered the walls, and the only window was obscured by beige floor-to-ceiling curtains. The room’s occupants were relegated to a pair of couches facing each other across a no-man’s-land dominated by an ornate rug.
Nash, his assistant Bill Thompson, and Justin Freeman, the State Department representative, sat on the American couch with the head of Nash’s protective detail, Emily Welch, standing just off his right shoulder.
The Pakistani couch boasted five occupants, including General Davi.
President Saad Chutani was the exception to this arrangement. The former general and current quasi-elected leader of Pakistan occupied a plush white chair at the room’s head, as if he were mediating the squabbles of unruly children.
This characterization wasn’t far from the truth.
The meeting had begun amicably enough, if a bit frosty.
While the official purpose of Nash’s visit was billed as American participation in the Regional Stability Conference that Pakistan was hosting, he and his Pakistani counterparts knew this was not the case. America had just executed a cross-border raid into Pakistan. A raid that had resulted in the deaths of several Americans and the destruction of a special operations Chinook helicopter. Pakistan’s leadership could be persuaded to look the other way on covert American activity when the operations were successful and discreet.
The raid on the HIG compound had been neither.
Accordingly, the Pakistanis believed Nash was coming hat in hand to apologize for egregious behavior. Given the history between the two nations, this was a reasonable assumption.
It was also completely wrong.
Nash’s marching orders from Irene had been twofold—deliver a message to the Pakistanis while stirring up trouble in the process. Irene theorized that the more visible Nash made his presence while in Islamabad, the more ISI resources and assets would be focused on the troublesome CIA executive, leaving fewer to hunt for the solitary NOC, or non-official cover, CIA officer clandestinely making her way to Abbottabad.
The NOC in question, Noreen Ahmed, was tasked with determining whether or not CRANKSHAFT truly resided in the Abbottabad compound, while it was Nash’s job to provide her with cover in the form of diplomatic distractions coupled with an active itinerary that commanded the attention of as many ISI surveillance teams as possible. Put simply, Nash was charged with making a nuisance of himself.
He was only too happy to oblige.
Unfortunately, President Chutani hadn’t assumed the role of quasi-dictator by being naïve. Nash had expected to join the already underway conference, but he’d received an invitation to meet with the Pakistani president first. Nash had of course accepted, assuming that the face-to-face would be a chance for Chutani to quietly express his frustrations with his ally while reaffirming his commitment to America’s Global War on Terror and the billions of US dollars that came along with it.
Nash had been wrong.
After agreeing to the State Department rep’s belated request to accompany him to the meeting, Nash had arrived at the Presidential Palace with his small retinue only to be shown into a receiving area.
Things were not as he’d expected.
Instead of an intimate meeting with President Chutani, Nash found himself in a room crowded with military, ISI, and political representatives. Without the niceties or introductions typical at the beginning of such a gathering, Nash and his comrades had been pointed toward their couch.
Then the lambasting had commenced.
Now, almost twenty minutes after the fun had begun, Nash was ready to go on the offensive, starting with the suited man who’d followed General Davi’s tirade. Contrary to what he’d said, Nash was intimately familiar with the slight, bespectacled man who looked ready to fight. Maahir Alavi was the Pakistani equivalent of a political lobbyist except that instead of representing companies looking for congressional handouts like his US counterparts, Alavi advocated on behalf of a more select constituency.
Terrorist groups.
Terrorist groups like the HIG.
Alavi glared back at Nash. His dark eyes burned even though the lobbyist’s lips were compressed into a thin, hard line. The man seemed to be vibrating with tension. Perfect. Nash decided it was high time to channel his inner Rapp.
“Oh,” Nash said, slapping his knee, “my apologies. I do know you. You’re the mouthpiece for that jihadi piece of trash we rolled up during our raid on the HIG compound.”
The simmering pot that was the room boiled over in a chorus of angry voices. To put it mildly, Nash had struck a nerve. Now he had the opportunity to sit back and watch the fault lines as alliances frayed. Who was really running point when it came to the government’s relationship with the jihadis? ISI? The military? Or did the tendrils of corruption reach all the way to the nation’s highest elected office? What happened next would be a gold mine of intelligence.
“I believe this would be an opportune time for a short break,” Justin said.
Or perhaps not.
Not for the first time, Nash found himself wishing he could strangle a member of the State Department.
“Yes,” President Chutani said, “that would be helpful. Mr. Nash must be exhausted from his travels, and I have other things that require my attention. Let’s convene again this evening prior to the state dinner.”
“Thank you very much, sir,” Justin said. “We look forward to continuing our conversation tonight.”
