“Great,” Coleman said. “One more thing—the vehicle we’re after is carrying shoulder-fired missiles.”
“Like the one that brought down the 160th Chinook?”
“Exactly like that one.”
Captain Smith frowned and turned to one of the pilots seated next to him. “Darrin—what do you think?”
Like Smith, the pilot was wearing a flight suit, Stetson, and a flight suit patch bearing a rendition of his aviator wings and a name—Darrin Swan. But unlike the captain, Darrin’s rank consisted of the three dots meaning that he was a CW3, or Chief Warrant Officer Three.
“MANPADS are no joke,” Darrin said, “but shoulder-fired missiles work best in an ambush scenario. For this, I don’t think we have anything to worry about. It’s not like the jihadis are going to shoot a missile out the window as they’re driving down the highway.”
“Agreed,” Smith said before turning back to Coleman. “We’re in.”
“Fantastic,” Coleman said. “When can you be ready?”
“Imminently,” Smith said, climbing to his feet. “I’ll get the QRF birds spun up and launched while I muster the rest of the troop for a quick air mission brief. I intend to be airborne within thirty minutes. Does your team have a ride?”
Coleman shook his head. “The 160th was going to be my next stop.”
“Don’t bother,” Smith said. “Getting permission from those guys for a daylight infil requires an act of God. I command a cavalry troop–plus. That means, in addition to my Apaches, I’ve got four Black Hawks and two Chinooks. You and your men can ride in the command-and-control bird with me. Sound good?”
It did sound good to Coleman.
Very good.
CHAPTER 57
ABBOTTABAD, PAKISTAN
NOREEN Ahmed trudged up the stairs to her third-floor apartment.
Though the atmosphere in the little complex seemed almost festive, she felt none of her fellow residents’ glee. Like her, they were only here temporarily. The entire complex was built with short-term rentals in mind. Families or even single visitors coming to make use of the resort town’s amenities. But unlike her neighbors, Noreen wasn’t here to visit a son or daughter at the nearby Pakistan Military Academy, hike the Miranjani mountains, or swim in the pool beneath the breathtaking Sajikot waterfall. Noreen might be dressed as a tourist in hiking pants, a sweat-wicking shirt, and sturdy boots, but she was not in Abbottabad for pleasure.
A chorus of squeals drifted from the courtyard as Noreen made the final turn up the concrete stairwell. It wasn’t lost on her that children were part of the reason she was leaving the CIA and, in her final assignment for the Agency, she was surrounded by them. The screams, shrieks, and laughs emanating from the cluster of brown bodies swarming a soccer ball sounded like heaven. Noreen enjoyed the sound of the children at play and would have loved to open the windows to her apartment to let the joy serenade her while she prepared dinner.
She couldn’t.
As much as her idyllic surroundings suggested otherwise, Noreen wasn’t on vacation. She was in the nation of her birth for one reason—to obtain definitive proof that the man who’d engineered the slaughter of almost three thousand innocents on a crisp morning in September had finally been found.
Noreen understood the criticality of her task just as she knew that if bin Laden was really here, heads would roll. Agency analysts had been working overtime to reconstruct the origin of the compound that served as his potential residence and put a timeline around when he’d arrived. Current estimates had bin Laden moving in seven years ago, and if the world’s most wanted terrorist really had lived in a resort town known for its population of retired military officers and the nation’s version of West Point without detection, only two conclusions could be drawn: elements within the Pakistan security services were helping the mass murderer, or they were incompetent.
Or both.
Noreen was operating under the assumption that unfriendly eyes were watching her every move. Eyes that wanted to both protect Abbottabad’s most famous resident and save the nation the embarrassment the military and intelligence services would suffer if bin Laden was discovered right under their nose. Unlike her sibling in-country CIA case officers, Noreen was operating as a NOC. Coming in dark allowed her the latitude to go places her declared coworkers could not, but it also meant she had no diplomatic backstop. If things went sideways for declared Agency personnel, the Pakistani government might deem them persona non grata and expel them from Pakistan. In contrast, Noreen would be looking at jail in a best-case scenario.
She tried not to think about the worst case.
Arriving at her door, Noreen dropped her pack and took a moment to stretch the kinks out of her back. In staying true with her legend as a travel blogger, Noreen was a bit sore from the series of hikes she’d undertaken.
But this was not why she was stretching.
Technology had inarguably advanced the profession of espionage in ways unimaginable to the Cold War spies who’d helped solidify the CIA’s reputation, but there was a reason why chalk marks, dead drops, and brush passes were still taught at the Farm. These analog methods were often overlooked by twenty-first-century counterintelligence officers more accustomed to digital surveillance than pounding the pavement. While earning her stripes as a case officer, Noreen had learned how to use tells to safeguard important items. Like the strand of black hair fastened to the corner of her apartment door with a droplet of clear superglue, for instance.
Noreen eyed the unbroken strand as she fished her keys from her pocket.
In an odd way, she’d almost been hoping to find the tell disturbed. While conducting her SDR this morning, she’d felt the tingling at the back of her neck that she normally associated with a surveillance team. Though her multi-hour trek of seemingly random stops, double backs, and turns had yielded nothing, Noreen hadn’t been able to shake the feeling. Trusting her gut, she’d engaged in a more aggressive maneuver that, while indiscreet, had cleaned her of any watchers.
But this decision came with trade-offs.
Yes, she’d known she was clean while she’d conducted her reconnaissance of the dirt road leading to bin Laden’s compound, but her obvious attempt to shake a tail would be a pretty good indication to a surveillance team that they were onto something. If she had been in the phantom team’s position, Noreen would have gone to her apartment and searched it. The strand, if broken, would have at least confirmed that Noreen’s hypothesis was correct, but the length of hair was intact.
Was she too focused on her post-CIA life?
These were questions that Noreen did not want to consider, but consider them she must. With a sigh that was not staged, Noreen inserted her key and unlocked the dead bolt. Then she shouldered her pack, opened the door, and slipped into the apartment’s dark confines. The dim lighting was a balm to her tired eyes after hours spent beneath the blazing sun, but there was just one problem.
She’d left the kitchen light on.
CHAPTER 58
THOUGH it had been billed as a small two-bedroom, Noreen considered the apartment spacious, especially by DC standards. The front door opened into a sitting room with hardwood floors and vaulted ceilings. The couch, two love seats, and matching end tables were worn but comfortable. Built-in shelves lined with hardback books covered the wall to Noreen’s left. A long dining table fashioned from a single length of oak divided the front room from the expansive and well-equipped kitchen.
A man was seated at the table.
Despite her training, Noreen froze.
She’d taken two steps into the apartment before her eyes had adjusted well enough to make out the form at the table. In another sign that perhaps her head wasn’t completely in the game, both of her hands were occupied. Her right held the door handle of the still partially open door while her left was wedged into the strap of her backpack.
She was better than this.
