For obvious reasons, the meeting was being held away from the airport, but the dam was only a kilometer or so straight-line distance from the airfield. The fishing area was open to the public, but Bilal had made the trip via the airport’s perimeter roads, which could be traveled only by the ASF. The distance to the airport proper was short enough for Bilal to hike, but arriving back at his duty station without his patrol car would raise questions.
Questions that the man and woman would undoubtedly want to avoid.
Bilal caught himself before he smiled, but he still reveled in the sudden surge of joy. He’d discovered a way out of this situation that didn’t involve betraying his country.
“We don’t want you to abandon your car,” the man said. “We want you to drive it.”
Or perhaps not.
CHAPTER 79
DAMON Sanger ran his eyes across the Beechjet 400A’s instrument panel as he acknowledged the radio call from Islamabad International Airport’s air traffic control.
“Roger, Islamabad Tower, JS Charter Kilo Juliet is holding short of taxiway Romeo for runway One Zero right.”
The three multipurpose displays that made up the bulk of the business jet’s digital cockpit showed that both engines’ temperatures were in the green and the flight plan’s navigational waypoints were loaded. The taxiway off the Beechjet’s nose was an expanse of empty blackness bounded by strings of blue edge lights. Beyond the taxiway, the southernmost runway was waiting with its two miles of concrete delineated by white lighting. As Damon watched, the aircraft he was holding short for, an Air Force C-37A Gulfstream business jet painted in an unmistakable blue and white livery with the words United States of America stenciled above the seven cabin windows, taxied to the runway’s threshold.
In Damon’s world everything was perfect.
Everything outside his jet, anyway.
“What do you think is going on back there?”
Like Damon, his copilot was also an expat. But while Damon’s radio transmissions were flavored with an American accent, Nico Romano’s English had a decidedly Italian flair. Nico, like Damon, had flown for his nation’s military before transitioning to life as a commercial pilot. For Nico, it had been Eurofighter Typhoons, while Damon’s aircraft of choice had been three variations of the venerable AH-64 Apache helicopter gunship.
Damon liked his job and coworkers. While not as prestigious as flying for a major airline, life as a charter pilot had its perks. Damon enjoyed the variety that came with piloting business jets for high-end customers. The exotic destinations, ever-changing schedule, and generous pay combined with Islamabad’s relatively low cost of living meant that his Army pension went a lot further here than in the States. VIP passengers could be demanding but their demands were normally a problem for the flight attendants.
Normally.
Today there were no flight attendants, and the clients had requested zero contact with the flight crew. At first, Damon hadn’t understood the strange request.
Now he did.
“Our job is to fly the plane, Nico,” Damon said, “not supervise the passengers. How’s the weather at our destination?”
“Tehran, you mean?” Nico said. “It is as perfect as it ever gets in that part of the world. Do you think our passengers will all be alive to experience it?”
Damon sighed as he willed the American government jet to expedite its power check so that he could take the runway. He and Nico had honored the customers’ demands. Instead of welcoming the passengers as they’d boarded, the flight crew had remained in the cockpit with the door closed.
But he and Nico weren’t blind.
Unlike regular passenger pickups, this one hadn’t taken place on the large tarmac reserved for general aviation just to the west of the main terminal and due north of the active runways. Instead Damon had been instructed to taxi to the southwestern corner of the airfield and wait for the passengers on a stretch of asphalt that abutted four isolated hangars. Though the taxiway was present on Damon’s airport diagram, it wasn’t labeled and the hangars it serviced were conspicuously absent. This section of the airfield was obviously under the Pakistani military’s jurisdiction. Accordingly, Damon had assumed that their passengers would be high-ranking officers or civilians in the armed forces.
This assumption had proven to be incorrect.
Though only the Beechjet’s position lights had been illuminated, Damon had still seen five men exit the pair of Range Rovers that had pulled alongside his jet. The men were dark-complected, but not Pakistani or Indian. Based on the charter’s destination, Damon guessed they were Iranian.
Damon didn’t have a problem flying Iranians.
Passengers were passengers.
But the figure who’d been half-carried, half-dragged from the rear of the lead Range Rover didn’t really qualify as a passenger. In Damon’s experience, a person wearing handcuffs was best described using a different P-word.
Prisoner.
“It does not bother you that we are conducting a rendition?” Nico said. “Most likely an illegal one?”
Nico’s English was always flawless, but his accent grew more pronounced under pressure. At this point his intonation was thick enough to slice with a knife. But accent or not, Nico had a point.
A point that Damon had been trying to ignore.
Was he willing to participate in a kidnapping?
Or worse?
Iranian government officials weren’t known for their model human rights practices. And if this was some sort of rendition, what were the potential consequences for Nico and him? Would he be able to off-load the passengers in Tehran, refuel, and head back to Islamabad, or might a problem unexpectedly develop with his passport or flight plan?
“Islamabad Tower, Shogun One Five is aborting our takeoff and diverting to taxiway Romeo.”
Damon sighed.
Rather than disappear into the night sky, the American Gulfstream had aborted its takeoff roll and was now taxiing onto an adjacent taxiway. Islamabad International was Pakistan’s second-busiest airport and its two active runways were prime real estate. With that in mind, it made sense that the Americans had chosen to move from the active runway to where Damon was holding short, but the tower probably wasn’t going to like their decision.
“Shogun One Five, this is Islamabad Tower. Taxiway Romeo is restricted. Please continue to taxiway Charlie.”
“Too late,” Nico said.
The Gulfstream had already taxied onto Taxiway Romeo, which meant the pilots were committed. No doubt reacting to the tower’s command, the pilots braked, bringing the jet to a stop.
