Kot Lakhpat Central Jail, Lahore,
Pakistan
March 16, 2011, 1535 Hours Local
Time
Mr. Wade lined up the three-car consular convoy so it could make a fast getaway from the jail. The RSO had been told—“ordered” was probably more accurate—to drive directly from the jail to the military section of Lahore’s international airport, where a State Department Cessna Citation twin-engine jet would be waiting. Aboard would be the American ambassador to Pakistan and two unnamed American officials.
Wade guessed the mystery guests were CIA. But it really didn’t matter, did it? Whoever they were, they would escort Ty Weaver to Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan, where he’d be checked over by an Air Force doctor, then picked up by a CIA aircraft for a direct flight to Dulles.
Mr. Wade knew the fix was in. CIA had paid a couple of mil-plus in blood money. Not directly, of course. The United States does not pay ransom. So CIA slipped the Pak government the cash, and the Paks paid the two victims’ families, although Wade figured a couple of ministers and a few folks from ISI probably took a cut, because that’s the way the Paks did business. But whatever the split may have been, the cash had been paid, the papers had been signed—rumor had it that the two families were ordered to sign by ISI—and now it was time to hustle Ty out of the country.
Wade could only shake his head in awe of American diplomacy.
Speaking of which, Lahore’s U.S. consul general, whom Wade called, though not to her face, “Her Royal Highness,” insisted on being a part of the diplomatic charade.
Of course she had: she wanted thirty seconds of face time with the ambassador, as if it would do her career any good. Her participation was a mistake. The idea of this transfer was to keep everything low key. But with the CG, it was all about grandeur, pomp, and circumstance. And so she just had to get out of the car, introduce herself to the jail administrator, and make small talk while they waited for Ty Weaver to be brought out.
Plus, she’d insisted on having her own vehicle. There was no way she was going to ride in the same car as Ty, to whom she’d been referring for the past month and a half as “that CIA criminal.”
So not only had the two-car below-the-radar transfer convoy become a three-car motorcade, but the CG had insisted that they fly the American flag on her limo.
Wade could only scratch his head in bemusement. Yanquis were not big favorites in Pakistan these days. Why not just paint “Throw rocks at me” in visibility orange on the side of the car?
Ty finally appeared at 1623. He looked better than expected, though thinner, wan, and unshaven. But then, he’d been a VIP prisoner, treated with the proverbial kid gloves, instead of the ones whose knuckles contained lead shot.
Wade clasped his shoulder and shook his hand. The CG acknowledged Ty’s presence by nodding vaguely in his direction, then hand-signaled Wade to open her car door. Instead the RSO ushered Ty into the front seat of his own vehicle, walked around the hood, climbed aboard himself, and started the engine. He watched smiling in the rearview mirror as the CG scrambled into her car and slammed the door. He looked over at Ty and grinned. “I’m gonna catch hell for that,” he said, “but it was worth it.”
Ty said, “Thanks for coming, dude.”
“No prob.” Wade steered through the jail’s main gates and turned north. The traffic was already heavy. “Got your bags in the back, by the way. Your friends came for what was in the safe.” That was Ty’s backup pistol, which had been left behind the day he was arrested.
“Thanks.”
Wade checked to see that the CG’s driver was tight on his tail and that the chase car was keeping up. “So, what you gonna do first thing when you get home?”
Ty stretched his arms in front of him. “Take some downtime with Patty,” he said. “Then? Then, I don’t know.” He swiveled in Wade’s direction. “They didn’t fill me in,” he said. “They played me. At least, that’s the way it seems right now.”
“They?”
“Everybody. That fricking senator. Islamabad. My people. The Paks.”
“Ain’t it the way it always happens?”
“I just wish . . .” Ty raised his hands palms out. “I dunno. I’d just like to know why—how this mess happened. It’s almost two months of my life, stolen.”
Wade didn’t say anything. Sometimes, he knew, there’s nothing to say.
Ty finally said, “Think I’ll ever find out? I don’t. At least not for a while.”
Wade snorted. “I think you’re probably right.” He waited for a light to change, then swung the big SUV east, then north. He checked the digital clock on the dash. They were sixteen minutes out if there was no gridlock. “But you never know, Ty. Miracles happen.”
“I guess.” Ty cracked his knuckles. “But then, you believe in Santa Claus, don’t you?” The former Delta Soldier sat silent for a while, staring through the windshield. Then he swiveled toward Wade. “You heading home anytime in the near term, dude?”
“I get two weeks’ leave in June.”
“What’s your home base?”
“Fairfax, Virginia.”
“Got a pen and paper?”
“Notebook’s in the console. Pens, too.”
Ty retrieved them and wrote in the notebook. “We’re in Reston. Come on by and lemme buy you a beer.”
“Count on it. But really? Just a beer? After all we’ve been through?”
“We? We, Kemo Sabe?” Ty laughed—really laughed—for the first time in almost two months.