Emerald Buddha

Chapter 1

Stars glimmered through a light haze of smog over Rawal Lake. Traffic had slowed to a trickle from the city, the raucous noise of poorly muffled vehicles fading as darkness fell. Now the air was filled with the sound of televisions blasting from open windows and the dissonant keen of polyrhythmic music from radios as the suburb of Bhara Kahu settled in for the night. Largely working class, the area was only five miles from Islamabad, connected via a highway that skirted the lake.

A garbage truck rumbled down a dusty street on its way to the communal neighborhood dumping spot, piled high with contributions from local residents and passersby. A lone dog trotted stiffly behind it, a hopeful look in its haunted eyes. Lights glowed behind the iron-barred windows of small homes encircled by high walls topped with broken glass.

Four local men sat outside a tiny café at a circular glass table, playing cards and smoking strong cigarettes from which serpentine coils of pungent smoke corkscrewed into the air before dispersing into the light breeze. A boy no older than ten carried out to the men a red enamel tray loaded with four cups of coffee the consistency of crude oil. He set each down carefully before scuttling back inside. The men laughed at a joke, toasted, and resumed their betting, insulting one another good-naturedly as they traded coins back and forth.

A battered Nissan sedan with glass tinted so dark it was nearly opaque crept down the street and slowed as it approached the café. The men visibly stiffened, and one reached beneath his baggy shirt; and then relaxed when the passenger-side window rolled down and one of his friends waved and called out a greeting.

Jack Rollins watched the exchange through night vision goggles from the second-floor window of a house at the end of the block. He was wearing a balaclava and head-to-toe black, invisible in the darkened interior. Next to him lay a Kalashnikov AKM with a collapsible wire stock and a satchel that housed six magazines. Beside it was a .50-caliber sniper rifle with a compact night vision scope — a weapon that fired hand-loaded explosive rounds that would vaporize a man’s head at a thousand yards.

He tapped his earbud and waited for a click to signal that all was still well. The answering pop came a second later. The target hadn’t shown himself since returning from the nearby mosque for Isha salat, the last prayer of the day, intended to carry the faithful from dusk until dawn. Jack had wanted to take the man out right on the street, but that wasn’t the mission, so instead he was waiting patiently.

“See anything on that side?” he murmured. A voice crackled in his ear almost immediately.

“Nothing’s changed. Lights are on inside the house. Couple of goons outside with assault rifles. AKs, of course.”

“Of course.” AK-47s were ubiquitous in the Punjab area of Pakistan, as common as flies after decades of nonstop warring in nearby Afghanistan — something Jack knew all too well after two tours of duty there. The Afghans were mean as striped snakes and lived to fight, most having grown up battling the Russians and then the Americans.

Not my problem, Jack thought. We all do what we must to survive.

“Any signs from the surrounding houses?” Jack asked.

“Negative. All’s quiet. Except for Saddam, of course. He never sleeps.”

Saddam was the nickname they’d given the shooter on the roof of the adjacent home, part of the target’s security precautions. Hamal Qureshi was a moderate voice in the debate with more extreme interpretations of the Koran, a devout cleric respected by many — so much so that his views on the non-orthodoxy of the latest terrorist groups disrupting the Middle East were shaping the dialog on whether they were legitimate or a false-flag operation for Western imperialist interests. Dangerous questions to ask, which would be rewarded with a death sentence.

“Probably has a guilty conscience,” Jack mused, “or he’s daydreaming about those fifty-five virgins.”

“I think the number’s seventy-two.”

“Whatever.” Jack checked his watch. “We go live in twenty minutes. Got the flash bangs and the ack-acks ready?”

“You bet. And in this outfit I look like Omar the Tentmaker, so they’ll never see me coming.” Jack’s crew had been outfitted with local garb, in keeping with the clandestine nature of the assignment. They were to look like locals, terrorists out for a vocal dissenter’s blood. The assassination would create outrage in the community and hopefully dampen enthusiasm for criticism. Whether it would work or not was above Jack’s pay grade; he was just the hired help. And good at his job.

“All right. Let’s maintain radio silence until we’re ready to rock. Won’t be long now. Watch your backs.”

Jack signed off and watched the decrepit Nissan roll away, trailing exhaust from inadequate combustion. He’d been in town for three days with his crew, reconnoitering. Finally it was time — the waiting was the hardest part. He knew from experience that once the shooting started it would be over in a blink; hundreds of thousands of dollars of preparation, arms, fake papers, all for the two minutes he’d estimated it would take to neutralize Qureshi’s guard and take out the great man himself.

The four card players were accounted for — if they tried to get in the mix, he’d off them like a bad habit. Collateral damage was unavoidable in these sorts of incursions. Nature of the beast, Jack thought, and he silently wished them winning hands and the good sense to duck for cover instead of trying to help the cleric.

On the table beside him the satellite phone’s display pulsed, indicating an inbound call. There was only one person who knew the number, and Jack moved swiftly to answer.

“Honey Badger,” he answered softly. The line hissed like a cobra, and then his superior’s unmistakable voice rang from the speaker.

“Abort. Repeat, abort.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“You’ve been blown.”

“Blown? How?”

“Just get out of there. It’s over. Someone leaked the details on the web an hour ago — we just heard. Clock’s ticking. Expect the Pakistanis to be serious about nailing you. Do whatever it takes to get away clean.”

“Are you running interference?”

“Yes. That’s why you’re still alive. But we can only stall them so long. Move. Now.”

“Roger that. I’ll call when clear.”

Jack hung up and thought for a moment, and then tapped his earbud again and relayed the news. At the far end of the block a car started its engine and pulled away. Jack didn’t wait to see anything more. His crew were all big boys. They had their crisis-contingency plan down pat, and would each make their way out of the country using different routes.

Thank God he overthought every mission and was hyper-paranoid. Many would have just stuck with the default protocol rather than take the time and money to set up an alternative known only to them. But Jack wasn’t one of the many. The shrapnel and bullet scars were a reminder of that every time he showered.

He quickly dismantled the .50-caliber Barrett that he’d modified for easy disassembly and packed it into a black nylon duffle with the AKM and the magazines. Last to go in were the goggles and the balaclava.

Jack was down the stairs and out the door in twenty seconds, and he rushed to the iron front gate as he heard the steady beat of helicopters approaching. So much for stalling. It would be close.

He pushed the gate open and moved hurriedly down the crumbling sidewalk, all subterfuge abandoned. He needed to get out of the area before some bright Pakistani officer established a cordon around the perimeter of the neighborhood to stop anyone from leaving.

At the corner he turned down a gloomy street, the streetlights long ago burned out, and jogged to a Toyota Hilux truck. He slid behind the wheel and tossed the bag onto the passenger side. The cab was dark, its interior bulb removed as a precaution.

It was the little things that could mean the difference between life and death, he knew.

The motor started with a cough, and he dropped the transmission in gear. He was two blocks away when he saw the aircraft in his rearview mirror: two helos, their spotlights blinding, beams sweeping over the rooftops of the area he’d just left.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, and fought the urge to floor the gas. If it was his lucky night, he’d make it. If not, well, he couldn’t allow himself to be captured. His hand brushed the grip of the pistol in his belt and he scowled. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but there were worse things than death.

Sirens blared in the distance, and he tried to estimate where they were coming from. If the local cops were in on this, his odds dropped precipitously. Jack’s mind raced over the abbreviated discussion with his control. Someone had posted the details of a top-secret black op nobody knew about. What did it mean?

That they had a leak was obvious.

But how could their network have been compromised?

It was impossible.

The howl of a nearby siren insisted it was all too real.

A police truck rounded the corner and accelerated toward him. Jack debated his options as he watched the vehicle draw near in his side mirror, and he was about to stomp on the brakes and put the Hilux into a controlled skid when the police truck screeched onto a side street, its tires howling in protest.

“Easy, Jack,” he whispered. He suddenly wanted a drink more than anything in the world, despite having been dry for a decade. In his mind’s eye he could see the warm amber of the bourbon, smell the tang of the sour mash, taste the searing pleasure as it slid down his throat and warmed him with well-being. “Old habits die hard,” he said under his breath, and continued at a moderate pace, ears straining for any indication of pursuit.

On the outskirts of the town he eyed the fuel tank. It was half full, which would easily get him to Peshawar, where he’d lie low for a few days before crossing into Afghanistan. Driving at night in the region was borderline suicidal at the best of times, but he didn’t have much choice.

As reluctant as he was to do it, he stopped by a dumpster and jettisoned his weapons. They would incriminate him, and there was no point in making it easy for those after him. That there would be a manhunt was a given, but nobody would report the guns, instead selling them on the thriving black market and pocketing several months’ living expenses.

With a final look at the road behind him, he climbed behind the wheel and pointed the truck west, toward the Khyber Pass — and hopefully, escape.