Locked On

17

Even though he looked every second of his sixty-nine years, Nigel Embling was no pushover. At six feet, four inches and two hundred fifty pounds, he retained considerable brawn to go with his fertile brain. Still, within one second of opening his eyes, he recognized his predicament and raised his hands to indicate he would put up no fight.

He’d awoken to guns in his face, flashlight beams in his eyes, and shouts in his ears. Though startled and worried, he did not panic. As a resident of Peshawar, Pakistan, he knew well that he lived in a city rife with crime, terrorism, and government and law enforcement thuggery, so even before he’d forced the cobwebs of sleep out of his mind he was already wondering which of these three he was waking up to this morning.

Clothes were thrown to him, and he struggled out of his nightshirt and into the ensemble offered by the gunmen, and then he was shoved to his staircase, down the stairs, and toward the front door.

Mahmood, Embling’s young orphaned houseboy, knelt on the floor with his face against the wall. He’d made the mistake of rushing one of the armed men who’d kicked in the front door. For his bravery Mahmood received a boot in his chin and a rifle’s butt in the back. He was then ordered to kneel and face the wall while Embling was collected from his bedroom and allowed to dress. In Urdu tinged with a phony Dutch accent, Embling shouted at the young gunners, admonishing them like children for their treatment of the boy. In the next breath, in soothing words, he told Mahmood to run along to a neighbor’s to have his bruises and scrapes seen after, and he promised the terrified boy that there was nothing to be alarmed about and that he would return straightaway.

Once outside in the dark street, he had a better idea about what was going on. Two black SUVs of the same make and model common with Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence Directorate agents sat parked on the curb, and four more plain-clothed men stood in the street carrying big HK G3 rifles, a standard military-issue weapon of the Pakistani Defense Force.

Yes, Embling was certain now, he was being scooped up by the ISI, the national spy agency. It wasn’t good news by any stretch. He knew enough about their modus operandi to recognize that a predawn rousting at gunpoint likely meant a basement cell and a bit of the rough stuff at the very least. But getting picked up by the Army-run intelligence organization was a damn sight better than being kidnapped by Tehrik-i-Taliban, the Haqqani network, Al-Qaeda, the URC, Lashkar-e-Omar, the Quetta Shura Taliban, the Nadeem Commando, or any one of the other terror outfits running around armed and angry on these dangerous streets of Peshawar.

Nigel Embling was a former member of British foreign intelligence, and he knew how to talk to other intelligence officers. That he might be forced to do so while getting his knuckles broken or his head dunked in a bucket of cold water hardly appealed to him, but he knew this was preferable to dealing with a room full of jihadists who would just quickly and messily hack his head from his neck with a dull sword.

The plain-clothed riflemen on either side of Embling in the backseat of the SUV said nothing as they drove through the empty streets of the city. Embling didn’t bother to ask the men any questions. He knew he would have his only opportunity to get answers wherever it was he was going. These men were just the scoop crew. These men had been provided with a name and a picture and an address, and then they’d been sent out on this errand as if they’d been sent down to the corner market for tea and cakes. They would be here for their ability to squeeze triggers and put their boots into backsides…. They wouldn’t be sent along with the answer to any of Embling’s questions.

So he kept quiet and concentrated on their route.

The ISI’s main HQ in Peshawar is just off Khyber Road in Peshawar’s western suburbs, which would have required the SUVs to turn left onto Grand Trunk, but instead they continued on, into the northern suburbs. Embling imagined he was being taken to one of the God-knows-how-many off-site branch locations. The ISI kept a number of safe houses, simple residential flats and commercial office space, all over the city, so that they could cause more unofficial mischief than they could during an official visit to the HQ. The senior Brit expat’s suspicions were confirmed when they pulled up in front of a darkened office building, and two men with radios on their vests and Uzi submachine guns hanging from their shoulders stepped out from behind the glass door to greet the vehicles.

Without a word, some six men walked Nigel Embling across the pavement, through the doorway, and then up a narrow staircase. He was led into a dark room — he fully expected it to be a cold and stark interrogation cell, but when someone flipped on the fluorescent lighting he saw it to be a well-used small office, complete with a desk and chairs, a desktop computer, a phone, and a wall full of Pakistani military banners, emblems, and even framed photos of cricket players from the Pakistani national team.

The armed men put Embling in the chair, unlocked his handcuffs, and then left the room.

Embling looked around, surprised to be left alone in this small but not uncomfortable office. Seconds later, a man entered from behind, stepped around Embling’s chair, and slid behind the desk. He wore the tan uniform of the Pakistani Army, but his green pullover sweater covered any insignia that might have revealed information to the man sitting across from him. All Embling could discern was that the man was in his late thirties, with a short beard and mustache and a ruddy complexion. He wore narrow frameless glasses that were propped halfway down his angular nose.

“My name is Mohammed al Darkur. I am a major in the Inter-Services Intelligence Directorate.”

Nigel opened his mouth to ask the major why he’d been dragged from his bed and driven across town for the introduction, but al Darkur spoke again.

“And you, Nigel Embling. You are a British spy.”

Nigel laughed. “Kudos for getting right to the point, even if your information is incorrect. I am Dutch. True, my mother was from Scotland, which is technically part of the British Empire, although her family preferred to think of themselves as—”

“Your mother was from England, from Sussex,” al Darkur interrupted. “Her name was Sally, and she died in 1988. Your father’s name was Harold, and he was from London, and his death predated the death of your mother by nine years.”

Embling’s bushy eyebrows rose, but he did not speak.

“There is no use in lying. We know all about you. At different times in the past we have had you under surveillance, and we are quite aware of your affiliation with the British Secret Service.”

Embling composed himself. Chuckled again. “You really are doing this all wrong, Major Darkur. I certainly won’t tell you how to do your job, but this isn’t much of an interrogation. I believe you need to take a few lessons from some of your colleagues. I’ve sat in a few ISI dungeons in my time here as a guest of your delightful nation; I’ve been suspected of this or that by your organization since you were in nappies, I’d wager. This is how you do it. First, you are supposed to start with a little deprivation, maybe some cold—”

“Does this look like an ISI dungeon?” asked al Darkur.

Embling looked around again. “No. In fact, your overlords might want to send you back for some remedial training; you can’t even get the scary environment down. Doesn’t the ISI have decorators who can help you create that perfect, claustrophobic ‘modern horror’ look?”

“Mr. Embling, this is not an interrogation room. This is my office.”

Nigel looked the man over for several seconds. Shook his head slowly. “Then you really haven’t a clue how to do your job, do you, Major al Darkur?”

The Pakistani major smiled, as if indulgent of the old man’s taunts. “You were picked up this morning because another directorate in the ISI has asked that yourself, and other suspicious expatriates like you, be brought in for interrogation. After interrogation, I am ordered to begin the process of having you expelled from the country.”

Wow, thought Embling. What the bloody hell is going on? “Not just me? All expatriates?”

“Many. Not all, but many.”

“On what grounds would we be given the boot?”

“No grounds whatsoever. Well … I suppose I am to make up something.”

Embling did not respond. He was still gobsmacked by this information, and more so by the frank way this man was delivering it.

Al Darkur continued, “There are elements in my organization, and in the Army as a whole, who have enacted a secret military intelligence order that is only to be used in times of high internal conflict or war, in order to lessen the risk of foreign spies or agents provocateurs in our country. We are always in times of high internal conflict here, this is nothing new. And we are not at war. Therefore, their legal grounds are shaky. Still, they are getting away with it. Our civilian government is not aware of the scope or the focus paid to this operation, and this gives me great pause.” Al Darkur hesitated for a long moment. Twice he began to speak but stopped himself. Finally he said, “This new edict, and other things that have been going on in my organization over the last months, have given me reason to suspect some of my high-ranking colleagues of planning a coup against our civilian leadership.”

Embling had no idea why this military officer, a stranger, would be telling him all this. Especially if he really did believe him to be a British spy.

“I hand-selected your case, Mr. Embling, I made sure that my men would pick you up and bring you to me.”

“What on earth for?”

“Because I would like to offer my services to your nation. It is a difficult time in my country. And there are forces in my organization that are making it more difficult. I believe the United Kingdom can help those of us who … shall I say, do not want the type of change that many in the ISI are seeking.”

Embling looked across the desk at the man for a long time. He then said, “If this is legitimate, then I must ask. Of all places, why are we doing this here?”

Al Darkur smiled a handsome smile now. He spoke in an attractive lilting cadence. “Mr. Embling. My office is the one environment in this country where I can be absolutely sure no one is listening in on our conversation. It is not that this room is not bugged, of course it is. But it is bugged for my benefit, and I can control the erase function on the recorder.”

Embling smiled. He loved nothing more than clever practicality. “What division do you work for?”

“JIB.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t recognize the acronym.”

“Yes you do, Mr. Embling. I can show you my file on your associations with other members of the ISI in the past.”

The Brit shrugged. He decided to drop the pretense of ignorance. “Joint Intelligence Bureau,” he said. “Very well.”

“My duties take me into the FATA.” The Federally Administered Tribal Areas, a sort of no-man’s-land of territory along the border with Afghanistan and Iran, where the Taliban and other organizations provided the only real law. “I work with most of the government-sponsored militias there. The Khyber Rifles. The Chitral Scouts, the Kurram Militia.”

“I see. And the department that is working to have me kicked out of the country?”

“The order has come through normal channels, but I believe this action is being initiated by General Riaz Rehan, the head of Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous Division. JIM is responsible for foreign espionage operations.”

Embling knew what JIM was responsible for, but he allowed al Darkur to tell him. The Englishman’s fertile brain raced through the possibilities of this encounter. He did not want to admit to anything, but he damn well wanted more intelligence about the situation. “Major. I am at a loss here. I am not an English agent, but were I an English agent, I would hardly want to involve myself in the middle of the nasty infighting that goes on, as a matter of course, in the Pakistani intelligence community. If you have some quarrel with Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous, that’s your problem, not Britain’s.”

“It is your problem, because your nation has picked sides, and they have chosen poorly. Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous, Rehan’s directorate, has been given a great deal of support by the UK, as well as the Americans. They have charmed and fooled your politicians, and I can prove it. If you can provide me the back channel access to your leadership, then I will make my case, and your agency will learn a valuable lesson about trusting anyone in JIM.”

“Major al Darkur, please remember. I never said I worked with British intelligence.”

“No, you didn’t. I said that.”

“Indeed. I am an old man. Retired from the import/ export field.”

Al Darkur smiled. “Then I think you need to come out of retirement, maybe export some intelligence out of Pakistan that might be useful to your nation. You could import some assistance from MI6 that might be useful to my country. I assure you that your nation has never had an asset in Pakistani intelligence as well placed as myself, with as much incentive to work for our joint interests as myself.”

“And what about me? If I am given the boot from Pakistan, I won’t be much help.”

“I can delay your departure for months. Today was just the initial interview. I will drag my feet through every phase of the process after this.”

Embling nodded. “Major, I just have to ask. If you are so sure your organization is rife with informants for General Rehan, how is it you are able to trust all these men working for you?”

Al Darkur smiled again. “Before I was ISI, I was in SSG, Special Services Group. These men are also SSG. Commandos from Zarrar Company, counterterrorism operators. My former unit.”

“And they are loyal to you?”

Al Darkur shrugged. “They are loyal to the concept of not getting blown to bits by a roadside bomb. I share their allegiance to that concept myself.”

“As do I, Major.” Embling reached out and shook the major’s hand. “So nice to find common ground with a new friend.” It was a polite thing to say, but neither man in this room trusted the other so early in such a risky relationship.

Two hours later, Nigel Embling sat at home, drank tea at his desk, and drummed his fingers on a well-worn leather blotter.

His morning had been interesting, to say the least. From a dead sleep to a pitch from a highly placed intelligence asset. It was enough to make his head spin.

Houseboy Mahmood, sporting a nasty purple-and-red gash on his head, brought his employer a plate with slices of suji ka, a coconut flour, yogurt, and semolina-based pastry. He’d brought it home from the neighbor’s house when Embling was returned by the SUVs from ISI. Embling took a sweet cake and bit into it, but he remained lost in thought.

“Thanks, lad. Why don’t you go play football with your mates this afternoon? You’ve had a long day already.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nigel.”

“Thank you, my young friend, for being brave this morning. You and your mates will inherit this country someday soon, and I should think they will need a good and brave man like you will turn out to be.”

Mahmood did not understand what his employer was talking about, but he did understand that he had the afternoon free to kick the soccer ball in the street with his friends.

As his houseboy left him alone in his study, Embling ate his cakes and drank his tea, his mind filled with worry. Worry about the potential for him to be expelled, for the dangers of high-level infighting in the Pakistani Army’s spy service, for the work that he would need to do to check out this Major al Darkur to see if he was, in fact, who he said he was, and not affiliated with any of the naughtier elements roaming around.

As worrisome as all this was, the chief concern of Embling’s right now was supremely practical. It appeared, to him, as if he’d just recruited an agent to spy on behalf of a nation that he did not represent.

He’d had no direct working relationship with London for years, though a few of the graybeards working at Legoland, the nickname of London’s SIS headquarters on the Thames, gave him a call from time to time to check up on this or that.

Once, the year before, they’d actually passed his name off to an American organization that he’d helped with a small matter here in Peshawar. The Yanks who’d arrived had been top-notch, some of the sharpest field operators he’d ever worked with. What were their names? Yes, John Clark and Ding Chavez.

As Embling finished the last of his mid-morning snack and wiped his fingers clean with a napkin, he decided he could, if this al Darkur chap checked out, run a very unusual version of the “false flag.” He could operate al Darkur as an agent without Embling actually revealing to al Darkur that he had no one, officially speaking, to pass his intelligence up the chain to.

And then, when Embling had something important, something solid, Embling would find a customer for his product.

The big Englishman sipped the rest of his tea and smiled at the audacity of his new plan. It was ridiculous, really.

But why on earth not?