“We’ll deliver him as soon as we are done,” I assure Asif. “Thank you for your help so far.”
“There are three guards outside his house,” Asif tells us. “Once you get past them, the housekeeper will let you in the kitchen door.” Using his phone, he shows us a picture of the housekeeper so we don’t trust the wrong guy.
“Got it,” I confirm.
Asif points us on our way but Imran’s home is not hard to find—a sprawling, whitewashed house that squats heavily on a plot considerably larger than any of the others in the village. A forbidding wall at least twelve feet high and two feet thick forms a protective square around the dwelling.
I extract a small dart gun from the holster that clings to my body armor. We pace with light steps along the outside wall of the house. As we reach the front, I take over the lead position from Hala and sneak a look around the corner. Two men in white robes lean against the wall, smoking, looking more than a little bored of guarding the place. Concerned, I turn back to Hala and indicate that there are two guards there, not three, as Asif said—when the third man materializes like a specter, out of the darkness behind her. He advances on us, a crowbar raised high over his head. In a flash Hala ducks, giving me a clear shot. My dart fires into his neck and he falls like a stone before he can bring the weapon down. But the sound of his body and the crowbar crashing to the ground has alerted the other two. Their steps pound toward us, and I move out quickly from my cover behind the wall, and shoot again, twice. They both drop, drugged into unconsciousness that will last for a couple of hours at least.
Within moments, Hala is high above me, scaling the smooth surface of the wall as easily as if it were a staircase. Only once does she slip, but she rights herself, and makes the summit in seconds. She carefully slices away the curls of barbed wire that festoon the top, then drops a climbing line down to me. Quickly, silently, we use the line to make our way down the other side, into the heart of Imran’s home.
We find ourselves in a wide, open-air courtyard that clearly forms the entrance into the house, which lies ahead of us, looming darkly in the night. The word “courtyard” always feels kind of romantic to me—it makes me think of cool shadows, high pillars, maybe candles. That’s definitely not happening here. For a start, a stench of raw sewage wafts up from a blubbering drain to our left. And the only light source is a lurid fluorescent bulb dangling by a wire inside a wooden outhouse across from us. The scent of jasmine wafts past for a second, but it’s soon lost under the odor from the drain. Light glimmers in a room at the far end of the courtyard, sending a splash of white onto the rough concrete floor before us. Through those lit windows we can see the outline of cooking pots hanging from the ceiling and, against the wall, a wood-burning stove. Harsh bulbs give the white walls a greenish glow, and inside, a tiny old man moves about—the housekeeper. Through Asif, we’ve learned that there’s not much in the way of nine-to-five hours in Imran’s house—if you work for him you can rely on being on call twenty-four/seven, and he has a habit of staying up most of the night, plotting and planning with his cronies, and then sleeping through much of the day. What we’re expecting tonight is that Imran will indeed be awake, anticipating the attack that’s due to happen in less than forty minutes from now. And what we really want is for him to talk to one of his buddies about it, preferably in exquisite detail, giving the London team the details they need to alert the Indian police.
Hala taps lightly on the back entrance to the kitchen. The housekeeper startles, then scampers over to open the door with quick, neat movements. For a moment, he stares, stunned by the fact that we are women; then he gets over it. He looks at us questioningly, like he’s awaiting instructions. Hala turns to a platter of crisp pastry samosas sitting ready on the table and she sticks a clear, wafer-thin microphone dot onto the base of the plate. She shows the housekeeper, who nods, impressed that it’s invisible. Then he pulls us into a dark corridor and indicates that we should wait there. The passageway that we stand in leads directly into the living room, where we can now hear Imran and his comrades chatting. It’s good to be out of the coarse, bright light of the kitchen—I feel less visible out here, even though we are closer to Imran. But now, I use sign language to urge the housekeeper to get going. It’s driving me nuts that Imran is jabbering away and we’re not picking up the conversation.
The old man hurries down the long, dark corridor to deliver the plate. Within seconds, in our left ears, Amber’s super-cool tech feed gives us a constant translation of the Urdu conversation that the mic is now picking up between Imran and his friends. There’s a delay of about three seconds, no more. I glance at Hala, relieved. But if we were hoping for high-level terrorist discussion, we’re out of luck. Right now, they’re taking turns complaining about their families and how the first wives are so jealous of the second and third wives. Everyone has their cross to bear, I suppose, but somehow, I can’t get there with the sympathy. I check my watch, which has a handy countdown timer that only makes me more stressed. Only thirty-five minutes to go. We have to get the information soon for Peggy’s contact to have any chance of mobilizing the police and evacuating the potential victims. In our ears, the chatter from the living room pauses. Then, finally, Imran speaks:
“Not long now,” he says. He sounds pleased with himself, his tone arrogant. I glance at Hala. She looks hopeful. Please, I pray, let this be it.
“Four thirty in the morning, everyone will be sleeping,” says one of his guys, like he’s congratulating Imran on his genius.
“Maximum casualties,” confirms another.
My heart is pounding, with stress, with willing them to say more. Where are these casualties meant to be?
“I never thought us Pakistanis would be working with Indians,” laughs Imran. “Muslims and Hindus—sworn enemies. But Family First is a bigger cause that unites us all.”
Murmurs of appreciation rise up for Imran’s comment.
“What made you choose this target, brother?” asks a different man, with a high voice.
Imran gives a low chuckle. “This target? This met all the requirements for Family First—but for me, it was also personal, my friend.”
Next to me, I feel Hala tensing, leaning forward just a bit. We’re getting close. Keep talking, Imran, I think. Just a little more detail and we can hand you over to the villagers and hightail it back home.
And then something blurs past us, right through the corridor, and then it stops, just as suddenly. I stare, my eyes wide open, my ears filled with the sudden hammering of my heart.
It’s a little boy, maybe six or seven years old, tousle-headed, sleepy. One of Imran’s kids, probably. The boy turns in surprise and stares openmouthed at the dark outlines of me and Hala standing there like statues in the corridor. Time slows to a crawl. I feel the blood pulse in my ears, as I watch, dull-headed, unable to think. Hala makes the tiniest move forward, then stops. Because I can’t think of what else to do, I put my finger to my lips. Wide-eyed, the boy watches us in fright for a moment more, then turns and runs, screaming, into the room where Imran sits.
4
WE ARE ALREADY RACING THE other way, back up the corridor. In our ears, there’s an echo of voices—a translation of the child’s frantic warnings, and then the questions, the surprise from the men in the room as they rise and hurry out to investigate. A shot blasts into the corridor behind us, lodging into the wall just as we hurtle into the kitchen. The housekeeper is at the sink. Before he can even turn at the commotion, Hala has pushed him to the ground, using the table to cover him as best she can. Hala and I throw ourselves out into the courtyard, but more shots come, splintering the door moments after we run outside.