State Of Honour

“That’s right. Our analysts believe that Iran is planning to occupy the port of Gwadar and help themselves to the huge resources of natural gas in the province if Pakistan becomes a failed state.”

“They’re hoping to take advantage of the chaos,” Linda said, leaning back in her chair and arching her fingers.

“They are, ma’am. But if the Iranians come over the southern border in force, the Pakistanis, despite their internal problems, are likely to go to war. They regard the Iranians as apostates.”

“It’s a mess.” She massaged her temples with her thumbs and forefingers.

“My view is we back Pakistan with muscle and–”

“That’s a decision for Congress.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Houseman said, nodding.

“Thank you, Bill. Send the agent in, will you? The tall one with the buzz cut.”

Houseman got up, said, “May I speak freely?”

“You may.”

“Don’t go to the children’s hospital this morning. Frankly, I don’t think it’s worth the risk; however small.”

He has a point, she thought.

Pakistan had been a Frenemy for years. But the new Prime Minister had requested her visit to discuss the possibility of the US taking temporary possession of Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal if matters got worse. Although they’d been distributed over the country for security reasons, they’d been brought back to Islamabad in recent weeks. They were safe for now. But if the Pakistanis refused to allow them into US custody, her brief also extended to ensuring that the likelihood of them being used if the Iranians came over the border in force was zero.

This, she had to admit, was the real reason for her visit. Houseman knows that, too, she thought, which is why he’s advising against the trip to the hospital.

But, she said, “The president wants to show solidarity with the new regime on the issue of opposition to extremist acts of terrorism, if nothing else. Those children are their victims. I will ensure that the head of my security detail speaks with your people before we leave. Is there anything else, Bill?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, barely able to conceal his concern.

Tom saw the door open. The deputy director came out, scowling.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Tom asked.

“Just peachy.” He gestured behind him. “The secretary would like to see you.”

He put the folder under his arm and straightened his tie before strolling off towards the elevator, taking a call on his cellphone after a few steps.

Tom moved through the door left ajar and saw the secretary standing in front of the desk, a neat, navy-blue box in her hand. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair was tied back with a flesh-coloured scarf. The scarf was a concession. Flowing hair was easily grabbed. Curtailing the possibility of that kind of embarrassing incident just meant one less thing to worry about. She also wore a ballistic pantsuit, as he’d asked her to, together with her specially made jewellery, a gold pendant shaped like a pear and a heavy emerald ring. The pantsuit was a pale hue of cameral. Soft body armour that could withstand a round from a handgun. The impact of the bullet was eradicated by a net of multilayered woven fabrics, which dispersed the energy over an extended area. Pure physics. He’d seen videos of Americans down in Columbia being shot at in their ballistic suits from close quarters. Something he wasn’t about to divulge. It was useless against a round fired by a high-velocity rifle.

She smiled and stepped forward holding out the blue box. “I’d like you to have this.” She handed it to him.

Tom opened the box. Inside was an expensive silver watch, an Omega with a large face studded with diamonds.

“I’ve had it engraved,” she said.

Tom took it out, turned it over. He read the inscription: To Tom with heartfelt gratitude. Linda G. Carlyle. US Secretary of State.

“Thank you,” he said, feeling a little embarrassed by her gift.

“I just want to tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done.”

“It’s been an honour, ma’am. But I still have a week before I leave the detail.”

“I know. I just wanted to give it you today… Oh, and I should tell you that a threat has been made,” she said, clearly doing her best to sound mundane.

“A threat. Why wasn’t I briefed?” he asked, his jaw muscles flexing.

“It’s not serious. An anonymous phone call to the embassy just a minute ago. The CIA will brief you before we leave this morning.”

“I’d like you to reconsider your visit to the hospital, ma’am.”

The faint lines on her forehead deepened. “The president gets ten threats a day. He got fifty on the morning of his inauguration. Where would we be if we succumbed to them all? Ensconced in a bunker at Fort Bragg, I imagine.”

“But, ma’am—”

“No, Tom. My mind is made up.”

He looked down at the watch. “This is very generous.”

“Don’t ask what the G stands for. I never use it, and no one knows apart from my parents. Don’t ask about my birth certificate, either.” She feigned a laugh.

His head snapped back up. “I’ll get you safely home, ma’am,” he said. “I promise.”

“Yes, you will.”

3. (#ue62ef58b-8a7a-512d-828d-c8abbcdc7b94)

Tom sat in the front passenger seat of the third MSD SUV, feeling agitated. The convoy was doing a steady sixty-five along the eight-lane highway leading from the embassy, police outriders front and rear. They were ten minutes behind schedule. The secretary had had to take an urgent call from the president on a secure landline. Sitting directly behind Tom, the safest place from a protective viewpoint, she discussed the speech she’d give to the army generals at Parliament House right after her visit to the hospital. The speech writer had a retro moustache and a servile tone, a skinny guy whom Tom considered a hindrance.

After they’d agreed on the final changes, the secretary said, “The president wants the visit to the hospital cut to twenty minutes tops.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tom replied.

“That means no press questions.”

“Understood.”

“He mentioned the threat.”

Tom turned around in his seat. “If the agreed procedure is followed, your exposure will be minimal, ma’am.”

She nodded, slowly.

Tom double-checked that her seat belt was fastened securely, that the doors were locked and the windows closed. He ran through the various evacuation scenarios, depending on the nature of the attack and which vehicles might be taken out. She’d be plunged into the footwell. The driver would employ a full bootlegger’s turn or resort to ramming. They played out like video games in his head, priming him for a potential en-route ambush.

Next, he tested his push-to-talk, or PTT, radio. The PTT button was inline and ran between the radio connection and the earpiece. It could be used either via the button or as a voice-activated unit, providing a handsfree facility. The destinations they’d be travelling to today had codenames. The hospital’s codename was Cradle. He used them to communicate with his team, checking their radios were functioning in the process. Satisfied, he focused on the pre-planned arrival procedure. He’d alight first, opening the passenger door. The agents in the vehicle behind would form an open-box formation around her as she entered the building.