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“How long is the drive?” Kennedy asked.
“Four hours, tops,” Hurley answered, “I’ve done it many times. I also have a few guys in Peshawar who can facilitate the border crossing so things go smoothly. It’s the Wild West. With enough guns and money, you can get anything you want.”
“That doesn’t comfort me.”
“Irene,” Rapp said, “this shit’s never easy—you know that—but if there’s ever a time where we need to act quickly, this is it. Durrani still thinks he’s safe. We had Kassar check in and tell him that everything is fine.”
Kennedy asked him to explain what they were going to do after they got to Jalalabad, and when Rapp was done telling her, Kennedy said, “I need to meet this Kassar before I sign off on it.”
Rapp had expected as much. Kennedy followed him from one plane to the other while Hurley decided to stay outside and smoke a cigarette. Kassar was in the last seat on the starboard side of the plane with his wrists and ankles flexcuffed. He had a bruise on his forehead and some cuts on his arms and hands.
Knowing what his boss was thinking, Rapp said, “Those are from the car accident. We haven’t laid a hand on him.” One of Coleman’s shooters, Bruno McGraw, was watching the prisoner. Rapp tapped him on the shoulder and told him to take a break.
Kennedy sat down across from Kassar and said, “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“And you’ve worked for General Durrani for how long?”
“Five years.”
“Why the sudden change of heart?”
Kassar took a moment to consider his answer. “The general has become a very reckless man. And he does not treat his people very well.” Kassar looked up at Rapp.
“Go ahead,” Rapp said. “Tell her.”
“When he gets what he wants out of them, he has a habit of killing them.” Kassar stopped for a second and then added, “And lately I’ve been the one doing the killing for him. I get the feeling he’s running out of uses for me now that he has Mr. Rickman. I know too much . . . so he is going to get rid of me.”
“Black Storks?” Kennedy asked, referring to the Pakistani Special Forces’ nickname.
“Yes . . . seven years.”
“And you were recruited to the ISI?”
“Yes.”
Kennedy looked a
t his haircut and his clothes. His suit was torn and bloody but it was a nice cut. “Where did you grow up?”
“Karachi.”
“Slums?”
“Yes.”
“And the Army gave you a new life?”
“Correct.”
“Religion?”
“Islam,” Kassar said, without any passion.
