The Enemy Inside Read online

  Special Agent Elizabeth Royale went right to the light switches because they were the best place to install cameras in a house that didn’t have drop ceilings or overhead light fixtures. And she preferred not to do any drilling, spackling, or painting—even when she had the time. People in their own homes reacted like deer on forest trails. They immediately sensed if anything was out of place.

  Audio bugs didn’t require a lot of power. A unit the size of the waist button on a pair of pants could go for days on a power source the size of a hearing-aid battery.

  Video needed a lot more juice. A wireless camera half the size of a Zippo lighter would only run for a day on a battery pack as big as a paperback book. So they had to be wired into a power source. Which was why Beth Royale loved using light switches.

  She picked the one that gave an unobstructed view of the whole living room. The screws and plate came off, and she was pleased to see that the switch box was plastic. Metal played hell with wireless transmissions.

  The first thing she did was see if the box was firmly attached. Al-Qaeda operatives loved to hide documents and guns in wall cavities behind and below switch boxes. It wouldn’t do to install her equipment in the same place they were using as a cache.

  To be sure, Beth used the endoscope on her tool belt. Holding the scope up to her eye, she ran the lighted fiber optic cable all the way around and below.

  No, nothing there. The tiny plastic box that contained both camera and transmitter, only one and a quarter inches square and three eighths of an inch thick, could be wedged in the space behind the light switch because the pinhole lens was mounted on the end of a fine fiber optic cable. Like a miniature version of the endoscope. The cable threaded right through the screw hole in the switch to reach the outside world. Beth had a plastic container filled with every kind of screw for every color switch and plug plate made. But they were dummy screws, with the centers drilled out to receive the fiber optic cable and a small lens hole masked by the darker screwdriver slot.

  In addition to the lens cable, the camera box had two other wires trailing from it. One thin wire antenna to transmit the picture out. And a thicker one branching out into two leads with alligator clips that Beth attached to the light switch power lines.

  The plate went back on, and the lower screw secured it to the wall. The lens had a sixty-degree field of view, enough to cover the whole living room. Beth knew from experience exactly what the camera would see.

  The audio bugs went in the same way, but closer to the furniture to pick up the sound better. Electric plugs were best for those. The microphones were shielded so the current didn’t bother them.

  Beth had practiced her technique to the point that she could install a camera in under a minute, and a bug in under thirty seconds. Limiting their exposure inside the house was critical. Ironically, when working in a residential neighborhood broad daylight was better than night. People were at work during the day, and those who weren’t didn’t pay attention to things out of the ordinary they way they did at night.

  She was soon in the kitchen putting a camera and microphone in the combination light fixture/ceiling fan that hung right over the table. Her partner was out on the back deck bugging the lawn furniture. Very alert to her surroundings, Beth heard a muffled thumping sound. She stopped work to listen, but didn’t hear it again.

  But some feeling kept her from shrugging it off. She climbed down from the kitchen chair she was standing on. As soon as her feet touched the linoleum, a small shape dashed through the doorway.

  Beth nearly had a heart attack. It was a little girl, a toddler. Just walking. A baggy diaper, a cute top, and two big brown eyes.

  Beth froze, for longer than she would ever admit later. No, no, the parents couldn’t be right behind her. Not without her having heard about it over the radio. This was more of a prayer than a statement of belief.

  The little girl let out a happy baby cry that snapped Beth out of her trance. She gave the child a big smile and an exaggerated wave, and was rewarded by the kid holding out her arms to be picked up and hugged.

  Beth did just that, while hurrying to the doorway to check out the living room. No one there. She’d seen everything on the job, but in this case the target’s wife was a super-protective mother—not the type to leave a baby home alone.

  Still carrying the little girl, and rubbing noses to keep her quiet, Beth checked out the rest of the house—the house that was supposed to be empty. They’d gone in through one bedroom. The doors to the bathroom and the adjacent bedroom were open. The third bedroom door, closed, gave Beth a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Someone was in there, and if they came out all the smooth talking in the world wasn’t going to explain why the power was out and a couple of cable installers were inside the house.

  Beth immediately turned off her radio. Right then nobody needed the sound of an incoming call.

  Her partner picked that very moment to come in from outside. At the sight of the little girl in Beth’s arms his mouth opened, very wide, forming the word “what.” He very excitedly aimed a thumb at the back door, but Beth shook her head. This family was always at home—no shit—and they might never be able to get back in.

  The little girl was getting antsy in her arms, starting to squirm. She was going to start howling any minute.

  Beth flew through the kitchen cabinets, almost settling on an eggbeater as a toy before coming across a box of Cap’n Crunch. She dumped a pile of cereal on the floor, set the kid down, gave her the box for her very own, and let her have at it.

  Whispering in her partner’s ear, Beth said, “You watch that bedroom door. It opens, you go out the back door here and get to the truck.”

  He shook his head vehemently, pointing toward the door again.

  Beth shook her head just as vehemently, ending the discussion by walking out of the kitchen, through the living room, and into the parents’ bedroom. It had the crib in one corner. She put two microphones in electric plugs, not wanting to risk one going down in such an important space. No video, though. No time. She’d do this room, then finish up next door, the room she came in, and then exit through the window.

  Beth was just screwing the plate back on when the other bedroom door opened. She looked out through the open doorway, weighing the odds. The window in this room was closed and locked. Opening it was going to make noise. No way was she getting under the bed.

  She went for the closet. No squeaks from the door, thank God, and she released the knob a millimeter at a time so the latch wouldn’t click.

  A crackling floorboard let her know someone was in the bedroom. A mature female voice with a strong accent said, “Nadimah?” Then louder, sharper, and more concerned. “Nadimah!”

  Beautiful, Beth, she told herself standing there in the darkness. Always pushing it. Couldn’t get out of the house when you had the chance, could you? Now what are you going to say when she opens up the closet door looking for the kid? You let yourself in to fix the cable, didn’t want to disturb anyone, and then decided to try on some shoes. Just a little fetish she was trying to come to grips with.

  Beth thought about hiding behind the clothes, but didn’t want to make the slightest kid-like sounds that might provoke an investigation.

  She waited for the sound of the hand on the closet doorknob, her heart thumping in her chest. Then a “Nadimah!” that was outside the bedroom.

  Beth opened the door a crack, so she could hear. The woman was in the next bedroom. Super, the one with the open window. Well, maybe that was okay—go look for the kid outside.

  Beth was thrown into a moment of uncharacteristic indecision. Move or wait? Anything might happen if she waited. With her luck everyone else would come home.

  Gingerly opening the closet door, she went across the carpet on the balls of her feet, crouching down to peek through the doorway.

  The woman was over by the front door. Another Pakistani, family or friend obviously, about fifty. The calls to Nadimah were getting more fran
tic. She was moving again. Shit! She was heading back to the bedroom. Beth knew she was too far away from the closet. And to get behind the door she’d have to cross the open doorway.

  Beth could hear the footsteps and then the woman’s breath as she approached the doorway. A feeling of resignation—the case was blown. Then from the kitchen the sound of a cereal box falling on the floor. Beth could feel the woman stopping short. She’d heard it. Beth heard the footsteps turn away, and peeked around the corner. The woman was heading to the kitchen. Not even waiting for her to get there, Beth bolted through the doorway and into the adjacent bedroom.

  As Beth popped the buckle on her tool belt she heard a relieved but stern “Nadimah!” from the kitchen. She threw the tool belt out the window and dove through right behind it, sailing over the shrubs along the side of the hose and hitting the grass with both outstretched hands.

  Beth rolled and was up, grabbing the tool belt and sprinting for the electric meter. She jammed it back into the box and both felt and heard the surging hum of electricity. Digging into the tool belt at her feet, she snapped a new seal onto the meter collar. Fortunately, there were no windows in view.

  Trying to casually clip her tool belt back on while still shaking from the adrenaline surge, Beth left the backyard through the fence gate. Inside of passing in front of the house, she crossed through two backyards to reach the pickup. Her partner in crime, Special Agent Russell Behan, was sitting behind the wheel, looking singularly distressed.

  “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed in relief.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Beth, dropping into the passenger’s seat. “You were trying to figure out how to tell the bosses you left me inside.” One glance over at Behan confirmed the accuracy of her thesis and got her laughing. “Hey, I told you to get out.”

  “Like they’d believe that,” Behan grumbled. “Are we going to leave the power off?”

  “I reconnected it,” said Beth. “Didn’t close the window behind me, though. Oh, well. Auntie’ll think she left it open.”

  “That was way too close.”

  “Lesson learned: check out the entire house, every room, before you start work.” Beth let out a big breath. “I think I’m going to give up black bag jobs for a while,” she mused. “The last few have gotten really weird.”

  “I think I’m going on suspension,” said Behan.

  “You did fine,” Beth said reassuringly. “As long as the video and audio come through all right, this was a perfect entry. Hairy, but perfect.”

  “That’s not what I’m going on suspension for,” said Behan. “I’m going on suspension for kicking the shit out of those two assholes from the LA office who told us the house was empty.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “Oh yes I am.”

  “No, you’re not,” Beth replied firmly. “You’ve got a family, you can’t afford to lose a couple weeks’ pay. Not to mention your job.” She gave Behan a smile that he found very unsettling. “I’ll take care of them.”

  Chapter Three

  The six-lane, Korean-built superhighway was a marvel to everyone accustomed to Pakistani roads. There were actually police enforcing the traffic regulations and the 120-kilometer-per-hour speed limit. The trucks actually used signals and stayed in their designated lane. Unbelievable.

  The Japanese Hiro bus was comfortable and air conditioned, but crowded. Everyone’s shopping had overflowed the overhead baggage racks and migrated into the middle of the aisle. Abdallah Karim Nimri felt as though he’d spent a week on the wretched vehicle.

  Nimri had previously based himself in Karachi, but that city had become unfriendly to him. He had lately been spending most of his time in Belgium. It was more congenial there.

  However, he’d received a summons to return to Pakistan. He had flown into Lahore and boarded the bus from there.

  The traffic was stopped up ahead, and the bus squealed to a stop inches from the bumper of the truck in front. It had to be another checkpoint. They took forever.

  Every ten minutes the bus crawled forward another few meters. Then finally they reached it. The soldiers finished swarming over the truck in front, and waved the bus up.

  The driver rushed out to open the baggage compartment. Four soldiers stepped aboard. Two covered each row of seats with their rifles. The other pair made their way down the aisle, everyone scrambling to pull their bags out of the way.

  A sepoy—private—and a naik—corporal—wearing khaki shirts under greenish-brown sweaters and matching trousers, combat boots and khaki web belts. Carrying Chinese AK-47s. Nimri recognized the insignia. The Baluch Regiment. A jeep was parked at the checkpoint, an alert soldier behind the Chinese Type 54 12.7mm heavy machine gun mounted on it. What the Russians called Dashika, or little darling. Nimri knew it well from Afghanistan. If the soldiers on the bus ran into any trouble the gunner wouldn’t care—he would cut loose. And those huge .51-caliber bullets would reduce the bus and everyone aboard into much smaller pieces.

  The sepoy and naik checked the overhead and under the seats, and frisked all the men. Anticipating this, Nimri was uncharacteristically unarmed. Years before he had spent more than a year in prison in his native Egypt, and nothing on earth would ever send him back. To ensure this, he almost always kept a hand grenade taped to his stomach. Today this was not possible, so he had to rely on the cyanide pill inside his shirt collar.

  Nimri watched them closely as they made their way toward him. When it was his turn he handed over his Pakistani identity card—forged, of course—then stood up and stretched out his arms to accept the frisk. He watched their eyes. If they were looking for someone in particular, if they had a face in mind—and it was his—he would know from their eyes.

  His own dropped to the naik’s AK-47 with professional interest. It was obviously old but spotlessly clean, and the selector bar was one stop down from safe to fully automatic. What to do if they tried to take him? Grab a rifle or go directly to the tablet? Better to be sure and go for the tablet. If he didn’t get the rifle, or was only wounded, it would go very badly for him. Very badly.

  The frisk revealed nothing, of course. He was carrying no bags. Everything was in his head.

  His identity card was handed back without a word, and they continued down the aisle. Nimri had gone through many checkpoints before, but it had been a long time since he had traveled this far north. He had never seen them search so thoroughly.

  Nimri left the bus in Rawalpindi, before it continued on the short ten-kilometer hop to Islamabad, the national capital.

  Rawalpindi was the older of the two, standing atop the ruins of an ancient city destroyed by the Mongols. A garrison town during the British Raj, it was still the headquarters of Pakistan’s army. An irony Nimri appreciated. But with a population of nearly a million and a half, easy to be anonymous in.

  The bus had arrived on time, as guaranteed. An unheard-of thing in Pakistan. It meant Nimri did not have to hurry. He hailed a motor rickshaw and ordered the driver to take him to Murree Road.

  He immediately regretted choosing the rickshaw over a taxi. The sun was setting, though a drop in temperature was only a dream. The pollution was thick as a fog, and he was sitting right out in the middle of it. It seemed his fate to put himself into situations where he was bound to be aggravated.

  Rawalpindi, and Pakistan, looked ragged and beaten down. The backed-up sewers overflowed into the streets, and there were piles of garbage everywhere. Nimri realized he was only noticing it because of Belgium. That had been their mistake, seeing this and feeling that Pakistan was ripe for an explosion. Pakistan was always on the verge of exploding, but never did. The Pakistani masses accepted everything, because they could never imagine a government doing anything for them.

  The stadium was all lighted up. Nimri already had a ticket, sent to him in Lahore. The cricket grounds held 15,000, and the stands were nearly full even though it was only a match between club teams. Pakistanis were absolutely mad for cricket, while to an Egyptian the
game was inexplicable.

  But he wasn’t there to watch. Wearing a beige shalwar kameez, the indigenous garment—loose knee-length tunic and matching trousers—he looked like almost every one of the 10,000 men there.

  Always alert for a trap, before he sat down he checked for extra police or plainclothesmen in his section. He couldn’t see any surveillance. Which meant Nimri did not have to worry about the authorities. Or their American masters. He only had to worry about them. And that was worry enough.

  His seat was on an aisle—the only adjacent seat was to his left. And it was occupied by a young man in his early twenties. No beard, just a moustache. Also wearing a shalwar kameez. Inexperienced, because he had made a point of not looking over when Nimri sat down. And everyone looks at the person who sits down next to them.

  Nimri nudged him and said in Urdu, “Am I in the right seat?” and handed over his ticket stub.

  The young man looked at the ticket carefully, turning it over to note the faint handwritten markings on the back. “Yes, this is the right seat.” He kept the ticket stub. Nimri knew the boy would have to produce it later.

  “Do you want to finish the inning?” the young man asked.

  “No,” Nimri answered emphatically.

  The young man seemed disappointed. He stood up and motioned for Nimri to move.

  Nimri waited on the steps for the guide to lead the way. He didn’t like strangers behind him.

  They hailed a cab outside the stadium. If Nimri thought he could determine his reception from his guide’s manner, he was disappointed. Other than giving directions to the driver, the young man never said a word.