Exit Alpha by Clinton Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

Spetsnaz.’
    ‘Moscow knows?’
    ‘That we substituted Zia? No. We think they did it to pay him back for funnelling arms to Afghanistan. Can’t blame them. Even Washington was fed up with Zia back in ’86. I know you were fretting because I wouldn’t let you switch him sooner. But we had to wait until we were sure about the Russian withdrawal. And now I’ve got nicotine withdrawal. Where the hell are my fags?’
    ‘But he sold off half the arms he got.’ His work with Zia and the man’s puppet government still rankled. ‘That was why he blew up the Ojheri dump before the audit. A few more Stinger missiles he didn’t have to account for, tricky bastard. We could have done him six months earlier and got the other half across the border.’
    ‘The Pentagon factored that in — just gave him twice as much.’ She dropped from sight to search under the desk.
    ‘Thirty-two years of training. Four and a half more in the field. Then the whole thing up the spout. And you say it’s a success?’
    ‘A brilliant success.’ Her head popped up. ‘You made the switch right on time. Your duplicate dismissed the regime, dissolved the assemblies, announced elections . . .’
    ‘And died in a crash ten weeks later with the top brass of the army. Come on, Ron.’
    ‘Dear heart, our last state’s still more blessed than the first.’
    But he still didn’t believe her.
    ‘Oh, happy the blossom that blooms on the lea . . .’ She launched into Sullivan’s most joyous confection, the finale of Ruddigore , dancing about the room, still looking for fags but lifting piles of folders in time with the refrain. It was a curious sight — this woman who shaped the progress of nations, leaping around like an impala.
    She stopped moving and stared at him. ‘I’m not just being nice. Honestly. A tremendously difficult switch. And a wonderful result. The first female prime minister of Pakistan.’
    ‘Her government’s on the take already. The rip-off mindset in that country’s . . .’
    ‘But equilibrium’s restored.’ She laughed. ‘Poor wandering one. You still don’t believe me, do you? We’re thrilled with how it’s gone.’
    ‘Long as you’re happy,’ he shrugged. She was the strategist. Despite dregs of doubt, he felt pleased and suspected the alcohol was making him benign. ‘The link with the CIA in Islamabad helped. And he was the spitting image, right down to the tombstone teeth.’
    She was hunting again. ‘Ah! Success has crowned my efforts.’ She pounced on a half-crushed pack and came back to her chair. ‘Now. A serious question.’ She lit the fag and sucked, squinting with satisfaction. ‘The feudal heiress from 70 Clifton . . . equipped with her own generators, water tanks, security guards and tutored by daddy to rule . . . You see, I do read your reports. They say she’s arrogant and cold.’
    ‘She’s a Gemini.’
    ‘Spare me the superstition. Will she stick?’
    ‘If a despot put you under house arrest, smashed around your mother, killed your father, would you face the world with an enchanting demeanour?’
    ‘Daddy Bhutto was no paragon.’
    ‘But she cared for him, needs to vindicate him. She’s no pushover either.’
    ‘Attractive, too. Mind you, she’s still controlling the media. And there’s the chain-smoking, playboy-husband factor. Will she survive?’
    He shrugged. ‘Why ask me?’
    ‘Don’t fudge. What was that Hegel thing? “History teaches us that man learns nothing from history”? You’ve spent years in the country. Stop being disgustingly coy.’ She sucked the fag, eyes narrowed, waiting.
    ‘Okay. You’ve got a newly married woman with a baby. She’s in charge of a broke, illiterate, bazaar-culture theocracy where nothing works, nothing’s on time. More guns than sewers, zamindars , poverty . . . I give her three years.’ He shook his head. ‘If our man had survived, at least we’d have control.’
    ‘What I’ve been labouring to explain, dear