by Fritz Galt
“She will return to this world as an Untouchable.”
Rajiv unfastened the rubber strap that held a pair of goggles over his face and glasses. Then he carefully removed his glasses. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “I can’t do this any longer.”
“Buck up, old chap. You’re the only one with the power to prevent this disease from spreading around the world.”
Rajiv’s fingers trembled, and he set down his glasses. “What have I created?”
Abu tossed a look over his shoulder at the Export warehouse. “Don’t tell me you refuse to save lives. You have precisely one week to fill as many of those vaccination syringes as you can before we slip all that contaminated blood into the blood banks of England, France, Germany, Japan, China and the United States.”
He smiled mischievously.
“By then, our Project will be in full swing.”
Natalie sat on the edge of the bed where Mick had tenderly laid her the night before. Holding her head, she tried to reconstruct what had happened and where she was.
The previous evening was still a blur of deceit, loud gunfire and failure.
She had awoken alone and disoriented in the middle of the night as Mick switched on the television and they watched Abu Khan place his demands on India and the rest of the world.
In the wee hours of the morning, Mick and Alec had hammered together a plan. Then she had fallen back to sleep.
On the light stand, she made out the cover of the Hotel Services book. It read “Fort Aguada Hotel, Goa.”
Holding the bedside telephone up to the dim light of the rising sun, she punched in a number.
A distracted Bronson Nichols answered.
“How’s the weather in Washington?” she asked.
“At this moment, I’m watching the sun set behind a flurry of snowflakes out my kitchen window,” Bronson said.
Several Special Ops seamen in Hawaiian shirts lounged just outside her cottage, cans of beer already open to greet the new day.
Her eyes narrowed. “Did you catch Mr. Khan on CNN?”
“Are you kidding? All of Washington is reeling from his announcement.”
“Listen, my husband came up with an idea,” she said. “If Mick and his brother, Alec, can get across Pakistan safely and work their way into Kashmir, he thinks they can track down Abu Khan.”
“First of all, why would Pakistan allow them in? Remember that fighting global terrorism may be good for international relations, but Kashmir is the hot item on their domestic agenda. And Abu is their new national hero.”
“It’s simple,” she said, remembering her conversation with Lou Potts over a seafood dinner. “Point out that Abu Khan is a threat to Pakistan. After all, Abu is not proposing to make Kashmir a part of Pakistan, or even independent. He wants to unify all of India, including Kashmir, under his own banner.”
“I suppose it might work. I could use the threat of a terrorist hijacking Pakistan’s policy toward Kashmir to pull a few strings with the Pakistani leadership. And what you want is straightforward enough. Have Pakistan allow Mick and his brother into their country.”
“Not merely into their country,” she said. “I want Pakistan to shoot them through their homegrown network of militants directly into the Kashmir militant groups.”
“You want to put your husband through all that?”
For a moment she wondered what she was doing. Did she want Mick to relive all the tension she had just gone through? Did she have a death wish for him?
Then she thought of Mariah.
“We’re both committed.”
“Bronson, this is the president speaking.”
Charles’ discussion with Vic Padesco and left him feeling uneasy. He seemed destined for another long, sleepless night in the Oval Office.
He continued, “I’m searching for ideas on this Kashmir slash malaria slash Indian Ocean coup crisis. Who do you know that can help us piece together a plan of action?”
“I think that’s already in place, sir. I just got off the phone with Natalie Pierce, the diplomat present at Operation Fatal Sting. Do you want to hear what she suggested?”
“Bronson, I didn’t call you to hear another harebrained scheme for covert action. I want a meeting of minds. A global strategy.”
“Mr. President, if you don’t mind my saying it, the National Security Council has already done that and where did it get us? We’ve got to strike at this common criminal through good old-fashioned detective work, ingenuity, chutzpah and elbow grease.”
“But who’s going to do it?”
“We’ve already got volunteers. However, the fewer people who know about it, the better.”
“Okay. I’ll agree with that. I’ll agree with anything at this point. Who are the volunteers?”
“Ah, if you don’t mind, Mr. President, I said that the fewer people who know about this…”
“Are you kidding me?” he spat out, then cut off. “Okay. I’ll keep my hands off. Just tell me one thing. Will I be able to sleep tonight?”
“Take two aspirins and call me in the morning. Worry about something else for a change.”
Charles allowed a strained laugh. “I suppose there are some other diversions. But just remember one thing. Don’t break the rules.”
Chapter 44
Bronson Nichols checked his watch while he waited on the phone. The American Embassy in Pakistan wouldn’t open for another few hours. But, the American Embassy’s Marine Security Guard had agreed to patch him through to FBI agent Scott Smith’s home phone in Islamabad.
Smith answered the phone at once. “This is Smith.”
“Bronson Nichols, here with the State Department.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“I’m the guy you called a week ago about Wassim Shaikh, alias Tariq Irani, who was heading to the United States.”
“Of course. In fact, I saw him later prancing around the CNN studios.”
“Yes. Well, it wasn’t the most shining moment for law enforcement, or journalism for that matter. But we did catch him eventually.”
“Did he sing?”
“Yeah, but there weren’t many lyrics. It turned out that he was just a link in a communication chain. We probably don’t have enough on him to connect him to any of our domestic attacks. The prosecutor’s working on a case anyway. However, I have a different subject to discuss with you. I need some contact information.”
“Ask away.”
“I need the name of a Pakistani official to contact about smuggling a couple of Americans across Pakistan.”
“Why smuggle them? They can come here without a visa.”
“They need to infiltrate the terrorist network in Pakistan and work their way into the Kashmir network.”
“I see. So terrorism is the subject. There’s always Lt. General Kahlil Saleem, Chief of ISI. He’s always harping on your department’s publication on state sponsored terrorism.”
“Sounds like the right guy to me.”
“He wants money under the table every time we talk.”
“Like I said, my kind of guy. What’s his number?”
Lt. General Kahlil Saleem dipped a chapati into his cook’s yogurt dish mixed with cucumbers and spices. It soaked into the bread and he took a bite.
His wife observed him glumly across the breakfast table. On her plate sat a lump of French goose liver pâté and a stone-cold croissant.
The telephone rang in his study, and his maid answered it.
“For you, sir,” she said, handing him the cordless.
Saleem asked his wife to be excused and took the phone into the next room.
“This is Bronson Nichols with the State Department in Washington,” the voice said. “Sorry to interrupt you at home.”
“That’s quite all right.”
“I’m on the counter-terrorism desk here, and I have a special favor to ask of you.”
Saleem straightened his back and smiled. “We’re an eager partner in the global war against terrorism
.”
Mr. Nichols explained how he needed to get two men, named Mick and Alec Pierce, under the protective wing of Islamist militant organizations in Pakistan. From there, they needed safe passage across the Line of Control into Kashmir to infiltrate Abu Khan’s militant group.
“I believe we could be of some service to you,” Saleem said slowly. “We have many fine militant organizations in Pakistan.”
“I knew you were the right person to ask.”
“You know, our particular agency has an especially good record on counter-terrorism,” Saleem said, warming to the idea of getting something in return from the American.
“So I hear.”
“Therefore, it’s with great pleasure and a sense of historical purpose that I will assist you on this.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course, I have no particular interest in apprehending Abu Khan, and I’m doubtful if my people will welcome American infiltrators.”
Mr. Nichols then proceeded to lay out an argument that Khan was acting independently of Pakistan and had no intention of cutting Pakistan in on his new Indian government. Khan’s vision would make Kashmir even more integral to India.
“So you’re saying,” Saleem concluded, “that if we all get rid of Khan, the U.S. will support Kashmir’s drive for independence?”
“I’m not saying that. But we still support a referendum on independence, as we always have. Perhaps we could exert slightly more pressure on the UN.”
“I see,” Saleem said. “That certainly is interesting. But of course, it would take a great deal of personal effort on my part to bring about this smuggling effort. I have people to persuade, etc.”
“I understand.”
“We’re dealing with elements that may be in a deep financial crisis, what with all the monitoring of wire transfers.”
“Naturally.”
“And, just like my agency, I am not a man of great means.”
“Of course.”
Saleem popped his head out the door to make sure his wife couldn’t hear. “Perhaps a credit line at Harrods would be in order.”
“I think that could be arranged.”
“Say in the fifteen-thousand-pound range.”
“You have my word. Now where should our men enter your country?”
Saleem gave the State Department official the names of cities and people to contact. He would get to work on paving the way.
“Such a pleasure working with you,” Mr. Bronson Nichols said.
“My pleasure entirely.”
Saleem hung up the phone. Manna from heaven. He returned to the dining room, sat before his plate and grinned at his wife.
“I think it’s time you took a shopping trip to London.”
She blessed him with her first broad smile in months.
Natalie was heading home at last. This time, home was a grass hut on the Maldive Islands. She couldn’t wait.
But she had one last duty to perform. As she sat on the final leg of the Goa-Cochin-Maldives flight, she reached for the airfone and checked in with Bronson Nichols.
“It’s all set,” Bronson confirmed. “I’ve wired it for Mick and Alec to enter Pakistan through the southern port of Karachi. There, they will be met by AIM. That stands for Armed Islamic Movement, a militant organization that will be as concerned about smuggling Mick and Alec into Abu’s camp as their own cause, whatever that might be.”
“I’ll relay word to Mick,” she said.
“Good. And what will you do?”
She stared down at the turquoise water dotted with circular atolls. “I’m flying to Male right now.”
“What’s Male?”
“Look it up, Bronson. It’s the capital of the Maldives.”
“What’s in the Maldives?”
She closed her eyes and smiled. “My daughter.”
Chapter 45
Alec stood beside Mick at the Fort Aguada Hotel in Goa and listened to his brother talk with Natalie on the phone. Their tone was cordial, infused with occasional warmth.
When the conversation ended, Mick wiped sweat from his forehead and shoved the phone back into the pocket of his shorts. “It’s all set,” he said. “We fly to Karachi and meet up with AIM, the Armed Islamic Movement.”
Alec looked around the hotel grounds and sighed. Several undercover SEALs were just passing overhead on parasails and shouted down at him. Karachi might be Pakistan’s garden city, but it wouldn’t have anything on Goa.
“Are we ready to throw ourselves to the wolves?” he asked.
“I don’t think we’re entirely unprepared,” Mick said, wiping the perspiration off his upper lip.
“What do you know about this group?”
“Nothing,” Mick admitted, sinking into a lounge chair. “We’ll have to use our wits to get us to Khan. Once we get there, we can rely on your rapport with Camille Dinad.”
“If there’s any left.”
Mick looked up and eyed him closely. “I never could understand what women saw in you.”
He felt his face blushing.
Then Mick laughed and jabbed him in the stomach as only a big brother could do. “Sit down and tell me some more about her.”
They had yet to discuss his erstwhile friend.
“Is she for us, or agin’?”
“I don’t think it matters either way,” he said with a hapless shrug. “She tends to favor the one with the upper hand.”
“So, if we simply show the upper hand…”
“…she’s ours.”
Another shadow passed overhead, and he waved.
“What’s to become of our troops stranded here?” he asked.
Mick shook his head in puzzlement. “I’m sure the Department of Defense will figure out some way to evacuate them gracefully.”
His brother’s manner was confident, but his shoulders were slumped and his voice sounded frail.
“Jesus, Mick. Are you okay?”
He examined his sweating brother more closely.
Mick waved him off. “Don’t worry about me. I think I’ve got malaria.”
President Damon stood behind his desk in the darkened Oval Office and asked his secretary to place one more call before he turned in for the night. “Get me Park,” he said, trying to keep the gruffness from his voice.
A minute later he had his secretary of defense on the line.
“Park,” he said. “I want to move in another Carrier Battle Group. I want to put pressure on Pakistan any way possible to get rid of Abu Khan.”
“But Pakistan is not at fault,” Park objected.
“I just talked with their president. And my call blindsided him. I told him that I was holding him directly responsible for things turning sour in Kashmir. Furthermore, I told him that we would make our objections known to the world.”
“We haven’t sent in the fleet against Pakistan since Nixon and Kissinger in 1971.”
“As I recall it, that was in response to Indira Gandhi sending troops into East Pakistan,” the president recalled. “Now it’s the other way around. Pakistan is attacking India.”
“‘Attacking’ is a strong word, sir. Is that the word you used with the president?”
“No. I think I accused him of ‘invading’ India.”
There was stunned silence on Park’s end. Then a question. “Sir, what should we do with our troops stuck in Goa?”
Charles lowered his eyes. “What troops stuck in Goa?”
“Right, sir. Maybe eventually they’ll find their way out.”
“You have a long night ahead of you, Park. I advise that you move the Fifth Fleet to Pakistan’s doorstep by the time I wake up in the morning.”
Natalie stood on the end of a pontoon and splashed shoes-first into the shallow lagoon. She leapt through the water then up onto the sand, her entire skirt clinging wet.
She ran up through the palms and hand-manicured grass. Her squeaky shoes squirted water in all directions as she neared the hut.
“Mariah!” s
he shouted, finally within earshot of her daughter. “I’m home!”
She paused for a moment in the shade of the doorway. The housekeeper and nurse both stepped back to let her pass, but she needed a moment to compose herself.
In fact, she needed to readjust her life. She needed a moment to forget the jets and the phones and all the unsavory characters in public life. She took a deep breath. She would dedicate herself to being a mom for as long as her daughter was alive.
The little girl lay in the same purple and yellow dress that Natalie had tugged over her limp arms and legs shortly before the gurney bearers had taken Mariah away from her. She noted with satisfaction that the dress had been recently washed and starched.
Mariah’s face bore the same expression as the day she had left Bombay. On a psychological level, Mariah seemed to be waiting, frozen in time.
She told herself that Mariah had not changed, that she could rejoin her daughter as if nothing had happened. Yet that might be untrue, and was certainly unfair to Mariah. For all she knew, the small child might be experiencing the excruciating boredom of wakeful slumber and the loneliness of endless days without her family.
With a new serenity, she approached her child, giving her all the dignity she was due.
“Mariah,” she whispered softly, noticing a trickle of sweat by Mariah’s tiny ear. “Mommy’s home.”
Chapter 46
Mick listened to Alec’s breathing in the dark room. They were hostages.
The room was hot, and his fever made him warmer yet. He wiped the sweat dripping from his face. Okay, to be precise, he and Alec weren’t exactly kidnapped.
They had arrived at Karachi’s Quaid-i-Azam International Airport in sandals, khaki shorts, safari shirts, broad-rimmed hats and wads of Pakistani and Indian rupees stuffed in their pockets.
Their Armed Islamic Movement contact at the airport hadn’t been exactly sure what to make of the two Americans who had offered support to their cause. So the young activists had blindfolded them in the car, transferred them to a second car that sounded even tinnier than the first, and then dumped them for a night in an apartment room with no ventilation, light, or toilet.