by Fritz Galt
“You’re alive and well, I can see.”
Hasan bent down to inspect himself.
Abu laughed.
Bin Laden’s ears perked up at the conversation. He crossed in front of the table and approached Hasan. He extended a hand of greeting, a curious mixture of intrigue and respect in his shy eyes.
“I have the greatest respect for freedom fighters,” bin Laden said. “Won’t you join our conversation?”
Alec took the moment to study the other men standing around the table that was weighed down by maps. Judging from their apparel, the group was comprised of two military commanders from North Africa and two from the Indian subcontinent.
It seemed like a rare meeting indeed.
Abu approached Hasan and shook his hand. “Let me introduce you to al-Qaeda’s supreme council,” he said. The leaders of underground movements in Egypt, Tunisia, Bangladesh and Pakistan introduced themselves in turn.
What Alec wouldn’t give for an automatic weapon at that moment.
“Won’t you join us?” Abu asked.
Hasan took a moment to decide.
“I see you’re hesitating,” Abu said. “Let me assure you, that our purposes coincide nicely. There will be no Hindus in Kashmir when all is said and done.”
Hasan pulled up a chair and sat down.
The others smiled with relief and took their seats. Bin Laden leveled another look at Alec. The terrorist stood face to face with him, his eyelids flared like those of a fearful animal. “Are you with the CIA?” he breathed, a pungent mutton and garlic smell curling in Alec’s face.
“He’s with me,” Hasan said.
“Of course,” bin Laden said, a note of trust missing from his subdued voice.
He returned to the table, not taking his eyes off Alec.
Alec took up a position behind Hasan as if he were his adjutant. He clicked a finger by his belt, as if detonating a suicide bomb. Too bad he didn’t have an explosive backpack.
But suicide bombers were small potatoes for this group. These guys were into massive explosions, biological warfare, toppling governments, and who knew what else.
“So, have you decided about this evening?” bin Laden was asking.
Abu nodded with finality. “I’ll meet the CIA man tonight.” The discussion was over.
Next item on the agenda?
Alec’s skin jumped. Certainly they weren’t talking about him. Who from the Agency could be in Kargil besides him? And what new thing did the Agency have to offer?
“What if he pulls a gun on you?” the Bangladeshi leader asked, keeping the discussion alive.
“I gave him to understand when he called,” Abu said, seeming to exercise enormous patience, “that if anything were to happen to me, my men would destroy the vaccine. It’s as simple as that.”
“Do you know this man?” the Egyptian asked, his voice dripping with disdain.
“In fact I do,” Abu said. “And I will hear him out. Is anyone coming with me?”
He had no takers.
“That’s fine with me,” he said, standing. “While you await my return, my wife will provide you with refreshment.” He creased the pointed ridge of his military cap and snapped it over his short, black hair. Then he strode out the door with a military bearing that commanded each militant leader’s attention.
As he left for his Jeep, Abu passed a shrouded woman just entering from a kitchen. Her black burqa swayed in the breeze he left behind, but her light-skinned hands held firmly to a tray of deep-fried pastries.
Alec paused to watch the veiled woman, who passed gracefully from man to man. She didn’t utter a word until she stopped before him.
Then, through the black screen he heard a faint, “Leave.”
He tried to quell his thudding heart.
It was Camille. She had married Abu Khan. Now she served the leaders of al-Qaeda.
Her betrayal was complete.
Chapter 53
Mick had little time to explore the elegantly designed house.
Some rich man had commissioned a masterpiece of Islamic architecture, only to abandon the project just before completion. The walls remained gray smears of concrete, and a waterway flowing in and out of the courtyard sat empty and lacking tiles.
All Mick needed to do was to show Abu his face, reschedule the meeting and get Abu to drink the poisoned brandy.
That wouldn’t be too hard.
He positioned himself in a dark room and waited. Shortly thereafter, a Jeep’s headlights swept like a spotlight across the beautiful stone screen that was carved in the wall. A moment later, a solitary man jumped through the doorway.
Mick didn’t move from the shadows of the half-completed room in which he stood. Light from a single candle in the foyer danced eerily on Abu Khan’s face.
Mick had invited Death to dinner.
Abu proceeded less certainly, peering into the darkened rooms. Then he turned toward where Mick had hidden. The young man’s neck muscles were tense, a vein pulsating furiously.
Mick let out his breath, sending a plume of crystallized steam in the air.
“No melodrama,” Abu said, his eyes finding Mick. “Come out into the light.”
Mick felt his fever burning in his face as he stepped forward.
Abu was in a business mood. “You said that you have a letter in your possession.”
“I have a letter, but it’s not with me.” He crossed to the candle where a bottle of brandy and two glasses stood.
Abu’s eyes followed him with curiosity. “That’s not cricket. What kind of chicanery are you up to?”
“None whatsoever.”
“My operation is in full swing. Nothing in that letter will put the skids on it.”
“Oh, I believe it will,” Mick said, popping the cork from the bottle. “It’s a joint communiqué from the President of the United States of America and India’s prime minister offering you a peace settlement. You will get control of the Indian Army.”
Abu’s eyebrows shot up. Then he tried to mask his emotions. “I will take the reins of the Indian Army one way or another. Surely they’re not gifting me this. What do they request of me?”
“They ask for a full cessation of hostilities.” Mick said. He poured the brandy into the two snifters.
“Kindly convey my regards to the president and prime minister,” Abu said icily, “but they’re giving my men and me short shrift.”
He turned to leave.
Mick held up a glass to Abu. “I was hoping we’d celebrate tonight,” he said.
The young warrior paused. “You’re not here to make a deal, are you?”
Mick shrugged. “I can’t. I’m not authorized.”
“You’re merely a messenger boy,” Abu said, and turned away.
Then he seemed to change his mind and returned to Mick. He took the glass Mick offered and looked into the rosy body of the drink.
Mick had to relieve Abu of any trepidation. He took a long, warming gulp.
With one swift motion, Abu tossed down half his glass. “I expect you to be forthcoming,” he said, his voice commanding and his young eyes threatening.
“Don’t worry. I wanted to make sure you got the message personally.”
“You’ll present me with that letter on the morrow,” Abu directed.
He nodded.
With that, Abu took a second, long swig, set down his near-empty glass, spun on his heels and strode out of the cold, unfinished house.
Mick sank against the table. He had just watched a man consume enough poison to kill a horse.
But he had, too. He needed the antidote fast.
He pushed forward and lurched toward the front door. His feet stumbled down a short flight of steps where sleet had begun to fall.
He pulled his parka hood down over his eyes and willed his feet to march. He could follow the contours of the house. Then the rest was all by memory as he sought out a boulder-strewn path across a treeless field.
In the distance, mort
ars fell on Indian occupied positions. Occasionally, the ground vibrated underfoot. He saw flashes of light as field guns retaliated, sending deadly missiles high into the snowy peaks above Kargil.
He felt his heart pumping more sluggishly in his chest. The cold, the fever and the poison were slowing his movements.
He cracked a knee against a boulder. That hurt. He lay in the mud for some time.
Pink flashes of gunfire illuminated the clouds that drooped just overhead. If he could only regain his feet, he could push away the clouds.
With a tremendous effort, he lurched upward and clawed at the air.
Several arms grabbed him before he fell again.
Nice arms. Strong arms. His boots weren’t working.
It was a macabre dance up the hillside, one soldier pulling him by hand up the narrow path, another marching behind him while supporting his elbow.
He threw back his head. Icy pellets lashed his face, and he let the men lead him into the clouds.
Then there were voices.
“Duck.”
A hand pushed his head down, and he stumbled into a building.
A door closed. A lantern burned.
“I need the antidote,” he gasped.
There was no movement. No reaction.
He looked up. A starched uniform. The kind face of the general shaking his head sadly. “There is no antidote.”
There is no— There is no— What?
They never had an antidote. They had sacrificed him to get to Abu Khan.
The image of Natalie and Mariah rushing forward flashed through the darkness.
A scream tore itself from his throat.
Maybe he could get the toxin out before it took effect.
He fell to his knees and shoved two fingers down deep behind his tongue. He jabbed away painfully until he gagged. Acidic vomit roared past his ears as he lurched forward again and again.
Alec Pierce was just leaving the terrorists’ headquarters with Hasan when Abu pulled up in a Jeep.
“Good news, men,” a buoyant Abu said, hustling both Alec and Hasan back into the headquarters with him.
The roomful of men watched his triumphant return from his meeting with the CIA man.
“India has conceded. I will take over its military without another shot.”
Camille’s tent-like robe shuffled in the corner of the room. She was turned toward Alec.
His heart sank. He was too late.
If Osama bin Laden was envious of Abu Khan, he didn’t show it. “This calls for prayer,” he said. The military leaders all fell to their knees and bent low to the wooden floorboards.
Alec Pierce was the only soul left standing. He bent down on one knee. How awkward.
He watched as the military berets and turbans lifted one by one off the floor. Faces turned down, the terrorist commanders rocked back onto their feet, squatted and stood.
Only one man remained bowed, the humble form of Abu Khan.
One by one, the others gathered their papers and prepared to return to their quarters. But they stopped short of exiting until Abu rose to his feet.
He never did.
When bin Laden gently shook Abu’s shoulders, the lanky form rolled over, limp as a sack of straw. Abu’s eyes stared upward at nothing. He was dead.
Alec caught a black burqa dashing for the rear door. Camille was escaping.
He jumped in pursuit. He was in the center of a large kitchen.
At that moment, gunshots rang out in the main room. He heard shouting, then screams of terror. He flattened against the floor.
Camille paused, upright and listening. Then she threw off her robe, struggling to get free from the folds of fabric.
“Come,” she whispered fiercely, and reached for Alec’s hand.
“Where to?”
“Follow me.”
She had to be kidding. The woman had never made a decent choice in her life.
He followed her with his eyes as she flew across the kitchen toward a metal pantry door. She unbolted the lock and swung the door open. Inside, the room was dark. A man with a dark beard, thick glasses and a soiled lab coat stepped out into the light of the kitchen.
“Come with us, Rajiv,” Camille begged.
“You’re Rajiv Khan?”
The man quickly extracted a vial from a nearby freezer unit and handed it to Camille. When he looked beyond her, his eyes grew large, and he threw himself behind the protection of his door.
Alec turned around. A commando in sinister black attire had pounced into the kitchen, powerful hands unloading a magazine of bullets into the crockery on the shelves.
Camille and Alec slipped out of the kitchen into the night. Another figure flew out through a window, splintering glass and shredding his white tunic.
It was Osama bin Laden.
“After him,” Alec cried to Camille, who refused to let go of his hand.
“We must escape,” she said. “I’ve got to protect the vaccine.”
He watched bin Laden scramble to his feet and slosh through the mud down the street.
“How about Rajiv?”
“He’s safe in there,” she said. “Come on.”
Meanwhile helicopters closed in on the armed camp, blades stirring up flakes of snow. Stunned men rushed out of their buildings.
Camille pushed the vial into her blouse and led Alec down a path leading to the river.
The helicopters began to fire missiles into the buildings. One building marked “Export” ignited into a ball of fire. Another marked “Clinic” burst into a second scorching red ball.
Running downhill for several frantic seconds, he suddenly detected water flowing briskly past them. From between two bushes, Camille dislodged a rubber raft.
“Why are you doing this?” he yelled above the tumultuous roar of fire and water. “That could be the Indian Army coming to our rescue.”
“How do you know it’s not the Pakistanis?” she shot back.
“Oh crap.” He grabbed an oar and climbed in after her.
The river was quieter as they followed its flow. Black boulders rose up in the nighttime. Paddling behind Camille, he steered for the darkest parts of the water where the current was swift and unhindered.
“We’re heading into Azad Kashmir,” he yelled. “Pakistan occupied territory.”
Just then a small prop plane buzzed low overhead. Its single engine coughed, missed several firings and caught again.
He recognized the profile against snowy mountains. It was a microlight with a lone white-clad figure hunched over the controls.
“It’s bin Laden,” he shouted.
Camille shot a look at the plane that wobbled uncertainly toward the narrowing mountain pass. Its wings seemed sure to clip one of the rocky overhangs on the river’s bank.
At the last moment, it gathered speed and swung up out of the valley into the thin mountain air. Alec lost it in the Himalayan peaks, the second coldest place in Asia, after Siberia.
“He won’t survive up there for long,” he said.
They were nearing granite gates marking the end of the valley and the beginning of deadly whitewater. Instinctively, Camille and Alec turned their rubber raft toward the riverbank.
The current had gathered considerable strength, and the raft wasn’t responding to their actions. He dug his paddle into the water, wedging it in front of a rock. The raft tugged at him, tearing at his shoulders, but he held fast, his fists deep in the frigid water. Gradually, the raft spun around. Paddling furiously, Camille inched the raft toward shore.
Along the bank, water rushed around a black boulder the size of a house. If they didn’t make land before reaching that boulder, the river had them. He dislodged his paddle from the rock at midstream and dug into the water along with Camille. Both paddling on the downriver side of the raft, they seemed motionless, moving neither forward nor backward nor downstream. Their unsynchronized strokes seemed to add uncertainty to their direction and thwarted their progress.
“Row together,” he shouted.
Her movements became more rhythmic. He matched her powerful strokes. With a thrill he hadn’t experienced since they had last made love, they worked together and shot forward in the water, drifting toward the boulder, edging just upstream of the dangerous current.
He heard a scraping crunch. Their bow rumbled over pebbles.
Camille launched ashore, tugging the raft behind her with the mooring rope.
He threw down his paddle and prepared to stand. For a moment, the current caught the raft and its stern swung downstream, toward the enormous boulder.
He stared at Camille. She shivered, coatless and wet, the rope burning tight around her hands.
The raft’s tug yanked her forward, and she lost her balance.
Staggering, she seemed about to plunge back into the river.
“Hold the goddamn rope.”
On her knees, she dropped her head, her shoulders sagging, her hands flung outward toward the river.
“Don’t lose your foothold.”
He scrambled forward in the raft. It rocked precariously, his feet sloshing in the icy water that rushed in.
Camille lifted her head. Tears of pain streamed from her eyes. He caught his balance, rising to his full height in the raft.
Her thighs trembled as she put one foot in front of the other, her heels grinding into the pebbles, her entire body straining against the pull of the current. They stared at each other, their lives bitterly and hopelessly intertwined.
Creaking against its mooring line, the side of the raft slowly edged toward shore. Then, in a sudden helpless gesture, the river relinquished the raft, and he swung free of the mighty flow. Simply and gracefully, the raft drifted against the welcoming pebbles.
He stepped out and ran to Camille.
She sat shivering, blood glistening on her fingers. Overhead, rockets burst every few seconds in the mountains. Upriver, Kargil was ablaze.
He placed his parka over her shoulders and stared at her. He couldn’t have been more grateful, or proud.
She said nothing for a long time.
At last she reached under her blouse and withdrew the slim glass vial, a chunk of ice thawing inside. The frozen vaccine spun about, reflecting the glowing red flames of Kargil.