Line Of Control (2001)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 08

  "We aren't going to," Hood said. "We're going to protect the part of the system we've been given." He looked at his watch. "I don't know if Ron Friday betrayed his country in Baku. Even if he did it doesn't mean he's got a side bet going in India. But we still have about eighteen hours before Striker reaches India. What can we do to get more intel on Friday?"

  "I can have my team look into his cell phone records and e-mail," Herbert said, "maybe get security videos from the embassy and see if anything suspicious turns up."

  "Do it," Hood said.

  "That may not tell us everything," Herbert said.

  "We don't need everything," Hood said. "We need probable cause, something other than the possibility that Friday may have helped Fenwick. If we get that then we can go to Senator Fox and the CIOC, tell them we don't want Striker working with someone who was willing to start a war for personal gain."

  "All very polite," Herbert grumped. "But we're using kid gloves on a guy who may have been a goddamned traitor."

  "No," Hood said. "We're presuming he's innocent until we're sure he's not. You get me the information. I'll take care of delivering the message."

  Herbert agreed, reluctantly.

  As he wheeled back to his office, the intelligence chief reflected on the fact that the only thing diplomacy ever accomplished was to postpone the inevitable. But Hood was the boss and Herbert would do what he wanted.

  For now.

  Because, more than loyalty to Paul Hood and Op-Center, more than watching out for his own future, Herbert felt responsible for the security of Striker and the lives of his friends. The day things became so interconnected that Herbert could not do that was the day he became a pretty unhappy man. And then he would have just one more thing to do.

  Hang up his spurs.

  SIXTEEN

  Siachin Base 2E, Kashmir Wednesday, 9:02 P.M.

  Sharab and her group left the camouflaged truck and spent the next two hours making their way to the cliff where the cave was located. Ishaq had raced ahead on his motorcycle. He went as far as he could go and then walked the rest of the way. Upon reaching the cave he collected the small, hooded lanterns they kept there and set them out for the others. The small, yellow lights helped Sharab, Samouel, Ali, and Hassan get Nanda up to the ledge below the site. The Kashmiri hostage did not try to get away but she was obviously not comfortable with the climb. The path leading to this point had been narrow with long, sheer drops. This last leg, though less than fifty feet, was almost vertical.

  A fine mist drifted across the rock, hampering visibility as they made their way up. The men proceeded with Nanda between them. Sharab brought up the rear. Her right palm was badly bruised and it ached from when she had struck the dashboard earlier. Sharab rarely lost her temper but it was occasionally necessary. Like the War Steeds of the Koran, who struck fire with their hooves, she had to let her anger out in measured doses. Otherwise it would explode in its own time.

  Nanda had to feel her way to the handholds that Sharab and the others had cut in the rock face over a year before. The men helped her as best they could.

  Sharab had insisted on bringing the Kashmiri along, though not so they would have a hostage. Men who would blow up their own citizens would not hesitate to shoot one more if it suited them. Sharab had taken Nanda for one reason only. She had questions to ask her.

  The other two blasts in the Srinagar marketplace had not been a coincidence. Someone had to have known what Sharab and her group were planning. Maybe it was a pro-Indian extremist group. More likely it was someone in the government, since it would have taken careful planning to coordinate the different explosions. Whoever it was, they had caused the additional explosions so that the Free Kashmir Militia would unwittingly take the blame for attacking Hindus.

  It did not surprise Sharab that the Indians would kill their own people to turn the population against the FKM. Some governments build germ-war factories in schools and put military headquarters under hospitals. Others arrest dissidents by the wagonload or test toxins in the air and water of an unsuspecting public. Security of the many typically came before the well-being of the few. What upset Sharab was that the Indians had so effectively counterplotted against her group. The Indians had known where and when the FKM was attacking. They knew that the group always took credit for their attack within moments of the blast. The Indians made it impossible for the cell to continue. Even if the authorities did not know who the cell members were or where they lived, they had undermined the group's credibility. They would no longer be perceived as an anti-New Delhi force. They would be seen as anti-Indian, anti-Hindu.

  There was nothing Sharab could do about that now. For the moment she felt safe. If the authorities had known about the cave they would have been waiting here. Once the team was armed and had collected their cold weather gear she would decide whether to stay for the night or push on. Moving through the cold, dark mountains would be dangerous. But giving the Indians a chance to track them down would be just as risky. She could not allow her group to be taken alive or dead. Even possessing their bodies would give the Indian radicals a target with which to rally the mostly moderate population.

  Sharab wanted to survive for another reason, also. For the sake of future cells Sharab had to try to figure out how the Indian authorities knew what she and her team had been doing. Someone could have seen them working on the roof of the police station. But that would have led to their arrest and interrogation, not this elaborate plot. She suspected that someone had been watching them for some time. Since virtually none of the FKM's communications were by phone or computer, and no one in Pakistan knew their exact whereabouts, that someone had to have been spying from nearby.

  She knew and trusted everyone on her team. Only two other people had been close to the cell: Nanda and her grandfather. Apu would have been too afraid to move against them and Sharab did not see how Nanda could have spoken with anyone else. They were watched virtually all day, every day. Still, somehow, one of them must have betrayed the group.

  Ishaq was leaning from the cave about ten feet above. He reached down and helped everyone up in turn. Sharab waited while Ishaq and Ali literally hoisted Nanda inside. The rock was cool and she placed her cheek against it. She shut her eyes. Though the rock felt good, it was not home.

  When she was a young girl, Sharab's favorite tale in the Koran involved the seven Sleepers of the Cave. One line in particular came to her each time she visited this place: "We made them sleep in the cave for many years, and then awakened them to find out who could best tell the length of their stay."

  Sharab knew that feeling of disorientation. Cut off from all that she loved, separated from all that was familiar, time had lost its meaning. But the woman knew what the Sleepers of the Cave had learned. That the Lord God knew how long they had been at rest. If they trusted in Him they would never be lost.

  Sharab had her god and she also had her country. Yet this was not how she had wanted to return to Pakistan. She had always imagined going home victorious rather than running from the enemy.

  "Come on!" Samouel called down to her.

  Sharab opened her eyes. She continued her climb toward the cave. The moment of peace had passed. She began getting angry again. She pulled herself inside the small cave and stood. The wind wailed around her going into the shallow cave, then whooshed past her as it circled back out. Two lanterns rocked on hooks in the low ceiling. Beneath them were stacked crates of guns, explosives, canned food, clothing, and other gear.

  Except for Ishaq, the men were standing along the sides of the cave. Ishaq was reattaching a large tarp to the front of the cave. The outside was painted to resemble the rest of the mountainside. Not only did it help to camouflage the natural cave but it helped keep them warm whenever they were here.

  Nanda was near the back of the cave. She was facing Sharab. The ceiling sloped severely and the Kashmiri woman's back was bent slightly so she could remain standing. There was a band of blood staining the ankle of her pant
s. The cuff must have worn the flesh raw yet Nanda had not complained. The corners of her mouth trembled, her breath came in anxious little puffs, and her arms were folded across her chest. Sharab decided that was probably an attempt to keep warm and not a show of defiance. They were all perspiring from the climb and the cold air had turned their sweat-drenched clothes frigid.

  Sharab walked slowly toward her prisoner.

  "Innocent people died today," Sharab said. "There will be no retribution, no more killing, but I must know. Did you or your grandfather tell anyone about our activities?"

  Nanda said nothing.

  "We did not destroy the temple and the bus, you know that," Sharab added. "You've lived with us, you must have heard us making plans. You know we only attack government targets. Whoever attacked the Hindus is your enemy. They must be exposed and brought to justice."

  Nanda continued to stand where she was, her arms bundled around her. But there was a change in her posture, in her expression. She had drawn her shoulders back slightly and her eyes and mouth had hardened.

  Now she was defiant.

  Why? Sharab wondered. Because a Pakistani had dared to suggest that Indians could be enemies to Indians? Nanda could not be so naive. And if she did not agree, she did not want to defend her countrymen either.

  "Samouel?" Sharab said.

  The young bearded man stood. "Yes?"

  "Please take care of dinner, including our guest," Sharab said. "She'll need her strength."

  Samouel opened a frost-covered cardboard box that contained military rations. He began passing out the pop-top tins. Each of the shallow, red, six-by-four-inch containers was packed with basmati rice, strips of precooked goat meat, and two cinnamon sticks. A second cardboard box contained cartons of powdered milk. While Samouel handed those to the men Ali got a jug of water from the back of the cave. He added it to the powdered milk, pouring in skillful little bursts that kept the ice that had formed in the jugs from clogging the neck.

  Sharab continued to regard Nanda. "You're coming with us to Pakistan," Sharab informed her. "Once you're there you will tell my colleagues what you refuse to tell me."

  Nanda still did not respond. That seemed strange to Sharab. The dark-eyed woman had been talkative enough during the months at the farm. She had complained about the intrusion, the restrictions that had been placed on her, the militaristic leaders of Pakistan, and the terrorist activities of the FKM. It seemed odd that she would not say anything now.

  Perhaps the woman was just tired from the climb. Yet she had not said anything in the truck either. It could be that she was afraid for her life. But she had not tried to get away on the mountain path or to reach any of the weapons that were plainly in view.

  And then it hit her. The reason Nanda did not want to talk to them. Sharab stopped a few feet in front of the Kashmiri woman.

  "You're working with them," Sharab said suddenly. "Either you want us to take you to Pakistan or--" She stopped and called Hassan over. Standing nearly six-foot-five, the thirty-six-year-old former quarry worker was the largest man on her team. He had to duck just to stand in the cave.

  "Hold her," Sharab ordered.

  Now Nanda moved. She tried to get around Sharab. She was apparently trying to reach one of the guns in the box. But Hassan moved behind Nanda. He grabbed her arms right below the shoulders and pinned them together with his massive hands. The Kashmiri woman moaned and tried to wriggle away. But the big man pushed harder. She arched her back and then stopped moving.

  Hassan wrestled Nanda over to Sharab. The Pakistani woman felt the pockets of Nanda's jeans and then reached under Nanda's bulky wool sweater. She patted Nanda's sides and back.

  She found what she was looking for at once. It was on Nanda's left side, just above her hip. As Nanda renewed her struggles, Sharab pulled up the sweater and exposed the woman's waist.

  There was a small leather pouch attached to a narrow elastic band. Inside the pouch was a cellular phone. Sharab removed it and walked closer to one of the hanging lanterns. She examined the palm-sized black phone closely. The liquid crystal display was blank. Though that function had been disengaged the phone itself was working. It vibrated faintly, pulsing for a second and then shutting down for a second. It did that repeatedly. There was also a dark, concave plastic bubble on the top edge. It looked like the eye of a television remote control.

  "Ali, Samouel, gather up weapons and supplies," Sharab ordered. "Do it quickly."

  The men put down their meals and did as they were told. Hassan continued to hold Nanda. Ishaq watched from the side of the cave. He was waiting for Sharab to tell him what to do.

  Sharab regarded Nanda. "This is more than just a cell phone, isn't it? It's a tracking device."

  Nanda said nothing. Sharab nodded at Hassan and he squeezed her arms together. She gasped but did not answer. After a moment Sharab motioned for him to relax his grip.

  "You could not have spoken to your collaborators without us hearing," Sharab went on. "You must have used the keypad to type information. Now they're probably tracking you to our base. Who are they?"

  Nanda did not answer.

  Sharab strode toward the woman and slapped her with a hard backhand across the ear. "Who is behind this?" the woman screamed. "The SFF? The military? The world needs to know that we did not do this!"

  Nanda refused to say anything.

  "Do you have any idea what you've done?" Sharab said, stepping back.

  "I do," the Kashmiri woman said at last. "I stopped your people from committing genocide."

  "Genocide?"

  "Against the Hindu population in Kashmir and the rest of India," Nanda said. "For years we've listened to the promise of extermination on television, shouted outside the mosques."

  "You've been listening to the radicals, to Fundamentalist clerics who shout extremist views," Sharab insisted. "All we wanted was freedom for the Muslims in Kashmir."

  "By killing--"

  "We are at war!" Sharab declared. "But we only strike military or police targets." She held up the cell phone and tapped the top with a finger. "Do you want to talk about extermination? This is a remote sensor, isn't it? We put you close to the site and you used it to trigger explosives left by your partners."

  "What I did was an act of love to protect the rest of my people," Nanda replied.

  "It was an act of betrayal," Sharab replied. "They moved freely because they knew we would not hurt them. You abused that trust."

  Sharab's people took part in these acts primarily in the Middle East where they used their bodies as living bombs. The difference was that Nanda's people had not chosen to make this sacrifice. Nanda and her partners had decided that for them.

  But morality and blame did not matter to Sharab right now. Nanda did not have the experience to have originated this plan. Whoever was behind this was coming and undoubtedly they would be well armed. Sharab did not want to be here when they arrived.

  She turned to Ishaq. The youngest member of the team was standing beside the cartons eating his goat meat and rice. His lips were pale from the cold and his face was leathery from the pounding the wind had given it during his motorcycle journey. But his soulful eyes were alert, expectant. Sharab tried not to think about what she was about to tell him. But it had to be done.

  She handed Ishaq the cell phone. "I need you to stay here with this," she told him.

  The young man stopped chewing.

  "You heard what is happening," Sharab went on. "We're leaving but her accomplices must think we're still here."

  Ishaq put down the tin and took the phone. The other men stopped moving behind them.

  "It's very heavy," Ishaq said softly. "You're right. I think they've added things." He regarded Sharab. "You don't want the Indians to leave here, is that correct?"

  "That is correct," Sharab replied quietly. Her voice caught. She continued to look into Ishaq's eyes.

  "Then they won't leave," he promised her. "But you had better."

  "Thank
you," Sharab replied.

  The woman turned to help the other men, not because they needed help but because she did not want Ishaq to see her weep. She wanted him to hold on to the image of her being strong. He would need that in order to get through this. Yet the tears came. They had been together every day for two years, both in Pakistan and in Kashmir. He was devoted to her and to the cause. But he did not have the climbing or survival skills the other men had. Without them they would not get across the mountains and the line of control and back to Pakistan.

  The remaining members of the team pulled on the heavy coats they kept for extended stays in the cave. They threw automatic weapons over their right shoulders and ropes over their left. They put flashlights and matches in their pockets. Ali took the backpack he had loaded with food. Hassan grabbed Nanda after Samouel gave him the backpack with pitons, a hammer, extra flashlights, and maps.