"Thanks, Stephen," Herbert said.
"Anytime," Viens replied.
Herbert clicked off the speakerphone and got back on with Hank Lewis and Ron Friday. "Gentlemen, we've definitely got the cell heading north," he said. "I suggest we table the political debate and concentrate on managing the crisis. I'll have a talk with Paul. See if he wants to get involved with this or whether we should abort the Striker mission altogether and turn the problem over to the State Department. Hank, I suggest you and Mr. Friday talk this over and see what you want your own involvement to be. Whether we stick to the original mission or work out a new one, it could get ugly out there."
"We'll also have to talk about what to tell the president and the CIOC," Lewis said.
"I have a suggestion about that," Herbert told him. "If you tag Mr. Friday as a loan-out to Striker as of right now, the NSA doesn't have to be involved in making that decision."
"That's a negative," Lewis told him. "I'm new on the job, Bob, but I'm not a novice. You let me know what Paul's thinking is and I'll make the call on our end."
"Fair enough," Herbert said. He smiled. He respected a man who did not pass the buck. Especially a buck this big.
"Ron," Lewis said, "I'd like you to talk to the farmer and to Captain Nazir. See if they're with you on a possible search-and-capture. I agree with Bob. Mr. Kumar can be very useful if we're able to locate his granddaughter."
"I'll do it," Friday said.
"Good," Herbert said. "Hank, you and I will talk after I've discussed this with Paul and General Rodgers. Mr. Friday--thank you for your help."
Friday said nothing.
Herbert hung up. He swore at the very thought of Ron Friday and then put him from his mind--for now. There were larger issues to deal with.
He made an appointment to see Paul Hood at once.
TWENTY-THREE
Kargil, Kashmir Thursday, 7:43 A.M.
Before leaving the helicopter Ron Friday opened a compartment between the seats. He found an old backup book of charts in there. The chopper's flight plan was dictated by computer-generated maps. These animated landscapes and grid overlays were presented on a monitor located above the primary flight display screen between the pilot and copilot stations. A keypad beneath the monitor was used to punch in coordinates. Friday tore out the maps he wanted and shoved them in the pocket of his windbreaker.
As he headed back to the farm, Friday punched the air. He unleashed a flurry of strong, angry uppercuts that did not just hit the imaginary chin of Bob Herbert. The punches went through his new nemesis as he struck at the sky. Who the hell did Bob Herbert think he was? The man had been wounded in the line of duty. That entitled him to disability compensation, not respect.
The pismire, Friday thought. Bob Herbert was just a wage-slave drone in the hive.
Friday finished his flurry of blows. His heart was ramming his chest, his arms perspiring. Breathing heavily, he flexed his fingers as he stalked across the rocky, uneven terrain.
It's all right, Friday told himself. He was here, at the heart of the action, in control of his destiny. Bob Herbert was back in Washington barking orders. Orders that could easily be ignored since Lewis had not allowed him to be seconded to Op-Center. Friday put the self-pitying bureaucrat from his mind and concentrated on the work at hand.
Captain Nazir had gone inside with Apu Kumar. The Black Cat officer was looking around the house while Kumar sat quietly on the tattered couch. Both men turned as Friday entered.
"What did they say?" Nazir asked.
"The Pakistani cell is alive and well and apparently moving north through the Himalayas," Friday told Nazir. "Op-Center and the NSA are considering a joint mission to try and apprehend the cell along with Mr. Kumar's granddaughter. They want to keep them all out of the hands of the SFF. Would the Black Cat Commandos and their allies in the government have a problem with an American-run search-and-recover mission?"
"Does your government believe there is a chance for a nuclear exchange?" Nazir asked.
"If they didn't think so, they would not even be considering a covert action," Friday replied. "It looks like your friends from the Special Frontier Force wanted that cell bad enough. Our ELINT resources caught a squad of them chasing the Pakistanis through the mountains."
"Where is the SFF squad?" Nazir asked.
"Waiting in line for reincarnation," Friday replied.
"Excuse me?"
"From what I gathered the commandos were caught by a Pakistani suicide bomber," Friday told him.
"I see," Nazir said. He thought for a moment. "The SFF presence supports what we were thinking, that they set this up."
"It sure looks that way," Friday said.
"Then yes," Nazir said. "The Black Cat Commandos would help you in any way we can."
"Good," Friday said. He walked over to Kumar. "We're going to need your help, too," he told the farmer. "Your granddaughter was apparently working for the SFF. Her testimony is the key to war and peace. If we catch up to them she must be made to tell the truth."
Apu Kumar rolled a slumped shoulder. "She is an honest girl. She would not lie."
"She's also a patriot, isn't she?" Friday asked.
"Of course," Apu agreed.
"Patriotism has a way of dulling the senses," Friday told him. "That's why soldiers sometimes throw themselves on hand grenades. If your granddaughter helped the SFF frame the Pakistanis for the destruction of a Hindu temple, she has to tell that to the Indian people."
Apu seemed surprised and gravely concerned. "Do you think that is what she's done?" he asked.
"We do," Friday told him.
"Poor Nanda," Apu said.
"We're not just talking about Nanda," Captain Nazir said. "If she does not tell what she knows then millions of people may die."
Apu rose. "Nanda could not have known what she was doing. She would never have agreed to such an outcome. But I will help you," he said. "What do you want me to do?"
"For now, get some warm clothes together and wait," Friday said. "If you have extra gloves and long johns, bring them too."
Apu said he would and then hurried to the bedroom. Friday walked over to a small table and pulled the maps from his pocket.
"Captain?" he said. It was a command, not a question.
"Yes?" Nazir replied.
"We need to make plans," Friday said.
"Flight plans?" Nazir said, noticing the charts.
"Yes," Friday replied.
But that was just the start. Whatever the mission and however it turned out, Friday would be in good stead with the Black Cat Commandos and his own friends and advocates in the Indian government. He was sure Hank Lewis would allow him to remain here when this was all over. And then Ron Friday would be free to nurture his ties to the nuclear and oil industries. That was where the nation's future lay.
That was where his own future lay.
TWENTY-FOUR
Siachin Base 3, Kashmir Thursday, 9:16 A.M.
The call from Commander San Hussain did not surprise Major Dev Puri. Ever since he was informed of the top-secret plan to use the Pakistani cell, the major had been expecting to hear from the Special Frontier Force director at about this time. However, what Commander Hussain had to say was a complete surprise. Major Puri sat in his bunker for several moments after hanging up. For weeks, he had been expecting to play an important part in this operation: the quick and quiet evacuation of the line of control.
But Puri had not anticipated playing this role. The role that was supposed to have been played by the SFF's MEAN--Mountain Elite Attack Nation. That was the name of the original resistance force that worked to overthrow British imperial rule on the subcontinent.
The most important role.
Puri reached into a tin box on the desk. He plucked out a wad of chewing tobacco and placed it beside his gum. He began to chew slowly. Puri had been expecting to hear that the Pakistani cell had been captured in their mountain headquarters. After that, Puri's units were supposed
to begin preparing for retreat. The preparations were supposed to be made quietly and unhurriedly, without the use of cell phones or radios. As much as possible should be done underground in the shelters and low in the trenches. The Pakistanis would notice nothing unusual going on. Devi's four hundred soldiers were supposed to be finished by eleven A.M. but they were not to move out until they received word directly from Hussain.
Instead, Commander Hussain had called with a much different project. Major Puri was to take half the four hundred soldiers in his command and move south, into the mountains. They were to carry full survival packs and dress in thermal camouflage clothes. Hussain wanted them to proceed in a wide sweep formation toward the Siachin Glacier, closing in as the glacier narrowed and they neared the summit. "Wide sweep" meant that the militia would consist of a line of men who came no closer than eyesight. That meant the force could be stretched across approximately two miles. Since radio channels might be monitored, Hussain wanted them to communicate using field signals. Those were a standardized series of gestures developed by MEAN in the 1930s. The Indian army adopted them in 1947. The signals told them little more than to advance, retreat, wait, proceed, slow down, speed up, and attack. Directions for attacks were indicated by finger signals: the index finger was north, middle finger south, ring finger west, and pinky east. The thumb was the indication to "go." Those hand signals were usually enough. The commands were issued by noncommissioned officers stationed in the center of each platoon. They could be overruled by the company lieutenants and by Puri himself, who would be leading the operation from the center of the wide sweep. In the event of an emergency, the men had radios they could use.
Puri picked up the phone. He ordered his aide to assemble his lieutenants in the briefing room. The major said he would be there in five minutes. He wanted top-level security for the meeting: no phones or radios present, no laptop computers, no notepads.
Puri chewed his tobacco a moment more before rising. Hussain had told him that the Pakistani cell had evaded capture and was thought to be heading to Pakistan. Four other bases along the line of control were activating units in an effort to intercept the terrorists. Each of the base leaders had been given the same order: to take the cell, dead or alive.
That option did not include their lone hostage, an Indian woman from Kashmir. Commander Hussain said that the SFF did not expect the woman to survive her ordeal. He did not say that she had been mistreated. His tone said something else altogether.
He wanted her not to survive.
Major Puri turned toward the door and left the shelter. The morning light was cold and hazy. He had checked the weather report earlier. It was snowing up in the mountains. That always produced haze here in the lower elevations. Nothing was clear, not even the walls of the trench itself.
Nor his own vision.
Major Puri had not expected to play that part either. The role of assassin. As he headed for the meeting it struck him as odd that a single life should matter. What he did here would contribute to the deaths of millions of people in just a day or two. What did one more mean?
Was he upset because she was Indian? No. Indians would die in the conflagration as well. Was he upset because she was a woman? No. Women would certainly die.
He was upset because he would probably be there when she died. He might even be the one to execute the commander's order.
He would have to look into her eyes. He would be watching the woman as she realized that she was about to die.
In 1984, when India was rocked by intercaste violence, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi ordered a series of attacks on armed Sikh separatists in Amritsar. Over a thousand people were killed. Those deaths were unfortunate, the inevitable result of armed conflict. Several months later, Mrs. Gandhi was assassinated by Sikhs who were members of her own bodyguard. Her murder was a cold-blooded act and a tragedy.
It had a face.
Major Puri knew that this had to be done. But he also knew that he wished someone else would do it. Soldiering was a career he could leave behind. The job of combatant was temporary. But once he killed, even in the name of patriotism, that act would stay with him for the rest of his life.
And the next.
TWENTY-FIVE
Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 11:45 P.M.
Paul Hood was glad when Bob Herbert came to see him.
Hood had shut his office door, opened a box of Wheat Thins, and worked on the Op-Center budget cuts for the better part of the evening. He had left word with Bugs Benet that he was not to be disturbed unless it were urgent. Hood did not feel like end-of-the-day chitchat. He did not want to have to put on a public face. He wanted to hide, to lose himself in a project--any project.
Most of all Hood did not feel like going home. Or what passed for home these days, an undistinguished fifth-floor suite at the Days Inn on Mercedes Boulevard. Hood had a feeling that it would be a long time, if ever, before he regarded anything but the Hood house in Chevy Chase, Maryland, as home. But he and his wife, Sharon, were separated and his presence at the house created strife for her. She said he was a reminder of their failed marriage, of facing a future without a companion. Their two children did not need that tension, especially Harleigh. Hood had spent time with Harleigh and her younger brother, Alexander, over the weekend. They did things that Washingtonians rarely did: they toured the monuments. Hood had also arranged for them to get a personal tour of the Pentagon. Alexander was impressed by all the saluting that went on. It made him feel important not to have to do it. He also liked the kick-ass intensity of all the guards.
Harleigh said she enjoyed the outing but that was pretty much all she said. Hood did not know whether it was post-traumatic stress, the separation, or both that were on her mind. Psychologist Liz Gordon had advised him not to talk about any of that unless Harleigh brought it up. His job was to be upbeat and supportive. That was difficult without any input from Harleigh. But he did the best he could.
For Harleigh.
What he had been neglecting in all of this were his needs. Home was the biggest and most immediate hole. The hotel room did not have the familiar creaking and pipe sounds and outside noises he had come to know. There was no oil burner clicking on and off. The hotel room smelled unfamiliar, shared, transient. The water pressure was weaker, the soap and shampoo small and impersonal. The nighttime lighting on the ceiling was different. Even the coffeemaker didn't pop and burble the same as the one at home. He missed the comfort of the familiar. He hated the changes.
Especially the biggest one. The huge hole he had dug for himself with Ann Farris, Op-Center's thirty-four-year-old press liaison. She had pursued him virtually from the day she arrived. He had found the pursuit both flattering and uncomfortable. Flattering because Paul Hood and his wife had not been connecting for years. Uncomfortable because Ann Farris was not subtle. Whatever poker face Ann put on during press briefings she did not wear around Hood. Maybe it was a question of balance, of yin and yang, of being passive in public and aggressive in private. Regardless, her open attention was a distraction for Hood and for the people closest to him, like Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert.
So of course Hood made the desperate mistake of actually making love to Ann. That had ratcheted up the tension level by making her feel closer and him feel even guiltier. He did not want to make love to her again. At least, not until he was divorced. Ann said she understood but she still took it as a personal rejection. It had affected their working relationship. Now she was cool to him in private and hot with the press in public.
How had Paul Hood gone from someone who reached the top of several professions at a relatively young age to someone who had messed up his own life and the lives of those around him? How the hell had that happened?
Ann was really the one that Hood did not want to see tonight. But he could not tell Bugs to keep only her out. Even if she did figure out that was what Hood was doing he did not want to insult her directly.
Ironically, the work Hood was doing involved cutting
Ann and her entire division.
Hood was not surprised that Herbert was working this late. The intelligence chief preferred work to socializing. It was not politically correct but it was pure Herbert: he said that it was more of a challenge trying to get inside a spy's head than into a woman's pants. The rewards were also greater, Herbert insisted. The spy ended up dead, in prison, or incapacitated. It was a lesson Hood should have learned from his friend.
Hood was glad when Herbert came to see him. He needed a crisis to deal with, one that was not of his own making. The briefing that Bob Herbert gave Hood was not the low-intensity distraction he had been hoping for. However, the prospect of nuclear war between India and Pakistan did chase all other thoughts from Hood's mind.
Herbert brought Hood up to speed on the conversations he'd had with Mike Rodgers and Ron Friday. When Herbert was finished, Hood felt energized. His own problems had not gone away. But part of him, at least, was out of hiding. The part that had a responsibility to others.
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