Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

“I’m not sure,” Nazir admitted.

  “Why was the SFF handling the investigation instead of your people?” Friday asked.

  Nazir stopped walking. He retrieved a pack of cigarettes from under his sweatshirt and used one to light another. He looked at Friday in the glow of the newly lit cigarette.

  “I do not know the answer to that,” the officer replied as he continued walking.

  “Let me point you in a direction,” Friday said. “Does the SFF have special jurisdiction over Srinagar or religious targets ?”

  “No,” Nazir replied.

  “But their personnel were on the scene and your people were not,” Friday repeated.

  “Yes,” Nazir said.

  This was becoming frustrating. Friday stopped walking. He grabbed Nazir by the arm. The officer did not react.

  “Before I head north and risk my life, I need to know if there’s a leak in your organization,” Friday said.

  “Why would you think there is?” Nazir asked.

  “Because there was not a single Black Cat Commando at the scene,” Friday told him. “Why else would you be shut out of the investigation except for security issues?”

  “Humiliation,” Nazir suggested. “You have conflicts between your intelligence services. They go to great lengths to undermine one another even though you work toward the same goal.”

  There was no disputing that, Friday thought. He had killed a CIA agent not long ago.

  “The truth is, the SFF has been extremely quiet about their activities of late and we have been quiet about our operations, including this one,” Nazir went on. “Both groups have their allies in New Delhi and, eventually, all the intelligence we gather gets shuffled into the system and used.”

  “Like a slaughterhouse,” Friday observed.

  “A slaughterhouse,” Nazir said. He nodded appreciatively. “I like that. I like it very much.”

  “I’m glad,” Friday replied. “Now tell me something I’m going to like. For example, why we should put ourselves into the hands of an intelligence agency that may be risking our lives to boost their own standing in New Delhi?”

  “Is that what you think?” Nazir asked.

  “I don’t know,” Friday replied. “Convince me otherwise.”

  “Do you know anything about Hinduism?” Nazir asked Friday.

  “I’m familiar with the basics,” Friday replied. He had no idea what that had to do with anything.

  “Do you know that Hinduism is not the name we use for our faith. It’s something the West invented.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Friday admitted.

  “We are countless sects and castes, all of which have their own names and very different views of the Veda, the holy text,” Nazir said. “The greatest problem we have as a nation is that we carry our factionalism into government. Everyone defends his own unit or department or consulate as if it were his personal faith. We do this without considering how our actions affect the whole. I am guilty of that too. My ‘god,’ if you will, is the one who can help me get things done. Not necessarily the one who can do the best job for India.” He drew on his cigarette. “The tragedy is that the whole is now threatened with destruction and we are still not pulling together. We need more intelligence on Pakistan’s nuclear threat. We cannot go and get that information ourselves for fear of triggering the very thing we are trying to avoid—a nuclear exchange. You and your group are the only ones who can help us.” Nazir regarded Friday through the twisting smoke of his cigarette. “If you are still willing to undertake this mission I will be the point man for you. I will go as far into the field as I can with maps, clearances, and geographical reconnaissance. The minister and I will make certain that no one interferes with your activities. He does not know the men who are coming from Washington but he has enormous respect for you. He considers you a member of ‘his’ sect. That is more than simply an honor. It means that in future undertakings of your own you will be able to call on him. To him the members of his team come before anything. But we must secure the intelligence we need to ensure that the team continues. The American force is going in anyway. I am here to make sure that you are still willing to go with them. I hope to be able to report that back to the minister.”

  Friday did not believe any man who claimed to put the good of the team before his own good. A minister who was running a secret operation with the Black Cats was looking to strengthen his ties to the intelligence community and build his power base. If he could spy on Pakistan today he might spy on the SFF or the prime minister tomorrow.

  The fact that a politician might have personal ambition did not bother Friday. He had heard what Captain Nazir was really saying. Minister Shankar wanted Friday to go with Striker to make sure that the Americans were working for India and not just for Washington. And if Friday did undertake this mission he would have a highly placed ally in the Indian government.

  The men reached the brick wall at the end of the street and Nazir lit another cigarette. Then they turned around and started walking back to the inn. Nazir was looking down. He had obviously said what he had come to say. Now it was up to Friday.

  “You still haven’t convinced me that there isn’t a leak in your organization,” Friday said. “How do I know we won’t go out there and find ourselves ass-deep in Pakistanis?”

  “You may,” Nazir granted. “That is why we cannot go ourselves. As for leaks, I know everyone in the Black Cats. We have not been betrayed in the past. Beyond that, I cannot give the assurances you ask for.” Nazir smiled for the first time. “It is even possible that someone in Washington has leaked this to the Pakistanis. There is always danger in our profession. The only question is whether the rewards are worth the risks. We believe they are, for us—and for you.”

  That sounded very much like an introductory lecture from a guru at an ashram. But then, Friday should have expected that.

  “All right,” Friday said. “I’m in—with one condition.”

  “And that is?”

  “I want to know more about today’s attack,” Friday said. “Something about it is not sitting right.”

  “Can you tell me exactly what is bothering you?” Nazir asked.

  “The fact that the attacker detonated two separate charges to bring down the police station and the temple,” Friday said. “There was no reason for that. One large explosion would have accomplished the same thing. And it would have been easier to set.”

  Nazir nodded. “I’ve been wondering about that myself. All right. I’ll see what I can find out and I will let you know when we are together again—which will be tomorrow around noon. We can meet here and then go to lunch. I will bring the materials I’ll be turning over to your team.”

  “Fair enough,” Friday said.

  The men reached the inn. Friday regarded the captain.

  “One more question,” Friday said.

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you offer me a cigarette?” Friday asked.

  “Because you don’t smoke,” Nazir replied.

  “Did the minister tell you that?”

  “No,” Nazir told him.

  “You checked up on me, then,” Friday said. “Asked people I’ve worked with about my habits and potential weaknesses.”

  “That’s right,” Nazir told him.

  “So you didn’t entirely trust the minister’s judgment about bringing me onboard,” Friday pointed out.

  Nazir smiled again. “I said I knew everyone in the Black Cats. The minister is not one of my commandoes.”

  “I see,” Friday replied. “That was still sloppy. You told me something about yourself, your methods, who you trust. That’s something a professional shouldn’t do.”

  “You’re right,” Nazir replied evenly. “But how do you know I wasn’t testing you to see if you’d notice what I did?” The captain offered his hand. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” Friday said. He felt the flush of embarrassment and a trace of doubt as he shook Nazir’s hand.


  The Black Cat Commando turned then and walked into the night, trailing a thick cloud of smoke behind him.

  EIGHTEEN

  Alconbury, Great Britain Wednesday, 7:10 P.M.

  Mike Rodgers was looking at files Bob Herbert had e-mailed from Op-Center when the giant C-130 touched down at the Royal Air Force station in Alconbury. Though the slow takeoff had seemed like a strain for the aircraft, the landing was barely noticeable. Maybe that was because the plane shook so much during the trans-Atlantic flight that Rodgers did not realize it had finally touched down. He was very much aware when the engines shut down, however. The plane stopped vibrating but he did not. After over six hours he felt as if there were a small electric current running through his body from sole to scalp. He knew from experience that it would take about thirty to forty minutes for that sensation to stop. Then, of course, Striker would be airbound again and it would start once more. Somewhere in that process was a microcosm of the ups and downs and sensations of life but he was too distracted to look for it right now.

  The team left the aircraft but only to stand on the field. They would only be on the ground for an hour or so, long enough for a waiting pair of hydraulic forklifts to off-load several crates of spare parts.

  The officers of the RAF referred to Alconbury as the Really American Field. Since the end of World War II it had effectively been a hub of operations for the United States Air Force in Europe. It was a large, modern field with state-of-the-art communications, repair, and munitions facilities. Since every base, every field, every barracks needed a nickname, the Americans here had nicknamed the field “Al.” Many of the American servicemen went around humming the Paul Simon song, “You Can Call Me Al.” The Brits did not really get the eternal American fascination with sobriquets for everything from presidents to spacecraft to their weapons—Honest Abe, Friendship 7, Old Betsy. But Mike Rodgers understood. It made formidable tools and institutions seem a little less intimidating. And it implied a familiarity, a kinship with the thing or place, a sense that man, object, and organization were somehow equal.

  It was very American.

  The members of Striker walked down the cargo bay ramp and onto the tarmac. Two of the Strikers lit cigarettes and stood together near an eyewash stand. Other soldiers stretched, did jumping jacks, or just lay back on the field and looked up at the blue-black sky. Brett August used one of the field phones standing off by the warehouse. He was probably calling one of the girls he had in this port. Perhaps he would bail on the team and visit her on the way back. The colonel certainly had the personal time coming to him. They all did.

  Mike Rodgers wandered off by himself. He headed toward the nose of the aircraft. The wind rushed across the wideopen field, carrying with it the familiar air base smells of diesel fuel, oil lubricant, and rubber from the friction-heated tires of aircraft. As the sun went down and the tarmac cooled and shrunk, the smells seemed to be squeezed out of them. Whatever airfield in the world Rodgers visited, those three smells were always present. They made him feel at home. The cool air and very solid ground felt great.

  Rodgers had his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the oilstained field. He was thinking about the data Friday had sent to the NSA and the files Herbert had forwarded to him. He was also thinking about Ron Friday himself. And the many Ron Fridays he had worked with over the decades.

  Rodgers always had a problem with missions that involved other governments and other agencies within his own government. Information given to a field operative was not always informative. Sometimes it was wrong, by either accident, inefficiency, or design. The only way to find out for sure was to be on the mission. By then, bad information or wrong conclusions drawn from incomplete data could kill you.

  The other problem Rodgers had with multigroup missions was authority and accountability. Operatives were like kids in more ways than one. They enjoyed playing outside and they resented having to listen to someone else’s “parent.” Ron Friday might be a good and responsible man. But first and foremost, Friday had to answer to the head of the NSA and probably to his sponsor in the Indian government. Satisfying their needs, achieving their targets, took priority over helping Rodgers, the mission leader. Ideally, their goals would be exactly the same and there would be no conflict. But that rarely happened. And sometimes it was worse than that. Sometimes operatives or officers were attached to a mission to make sure that it failed, to embarrass a group that might be fighting for the attention of the president or the favor of a world leader or even the same limited funding.

  In a situation where a team was already surrounded by adversaries Mike Rodgers did not want to feel as if he could not count on his own personnel. Especially when the lives of the Strikers were at risk.

  Of course, Rodgers had never met Ron Friday or the Black Cat officer they were linking up with, Captain Nazir. He would do what he always did: size them up when he met them. He could usually tell right away whether he could or could not trust people.

  Right now, though, the thing that troubled Rodgers most had nothing to do with Friday. It had to do with the explosion in Srinagar. In particular, with that last call from the home phone to the field phone.

  Other nations routinely used cell phones as part of their intelligence-gathering and espionage efforts. Not just surveillance of the calls but the hardware itself. The electronics did not raise alarms at airport security; most government officials, military personnel, and businesspeople had them; and they already had some of the wiring and microchips that were necessary for saboteurs. Cell phones were also extremely well positioned to kill. It did not take more than a wedge of C-4, packed inside the workings of a cell phone, to blow the side of a target’s head off when he answered a call.

  But Rodgers recalled one incident in particular, in the former Portuguese colony of Timor, that had parallels to this. He had read about it in an Australian military white paper while he was on Melville Island observing naval maneuvers in the Timor Sea in 1999. The invading Indonesian military had given cell phones to poor East Timorese civilians in what appeared to be a gesture of good will. The civilians were permitted to use the Indonesian military mobile communications service to make calls. The phones were not just phones but two-way radios. Civilians who had access to groups that were intensely loyal to imprisoned leader Xanana Gusmao were inadvertently used as spies to eavesdrop on nationalistic activities. Out of curiosity, Rodgers had asked a colleague in Australia’s Department of Defense Strategy and Intelligence if the Indonesians had developed that themselves. He said they had not. The technology had come from Moscow. The Russians were also big suppliers of Indian technology.

  What was significant to Rodgers was that the radio function was activated by signals sent from the Indonesian military outpost in Baukau. The signals were sent after calls had indicated that one individual or another was going to be in a strategic location.

  Rodgers could not help but wonder if the home phone had somehow signaled the field phone to detonate the secondary blasts. The timing was too uncomfortably close to be coincidence. And the continuation of the signal at such regular intervals suggested that the terrorists were being tracked.

  Hell, it did more than suggest that, Rodgers told himself. And the more he thought about it, the more he began to realize that they might have a very nasty developing situation on their hands. The Pentagon’s elite think tank, with the innocuous name of the Department of Theoretical Effects, called this process “computing with vaporware.” Rodgers had always been good at that, back when the Pentagon still called it “domino thinking.”

  He had to talk to Herbert about this.

  Rodgers called over to Ishi Honda. The communications man was lying on the tarmac with the TAC-SAT beside him. He came running over with the secure phone. Rodgers thanked him then squatted on the field beside the oblong unit and phoned Bob Herbert. He used the earphones so he could hear over the roar of landing and departing jets.

  Herbert picked up at once.

  “Bob, it’s
Mike Rodgers,” the general said.

  “Glad to hear from you. Are you at Al?” Herbert asked.

  “Just landed,” Rodgers said. “Listen, Bob. I’ve been thinking about this latest data you sent me. I’ve got a feeling that the Srinagar bombers have been tagged, maybe by someone on the inside.”

  “I’ve got that same feeling,” Herbert admitted. “Especially since we’ve been able to place the calls from field to home before that. They originated at a farm in Kargil. We notified the SFF. They sent over a local constable to check the place out. The farmer refused to say anything and they could not find his granddaughter. Ron and the SFF guy are going over first thing in the morning, see if they can’t get more out of him.”

  “None of this smells right,” Rodgers said.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Herbert said. “And there’s something else. The farmer’s daughter and son-in-law were resistance fighters who died fighting the Pakistani invasion.”

  “So the farmer certainly had a reason to be part of a conspiracy against the Free Kashmir Militia,” Rodgers said.

  “In theory, yes,” Herbert said. “What we’re looking at now is whether there is a conspiracy and whether it could have involved the district police station that was home for the cell phone. Matt Stoll’s gotten into their personnel files and my team is looking at the backgrounds of each officer. We want to see if any of them have connections with antiterrorist groups.”

  “You realize, Bob, that if you find a link between the police and the Pakistani cell, we may have an unprecedented international incident on our hands,” Rodgers said.

  “I don’t follow,” Herbert replied. “Just because they might have known about the attack and decided not to prevent it—”

  “I think it may have been more than that,” Rodgers said. “There were three separate attacks. Only one of them conformed to the established m.o. of the Free Kashmir Militia, the bombing of the police station.”

  “Wait a minute,” Herbert said. “That’s a big leap. You’re saying the police could have planned this action themselves? That the Indians attacked their own temples—”