“The difference is that you called me, and I’m from the outside. You’ve also seen me stand against your enemies. A double agent wouldn’t do that. Couldn’t risk it.”
To that logic, there was no response. Pahlavi knew that the American was correct. No traitor working inside Ohm would kill soldiers to keep his cover story solid. His superiors surely would punish such an act with death, perhaps the execution of the man’s whole family.
Or woman’s, Pahlavi thought, riven with suspicion. His mind had moved along those lines before, of course, but each time he’d found some excuse to tell himself it was impossible. No traitors could exist within the group he’d come to trust with everything—his life, his sister and his sanity.
Pahlavi would have cursed Cooper for raising all those ugly doubts again, but the American was simply speaking honestly, forcing Pahlavi to confront a possibility that he had been remiss in overlooking previously.
“Now, I’ll ask again,” Bolan said. “What’s our destination?”
“Still my village,” Pahlavi said. “It is not Ohm that we run to, but the people I grew up with. If they betray me, then it’s better that I simply die.”
“Your call on that,” Bolan remarked. “But if it’s not too much to ask, try not to take me with you, okay?”
“You need not fear my people, Mr. Cooper.”
That brought no response from the American, but it suddenly occurred to Pahlavi that if the people of his village failed him, they might have something to fear from the American. He had already seen the man in action, killing all but three or four of the soldiers who had been slain that afternoon.
It hit Pahlavi full force that he was not the same man he had been that morning. In the meantime, he had killed and watched friends die. He was a fugitive now, from whatever passed for justice in his homeland. The authorities could not stop heroin from passing through the country on its way to Europe, and they might be scheming to ignite another war with India for no good reason, but they would be out in force to find him, because of this day’s bloody work.
And now, he might be bringing sudden death into the very village where he had been born and raised.
But where else could he go?
Nowhere.
“You have nothing to fear,” Pahlavi said again. And hoped that it was true.
“Another thing you need to think about,” Bolan remarked. “We don’t know when they’ll find the bodies, but it may not be too long. For all we know, they may have sent out bulletins while they were chasing us, before we led them off the road. If they know how to run a search, they’ll work out from the killing ground and won’t give up until they find something. If you’re already on a list, and they know where you came from, well…”
He left the statement dangling, let Pahlavi finish it himself. There was another risk to which he would expose his people, but he still had no alternative. If he could not run back to Ohm, which had no central headquarters in any case, then only in his native village could he hope for sanctuary.
“We will not stay long,” Pahlavi said. A compromise. “Just long enough to get supplies, and then…”
Pahlavi hesitated. He was fresh out of ideas. It shamed and angered him that he could not present a finished plan to the American. But if he’d known exactly what to do and could complete the mission on his own, the American would not be there.
“Let’s try a different angle of attack,” Bolan said. “Tell me what you know about the lab and Project X.”
6
“Explain to me what happened,” Cyrus Shabou said. “I wish to understand how such a thing occurs.”
A grim-faced man in full-dress military uniform sat opposite the deputy minister for defense, separated from Shabou by the wide teak plateau of his handmade desk. The gleaming emblems on his collar marked him as a colonel. He was, in fact, Anish Dalal, commander of all counterterrorism actions in the western third of Pakistan. And clearly, he did not enjoy a summons from the civilians who controlled the very life or death of his career.
“Deputy Minster,” Dalal began, “I am unable to supply as full an explanation as you might expect, and as I would prefer to give. From all appearances, Lieutenant Sachi Chandaka was leading a routine patrol when he encountered someone on the highway west of Bela.”
“Someone?” Shabou interrupted. “He encountered someone?”
“If I may continue, sir?”
“By all means, do so. And explain yourself.”
“At 1420—that would be—”
“I know the military clock, Colonel. Proceed.”
“Yes, sir. At 1420, Lieutenant Chandaka broadcast a brief message, reporting himself in pursuit of two unidentified vehicles, each with two or more male occupants. They were reportedly proceeding northward, but there were no further bulletins. At 1900, Lieutenant Chandaka’s patrol was officially late, without word of progress or location. Radio queries went unanswered. We finally received a call from a police outpost in Balochistan. They’d located a civilian vehicle with two dead men inside and evidence of gunfire. We launched a local search immediately and we found the rest.”
Shabou frowned and tapped a manicured index finger on the printout set before him, on his desktop. “Thirty-two men dead, including the lieutenant, and three military vehicles destroyed. Is that correct?”
“Essentially,” Dalal replied. “The truck was not destroyed, as I’m given to understand the term, but it was damaged. Yes, sir.”
“And you still have no idea at all who may have been responsible for this?”
“Sir, we’ve begun with the assumption that the dead civilians on the highway are related to the massacre.”
“That seems a logical conclusion, Colonel,” Shabou replied.
“Yes, sir. Both were armed, of course. Their weapons had been fired, but further tests will be required to tell if any of their bullets actually struck Chandaka’s vehicles. In any case, their car was found roughly three miles away from where the others died.”
“Have you identified these two?”
“We have, sir. Their names were Sanjiv Dushkriti and Adi Lusila. Both in their twenties, the first born in Karachi, the other in Hyderabad. Dushkriti served six months as a student for hashish possession. Lusila was clean. They were driving his car. Nothing else in the vehicle, besides their weapons, to suggest a criminal intent.”
“And what of politics?”
“They’re not on file, Deputy Minister. There were no manifestos in the vehicle. No drugs or extra weapons, as if they were trafficking. My guess would be that they were highway bandits, interrupted by the sight of a patrol. They run, Chandaka chases them, and there’s a fight.”
“A fight? Is that how you describe the loss of thirty-two trained men, with only two dead on the other side?”
“Perhaps my choice of words—”
“I would describe it as a massacre,” Shabou pressed him. “Do you agree?”
“In retrospect…yes, sir.”
“And is it common for a pair of highwaymen to massacre so many soldiers, then escape unharmed?”
“Sir, you’ll recall they lost two men.”
“In the initial fight, three miles or more from where our soldiers died.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many bandit dead were found among our men?”
“None, sir.”
“In which case—”
“But they sometimes carry off their dead and wounded, sir,” Dalal said.
“Now you presume a larger group of bandits? Where did they come from? Where did they go? How were they able to appear at will and take advantage of a chance encounter on the highway?”
“Sir, we have no answers to those questions yet. You understand, of course, that our investigation is still in the preliminary stage.”
“In that case, I suggest that you accelerate, Colonel Dalal—or I may find someone with more initiative and energy to take your place. I hope we understand each other,” Shabou said.
“Yes,
sir. Absolutely.”
“Good. I won’t detain you any longer, since you still have work to do and supervise.”
Dalal rose stiffly to attention, waiting for Shabou to return his textbook salute, then turned on one heel and marched out of the office. Shabou waited another moment, then called out, “He’s gone. You can come out now.”
A side door opened to admit Kurush Gazsi. Impeccable in linen, each and every one of his retreating hairs in place, Gazsi crossed swiftly to the chair Dalal had vacated and sat before the desk.
“You heard him,” Shabou said, not asking.
“Yes.”
“What did you think?”
“Perhaps the officer in charge of the patrol was an incompetent. Perhaps he was decoyed into a trap.”
“I hear too much ‘perhaps,’ these days. I need answers, solutions. Can you help me?” Shabou asked angrily.
“Not with highwaymen,” Gazsi replied. “But I can check the names of the dead gunmen against known members of Ohm. If there’s a match, we may be onto something.”
“What, exactly?” Shabou asked.
“Again, sir, without the connection, I cannot be sure. But Ohm was damaged by our interception of their spy. I have no doubt that they will seek revenge at some point. They might even try to raid the lab if all else fails.”
“What of the woman’s brother?”
“Still at large,” Gazsi said. “I have people at his home, watching. Still no sign of him. It may be time to check his roots.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s from a village in the Balochistan district. Probably coincidence, but we should check it, just the same. Unfortunately, I have no troops under my direct command to do the job.”
“How many would you need?” Shabou inquired.
“No more than twenty, twenty-five.”
“Colonel Dalal won’t like that. It may start him asking questions,” Shabou said.
Gazsi shrugged. “Let him perform the search, by all means. I have my hands full, as it is.”
Shabou reached for a pen and pad of notepaper. “What is this village called?”
“Giri. You’ll find it located northwest of Bela, sixty miles or so. It should be plotted on a decent military map.”
“I’ll pass this on. Meanwhile, how is the project after the disruption?”
“As you know, Deputy Minister, we managed to recover all the data the woman tried to smuggle from the laboratory. She had no chance to pass it on. I’ve increased security throughout the plant, and we’re on schedule.”
“Still two weeks for the delivery?” Shabou asked.
“If we have no further problems, I have been assured the deadline will be met.”
“In that case, you must guarantee that there are no more problems, yes?”
Gazsi turned on an oily smile and said, “I live to serve, Deputy Minister.”
“MY VILLAGE IS CALLED Giri. It has no translation that I ever learned,” Pahlavi said.
“How do they deal with uninvited visitors?” Bolan asked. “You’ll be safe with me,” the young man promised. “They will not harm you.”
Bolan wasn’t terribly concerned about the natives as a threat, though he could never rule it out completely. At the moment, he was more concerned about the danger he might pose to them. If they attacked him, he was bound to fight. And even if they didn’t—
“Who knows where you come from?” Bolan asked.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a simple question. Who can trace you to your village? Anyone from Project X? The military or police?”
Pahlavi shook his head. “It isn’t common knowledge. Certainly, no one from Project X should trace me there.”
“Unless they asked your sister?” Bolan added.
“She would never tell—”
It hit Pahlavi then, and silenced him. Bolan drove on another mile or so, while Pahlavi ran through a mental slide show of horrific images, his sister trying not to answer vital questions from a gang of savages with drugs and wicked tools ready at hand. It was the kind of thing no brother should be forced to think about.
Bolan knew that, because he’d seen the savages at work, firsthand.
“She might have told them,” Pahlavi said finally, speaking around a hard lump in his throat.
“Is that still where you want to go?” Bolan asked pointedly.
“There’s nowhere else,” Pahlavi answered. “I must warn them, even if we cannot stay there.”
Bolan understood the need and didn’t argue with it. He’d likely have done the same himself, under the same circumstances.
“What about gasoline?” he asked.
“They always have a stockpile in the village, for the tractor and the truck.”
Both singular. It sounded like the kind of place a rifle company could level in an hour, maybe less if they had sappers with them and some plastique to complete the job. Bolan hoped that wouldn’t happen—and that he wouldn’t be dropped into the middle of it, if it did—but since Pahlavi was his only link to Project X, he felt obliged to ride along.
“We should be careful, going in,” Bolan advised. “No matter how unlikely it may seem, the opposition could have someone waiting for you in the village. Maybe just a lookout to alert them, if you show your face, or maybe occupation troops. We can’t take anything for granted.”
“No,” Pahlavi said. “I understand.” He sounded hopeless now, as if the mental image of his sister’s suffering had sapped his strength and will to fight.
“Remember,” Bolan told him, “you can’t change the past, but you can still affect the future. Project X is still a danger to your country and the world. Don’t fade out on me now.”
“I am not fading out, as you describe it,” said Pahlavi, something like fire coming back into his voice. “It grieves me that my sister died because of me. You understand?”
“I’ve been there,” Bolan answered. “What you need to bear in mind is that she made a choice. She was as strong and as committed as you are. She took a chance and lost. It happens. But it’s not your fault. You couldn’t do her part, inside the lab. She knew that, and she took it on herself.”
“You’re wrong about one thing,” Pahlavi said. “Darice was not as strong as I am. She was many times stronger. It sickens me to think how much she must have suffered, buying time to let me and the others get away.”
“Sick makes a decent starting place, if you don’t let it ruin you,” Bolan declared. “Take that and turn it into anger, then determination. Bear in mind that you can only pay the debt by living up to what she would expect from you. The men you want to punish can be hurt by tearing down all that they’ve built before they have a chance to profit from it.”
“You are supposed to be a fighting man,” Pahlavi said, “not a psychologist.”
“Is there a difference?” Bolan asked him.
“Maybe not. I have no answer to such questions, anymore.”
“How about ammunition?” Bolan asked, changing the subject. “Your Beretta must be running low.”
Pahlavi drew his pistol, checked its load, then rummaged through his pockets. “I have nineteen cartridges remaining, and an empty magazine,” he said.
“Check out the duffel bag behind my seat,” Bolan suggested. “You should find some loose 9 mm rounds there, in boxes.”
Twisting in his seat, Pahlavi did as he was told. A moment later, he faced front, a box of ammo with the pistol in his lap, and glanced sidelong at Bolan in the driver’s seat.
“You came prepared for war,” he said.
“I came prepared for almost anything,” Bolan replied. “It’s the best way to stay alive.”
“Like your Boy Scouts,” Pahlavi quipped, forcing a smile.
“Same notion,” Bolan said. “Just all grown up.”
“I fear there will be more killing,” Pahlavi said.
Count on it, Bolan thought. “I wouldn’t be surprised. You up for that?” he asked.
“I’ll do what must
be done. Give up my life, if necessary, to prevent a worse catastrophe.”
“The dedication’s good,” Bolan observed, “but in my own experience, it’s not the best idea to concentrate on dying all the time. It can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. You know the Green Berets’ translation of the Golden Rule?”
Pahlavi frowned and shook his head.
“Do unto others,” Bolan said, “before they do it unto you.”
“I understand this, now. We do it to them big time, yes?”
“I hope so,” Bolan answered, his mind divided between the open highway he could see and the invisible pitfalls that still lay somewhere up ahead.
It would be dark soon, helping to conceal them—or, perhaps, making them stand out more than ever on the highway, with no other traffic running in the same direction. Bolan hoped they wouldn’t meet another army unit on their way, but anything was possible.
They would’ve found the dead by now, or Pahlavi’s friends, at least, beside the road. The search would spread from there and follow them, unless someone from Project X already knew about Pahlavi’s link to Ohm, and where he could be found if he was forced to hide.
What would be waiting for them when they reached Pahlavi’s village, if they reached it?
Bolan didn’t know, but he was going to find out.
And soon.
7
“Two more miles, I think,” Pahlavi said. “I recognize that tree.”
He pointed through the windshield to a massive, twisted oak tree on their left, some eighty yards ahead. It reminded Bolan of a giant from a fairy tale, chained and condemned to everlasting torture with its crooked, strangely angled limbs, most of them thicker than his body at the root. At closer range, Bolan could see the trunk was also scarred, as if by shrapnel or the manic hacking of an uncoordinated woodsman bent on maiming, rather than removing it.
He didn’t ask, and put the sudden rush of grim, unbidden images out of his mind. Whatever had befallen this old tree in bygone days, it had nothing to do with him.
Pahlavi seemed to read his mind. As they passed the great, distorted oak, he said, “There was a battle here, around the time that I was born. Really a skirmish, I suppose you’d say. A pair of warlords fighting over territory, I believe. All dead, now, but they left their marks behind.”
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