Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control

by Line of Control [lit]

  personal file says that Friday worked as her aide. He was on loan from

  the NSA to collect intelligence on the oil situation. There's no reason

  to assume the CIA involved him in the hunt for the Harpooner.

  And Jack Fenwick was playing with fire. He may not have told Friday what

  the NSA was really doing in the Caspian."

  "Or Fenwick may have sent him there," Herbert pointed out.

  "Friday's oil credentials made him the perfect inside man." "You'll need

  to prove that one," Hood said.

  Herbert didn't like that answer. When his gut told him something he

  listened to it. To him. Hood's habit of being a devil's advocate was one

  of his big weaknesses. Still, from the perspective of accountability

  Hood was doing the right thing. That was why Hood was in charge of

  Op-Center and Herbert was not. They could not go back to the CIOC and

  tell them they called off the mission or were concerned about Friday's

  role in it because of Herbert's intuition.

  The phone beeped. It was Dorothy Williamson. Hood put the phone on

  speaker. He was busy typing something on his keyboard as he introduced

  himself and Herbert. Then he explained that they were involved in a

  joint operation with Ron Friday. Hood asked if she would mind sharing

  her impressions of the agent.

  "He was very efficient, a good attorney and negotiator, and I was sorry

  to lose him," she said.

  "Did he interact much with the two Company men, the ones who were killed

  by the Harpooner's man?" Hood asked.

  "Mr. Friday spent a great deal of time with Mr. Moore and Mr. Thomas,"

  Williamson replied.

  "I see," Hood said.

  Herbert felt vindicated. Friday's interaction with the men should have

  shown up in his reports to the NSA. Now he knew the file had been

  sanitized.

  "For the record, Mr. Hood, I do want to point out one thing," Williamson

  said.

  "The Company agents were not killed by one assassin but by two."

  That caught Herbert by surprise.

  "There were two assassins at the hospital," the deputy ambassador went

  on.

  "One of them was killed. The other one got away. The Baku police

  department is still looking for him."

  "I did not know that," Hood said.

  "Thank you."

  Herbert's gut growled a little. The two CIA operatives were killed

  getting medical attention for a visiting agent who had been poisoned by

  the Harpooner. Fenwick's plan to start a Caspian war had depended upon

  killing all three men at the hospital. Fenwick certainly would have

  asked Friday for information regarding the movements of the CIA

  operatives.

  And just as certainly that information would have been deleted from

  Friday's files. But after the two men were killed, Friday had to have

  suspected that something was wrong. He should have confided in

  Williamson or made sure he had a better alibi.

  Unless he was a willing part of Fenwick's team.

  "Bob Herbert here. Madam Deputy Ambassador," Herbert said.

  "Can you tell me where Mr. Friday was on the night of the murders?"

  "In his apartment, as I recall," Williamson informed him.

  "Did Mr. Friday have anything to say after he learned about the

  killings?" Herbert pressed.

  "Not really," she said.

  "Was he concerned for his own safety?" Herbert asked.

  "He never expressed any worries," she said.

  "But there was not a lot of time for chat. We were working hard to put

  down a war."

  Hood shot Herbert a glance. The intelligence chief sat back,

  exasperated, as Hood complimented her on her efforts during the crisis.

  That was Paul Hood. Whatever the situation he always had the presence of

  mind to play the diplomat. Not Herbert. If the Harpooner was killing U.

  S. agents, he wanted to know why it did not occur to Ms. Williamson to

  find out why Friday had not been hit.

  The deputy ambassador had a few more things to say about Friday,

  especially praising his quick learning curve on the issues they had to

  deal with between Azerbaijan and its neighbors. Williamson asked Hood to

  give him her regards if he spoke with Friday.

  Hood said he would and clicked off. He regarded Herbert.

  "You wouldn't have gotten anywhere hammering her," Hood said.

  "How do you know?" Herbert asked.

  "While we were talking I looked at her c. v.," Hood said.

  "Williamson's a political appointee. She ran the spin doctoring for

  Senator Thompson during his last Senate campaign."

  "Dirty tricks?" Herbert asked disgustedly.

  "That's the whole of her intelligence experience?" "Pretty much," Hood

  said.

  "With two CIA agents on staff in Baku I guess the president thought he

  was safe scoring points with the majority whip. More to the point, I'm

  guessing this whole thing sounds too clean to you."

  "Like brass buttons on inspection day." "I don't know. Bob," Hood said.

  "It's not just Williamson.

  Hank Lewis trusted Friday enough to send him to India." "That doesn't

  mean anything," Herbert said.

  "I spoke with Hank Lewis earlier this morning. He's making decisions

  like a monkey in a space capsule."

  Hood made a face.

  "He's a good man--"

  "Maybe, Chief, but that's the way it is," Herbert insisted.

  "Lewis gets a jolt of electricity and pushes a button. He hasn't had

  time to think about Ron Friday or anyone else.

  Look, Hank Lewis and Dorothy Williamson shouldn't be the issues right

  now--" "Agreed," Hood said.

  "All right. Let's assume Ron Friday may not be someone we want on our

  team. How do we vet him? Jack Fenwick's not going to say anything to

  anyone." "Why not?" Herbert asked.

  "Maybe the rat-bastard will talk in exchange for immunity--"

  "The president got what he wanted, the resignations of Fenwick and his

  coconspirators," Hood said.

  "He doesn't want a national trial that will question whether he was

  actually on the edge of a mental breakdown during the crisis.

  even if it means letting a few underlings remain in the system. Fenwick

  got off lucky. He's not going to say anything that might change the

  president's mind."

  "That's great," Herbert said.

  "The guilty go free and the president's psyche doesn't get the

  examination it may damn well need."

  "And the stock market doesn't collapse and the military doesn't lose

  faith in its commander-in-chief and a rash of Third World despots don't

  start pushing their own agendas while the nation is distracted," Hood

  said.

  "The systems are all too damn interconnected. Bob. Right and wrong don't

  matter anymore. It's all about equilibrium." "Is that so?" Herbert said.

  "Well, mine's a little shaky right now. I don't like risking my team, my

  friends, to keep some Indian nabob happy."

  "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

&n
bsp; 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 god damned

  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.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

  Siachin Base 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 Kashmir! 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 counter plotted 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 learne
d. 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.