Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control

by Line of Control [lit]

  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 pants. 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 All 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 eypad 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 denes 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," N
anda

  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 doubtedly 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.

  Then, in turn, each member of the party hugged Ishaq. He smiled at them

  with tears in his eyes. Sharab was the last to embrace him.

  "I pray that Allah will send to your aid five thousand angels," Sharab

  whispered to him.

  "I would sooner He send them to help you reach home," Ishaq replied.

  "Then I would be sure that this has not been in vain."

  She hugged him even tighter then patted his back, turned, and stepped

  through the tarp.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

  Srinagar, Kashmir Wednesday, 10:00 p. m.

  Ron Friday was in his small room when the phone on the rickety night

  table rang. He opened his eyes and looked at his watch.

  Right on time.

  The phone was from the 1950s, a heavy black anvil of a thing with a

  thick brown cord. And it really rang rather than beeped. Friday was

  sitting on the bed; after sending the encoded message to Hank Lewis he

  had turned on the black and-white TV. An old movie was on. Even with

  English subtitles Friday had trouble following the plot. The fact that

  he kept dozing off did not help.

  Friday did not answer the phone on the first ring. Or the second. He did

  not pick up until the tenth ring. That was how he knew the caller was

  his Black Cat contact. Tenth ring at the tenth hour.

  The caller. Captain Prem Nazir, said he would meet Friday outside in

  fifteen minutes.

  Friday pulled on his shoes, grabbed his windbreaker, and headed down the

  single flight of stairs. There were only twelve rooms at Binoo's Palace,

  most of them occupied by market workers, women of questionable

  provenance, and men who rarely emerged from their rooms. Obviously, the

  police turned a blind eye to more than just the gaming parlor.

  The inn did not have much of a lobby. A reception desk was located to

  the left of the stairs. It was run by Binoo during the day and his

  sister at night. There was a Persian rug on a hardwood floor with

  battered sofas on either side.

  The windows looked out on the dark, narrow street. The smell of the

  potent, native-grown Juari cigarettes was thick here. The gaming parlor

  was located in a room behind the counter. A veil of smoke actually hung

  like a stage scrim behind Binoo's oblivious sister.

  The heavyset woman was leaning on the counter. She did not look up from

  her movie magazine as Friday came down.

  That was what he loved about this place. No one gave a damn.

  The lobby was empty. So was the street. Friday leaned against the wall

  and waited.

  Friday had never met the fifty-three-year-old Captain Nazir.

  Atomic Energy Minister Shankar knew him and put a lot of trust in him.

  Friday did not trust anyone, including Shankar.

  But Captain Nazir's extensive background in espionage, first behind the

  lines in Pakistan in the 1960s, then with the Indian army, and now with

  the National Security Guard, suggested that the two men might enjoy a

  good working relationship.

  Unless, that is, there were a problem between the NSG and the Special

  Frontier Force. That was the first order of business Friday intended to

  discuss with Nazir, even before they talked about the Striker mission to

  search for Pakistani nuclear missiles. Friday did not mind going on a

  sensitive mission for the Black Cats if they did not have the full trust

  and support of the government. Part of intelligence work was doing

  things without government approval. But he did mind going out if the

  Black Cats and the SFF were at war, if one group were looking to

  embarrass the other. A freeze-out of the NSG at the bomb site did not

  mean that was the case.

  But Friday wanted to be sure.

  Captain Nazir arrived exactly on schedule. He was strolling in no

  particular hurry with no apparent destination, and he was smoking a

  Juari. That was smart. The officer was up from New Delhi but he was not

  smoking one of the milder brands that was popular in the capital.

  The local cigarette would help him blend in with the surroundings.

  The officer was dressed in a plain gray sweatshirt, khaki slacks, and

  Nikes. He was about five-foot-seven with short black hair and a scar

  across his forehead. His skin was smooth and dark. He looked exactly

  like the photographs Friday had seen.

  Ron Friday obviously looked like his photographs as well.r />
  Captain Nazir did not bother to introduce himself. They would not say

  one another's names at all. There were still SFP personnel working in

  the bazaar. They might have set up electronic surveillance of the area

  to try to catch the bombers. If so, someone might overhear them.

  The officer simply offered Friday his hand and said in a low, rough

  voice, "Walk with me."

  The two men continued in the direction Captain Nazir had been headed,

  away from the main street, Shervani Road. The narrow side street where

  the inn was located was little more than an alley. There were dark shops

  on either side of the road. They sold items that did not usually turn up

  in the bazaar, like bicycles, men's suits, and small appliances. The

  street ended in a high brick wall about three hundred yards away.

  Nazir drew on the nub of his cigarette.