"The minister thinks very highly of you." "Thanks," Friday said. He
looked down and spoke very softly.
"Tell me something. What happened today in the marketplace?"
"I'm not sure," Nazir replied.
"Would you tell me if you did?" Friday asked.
"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 SFP 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.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
Alconbury, Great Britain Wednesday, 7:10 p. m.
Mike Rodgers was looking at files Bob Herbert had emailed 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 air bound 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 R. A.F 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 wide open 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
business people 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.
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control Page 14