holding Apu's hand close to her waist and walking slightly ahead of him.
With each step Nanda stopped and literally gave her grandfather a firm
but gentle tug across the ice. She was breathing heavily and Apu was
bent deeply at the waist.
"We're not going to make it at this rate," Friday said.
"We'll make it," she replied.
"Not in time," Friday insisted. He did not know that for a fact. But
saying it emphatically would make it sound true to Nanda.
Nanda did not respond.
"If either side drops a nuclear missile anywhere in the mountains, this
glacier will become a freshwater lake," Friday pointed out.
"Let me leave Samouel with your grandfather.
You come with me. When we reach Pakistan we can send help."
"Leave my grandfather with one of the men who held us captive?" she
said.
"I can't trust a man like that." "Circumstances have changed," Friday
said.
"Samouel wants to save his people. That means protecting your
grandfather." The young woman continued to help her grandfather along.
Friday could not see her expression in the dark. But he could hear the
farmer's feet drag along the ice. Just the sound had an enraging
quality.
"Nanda, I need your cooperation on this," Friday pressed.
"I am cooperating," she replied evenly.
"You don't understand," Friday said.
"We have no idea what's happening in the outside world. We need to get
you across the line of control as quickly as possible."
Nanda stopped. She told her grandfather to rest for a moment.
The farmer gratefully lowered himself to his knees while the woman took
Friday aside. The American told Samouel to keep moving. Friday would
find him by the bursts from the flashlight.
"If we leave the terrorist and my grandfather here, no one will come
back," Nanda said.
"I know this border region.
There will be a great deal of tension on both sides of the glacier. No
one will want to make any unnecessary or provocative military moves.
Samouel will leave without him."
"We'll send a civilian helicopter back here," Friday said.
"The American embassy can arrange it quickly." "They'll be dead by
then," Nanda told him.
"My grandfather is pushing himself as it is. If I leave he'll give up."
"Nanda, if you don't leave, two nations may cease to exist," Friday
pointed out.
"You played a key role in this.
You have to set it right."
The young woman was silent. Friday could not see her in the blackness
but he could hear her breathing. It had slowed somewhat. Nanda was
thinking. She was softening.
She was going to agree.
"All right," she said.
"I'll do what you ask but only if you stay and help my grandfather."
That caught Friday by surprise.
"Why?"
"You know how to survive out here," Nanda replied. She placed her hand
on the unlit torches for emphasis.
"I think I saw a valley to the west. You will be able to get him down
there in the dark, find shelter, warmth, and water. Promise me you'll
take care of him and I'll go ahead with Samouel."
The perspiration on the American's face was beginning to freeze. It was
a strange feeling, like candle wax hardening.
The insides of his thighs were badly chafed and his lungs hurt from the
cold air they had been breathing. The longer he stood here the more
aware he became of how vulnerable they were. It would be easy to stand
still a moment too long and die.
Friday set the two torches down and removed the glove from his right
hand. He scratched the frozen sweat from his cheeks and forehead. Then
he slipped his hand into his coat pocket. Nanda was Friday's trophy. He
had no intention of staying behind or being dictated to.
He removed the pistol from his pocket. Nanda could not see it or know
what he was going to do. If he put a bullet in the farmer's head Nanda
would have no choice but to press on, even if only to bring Friday to
justice. Friday, of course, would argue that Apu was distraught about
holding the others back. He had tried to reach the gun to end his own
life. There was a fight. It went off.
Friday hesitated. He considered the possibility that a shot might
attract the attention of the Indian soldiers from the line of control.
But he realized that the many peaks and winding ice valleys would make
the sound impossible to pinpoint.
And those ice peaks were far enough away so that a shot would probably
not bring loose sections crashing down. Especially if the blast were
muffled by the parka of the dead man.
Friday walked around Nanda.
"All right," he said with finality.
"I will take care of your grandfather."
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT.
Washington, D. C. Thursday, 1:28 p. m.
Ron Plummer was not a patient man. And that had been a great help to him
throughout his career.
Intelligence officers and government liaisons could not afford patience.
They had to have restless minds and curious imaginations.
Otherwise they could not motivate their people or themselves to look
past the obvious or accept impasses.
However, they also needed to possess control. The ability to appear calm
even when they were not.
Ordinarily, Ron Plummer was also a calm man. At the moment his
self-control was being tested. Not by the crisis but by the one thing a
former intelligence operative hated most.
Ignorance.
It had been nearly forty-five minutes since Ambassador Simathna left the
office. Plummer had sat for a few minutes, paced slowly, sat some more,
then stood and walked in circles around the large office. He looked at
the bookcases filled with histories and biographies. Most were in
English, some were in Urdu. The wood-paneled walls were decorated with
plaques, citations, and photographs of the ambassador with various world
leaders. There was even one of Simathna with United Nations
Secretary-General Chatterjee. Neither of them was smiling. The PEO hoped
that was not an omen.
He stopped in front of a framed document that hung near the ambassador's
desk. It was signed in 1906 by Aga Khan III, an Indian Muslim. The paper
was an articulate statement of objectives for the All-India Muslim
League, an organization that the sultan's son had founded to oversee the
establishment of a Muslim state in the region.
Plummer wondered if that was the last time Indian and Muslim interests
had coincided.
Plummer saw his own reflection in the UV glass. The image was
translucent, which was fitting. A political liaison had to have enough
substance to know what he stood for but enough flexibility to consider
the needs of others. He also had to have the skill to intermediate
between the different parties. Even good, sensible, well-intentioned men
like Hood and Simathna could disagree strongly.
Plummer glanced at his watch. Paul Hood would be waiting for an update.
But Plummer did not want to call Op Center
For one thing, t
he political liaison had nothing to report. For another,
the embassy was certainly wired with eavesdropping devices.
The office and phones were surely bugged. And any number Plummer punched
into his cell phone would be picked up by electronic pulse interceptors.
These devices were about the size and shape of a pocket watch. They were
designed to recognize and record only cell phone pulses.
Thereafter, whenever that number was used within the listening range of
the embassy's antennae, Pakistani intelligence--or whomever Islamabad
sold the data to-could hack and listen in on the call. It was one thing
when cell phone users accidentally intercepted someone else's
conversation.
It was different when those calls were routinely monitored.
Plummer considered what Ambassador Simathna might be up to. Plummer
decided on three possibilities. He certainly would have reported the
intelligence to the chief executive of the republic. General Abdul
Qureshi. Either Islamabad or the embassy might then draft a press
release condemning New Delhi for their duplicity. The Indians would
vehemently deny the charges, of course. That would rally the people
around their respective leaders and ratchet tensions even higher.
Especially at Op-Center, which would surely be cited by Islamabad for
having provided them with the information.
The second possibility was that there would be no press release. Not
yet. Instead, Qureshi and the generals of Pakistan's National Security
Council would plan a swift, merciless nuclear strike against India.
They would attempt to destroy as many missile installations as possible
before releasing the intelligence Op-Center had provided. That would
drag the United States into the conflict as a de facto ally of Pakistan.
Hood and Plummer had known that those were both possibilities.
They simply hoped that reason would triumph. On the whole. Ambassador
Simathna was a reasonable man.
That allowed Plummer to hold out hope for a third possibility, what he
called "the one-eighty." It was an option the experts never considered,
a development that popped up one hundred and eighty degrees from where
the common wisdom had staked its tent. It was the Allies invading
Normandy beach instead of Calais during World War II, it was Harry
Truman beating Thomas Dewey for the presidency in 1948.
Simathna's parting words, about there being a footnote that only he
could access, gave Plummer hope for a one eighty
The door opened while Plummer was reading the ninety year-old paper
signed by Khan.
"I often stand where you are and gaze at that document," the ambassador
declared as he entered the room.
"It reminds me of the dream for which I am an honored caretaker."
The Pakistani shut the heavy door and walked toward his desk. The
ambassador seemed to be a little more distracted than before. That could
be a good thing or a bad thing for Plummer. Either diplomacy had
triumphed and Islamabad would give Mike Rodgers time to try to finish
the mission.
That meant the ambassador would be the hero or the scapegoat.
Or else the children of Aga Khan III were about to write a new Muslim
League document. One that would be blasted into the history books by
plutonium 239.
Simathna walked quickly behind his desk. He gestured toward a chair on
the other side. Plummer sat after the ambassador did. Simathna then
turned a telephone toward the American political liaison.
"Would you please call Mr. Hood and ask him to connect you to General
Rodgers," Simathna said.
"I must speak with them both."
Plummer sat forward in the armchair.
"What are you going to tell them?" he asked.
"I spoke with General Qureshi and the members of the National Security
Council," the ambassador told him.
"There was deep concern but no panic. Preparations are quietly being
made to activate defense systems and policies already in place. If what
you say about the Indian woman is true, we believe the situation need
not escalate."
"How can Op-Center help?" Plummer pressed.
Ambassador Simathna told Plummer what the Pakistani leaders had
discussed. Their plan was more than a one eighty
It was an option that Plummer never could have thought of.
Plummer also realized that the plan carried an enormous risk. The
Pakistanis could be looking for an ally in the war against India. If the
ambassador were misleading Plummer about their intent, the Pakistani
proposal would put the United States at the epicenter of the
conflagration.
Literally.
Fortunately or unfortunately, all Ron Plummer had to do was make the
call.
Paul Hood was the one who had to make the decision.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE.
Washington, D. C. Thursday, 1:36 p. m.
Paul Hood was stealing a slice of pizza from his assistant's desk when
the call came from Ron Plummer. Hood asked Bugs to have Bob Herbert join
him. Then he hurried back to his desk to take the call.
"What have you got?" Hood said as he picked up. He heard the slight
reverberation sound that indicated he was on speaker. Hood engaged his
own speaker option.
"Paul, I'm here with Ambassador Simathna," Plummer said.
"He has a proposal."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador," Hood said.
"Tell me how we can help you."
Herbert wheeled in then and shut the door behind him.
"First, Director Hood, I want to offer my condolences on the tragic loss
of your Striker unit, and my government's appreciation for what they
were attempting to accomplish," Simathna said.
"Thank you," Hood replied. The ambassador sounded a little too
compassionate. He had obviously figured out that the team had not been
in the region to help stop Indian aggression.
Herbert was a little more blunt. The intelligence chief made an
up-and-down motion with his fist.
"Second, my government has a plan that may assist General Rodgers and
his personnel," Simathna went on.
"As I have already explained to Mr. Plummer, it will require an
understanding with your government that details of the operation must
remain confidential."
"I am not in a position to speak for the government, only my small
corner of it," Hood said.
"If you tell me your idea I will immediately confer with people who are
in a position to offer those assurances."
Paul Hood was dying inside. Vital seconds and quite possibly lives were
slipping away while he and Ambassador Simathna postured. But this was
how the dance was done.
"The plan we propose is that your group proceed to a nuclear missile
site that our military has erected in the glacier," Simathna said.
"It is a remotely operated site with video cameras monitoring the
interior. The Indian woman can make her broadcast from inside the silo."
Hood stared at Bob Herbert. Mike Rodgers was being invited to visit one
of the silos Striker had originally been sent to find. The irony of the
proposal was almost painful. What was difficult
to process, however, was
the dangers inherent in the plan.
"Mr. Ambassador, would you excuse me a minute?" Hood asked.
"Given the situation 1 would not take much longer than that," Simathna
replied.
"I understand, sir, but I need to confer with one of my associates,"
Hood replied.
"Of course," Simathna said.
Hood punched the mute button.
"What do your instincts tell you. Bob? Are they using us?"
"Man, I just don't know," Herbert admitted.
"My gut says that the team needs to get to the nearest, warmest refuge
as soon as possible. The more I looked at photographs of the glacier the
more I started thinking they'll never be able to cross it without more
gear and supplies than they're carrying.
And the weather reports for the region suck. It's going to be around ten
below zero before midnight. But I have to tell you, of all the places
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control Page 34