Line of Control (37 page)

    "It is vital that your government take no action until our people in the field have had a chance to extract the Indian operative."

    "You have made that quite clear," the ambassador replied.

    "There is the very real danger that even a leaked word could turn this into a self-fulfilling nightmare," Plummer added.

    "I agree," Simathna assured him. The tall Pakistani smiled slightly and started toward the door.

    "Mr. Ambassador, please tell me what you're going to do," Plummer implored. The American was going to feel very foolish if Simathna were going to get an aspirin or visit the lavatory. But Plummer had to know.

    "I am going to do something that will require your assistance," Simathna replied.

    "Anything," Plummer said.

    "What can I do?"

    The ambassador opened the door and looked back.

    "You must give me something that you just requested of me."

    "Of course," Plummer told him.

    "Name it." While the PEO waited he replayed the conversation in his mind on fastforward, trying to remember what the hell he had asked the ambassador for.

    "I need your trust," Simathna said.

    "You have it, sir. That's why I came here," Plummer insisted.

    "What I need to know is if we're on the same tactical page."

    "We are," Simathna replied.

    "However, I have access to footnotes that you do not."

    With that, the Pakistani ambassador left his office and quietly shut the door behind him.

    

    The Siachin Glacier Thursday, 10:57 p. m.

    Ron Friday's anger kept him from freezing.

    The NSA operative was not angry when he started this leg of the mission.

    He had been optimistic. He had effectively taken charge of the mission from Sharab. Even if the woman survived her encounter with the Indian army, Friday would be the one who led the cell into Pakistan. The triumph would be his. And the journey appeared feasible, at least according to the Indian military reconnaissance maps he had taken from the helicopter. The line of control did not appear to be heavily guarded at the Bellpora Pass. The region was extremely wide and open and easy to monitor from the air. Captain Nazir had told Friday that anyone passing through the jagged, icy region risked being spotted and picked off. So Friday and his group would have to remain alert. If the cell was still in the pass during a fly over they would find a place to hide until it was finished.

    However, Friday became less enthusiastic about the operation as the hours passed. He was accustomed to working alone. That had always given him a psychological advantage.

    Not having to worry about or rely on someone else enabled him to make fast tactical turns, both mentally and physically.

    It had been the same with his romantic relationships. They were paid for by the hour. That made them easy, to the point, and, most importantly, over.

    Samouel was holding up well enough. He was in the lead.

    The Pakistani was deftly poking the ground with a long stick he had picked up, making sure there were no pockets of thin ice. Friday was directly behind him. There were two unlit torches tucked under his right arm. They were made with sturdy branches the men had picked up before the tree line ended. They were capped by tightly wound strangler vines.

    The thick vines glowed rather than burned. Friday had stuffed very dry rye grass between the vines to serve as primers.

    The torches would only be used in an emergency. Friday had five matches in his pocket and he did not want to waste them.

    Nanda and her grandfather were at the rear of the line.

    Nanda herself was doing all right. She was a slight woman and she lost body heat quickly. But she had a fighting spirit and would have kept up the pace if not for Apu. The elderly farmer was simply exhausted.

    If not for his granddaughter the Indian probably would have lain down and died.

    As darkness had descended over the ice and the temperature had fallen, Friday had become increasingly disgusted with the Kumars. He had no tolerance for Apu's infirmity.

    And Nanda's devotion frustrated him. She had a responsibility to end the crisis she had helped cause. Every minute they spent nursing Apu across the glacier slowed their progress and drained the energies of Nanda, Friday, and the other man.

    The farmer's life just did not matter that much.

    Friday had taken a last look around before night finally engulfed them.

    The group was on a flat, barren expanse. To the right, about a half mile distant, the blue-white glacier rose thousands of feet nearly straight up. The surface appeared to be rough and jagged, as though a mountain-sized section had been ripped away. To the left the terrain was much smoother, probably worn down by ages of rain and runoff from the mountains. It sloped downward into what looked like a distant valley.

    Friday could not be certain because a mist was rising from the lower, warmer levels of the glacier.

    Not that it mattered. Pakistan was ahead, due north. And unless Ron Friday did something to speed up this group's progress they would not get there in time, if at all.

    Friday took out his small flashlight and handed it to Samouel.

    The batteries would probably not last until sunrise.

    Friday told the Pakistani to get a good look at the terrain and then shut the light off until he absolutely needed it again.

    Then the American dropped to the left side of the loose formation.

    The air was still and the night was quiet. The glacier was protecting them from the fierce mountain winds. Friday waited for Nanda and her grandfather to catch up. Then he fell in beside the woman. She was 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."

    

    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, the 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.