Line of Control (4 page)

    Rodgers went on.

    "If Director Pike helps Chatterjee, the Indians will continue to work exclusively with him."

    "Pike can have the trophy if he wants," Hood said.

    "We still get the intelligence."

    "But that isn't all Pike wants," Rodgers said.

    "People aren't satisfied just winning in Washington. They have to destroy the competition. And if that doesn't work they go after his friends and family."

    "Yeah-well, he'll have to get a task force for that one," Hood said quietly.

    "We Hoods are kind of spread out now."

    Rodgers felt like an ass. Paul Hood was not living with his family anymore and his daughter, Harleigh, spent a lot of time in therapy. It was careless to have suggested that they might be at risk.

    "Sorry, Paul. I didn't mean that literally," Rodgers said.

    "It's all right," Hood replied.

    "I know what you meant. I don't think Pike will cross that line, though.

    We've got pretty good muckrakers and a great press liaison. He won't want to take any rivalry public."

    Rodgers was not convinced of that. Hood's press liaison was Ann Pan-is.

    For the last few days the office was quietly buzzing with the rumor that the divorcee and Paul Hood were having an affair. Ann had been staying late and the two had been spotted leaving Hood's hotel together one morning.

    Rodgers did not care one way or the other as long as their relationship did not impact the smooth operation of the NCMC.

    "Speaking of family, how is Harleigh doing?" Rodgers asked. The general was eager to get off the subject of Pike before leaving for India. The idea of fighting his own people was loathsome to him.

    Though the men did not socialize very much, Rodgers was close enough to Hood to ask about his family.

    "She's struggling with what happened in New York and with me moving out," Hood said.

    "But she's got a good support system and her brother's being a real trouper."

    "Alexander's a good kid. Glad to hear he's stepping up to the plate.

    What about Sharon?" Rodgers asked.

    "She's angry," Hood said.

    "She has a right to be."

    "It will pass," Rodgers said.

    "Liz says it may not," Hood replied.

    Liz was Liz Gordon, Op-Center's psychologist. Though she was not counseling Harleigh, she was advising Hood.

    "Hopefully, the intensity of Sharon's anger will diminish," Hood went on.

    "I don't think she and I will ever be friends again. But with any luck we'll have a civil relationship."

    "You'll get there," Rodgers said.

    "Hell, that's more than I've ever had with a woman."

    Hood thought for a moment then grinned.

    "That's true, isn't it? Goes all the way back to your friend Biscuit in the fifth grade."

    "Yeah," Rodgers replied.

    "Look, you're a diplomat. I'm a soldier. I'm a prisoner to my scorched earth nature."

    Hood's grin became a smile.

    "I may need to borrow some of that fire for my dealings with Senator Fox."

    "Stall her till I get back," Rodgers said.

    "And just keep an eye on Pike. I'll work on him when I get back."

    "It's a deal," Hood said.

    "Stay safe, okay?"

    Rodgers nodded and the men shook hands.

    The general felt uneasy as he headed toward the elevator.

    Rodgers did not like leaving things unresolved-especially when the target was as vulnerable as Hood was. Rodgers could see it in his manner. He had seen it before, in combat.

    It was a strange calm, almost as if Hood were in denial that pressures were starting to build. But they were. Hood was already distracted by his impending divorce, by Harleigh's condition, and by the day-to-day demands of his position.

    Rodgers had a feeling that the pressure from Senator Fox would become much more intense after the CIOC met. He would give Bob Herbert a call from the C-130 and ask him to keep an eye on Op-Center's director.

    A watcher watching the watcher, Rodgers thought. Op Center intelligence chief looking after Op-Center's director, who was tracking Kirk Pike.

    With all the human drama gusting around him the general almost felt as if it were routine to go into the field to search for nuclear missiles.

    But Rodgers got his perspective back quickly. As he walked onto the tarmac he saw the Striker team beginning to assemble beside the Hercules transport. They were in uniform, at ease, their grips and weapons at their feet. Colonel August was reviewing a checklist with Lieutenant Orjuela, his new second-in-command.

    Behind him, in the basement of the NCMC, there were careers at risk.

    Out here men and women were about to buy their way into India using their lives as collateral.

    The day that became routine was the day Rodgers vowed to hang up his uniform.

    Stepping briskly, proudly, Rodgers made his way toward the shadow of the plane and the sharp, bright salutes of his waiting team.

    

    Kargu, Kashmir Wednesday, 4:11 p. m.

    Apu Kumar sat on the old, puffy featherbed that had once been used by his grandmother. He looked out at the four bare walls of his small bedroom. They had not always been bare. There used to be framed pictures of his late wife and his daughter and son-in-law, and a mirror. But their houseguests had removed them. Glass could be used as a weapon.

    The bed was tucked in a corner of the room he shared with his twenty-two-year-old granddaughter Nanda. At the moment the young woman was outside cleaning the chicken coop. When she was finished she would shower in the small stall behind the house and then return to the room.

    She would unfold a small card table, set it beside her grandfather's bed, and pull over a wooden chair. The bedroom door would be kept ajar and their vegetarian meals would be served to them in small wooden bowls. Then Apu and Nanda would listen to the radio, play chess, read, meditate, and pray. They would pray for enlightenment and also for Nanda's mother and father, both of whom died in the roaring hell that was unleashed on Kargil just four years ago. Sometime around ten or eleven they would go to sleep. With any luck Apu would make it through the night. Sudden noises tended to wake him instantly and bring back the planes and the weeks of endless bombing raids.

    In the morning, the Kargil-born farmer was permitted to go out and look after his chickens. One of his houseguests always went with him to make sure he did not try to leave.

    Apu's truck was still parked beside the coop. Even though the Pakistanis had taken the keys Apu could easily splice the ignition wires and drive off. Of course, he would only do that if his granddaughter Nanda were with him. Which was why they were never allowed outside together.

    The slender, silver-haired man would feed the chickens, talk to them, and look after any eggs they had left. Then he was taken back to the room. In the late afternoon it was Nanda's turn to go out to do the more difficult work of cleaning the coop. Though Apu could do it, their guests insisted that Nanda go. It helped keep the headstrong young woman tired. When they had enough eggs to bring to market one of their houseguests always went to Srinagar for them. And they always gave the money to Apu. The Pakistanis were not here for financial profit. Though Apu tried hard to eavesdrop, he was still not sure why they were here.

    They did not do much except talk.

    For five months, ever since the five Pakistanis arrived in the middle of the night, the physical life of the sixty-three year-old farmer had been defined by this routine. Though daily visits to the coop had been the extent of the Kumars' physical life, Apu had retained his wits, his spirit, and most importantly his dignity. He had done that by devoting himself to reading and meditating on his deep Hindu beliefs. He did that for himself and also to show his Islamic captors that his faith and resolve were as powerful as theirs.

    Apu reached behind him. He raised his pillow a little higher. It was lumpy with age, having been through three generations of Kumars. A smile played on his grizzled, leathery face. The down had suffered enough.

    Perhaps the duck would find contentment in another incarnation.

    The smile faded quickly. That was sacrilegious. It was something his granddaughter might have said. He should know better. Maybe the months of incarceration were affecting his reason. He looked around.

    Nanda slept in a sleeping bag on the other side of the room. There were times when Apu would wake in the small hours of the night and hear her breathing. He enjoyed that.

    If nothing else their captivity had allowed them to get to know each other better. Even though her nontraditional religious views bothered him, he was glad to know what they were. One could not fight the enemy without knowing his face.

    There were two other rooms in the small stone house. The door to the living room was open. The Pakistanis stayed there during the day. At night they moved to the room that used to be his. All save the one who took the watch. One of them was always awake. They had to be. Not just to make sure Apu and Nanda stayed inside the house but to watch for anyone who might approach the farm. Though no one lived close by, Indian army patrols occasionally came through these low-lying hills.

    When this group of Pakistanis first arrived they had promised their unwilling hosts that they would stay no more than six months. And if Apu and Nanda did what they were told they would not be harmed after that time. Apu was not sure he believed the four men and one woman but he was willing to give them the time they asked for. After all, what choice did he have?

    Though he would not mind if the authorities came and shot them dead. As long as he did not cause harm to befall them it would not affect his future in this life or the next.

    The shame of it was that as people they would all get along fine. But politics and religion had stirred things up. That was the story of this entire region from the time Apu had been a young man. Neighbors were neighbors until outsiders turned them into enemies.

    There was one small window in the room but the shutters had been nailed closed. The only light came from a small lamp on the nightstand. The glow illuminated a small, old, leather bound copy of the Upanishads.

    Those were the mystical writings of Apu's faith. The Upanishads comprised the final section of the Veda, the Hindu holy scriptures.

    Apu turned his mind back to the text. He was reading the earliest of the Upanishads, the sections of verse that addressed the doctrine of Brahman, the universal self or soul.

    The goal of Hinduism, like other Eastern religions, was nirvana, the eventual freedom from the cycle of rebirth and the pain brought about by one's own actions or karma. This could only be accomplished by following spiritual yoga, which led to a union with God. Apu was determined to pursue that goal. though actually achieving it was a dream. He was also devoted to the study of the post-Vedic Puranas, which address the structure of' life in an individual and social sense and also take the reader through the repeating cycle of creation and end of the universe as represented by the divine trinity of Brahma, the creator; Vishnu, the preserver; and Shiva, the destroyer. He had had a hard life, as befitted his farmer caste. But he had to believe that it was just a blink in the cosmic cycle. Otherwise, there would be nothing to work toward, no ultimate end.

    Nanda was different. She put more trust in the poet-saints who wrote religious songs and epics. The literature was essential to Hinduism but she responded to the outpourings of men more than the doctrines they were describing. Nanda had always liked heroes who spoke their minds.

    That had been her mother's nature as well. To say what she believed.

    To fight. To resist.

    That was what had helped cost Apu his daughter and sonin-law.

    When the Pakistani invaders first arrived, the two sheep farmers made Molotov cocktails for the hastily organized resistance fighters. After two weeks both Savitri and her husband, Manjay, were caught transporting them inside bags of wool. The bags were ignited with the couple bound in the cab of their truck. The next day Apu and Nanda found their bodies in the blackened ruins. To Nanda they were martyrs.

    To Apu they had been reckless. To Apu's ailing wife, Pad, they were the final blow to a frail body. She died eight days later.

    "All human errors are impatience," it was written. If only Savitri and Manjay had asked, Apu would have told them to wait. Time brings balance.

    The Indian military eventually pushed most of the Pakistanis out. There was no reason for his children to have acted violently. They hurt others and added that burden to their spiritual inventory.

    Tears began to fill his eyes. It was all such a waste.

    Though, strangely, it made him cherish Nanda all the more.

    She was the only part of his wife and daughter that he had left.

    There was a sudden commotion in the other room. Apu shut his book and set it on the rickety night table. He slid into his slippers and quietly crossed the wooden floor. He peeked out the door. Four of the Pakistanis were all there.

    The houseguests were working on something, arms and heads moving over something between them. The backs of three of the men were toward him so he could not see what they were doing. Only the woman was facing him.

    She was a slender, very swarthy woman with short black hair and a frowning, intense look. The others called her Sharab but Apu did not know if that was her real name.