The Fourth War (12 page)

His father strained against the pillow, reaching for his hand. “I understand,” he said, repeating his assurance again.

 

That was seven weeks ago. Peter thought of his father while listening to the sounds of the night, the wind through the bare trees and the rain coming down. Isabel neighed from the meadow, but the rain muffled her sound.

He missed his father, but he
had
to be here. He was ashamed to admit it, but he wouldn't have changed things, even if he could.

His father didn't need him, but his country did. And he needed the feeling of doing something good.

He was ten thousand miles from his boss, a thousand miles from a hot bath, weeks away from a good meal, and who knows how long from home. But his tent was dry and secure, and it had a raised wooden floor. It was comfortable and private, and he had room for his tools. His gear was well stowed and well cared for, and he had a meal in his belly. He had a mission. He was good at it. He was exhausted and tired, but also satisfied.

This was the only thing he knew. And sometimes in the quiet moments, when there was no one around, when he would stare at the incredible mountains reaching up to twenty-eight thousand feet and the sky, so dark blue it look like it had been painted by God—at those times it all came together to make him feel small. And in those times the questions came to him and he asked himself why? Why did he stay? Why not go back to the States? Get a job? Make some money? Add some more to his stash? Sleep in on Saturdays, mow the lawn, watch football on TV. Get married, have a kid. Would that be such a bad life?

And yet here he was, in this tent, on this cold, rainy day.

He knew it wasn't the absence of options that drove him to stay. It was the joy of a
mission,
something one man in a million would ever understand in his life. Other men endured their jobs, and to what purpose, he asked? Money? Power? Maybe a little prestige? Everything they worked for amounted to diddly-squat; more money, bigger houses, more and more empty air. None of them would ever know the feeling of having a purpose in life. And he couldn't stand the thought of living without the overwhelming satisfaction of doing something
right.

He had a good horse, a good tent, and friends who would lay down their lives to fight for him, if it ever came to that. It was all he could ask for, all he would ever need.

Peter breathed deep, satisfied, letting himself drift away. He muttered a silent prayer for his father, then put thoughts of him aside. He rolled onto his back and instantly fell asleep, exhaustion allowing him to sleep the entire day.

 

Fifty minutes after dark, a bearded man slipped into his tent. The night wind barely whispered as he moved inside, gliding toward the cot where Peter was asleep. Peter felt him more than he heard him and was instantly awake. He kept his eyes closed in tiny slits, his breathing heavy and thick, as he slowly, almost imperceptibly, moved his hand for the weapon taped to the underside of his cot.

Sensing the motion, the Arab quickly spoke. “Mr. Zembeic,” he whispered, his voice a rasp in the dark. “
Sayid,
please, I have been sent here for you.”

With a flicker of motion, Peter had the weapon in his hand and trained on the intruder. There was a metallic
click
in the night. “Who are you?” Peter demanded, a deadly edge in his voice. “You have two seconds to answer before I make a mess in my tent.”

“Sayid.
” The intruder slowly lifted his hands. “If I had wanted to kill you, you would already be dead. Do you think me incompetent? How did I get past your guards? How did I get into your camp? How did I know where you sleep? So please, my
Sayid,
put your weapon away. Please, we must hurry. You must come with me.”

Peter rolled his legs over, sitting on the edge of his cot. He held the firearm ready, locked on the stranger's head. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And quick with an answer. The fact that you didn't kill me buys you no goodwill.”

“Yes, my
Sayid,
but first you should know. Donner has something to show you. Now quickly, get dressed. We have such a long way to go.”

Northern Pakistan
Near the Afghanistan Border

Twenty-five hours after crawling out of his tent, the CIA agent was stripped, searched, commanded to re-dress, handcuffed, and blindfolded. A thick burlap sack was jerked violently over his head. His feet were bound with wire linked by a short, rusted chain. Under the sack, he found it difficult to breathe and the moisture from his breath soon condensed on his face. The agent was placed in the back of an old army truck, a deuce and a half with bald tires and a green canvas stretched over the back. Though bound, he was left unguarded, free to escape if he chose. But he didn't. He waited. The army truck's engine roared to life and the vehicle started to roll. The night passed slowly as the truck bounced over rough Pakistani roads. At times the vehicle moved at highway speed along roughly paved sections, at times it crawled slowly over treacherous terrain. It wound through steep mountain passes, then along flat valley roads. For the first thirty minutes Peter tried to estimate where he was, but he soon knew it was hopeless, and by the time the truck slowed to a stop, he couldn't have estimated his position within two hundred miles. He could have been in Pakistan, Afghanistan, or Kashmir. He could have been north of Islamabad or south of Kabul. Which was, of course, the point.

After stopping, all was quiet. Nothing moved and the night was very still. Peter listened as the driver's door opened and slammed shut. He could hear the crunch of heavy footsteps across loose gravel, the sound of the wind, but nothing more. No one was there to meet the driver. As far as he could tell, the two men were alone. He listened carefully as the footsteps moved to his left, then leaned anxiously toward the back of the truck. The deuce's canvas top slapped from a sudden gust of wind and a draft of cold air blew through a gap at his side. It was cold. Very cold. The air was thin and bitter. They were high in the mountains, that much he guessed.

He listened as the footsteps fell out of range. Many minutes went by and he became more frustrated and angry. His legs were cramping up and his hands were swollen and sore. The sound of footsteps returned. The driver, still alone, stopped and coughed, then urinated against the side of the truck. The agent waited but didn't speak.

“Stand up,” the driver ordered as he flipped the canvas top and dropped the tailgate. “Walk toward the sound of my voice.”

Peter pushed himself up and moved to the back of the truck, taking tiny steps against the restraints that bound his ankles together. His legs were so cramped that he could hardly walk, and the darkness of the hood made him cautious and slow. Feeling the emptiness with his right foot, he stopped at the back edge of the deuce's platform and held out his hands. “Uncuff me,” he demanded.

The driver reached up and pulled the American violently to the ground, steadying the agent before he could fall to his knees. He swung him around. “I hope you had a most pleasant ride,” the Arab mocked.

Peter stood tall, brushing the Arab's hands off of his coat. He stretched forth his hands. “I have done as you asked. Now uncuff me. Loose my leg bands. My hands have lost feeling. You have the handcuffs too tight.”

The driver laughed sarcastically. “Alright,
Rasul al-Laylat.
I will do as you say.”

It took only seconds for the Arab to remove the handcuffs and chains from his feet. The last thing he did was pull the black sack off the agent's head.

Peter looked quickly around while rubbing his wrists. It was very dark. High shadows of mountains reached upward in every direction—deep, craggy cliffs illuminated by the low moon. The stars were clear and bright. Peter instinctively searched for the North Star, which was off to his right. The mountains ran almost north and south, which would put them on the west end of the Ladakh range. Light snow lined the road, which ran around the edge of a south-facing cliff. At the base of the cliff Peter could make out the entrance of a cave. He glanced at the sky once again, searching the skyline for an identifiable mountain peak.

The Arab caught the American searching the sky and lifted his flashlight to shine the light in his eyes. “Move!” he commanded, motioning toward the entrance of the cave.

Peter remained still as he studied the stranger's face. “Who are you?” he asked.

The stranger was short and squat, with a deeply-creased face and black, wavy hair. His beardless chin was narrow, his eyes evil and mean. He glared at the American. “You call me Donner,” he said.

“Yes. But
who
are you?”

“You will never find out.”

“I need to know—”

“You need nothing but what I'm about to show you!” Donner sneered. “Who I am doesn't matter. All that matters is what I give you. So, shut up! Follow me!”

The Arab reached up and pushed Peter toward the cave entrance. Peter stumbled, then stopped and the Arab stepped closer to him. “Decide!” he demanded in a menacing tone. “Do you want to see what I have to show you? Or do I shoot you in the head and leave your dead body here? I can have it either way. But if you want me to work with you, stop asking questions and do as I say!”

The Arab stared at the agent, his lips curling back in a snarl. Peter studied his eyes—the eyes of snake, cold, dead, and lifeless, reflecting the dark of the night. He memorized his features, then turned for the cave.

The entrance was only four feet high, and rough with sharp rocks. Peter bent over and stepped through the hole in the mountain while the Arab illuminated the entrance with his flashlight. The passageway narrowed and climbed slightly upward, where crude steps had been carved into the rock. Fifteen feet back from the entrance, Peter came to a thick steel door. The door was half open, and when he pushed it moved easily on its well-oiled hinges. He stepped into a large cavern where the air was moist and warm. Artificial heat was being generated somewhere. He took a deep breath, then touched the wall with the tip of his fingers. It was smooth and evenly cut. There were no calcified deposits. This was a man-made enclosure, not a natural cave. The Arab moved behind him, then flashed the light into the enormous room. Peter looked quickly left and right, but the darkness swallowed up the small beam of light. “Are you ready,
Rasul al-Laylat
?” the Arab asked, his voice raspy from a life spent sucking on cigarettes.

Peter pressed his lips together and the Arab moved forward, holding the light before him, then came to a sudden stop. Peter followed. Then he saw them and he took a quick breath. His heart slammed inside him.

The shiny chrome containers flashed under the narrow beam of the flashlight. The steel boxes were tight and double locked, but small enough to be lifted by two or three men. Peter moved forward to touch one, feeling its warmth. The Arab reached into his pocket and extracted a small dosimeter. He held it in front of him, then took a step back. Peter could hear the electronic instrument clack rapidly. “I wouldn't get too close,” the Arab instructed. “The weapons are functional, but they are not built to the same standards as you might expect. They leak radiation. And those containers—well, as you can see, I had to improvise. The original lead crates were simply too heavy to be moved by hand.”

Peter stepped away from the weapons. “Are they real?” he asked.

“Of course!” the Arab sneered. “Do you think I would drag you out here to stare at howitzer shells!? Would you like to see the dosimeter readout yourself? Now, let's go. We can only stay in here a few minutes.”

The American didn't move. “I need to know for certain,” he demanded.

The Arab swore, then moved forward and opened a crate. The dosimeter chattered more rapidly as the CIA agent stepped forward, edging toward the box. Inside was a single cylinder, eighteen inches long, blunt on both ends, silver and perfectly smooth. The CIA agent leaned forward, but the Arab stepped back. Peter reached out to touch the warhead. It seemed to hum, almost vibrate, and he pulled his hand away. The Arab moved forward and hastily closed the container, then shoved the dosimeter into the agent's hand. “It has an internal memory function. That will confirm for your people what they need to know.”

Peter dropped his head toward the warheads. “Who else knows they are here?” he asked.

“Only them.” The Arab flashed the light into the farthest corner of the cave. Peter saw the bodies and took a step back. The dead men were stacked neatly, perhaps half a dozen in all. Arms and legs jutted from the pile in unnatural angles. Eyes, dry and empty, stared blankly at him. They were soldiers, all dressed in combat fatigues.

“General Chaman,” the Arab explained, shining the light on a dead general's face near the top of the pile. “Director, special weapons. In charge of Pakistan's nuclear arsenal. He agreed to help me protect the warheads. This wasn't the outcome he expected, but it will have to do.”

Peter turned to the Arab, disgust in his eyes. The Arab shrugged. “I needed his help. I needed his men. I am not a man of power. I could not do this myself. Unfortunately for them, I then needed them dead. For my plan to work, I need this information alone. So I took appropriate steps to ensure this information was secure.

“And now it is done. As we stand here and speak, I am the only living man on the face of the earth who knows where these weapons are. I know the exact location, the grid coordinates down to the inch. But others are looking. The war-heads will be found. Al Qaeda is looking, concentrating their efforts, their entire heart and will bent on only one thing: finding these weapons and taking possession of them.”

“How close are they now?”

“They have mobilized every effort. They already are concentrating their search effort not far from here. Two days, maybe three, before the warheads will be found.”

Peter sucked in a breath. The Arab frowned, moving away from the crates. Peter watched the older man as he walked away. “Donner!” he called out. The Arab paused at the sound of his code name. He stood there a moment, but did not turn around. Peter examined the dosimeter, then glanced at the cache of weapons. “How much do you know about the coup?” he asked.

The Arab only grunted.

“Do you know who they are?”

The Arab sneered, “Let's go!”

Peter didn't move. “Who are you?” he pleaded. “What is your name? What is your position?”

The Arab ignored the questions and turned for the opening in the mouth of the cave, then came to a stop and turned back to Peter. “Listen to me, American. I am not your friend. You have no friends here, not in this part of the world. You—all Americans—you mean nothing to me. The only reason I am here is that I am not as short-sighted as some. The leaders are intent on destruction. A hundred million of our people will die. What do you think will happen if al Qaeda detonates a nuclear warhead in the United States? How will your president react? How many of our cities will go up in flames? And then al Qaeda detonates another war-head and another ten million Arabs die. Twenty-four warheads! When will it end!? So, yes, we bite at your ankles, but you will crush our heads. America will be wounded, but we will
cease to exist.

“The Arab world must not be destroyed. And their plan, it is nothing but a self-loathing scheme.”

The Arab turned his light on the crates before he continued. “You must destroy these warheads before all my people die. You are the only ones who can do that. I stole the weapons. Now it is up to you.” The Arab lowered his voice and took a small step toward Peter. “There are a few moments in history where the future hangs like a dry leaf from a tree, ready to be blown where it will in the wind. This is one of those moments, one of those turning points of men. If al Qaeda gets these warheads, then my world is over and yours will be brought to its knees. And the enemy is looking. You must act
today!
”

Peter tightened his jaw. The air crackled with tension, tight, electric, and cold. He studied the Arab, with his yellow teeth and fat lips. And that was when he saw it.

Fear. Almost panic. The Arab was terrified.

 

The military truck pulled away from the cave after turning carefully on the narrow, dirt road. It drove away in the darkness, its headlights off, moving slowly and carefully down the steep mountain road. The driver sat behind the wheel, driving with the aid of his night vision goggles. The American sat beside him in the front of the truck.

Eight kilometers from the cave, the truck pulled onto a main road and turned on its headlights. South toward the capital, it gathered up speed.

The Mossad agent waited in the darkness three hundred meters north of the fork in the road, then pulled his small Nissan pickup from behind the small cluster of trees. He drove slowly, thinking he might follow his target, then changed his mind and turned his truck onto the dirt road.

Forty minutes later, at the mouth of the cave, he found what he had been so desperately searching for.