Watchlist (34 page)

“It matters to me,” said Archer, “because it mattered to my father. It was my father’s jihad and so now it is mine. Is there one among you who thinks this is not reason enough?”

There were grunts of approval. Even Umer appeared satisfied and Archer was careful to keep his expression blank, to show no satisfaction. And he had every right to be satisfied. Something had shifted within the room, for Sanam now spoke much more confidently. “Let me hear how you think we should proceed and I hope you will tell me of your urgency. We have planned this attack for a long time. Why must we act within five days?”

Sanam, Archer believed, was a natural leader. His men revered him, much as Sikari’s men had revered him. His was a band of some fifty or so men, an offshoot of the Harakat-ul-Mujahedeen group. It was Sikari that had convinced Sanam to leave Harakat-ul-Mujahedeen and form his own group committed to real, definitive, even final action in Kashmir. They had for years planned that event, lead by Sikari every step of the way. Sikari had used a different name, of course, convinced them that he was an Islamic extremist and so he had intended to play these men like pieces upon a chess board. He had set them up and now Archer would move them.

“The American secretary of state will be making an unannounced visit to the Baglihar dam in five days,” said Archer. “I can think of no better time to attack. You will destroy not only this accursed dam which threatens to render feeble the Chenab River, but you will strike a blow against the American regime that will be felt all over the world. The secretary of state is well known—she is a household name in all nations. Her death will make certain the whole world understands the risks of taking India’s side as it tries to steal Muslim land.”

Sanam nodded. “There can be no better time. I agree with that.”

“Even if the secretary of state were not to be there,” Archer said, “the time would be upon us. Soon the Baglihar’s secret heavy-water production facilities will be online. We cannot allow that to happen. We must strike soon and if we can strike
and
humiliate the American regime, I think it would be inexcusable not to take advantage of the opportunity.”

Sanam nodded again. “You can get us what we need? What your father promised?”

“The explosives, yes.”

“I shall consider everything you have said,” Sanam announced, now rising from his table. “I will discuss it with my men and we shall let you know.”

“Don’t take too long,” said Archer, rising himself. “We have much to do and little time to prepare.”

“You shall have our answer within 12 hours.”

In the car as he drove toward his border crossing, Archer listened to the men discuss their options. They had commandeered the house at random and once they were done, they would never return to it. They believed that made it safe. It certainly made it safe for Archer to bug the house. The listening device that Archer had left under the table would never be discovered because they had no reason now to sweep the room.

“We must do it,” said Umer. “To finally be rid of the dam and to kill that vile woman at the same time. It will glorify Allah’s name.”

“So you are more trusting now?” asked Sanam.

Archer heard Umer snort. “I trust no one, you know that. But the American has arguments that are hard to refute. Who would send him to act against us? And what have we to lose? Let us agree with his plan and if the explosives appear where he says they will, we will use them. If not, we will not and we have sacrificed nothing. We cannot be any more hunted than we are right now. We cannot take more precautions than we already do. We exist to act and now is our opportunity to do so.”

“I think so too,” said Sanam. “And, if the truth be told, I like this American. He may be a white man with light hair, but he is one of us. I feel it.”

As he drove his car, Archer laughed. One of them, indeed. He had just tricked these fools into their own destruction, into the loss of Kashmir and very possibly into the destruction of Pakistan.

Sanam’s group would kill the American secretary of state. The Pakistani government, which would by then have obtained the falsified blueprints for the Baglihar dam, would naturally refuse to condemn the attack, instead accusing India of poisoning the waters of the Chenab. The Americans, outraged over the death of the secretary of state, will side with India, especially since they will regard the Pakistani claims of a heavy-water production facility as the nonsense they so clearly are. Both sides will be deceived and both sides will be utterly certain they are in the right. India, certain that Pakistan’s claims are lies meant for the Muslim street, will be mad with the desire for revenge. Pakistan, believing itself wronged, will never forgive India and its Western allies. The inevitable result will be all-out war, with the Americans aiding India. Archer will goad Sanam into more attacks against American targets and soon the fight against Pakistan will be perceived as the center of the absurd War on Terror.

It was not easy to pass from Pakistan into Kashmir undetected and Archer had a difficult night yet before him, but a feeling of peace and contentment came over him. Major global events were now in his hands. Soon hundreds would be dead, then thousands, and they were like toy soldiers knocked about on a child’s play table. The fight for the final disposition of Kashmir was about to begin. The only remaining problem was Middleton and his ridiculous Volunteers. Reviewing Sikari’s notes, Archer was convinced his father had made a terrible mistake in targeting Middleton. Indeed, it was partially for that reason that he chose to kill Sikari rather than just killing his brother. Had his father left things alone, Middleton would never have known the value of the information he had gathered during his trip to India. Maybe he might have put it all together after the fact, but never in time to stop things. Now that he was hunted, Middleton and his team would be looking to make sense of it all and there was the danger that he would find what he did not know he had, that he would be able to piece the puzzle together in time.

That had been the danger while Sikari had lived, but that danger was past. By now, Middleton’s daughter would be with Jana and the Volunteers would squander their time searching for her. Perhaps Jana would send them a finger or ear from time to time, to keep up their interest. By the time they realized that Charlotte Middleton’s abduction was but a distraction, it would be too late.

At the thought of Jana, Archer felt himself growing erect. How he loved her. How he desired her. Sikari had always instructed Archer and Harris to regard her as a sister. Archer enjoyed that. It made things more interesting. He longed to have his sister with him now, but they would be together soon enough.

The journey by helicopter had not taken long, but by the time they landed much of Middleton’s hearing was restored. How wonderful, he thought wryly, that the return of sound should be met by the monstrous roar of the chopper. The Russians who had pulled him in were a taciturn lot, and Middleton suspected they’d been instructed to tell him nothing, but that was fine. Answers, he knew, would be forthcoming.

Middleton glanced down at where they were landing: a beautiful mansion patrolled by “contractors” wearing the uniform of BlueWatch—the very company whose affiliate had funded Devras Sikari’s education—and that he had betrayed by taking his marbles and going home.

He understood that the Scorpion had learned about him and had brought him here.

As they lowered onto the helipad atop one of the mansion’s towers, Middleton had to laugh to himself over this irony. Why had BlueWatch rescued him? And what did they now want with their trophy?

The Russians on board the BlueWatch helicopter firmly, though not forcefully, escorted Middleton out of the chopper and then across the helipad and inside the tower. Only once inside, and away from the relentless noise, did Middleton realize how much his ears were still ringing. Still, he could hear the sounds of his footsteps, the rustle of clothing, the sound he made when he snorted in air through his nose.

One of the Russians, a man with a pale and pasty face and an alarmingly receding chin, and yet the shape of a body builder, led Middleton to the elevator.

“Colonel Middleton,” he said in Russian-inflected English, “I understand if you would wish to clean up before greeting your host, but matters are very urgent. You may clean up afterwards, certainly.”

“Well, that suggests I will still be alive,” said Middleton, enjoying the sound of his own voice. “That’s good news. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper meal. Is there any chance my host can have his urgent conversation with me while I get something to eat?”

The Russian smiled as though indulging the whims of a child. “Mr. Chernayev can arrange anything.”

“That must be gratifying,” said Middleton.

The elevator brought them to a massive room that seemed to be very much like a lobby, though why a person should need a lobby in their own home was beyond him. The theme was baroque and everywhere were gilt statues and 18th century paintings in gilt frames and baroque settees along the walls. The body builder led Middleton to a hallway, with the same rococo theme, and then into a sitting room that was starkly modern, with chairs and tables with hard lines and sharp angles. On the walls were relatively contemporary portraits, but Middleton did not recognize who they were.

The body builder excused himself and Middleton found himself standing alone in the spacious room. He was not particularly cold, but he walked over to the fireplace and rubbed his hands before the fire, mostly because it was something to do and doing something distracted him from his own stench, hunger, fatigue and discomfort. Besides, his hands were filthy and bloody and he was hesitant to touch anything.

After no more than a minute, one of the doors opened and a pretty serving girl set down a tray upon one of the tables. It contained, much to Middleton’s amusement, a hamburger, French fries and a glass of cola. Perhaps the body builder thought Americans were incapable of eating anything else. It would not have been Middleton’s first choice, but it would do fine for now. He cleaned his hands with the warm towel to one side of the tray and then devoured the food within minutes.

Shortly after he was done, the door opened again. Middleton had been hoping for the pretty serving girl, as he’d been hoping for a refill of his soda, but it was not her.

The man standing before him was easily recognizable from the intelligence reports and press photos.

Arkady Chernayev.

And the pieces fell into place. Chernayev was the Scorpion.

The man was tall and elegantly handsome, a man who appeared in the vaguely ageless realm of men in their fifties or sixties who were in excellent physical shape and who dressed in impeccable clothes. Chernayev wore a dark suit with a perfectly knotted red tie and a high-collared white shirt. He appeared very much like a politician about to give a televised address.

“Colonel Middleton, I am pleased you are well. You have had enough to eat and drink, I hope,” said Arkady Chernayev.

Middleton held up his glass. “I could use some more cola.”

“Yes,” said Chernayev, “being rescued from a burning complex is a thirsty business.”

At once the serving girl appeared with a fresh glass. She took Middleton’s old one and departed. Chernayev now gestured for Middleton to sit on one of the chairs near the fire. He did so. The Russian joined him.

“So,” said Chernayev, “I understand you wish to ask me some questions.”

“I do. And I have some that have just occurred to me.”

Chernayev smiled very thinly. “I can imagine. You want to know why, perhaps, I attacked the compound.”

“I was going to start with
if
,” said Middleton, “but I am happy to move along to
why
.”

“The why is simple enough. You have some very important information and I need it to get out into the world. The men who held you did not care about such things.”

“Who were they?”

“They call themselves the Group. A name very preposterous in its simplicity, in my opinion, but its vagueness suits them. Their predecessors were formed in the late years of the Second World War, a gathering of scientists and academics and politicians who gathered together the leavings of the Nazi nuclear program. Mostly Germans and Russians. But they are not weapons traders, not exclusively. They do hope to exert their pressure upon world events.”

The cult that his friend Ruslan was telling him about, the outfit that wanted to resurrect the copper-bracelet technology.

“You say that with such contempt,” said Middleton. “You don’t approve.”

“I disapprove of how they do so, not that they do so at all. I would be a hypocrite to take issue with them, for I am guilty of such things myself. I take you into my confidence now, Colonel Middleton, and I hope you understand I would not do so were events not so dire. You see, I too try to shape world events, but for nobler reasons, I hope. In that capacity, I go by a code name—”

“The Scorpion.”

“You know that?” he asked, surprised.

Middleton nodded.

Chernayev held up a hand as if to ward something off. “I know, I know. It is absurd. I absolutely need my anonymity, you understand that. The name ‘Scorpion’ was given to me against my will, but that is another story. There are so many other stories and there will be time for all of them later, but for now I know you must be tired and in need of a shower, so this meeting will be short. There is but one thing I require of you, Colonel Middleton.”

“And what is that?”

“The American secretary of state will be paying an unannounced visit to the dedication of the Baglihar dam in a few days’ time. It’s important for you to be present on that visit.”

“Where is that?” he asked.

“On the Chenab River in northern Kashmir. The nearest town is a resettlement of people displaced when the dam was built. I don’t recall the Indian name but everyone knows it as the ‘Village.’”

In her Paris hotel suite, Leonora Tesla was now fully dressed, though her hotel towel turned makeshift bandage had soaked through and was staining her dark blouse. Charley Middleton stood over Jana, Grover’s daughter. She sat on the floor, her hands tied behind her back with telephone cord, her feet tied together with an electrical cord ripped from a lamp. Her mouth was gagged with a torn shirt.