by Fritz Galt
“All right already,” she said. “Out with it.”
“It’s just this,” he said, his voice full of anguish. “What did you give the Afghans in order to spring me?”
“What you really want to know is, what were you worth to President Damon?”
“In a word, yes.”
How could she tell him that she was given no incentives to offer Afghanistan for his release? “All I can say was the entire Cabinet including the president was very concerned about your personal safety.”
Satisfied, Lucius sat back and stared at the cabin ceiling.
She hadn’t offered incentives. Rather, she had warned the Taliban regime that holding Ambassador Lucius Ford might seem like a good scheme to them, but it could lead to devastating consequences. She had intimated that the U.S. would hold Afghanistan responsible for bin Laden’s most recent designs on India and the wider region as a whole if they didn’t release Ambassador Ford.
Her ears began to pop as they descended into New York. Should she bother to tell State about her high-handed threats to the Afghans? She owed nothing to the Taliban regime. Let American missiles rain down on them if America could trace events in the Indian Ocean region to them. The Taliban shouldn’t have imprisoned Ambassador Ford in the first place.
Yet the honor of diplomacy had to live on. She would have to tell State to go easy on the Taliban once blame was inevitably laid and punishments doled out. Furthermore, the State Department would be interested to know that the Taliban had pulled the plug on bin Laden’s satellite phone and attached troops to monitor his movements.
She gulped down the rest of her wine with resolve and began to consider the last big question.
How would she go about the mission that Mick had set out for her in Atlanta? She had to turn up news about Dr. Rajiv Khan at the CDC in Atlanta before Mick got in over his head poking around the cult in a disease-ridden India.
If not for Mick’s sake, she had to succeed for Mariah.
On a British Airways flight from London to Atlanta, Tariq Irani attempted to stretch his long legs into the aisle. His new sports shoes nearly tripped a flight attendant.
She staggered past him with an irritated glance.
He pulled back his feet, rolled his head several ways and let out a yawn.
Then he hung his head, closed his eyes and withdrew into himself.
It was a strange sensation that no beard crumpled against his chest. It felt like his face had lost its chin.
His sneakers cramped his feet. He was sure his toes, which were accustomed to sandals, needed to breathe.
He felt like a stranger sporting an enemy uniform. The disguise made him feel all the more conspicuous.
One only had to look at his large, dark-rimmed eyes, see his beak-like nose and tawny skin to guess he was from the subcontinent. His passport said he was Pakistani, even though he was born and raised in Srinagar, Kashmir. The ISI had given him his new identity, and he was pleased with the name Tariq. It was the name of his grandfather who had died during an uprising in 1931 against the ruthless Maharaja Hari Singh, a Hindu princely ruler whose ancestors had bought Kashmir from the British for seven and a half million rupees.
Furthermore, he had enjoyed signing “Tariq” on the U.S. Immigration form. His pen had paused for a moment at the question asking whether he had been in India in the past year.
He had been to India as recently as the past week, meeting with his commander, Abu Mohammed Ali Khan, in Bombay. He hoped that he had the disease and that mosquitoes would bite him and release the malaria parasite into the U.S. population.
Alongside Abu and his Kashmiri compatriots in that tunnel dug into the hillside in Afghanistan, he had witnessed the U.S. Tomahawk missiles striking bin Laden’s training camp. He was more than happy to retaliate, God be willing. Perhaps he was not lucky enough to have the disease, but if he did, he was a willing human bomb that could decimate Satan’s vulnerable population.
However, if Abu had taught him anything, it was to look at the big picture. Like a thread in a carpet, he was part of a larger pattern. Abu needed the vaccine to carry out the secret Moghul Project. All Tariq knew was that once he reached Atlanta, he would pass on a single message from Abu to a contact who would meet him.
He quietly recited the message long since committed to memory. He must tell the contact, whoever it turned out to be, to go to a certain motel in Texas. It seemed like such a trivial mission, and he could not figure out how it could be important to Abu’s master plan. But he knew it was.
Abu’s earnest look as much as his words had told him it was of paramount importance. Abu’s quavering voice still impressed him. “If something goes amiss and you can’t complete your mission, you must do the needful. You must still get the message out anyway you can. If one of our members hears you, he will come running to your assistance.”
Tariq would be landing at Atlanta’s Hartsfield International Airport within two hours. What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter 26
Mick didn’t spot Lena as he strolled across the hotel’s extensive grounds. Nor had he run into her in the hotel restaurant the previous evening. She had disappeared.
A wooded road led from the resort down to a ramshackle town. Along the way, a fisherman accosted him.
“See my boat,” the man said, pointing to a dugout canoe in water that was far from crystal clear. “Come snorkel. Want lobsters? I can cook them. What do you want, friend?”
“I don’t want.”
Just then three young European women putted past him astride motor scooters. Their black miniskirts crept beckoningly up their thighs. Their blonde hair blew freely behind them. And their sleek sunglasses reflected the brown dwellings of the fishing village.
“Lena,” he shouted above their sputtering engines.
The last woman stopped and pulled up her sunglasses.
“Hello, Mick,” she said, and waved the other women on ahead. “Hop on.”
“Where are you going?” he asked, straddling the seat behind her.
She opened the throttle wide, and his fingers nearly stripped the black mesh shirt from her waist as they lurched forward. “I’m sure you know where. The Temple of the Highest Peace.”
“I guess I did know that. I just didn’t know that you knew that.”
She didn’t respond as she expertly accelerated and skirted around a column of trishaws jockeying to pass each other.
She headed north, entering Trivandrum. They passed an immense temple partially blocked from view by the biggest bus stop Mick had ever seen.
In quick succession, they buzzed past a bright white mosque and a mammoth Catholic church.
Just past a U-shaped legislative building from the colonial period, Mick noticed one of the European women. Partially hidden by a banana stand, she was watching them astride her scooter.
A minute after they passed her, she roared by. Mick presumed that she would take up another position further up the road.
He pointed to the woman as she passed them. “She’s escorting us.”
“Swamiji’s expecting you,” Lena said.
“I’m glad to know I’m wanted.”
Again she smiled.
Mick spotted two more of the black miniskirted bodyguards breaking rank and rushing past them to take up their next positions. They made a small attempt to hide behind lean-tos and groves of rubber trees.
Mick had to smile at a giant billboard reading “Lonely Planet Vegetarian Restaurant.” Lonely Planet backpackers and modern incarnations of hippies would be the only travelers to the untouched tip of India.
“Did the congressman tip your Swamiji off?”
“Yes he did.”
“And what do you get out of this?”
“A piece of the action. My small contribution to mankind.”
“Fighting malaria in your own way?” Perhaps she was a humanitarian after all.
“Fighting malaria?” she shot back over her shoulder. She looked forward and her s
houlders convulsed with laughter.
The intercom at JFK International Airport played Christmas carols, including an orchestral version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Natalie whispered the words as she advanced toward the immigration booth for American citizens, “Gonna find out who’s naughty or nice.”
She shuffled forward in the line of citizens eager to catch their next flight or return to their families as dawn broke over the nation.
She’d be happy not to be thrown into a detention center and quarantined.
At last her turn came, and she stepped up to the desk, where she handed over her blue tourist passport.
The woman at the desk briefly examined the opening pages with Natalie’s personal information and then flipped quickly through the rest of the pages with a puzzled expression.
“Is there a problem, ma’am?” Natalie asked.
“I don’t see a visa and only one entry stamp,” the woman said in an accusatory New York accent, “to the Republic of Maldives.”
“That’s correct,” Natalie said, sensing where the questioning was going.
“That was a month ago,” the woman said.
“I was there all month,” she lied. “I’m on my way home.”
The agent still looked puzzled. “But there’s no exit stamp.”
Natalie tried to give a disarming smile. “They’re like the United States. They don’t give exit stamps.”
“One moment.”
The female agent keyed something into her computer.
Was she double-checking Natalie’s claim that there were no exit stamps in the Maldives? Was such information recorded in the Customs and Immigration database?
“The Maldives is in the Indian Ocean,” the woman stated. Her puzzled expression had turned to a frown.
“That’s right.”
“It’s a neighbor of India. Did you pass through India on your way there or on your way home?”
The suspicion had switched from Natalie’s virtually empty passport to her proximity to the disease-ravaged country.
“No, ma’am,” Natalie said, searching for a plausible, if untrue, response. “I took a charter flight from Europe to the Maldives. A package deal.”
The woman stared at her and Natalie felt her face begin to burn.
“Have you experienced a fever recently?” the woman asked.
Natalie tried to will a drop of sweat from appearing on her forehead.
“Healthy as an ox,” she said with a broad smile.
The agent snapped the passport shut and handed it back to her. “You dodged a bullet.”
Natalie took the booklet and slipped it deep in her purse. She had dodged Immigration, but was the Immigration agent wrong? Was Natalie carrying the disease?
Once officially within the territory of the United States, she rushed for a pay phone in the hallway leading to the transit lounge.
She used her phone card to place a call to the Department of State, her headquarters, and specifically to the head of Counterterrorism.
An operator answered.
“Bronson Nichols, please,” Natalie said.
She prepared herself for an easier conversation than what she had just experienced at Immigration. She knew that Bronson would be professionally and personally eager to hear her story. They had formed a good friendship, cemented by hard times in Taiwan several years before.
After Taiwan, Bronson had retired to his ranch in Wyoming where he returned to his life-long pursuit of crossbreeding amaryllis. He gave the new species names such as “Saddam,” “Slobodan,” and “Stalin.”
No sooner had he put on his cowboy boots, than he had received a phone call from Washington. It was Vic Padesco, newly named national security advisor. It came out that Vic was nervous about terrorists threatening national security. Bronson reluctantly abandoned his pet project and flew to DC for a stint at State as the Coordinator for Counter-Terrorism.
As Coordinator, he chaired the Interagency Working Group on Counterterrorism and the State Department’s task force to coordinate responses to international terrorist incidents. He had primary responsibility for developing, coordinating and implementing American counter-terrorism policy. In addition, he coordinated all U.S. Government efforts to improve counter-terrorism cooperation with foreign governments.
Natalie had bumped into Bronson at State the previous year and found the man looking battered and neglected. Maybe she should try the personal approach on the phone.
“This is Nichols.”
“Bronson,” she said. “This is Natalie Pierce.”
“Natalie, are you still in Afghanistan?”
“No, I’m out. How are you these days?”
“Working like a horse. Feeling rode hard and put up wet. Now cut the small talk and tell me what the hell happened over there.”
“Well, as you probably know by now, Ambassador Ford is one free man.”
“Already got it. What did you offer ’em?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. That was your assignment.”
“Well, wanna hear more?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Fine. Then bye.”
“Okay, tell me something I don’t already know.”
“Get this. I had the Taliban pull the plug on bin Laden’s satellite phone and assign troops to monitor his movements.”
“How the hell did you manage that?”
“I put two and two together and came up with five. I fabricated a story about how the malaria epidemic in India and the military coups in the Indian Ocean were caused by bin Laden and that we’d retaliate against the Taliban for aiding and abetting him.”
“So you scared the bejeezus out of them.”
“In a nice way.”
“Okay, fine. Gotta go.”
She heard the line go dead. What the hell was wrong with him? It sounded like he had the whole world on his shoulders.
When she whipped away from the phone, she bumped into Lucius Ford who was waiting for her.
“Here’s your passport, sugar,” he said, and flipped the black diplomatic booklet through the air.
“Will you watch it?” She stuffed it deep in her carry-on.
“If you ever need help, you know where to find me,” he said.
She was at a loss for words.
A grin broke out on Lucius’ face, and he handed her his business card. “Just in case you ever need to override a Security Council Resolution or something.”
“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, and tossed the card into her purse.
They shook hands, then she wheeled about and headed down the terminal. Along the way, she passed the Air India booth. It was empty.
Then she checked the departure screen for the next available flight to Atlanta.
Suck, suck, glide.
Blindfolded, Mick listened intently to his canoe easing through the backwaters of Kerala.
He listened to the efforts of one boatman in front of him and another behind as they propelled the craft up a channel deep into mosquito country.
Lena sat on the prow of the boat calling out shallows and submerged logs in the local Malayalam language.
He smelled curry-scented perspiration soaking through the men’s clothes, the earthy stench of mud on the banks and the warm scent of rice and spicy vegetables as villagers baked dosas.
One oarsman handed him a bottle of water, but he refused to drink it. He had suffered enough dysentery in India to know what to avoid. How long could he last before dehydration set in?
Mercifully the trip was short. By late morning, the boatmen tied up on shore and removed Mick’s blindfold.
He almost laughed. Before him stood a log gate, like a large Lincoln Log construction, that welcomed new arrivals.
The sign read, “Welcome to Swami’s World.” Beneath that was carved in smaller letters: “Swami J.P. Nilayam, Temple of the Highest Peace.”
“I don’t think I could have found this place on my own,” he said. “Whatev
er it is.”
“This is an ashram for meditation and yoga,” Lena explained.
He stared at her. She had removed all of her clothes. She hung her shirt and miniskirt over a handrail and wrapped a short white towel, called a vesti, around her waist.
“You mean this is kind of a nudist camp,” he said.
“No. More like a church camp. You’ll see.”
He did see. Plenty for one man’s lifetime. In the next hour, he received a full tour of the Indian version of Eden.
Flowers grew naturally in every direction, a wide, peaceful river moved slowly under coconut palms, and grass huts lined the shore. A balmy breeze stirred the air like an invisible ceiling fan.
He saw many Indian and Western children, most without their parents. Their feet and chests were bare, girls and boys alike. They walked peacefully in pairs, holding hands.
“What does this ashram teach, free love?”
“Swamiji is our guru,” Lena explained. “He teaches us how to find our own wisdom and peace through a variety of spiritual philosophies, both Western and Eastern.”
“And exactly what does ‘Highest Peace’ mean?” Mick asked.
“Come. I will take you to see him.”
He allowed the well-endowed German to lead him over dry palm fronds toward a grass hut elevated several feet by stilts.
“He lives on a higher plane,” Lena explained.
Mick nodded solemnly. Then he noticed her smile.
“It’s a joke,” she said. “Lighten up.”
He got it, and laughed.
“That’s better,” she said, and linked an arm in his, her warm breasts swinging against him as she strode toward Swamiji’s hut.
A small, wide man with a mop of thin white hair stepped out, a cherubic smile illuminating his face. He reminded Mick of a smiling Buddha in a Chinese restaurant.
“A man of distinction,” Swamiji’s high-pitched, strained voice crackled mystically as if he were feeling Mick’s aura.
“And a real big spender,” Mick continued the lyric.
“Have you signed up for our two-week course?” Swamiji asked, his voice dropping an octave to a business-like tone. “It costs fifteen thousand rupees.”
