by Fritz Galt
“My men stand ready to help you with command and control.”
Abu froze. He wouldn’t let bin Laden infiltrate his operation from the bottom, and certainly not from the top. “Things are quite under control,” he said, sending a chill down the line.
He noticed Camille turning to him, pulling back her veil with a look of alarm. He smiled to reassure her.
“By the way,” he said, returning to the phone. A thought had suddenly struck him, “I’ve been planning a supreme council of my own. It’ll take force once South Asia is under Islamic Law. Would you be interested in a seat on the council?”
Before bin Laden had a chance to respond, he snapped the phone shut.
“Now back to our ceremony,” he said with a nod to the mullah.
The wedding ritual resumed.
Chapter 49
Mick awoke to find the medic examining his passport.
“Liam Kelly is your name,” the medic read softly.
“What’s yours?” Mick asked, suddenly sitting up. The ambulance was speeding past plowed fields and slow-moving bullocks yoked to carts.
The medic looked down at him. “Ah-ha, you’re awake. I have here First Lieutenant Chatterjee who would like to speak with you.”
Chatterjee extended a hand, and Mick focused on him for a moment. The bespectacled officer, with a gold bar as his shoulder strap rank insignia, seemed an alert young man, perhaps an intelligence officer. Instinctively, he didn’t trust the friendly smile Chatterjee used to welcome him.
He shook the hand firmly and knew for sure that Chatterjee was in intelligence. The officer didn’t have the callused hands of an anti-terrorist fighting machine.
“Tell me, sir,” Chatterjee began, “You’re a civilian.”
American accent. Mick trusted him even less.
“Why are you interested in the Black Cats?” Chatterjee inquired.
Mick looked at his guide. How much would he understand? A bounce sent Mick’s head against the metal ceiling, and he winced. “I work for the CIA,” he said, eyeing Chatterjee closely. “And my mission is to defend India.”
Chatterjee nodded slowly. “Defend India from what?”
“From America’s good friends and allies, Pakistan.”
A grin spread across Chatterjee’s lips. “Trying to keep our friends out of trouble?” he asked, suddenly losing all traces of an Indian accent.
“You’ve been to the U.S.,” Mick shot at him.
“University training.” Chatterjee replied coolly, then added with an accentuated lilt, “But you can rest assured that I am one hundred and ten percent Indian.”
He refused to smile at a man ridiculing himself. Instead, he studied the ribbed metal floor of the ambulance, wondering how far he wanted to take the conversation.
Chatterjee continued, “I’m asking myself, what can one CIA spook do about this latest military offensive that Pakistan has launched across the LoC?”
“Not much, militarily,” Mick admitted.
“Then why are you here?” The pitch of Chatterjee’s voice seemed to soar.
“Actually, I’m not after Pakistan, per se.” Mick said, trying to maintain a calm veneer. He noticed his guide watching him curiously, despite his limited English. He decided to lay his cards on the table. “I’m here with my guide to infiltrate Abu Khan’s stronghold.”
Chatterjee’s smile froze on his delicate lips. “Don’t you think we know what we’re doing?”
“If you’re sending the Black Cats to Kargil, then you don’t know what you’re doing. Abu Khan has nothing to do with Kargil.”
Chatterjee sat back and adjusted his small, wire-rimmed glasses. “Khan is in Kargil.”
Mick didn’t believe him. “How do you know that?”
“We have our own intelligence service, you know.”
He nodded slowly. He had made the common mistake of assuming that the CIA was the only intelligence service in the world. India’s Research and Analysis Wing plied their trade outside the country, and the Intelligence Bureau, one of the modern world’s oldest intelligence agencies, gathered intelligence internally.
However, one question still lingered in his mind. “Won’t it be difficult to use the Indian Army to infiltrate an Islamic stronghold?”
“I guess we didn’t have the concept of infiltration in mind.”
“Then bring me there,” Mick said. “I know Khan. I can do it.”
Alec’s guide was named Homi. He was built of a tough, wiry mahogany body and had an infinite tolerance for sweat, sleep deprivation and poor modes of transport.
Within a day of stealing out of Jaisalmer, they had crossed by bus from Indian Punjab into Kashmir.
An official letter of permission allowed Alec, alias Juan Rodriguez, into Jammu and Kashmir, a state under direct rule of New Delhi.
They spent the night in a makeshift village of refugees fleeing the border war. In the dark community of tarpaulin tents, Alec lay on his back listening to low, matter-of-fact voices, jingling ankle bracelets, giggling children and the gentle moan of a couple making love in a nearby tent.
One billion people were created under similar circumstances. India’s population had just cruised past that milestone when the malaria epidemic had struck. While malaria cut a swath through the country’s warmer regions, other Indians were leading a normal life.
Despite the sea of humanity surrounding his tent, he felt alone. He didn’t understand the native tongue. He didn’t know what changes in landscape and weather to expect. He couldn’t pick his archenemy out of a police line-up. And he had no phone.
At that moment, he thought about Camille sitting cross-legged on CNN next to Abu Khan. The pain throbbed like a chest wound.
Damn it. He and Mick had set out on a humanitarian mission, not to avenge a broken heart.
Homi was fast asleep beside him, a bent figure with emaciated limbs. Alec relied on him as his guide into the underground world of Islamist militants. The fate of nations across the Indian Ocean, the security of the Western World and the savior of his heart lay in peaceful slumber.
He would only give Homi a momentary rest.
From his cot in the bouncing military ambulance, Mick could see chiseled mountains rising above the rounded hills of Jammu. Through misty clouds, the Himalayas rose, young and bold, from the ancient continent of India.
Several surveillance planes shot by overhead and disappeared beyond the mountain pass. From there, he saw a large basin opening up before him. It was the Vale of Kashmir.
The driver honked assertively, and an overloaded bus swerved just in time for the convoy to pass.
He glanced at the sad excuse for a guide he had been given. With an annoying habit, the man emptied his nose behind his seat. It was only a matter of time before Mick found a way to ditch him.
He turned to Chatterjee. “So, how good is your intelligence anyway? Do you know the exact building where Khan’s hiding?”
“He’s not hiding in the least,” Chatterjee said. “He runs an armed camp.”
“So you’re bringing in your forces to evict him?”
“That’s what we’re trained to do.”
“Did it ever occur to you that the antidote that could cure the epidemic and rid the world of malaria forever is found in a very fragile glass tube? This isn’t exactly an assignment for Rambo.”
“We’re open to suggestions, of course.”
“I think this will take the personal touch: negotiation, incentives to give it up. We have to offer him something in return.”
“My country doesn’t negotiate with terrorists,” Chatterjee said with a smug expression.
“I thought that expression died years ago. But I’m not simply suggesting negotiation. I want to insert someone into the camp, draw Khan out using negotiation and then snatch the vial.”
“Exactly who will you insert into the camp?”
He looked at his guide, then down at his own hands. “I was hoping to insert my brother, who knows Khan’s associ
ate Camille Dinad extremely well. However, I’ve gotten separated from him, so I’m down to my last option: myself.”
“And under what guise or pretext did you intend to win your way into Abu Khan’s camp?”
“I’ve been thinking about that as well. I’d like to invite him to dinner.”
Chatterjee emitted a snort, followed by a high, hysterical laugh. He tried to gain composure by wiping his glasses, using a freshly ironed handkerchief.
Mick watched the shoreline of a tranquil lake playing tag with the edge of the road.
“Isn’t that rather like inviting Death to dinner?” Chatterjee said, his voice in an uncontrollable lilt.
He closed his eyes. Yet again, there was a reference to Bergman’s Seventh Seal, where the knight and his friends allowed Death to join them for dinner. Maybe he was following the script.
On the other hand, he wouldn’t be throwing himself onto the tracks of an oncoming train. Though risky, his plan was rational. It had some merit.
Chatterjee tapped the medic on the shoulder. “You’d better tend to him more closely, doctor. I do think he’s hallucinating.”
“Good news,” Mick’s personal medic said. He turned away from a microscope that shook on a stand that was attached to the wall of the ambulance. “You don’t have the Hanuman malaria biotype. You have a normal type of malaria, Plasmodium vivax.”
“So it’s curable?” Mick asked weakly.
“Totally curable.”
Mick turned away from the men in the tiny compartment. His eyes followed the wrinkles in the bed sheet that were rippled like the waves of an ocean. Far away, across many such waves, his daughter lay on her bed by her window. He closed his eyes. Her prognosis was not so cheerful.
“Do you have a mobile phone?” he asked, his voice nearly failing him.
“Certainly,” Chatterjee said, and pulled a bulky military unit from his army pack.
“I’d like to reach my daughter,” he said. “And my wife.”
Chatterjee helped him by putting through the call to the Maldives.
Mick waited for a ringing sound with his ear pressed against the phone. He could imagine that the static was the roar of surf, and he was riding over the waves to rescue her.
Then another image came to mind. One of a monkey general telling Lord Rama that he could fly over the water to Lanka, the island in the south, to find Rama’s kidnapped wife, Sita. Indeed, the monkey took a great leap and flew a hundred miles over water to rescue her from the garden of her captor.
But before the villain killed all of Rama’s troops, Hanuman, the monkey general, had to fly to the Himalayas to find a certain herb that would resuscitate them. Having no time to find the particular herb, he lifted an entire mountain and flew back south with it to revive them.
Wasn’t it the Hanuman biotype that was killing everybody?
Finally, the phone’s static cleared, and he heard ringing on the other end.
Someone picked up the phone. “Hello?”
It was Natalie. And she sounded worried.
“It’s me,” Mick said. “How’s the little one?”
“Mick, she’s got a fever.”
“Oh Christ. What does Simon say?”
“He said she’s not in danger yet. For all we know, it could be a common cold.”
Or it could be something far worse.
“Has she moved or reacted?” he asked.
“Well, I read her some more Winnie the Pooh stories, and she seemed to like them.”
Seemed wasn’t good enough. “Let me speak to her.”
“First, are you okay?” she asked, her voice cracking for an instant.
“I’m getting over a case of malaria, myself.”
“What? Is it—”
“Not the dangerous kind.”
“Thank God. Take care of yourself all the same.” She paused. “Any progress on your trip?”
“Some. But no results yet.”
“I know you can do it,” she said, unwittingly echoing his melancholy mood. Then she said brightly, “Here’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
Mick listened for a voice on the other end. Instead, he heard a rasping flow of air. The ventilator.
What could he say?
The road bounced along under him. It was a gloriously sunny day. Beautiful green mountains rimmed the horizon in all directions. Snow sparkled on the higher peaks. He rolled away from the others in the ambulance and felt his eyes stinging.
“Mariah?” he said, faltering. “Is that you?”
No response.
“I thought it was. This is your Daddy. Did Mommy read you Winnie the Pooh today? Was it a good episode? Oh, I’m sorry. Well, maybe she’ll find a new episode next time. I still like the old ones, though, don’t you?” He smiled. “What’s old Eeyore up to these days?”
He gave her a moment to respond, and to gather his thoughts.
“Yeah, he’s one of my favorites. Who’s your favorite?” He waited. “It’s hard to choose, isn’t it? I like them all.”
Behind him, Chatterjee was clearing his throat. The phone call was costing the Indian Army big bucks.
“Listen, little goofball, Daddy’s got to get back to work now. Is Mommy taking good care of you?”
No response.
“Good. Well, I wish I were there, and I’m trying to hustle to get back as fast as I can. Do you understand? In the meantime, I want you to work at getting healthy so that you can give me a big hug. Okay?”
The ventilator chugged away.
“It’s true. I will come home. Just hang on a little longer. I know you’re impatient. Yes, I know you’re energetic. I’ll be as fast as I can, little bunny. Good-bye now.”
He didn’t know what the others heard of his conversation, but he didn’t care. Now he had to accomplish the monkey general’s next task. Get that mountain of medicine.
The cunning Hanuman was a household name in Hindu India. In temples across the land, people worshipped him as an able and worthy god.
Henceforth, it would be hard to worship a god whose name was synonymous with a deadly disease. Unless there was some magic in that name.
Chapter 50
Bronson Nichols’ official SUV pulled out of the dark Pentagon garage, an exclusive parking area reserved only for the VIPs of Washington.
His head was spinning after a briefing by top Pentagon brass. His job of coordinating the military response to the terrorists in India with the CIA’s pursuit of a vaccine seemed more like trying to control two runaway thoroughbreds while standing on their backs.
Secretary of Defense Park Bunker had shown him maps of the Navy’s strategy to choke off Pakistan’s main shipping lanes. F14 Tomcats were already buzzing the cities of Karachi and Lahore. Islamabad was next.
Bronson’s driver tilted down a sun visor against the sharp angle of the December sun and squinted in the rear view mirror. “Where to, sir?”
“Take me up river to Langley,” he growled.
Through barren trees, he watched the rocky gorge of the Potomac. Dry leaves swished across the roadway behind their speeding vehicle. It looked like he’d have to spend another snowless Christmas in Washington.
He closed his eyes. According to weather reports, there was already heavy snowfall and skiing in the Medicine Bow Mountains. The thought of resigning and returning to his ranch seemed all the more attractive.
Biting the end off a chocolate bar, Hugh Gutman offered Bronson a chair in his office. He sank into it with relief.
“You’re looking a bit piqued,” Gutman said.
“I feel like the man in the glass booth these days,” Bronson responded.
“You feel like a Nazi war criminal?”
“No. Bad reference, I guess.” He sure was losing his sharp edge. He needed more sleep.
“Okay, what’s on your mind?”
“First of all, fill me in on the medical research.”
“Well, the epidemic is raging out of control in India. Latest estimates are ov
er three million dead. And the curve is rising sharply. However, we do have the science advisor coordinating increased funding for malaria research. The CDC is turning its full attention to the problem. The World Health Organization is transporting thousands of pounds of medicine to India. The INS is chasing down every last immigrant and visitor from South Asia and testing them. So far, we haven’t found any cases within the U.S., thank God. And, as you know, we’ve got two operatives on the ground in Kashmir about to infiltrate Abu Khan’s organization.” He smiled. “That’s the best we can do.”
“Is it good enough?”
“Exactly what are you doing?” Gutman shot back.
Bronson briefly buried his head in his hands, then he looked up. “I just came from the Pentagon. Park’s ready to launch World War Three. He’s got a chokehold on Pakistan. We’ve still got the special ops team stranded in Goa. Defense Intelligence is picking up troop surges on both sides into Kashmir, producing intensified fighting in Kargil and elsewhere along the Kashmir front. It appears that Pakistan is going to duke it out with India despite our military posturing.”
“Do you think that Pakistan is sponsoring the terrorist Abu Khan?”
“I doubt it. We’re assuming that Pakistan intends to eventually annex Kashmir. Islamabad seems intent on taking the Kashmir Valley before Khan is successful and India bows to his dictates.”
“Our reports from Islamabad indicate that their regime is more popular now than ever. The public likes a strong show of military force.”
“Yeah,” Bronson agreed. “I don’t think it’s the right time to begin toppling military dictatorships. I just wonder what the heck the president hopes to accomplish by sending troops into Pakistan.”
Gutman balled up the wrapper to his candy bar and tossed it into a wastebasket across the room. “Two points.”
“Good shot.”
“Okay. Here’s how I see it,” Gutman said. “Charles is fixated on Abu Khan. He’s afraid of biological warfare in general and an epidemic hitting us specifically. So he’s collecting all his guns and firing at once at the problem. He thinks that he can get Pakistan to eliminate Abu Khan for us. Sounds reasonable to me.”
