Major Usman Malik smiled, and General Tariq Sandila could see the betel stains on his teeth. In this day and age, chewing betel was a peasant throwback, and it made Sandila dislike the major even more. He looked around the sparse office, trying to focus on anything other than the disgusting sight of his superior’s teeth. Although Sandila technically outranked Malik, the General had been fast-tracked to his position, given his rank for his specialist credentials rather than military achievements. For now, Malik was in charge. They were in the old government building in Lahore, which dated back to the colonial era and was used mostly as a repository for old files that predated computerization. The civil servants who prowled its corridors seemed to be of a similar vintage, and all in all Sandila felt horribly out of place. Maybe that was why Malik had chosen this as his temporary headquarters while the investigation was underway. It would make sense. The thought of Malik in black and white like some old newsreel from the days of Nehru cheered Sandila in an oblique manner.
Emboldened, he spoke freely: “Major, the expression ‘shoot the messenger’ is a little outdated these days, surely? My superiors—your superiors—if they followed such a line would surely be more likely to blame the man heading the investigation. I’m just your leg man.”
The sly smile on Malik’s face froze and died. He and Sandila had been at loggerheads since the general had joined the team a few weeks before. Seconded because of his experience with the nuclear program and his PhD in physics, Sandila was one of the new breed of army officers who looked at technology rather than manpower. Malik had been in military intelligence all his career, and came from the days of the ruling generals, when the fact that such a small country had the eighth largest military force in the world counted for something. In Malik’s younger days, the army ruled with an iron fist, and he still expected such control.
Sandila, on the other hand, found the phrase army intelligence an oxymoron, and thought of Malik as the personification of that philosophy. An impression that had only been reinforced when he realized what had been going on: his forceful statement of such had cemented the animosity between the two men.
Malik rotated the laptop screen so that it faced Sandila. It was a purely dramatic move, as it was Sandila’s own report that the major was showing him. Malik said, “You expect me to present this? Saying that we’ve been negligent? That women—women, dammit—are behind this? Have you any idea what kind of an uproar this will cause in the government?”
Sandila shrugged. “There may well be an uproar, but the fact is that it has happened.”
“You have no proof,” Malik spluttered. “It’s all supposition.”
Sandila chose his words carefully. He spoke as though explaining something simple to a child, which was—he felt—exactly what the major was acting like.
“You asked me to investigate the disappearance of Dr. Yasmin. Obviously, I was aware of her reputation, and I had already read a couple of the papers she prepared when she was at MIT. Her reputation was second to none, and it is to her credit that she returned to our country and turned her back on what could have been a very lucrative career in America—”
“She is a woman.” Malik gestured dismissively. “There is no credit. She did only what she should.”
Sandila held his tongue and continued, trying to ignore the words of his superior. “Dr. Yasmin, in returning to her homeland, declared her desire to be part of our nuclear program and so help us not merely in the buildup of tactical armaments, but also to provide our nation with the power it needs to progress.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Malik waved an irritated hand at Sandila. “I do not care for her motives, only for the thugs who kidnapped her. Instead I get this gibberish about women and her going of her own will. This despite the evidence of her father and brother who—let me remind you—are well-respected men who have contributed heavily to the campaign coffers of our prime minister.”
“And of course that is why we should ignore the fact that they are lying,” Sandila snapped.
“Why would they lie?” Malik’s voice rose almost to a screech.
Sandila took a deep breath and looked around the room, composing himself. He wondered how many such outbursts of idiocy these buff-painted walls had absorbed over the decades. Too many, he surmised.
“They are lying to protect themselves, and also to protect Dr. Yasmin. I have been to the research institute, and I have also studied the files and the security system. There is no doubt that for some time now someone has been copying every research report and experiment. The IP address for this copying process was disguised, but unfortunately Dr. Yasmin is not the genius with computers that she is with nuclear fission. The trail leads back to both her login PC and also to her personal devices. She’s been taking copies. Why?
“Further, there were emails between herself and a woman who is known to be part of the political movement for the education and emancipation of women. This should be no surprise. After all, with her education and time spent in the West, it was inevitable that she would believe in an equality for which, it must be said, Pakistan lags behind. I examined the evidence from her father and brother and also the photographs and forensics collected in their villa.” Sandila sighed heavily. “I have to say, Major, that if that represents the level of competence usually shown by your men, then you need to seriously think about weeding some of them out.”
Malik interrupted him by banging his fist on the desk, making the laptop vibrate.
“You watch your mouth, Sandila. Do you dare to say that I do not know how to run my own department?”
Sandila looked at him stonily. “If it comes to that, then, yes, I do say that, Major. Their work is shoddy. There is no physical evidence of the kind of attack and forced entry that they say took place. There is some evidence to suggest that a group of people came to the villa and were inside...but forced their way in? I don’t think so. Possibly uninvited, but certainly not unexpected by at least one person present...I would venture that this was Dr. Yasmin. There’s no indication that there was any struggle on her removal, and indeed some of her belongings are missing in a manner that suggests she had time to pack.”
Malik was seething. “Are you suggesting that men of the caliber of her father and brother colluded in this event?”
“No. But I am suggesting that they are covering for her. I do believe that they didn’t know her plans in advance, but that they’re in a position where anything they say would suggest collusion. I’ve watched the interviews. These are not comfortable men, Major. As for those who came for Dr. Yasmin being women—well, I have no hard proof. But I can’t see her going willingly with a Taliban party, as your men implied. Come to that, I can’t see the Taliban wishing to work with a woman who presumes to take a man’s role,” he added with a wry grin.
Malik threw up his hands. “But if this stupid woman has gone of her own free will, then how can we find her without causing national outrage? At least we’ve been able to keep this under wraps until now. If we pursue her and it turns out she’s part of some ridiculous women’s group...it will be like that little girl who was taken to England. We will look stupid.”
Sandila considered the case to which Malik referred. A young girl had been shot by the Taliban for daring to demand an education for herself and other young girls. Her near-death caused an international storm and showed the regime and their reaction in a poor light. Rightly so, in the general’s view. However, in this instance he agreed with the major, if for different reasons.
“You’re right that it would cause a storm of publicity worldwide. That would be a bad thing. But my reasons for feeling that way differ from yours. There’s something I couldn’t put in the report.”
Malik kissed his teeth. “Now you have something else? All conclusions should be put in writing so that they can be circulated to the relevant offices. There is a procedure—”
“Major,” Sandila interrupted with urgency. “This information is so sensitive that it can only be shared with a few people at this stage, and by word of mouth only.”
Malik hesitated, then indicated that Sandila continue.
“As part of my investigation,” the general said in a low voice, “I was at the laboratory where Dr. Yasmin conducted practical experiments. I made an inventory of the fissionable materials there. It was, I presumed, routine. Sadly not—there was some material missing. Only a flask, but that is enough.”
“Some mistake in the initial inventory, perhaps,” Malik murmured, sweating as the import of the general’s words hit him.
Sandila shook his head. “I had hoped so, too, but I had to be sure. I got your local men to go back to the villa and sweep it with a Geiger counter. There were anomalous readings...”
“She stole it?” Malik whispered.
“She certainly had the flask with her at some point. And it damn well isn’t there now. I had your boys take the villa to pieces. The father may well complain—”
Malik brushed that aside. “He can do what he likes, the lying bastard. There can be no protection or deference for him now. No politician will cover his ass, no matter how much money he has. Do you know what this means?”
“Of course I know what it means,” the general snapped. “That’s what I’m telling you. Shazana Yasmin went of her own free will, most likely to join up with a women’s group. There is only one I know of with any real strength in numbers and a desire to fight—the Pakistan Women’s Liberation Army. If they have her, and they also have some fissionable materials, then they have one hell of a bargaining tool to get whatever they demand.”
The major swore heavily. “It’s worse than that. If they’re still in Balochistan—”
“There have been no sightings to suggest anything else—”
“Then you realize they’re surrounded by several threats? There are any number of Islamist cells, Taliban units, Baloch rebels and other guerrilla forces in those hills. Even if they aren’t looking for those bloody women, chances are they’ll fall over them. And if that happens...”
“Then you see why this has to cause uproar in the government,” Sandila said softly. “They need to get behind us and act now. Because if any of those groups find Dr. Yasmin before we do, then they get that flask....”
* * *
FOR TWO WEEKS, Shazana Yasmin had been adjusting to life as a fugitive freedom fighter—at least, that was how she saw herself. The government of her country had let her down, and she was certain that she had the opportunity to put that right.
It was just that at the moment, it didn’t quite feel that way. The Pakistan Women’s Liberation Army, the PWLA, had its camp in the foothills of the mountains that dotted the Balochistan region. The hills had always been a harsh environment, but they also afforded shelter and sanctuary to those who endured the hardships to live there. Since she was a child and her father had first retreated to this region, Yasmin had grown up on the stories of the men who had defied the British Empire for so long in this rocky terrain.
She rose and washed herself, on the thirteenth morning since her supposed capture, in the clear stream that burbled between the rocks. Once clean, she stood and stretched her aching back while breathing deeply of the clean morning air.
Being a revolutionary and fighting for the rights of an oppressed minority was the kind of thing that had been romanticized in the books she had read as a student in the U.S.A. She had read about Berkeley, about student protest, about the idea that small but determined groups across the globe had been able to effect real change by going underground and using their wits and stealth to take on the monolith of government.
What those books had never described was the mind-numbing tedium of having nothing to do each day because “the time wasn’t right,” sitting around in camp and discussing tactics and plans and never coming to any real solution about a course of action. Bickering about rotis to cook and divvy up. Hunting and gathering fresh food to augment the supplies that had to be eked out until it was safe to make the next trip to the nearest town or village. Routine patrols in the hills that revealed nothing but goats and the odd, bewildered herdsman, and the ever-present sound of gunfire in the distance. Campfires on freezing cold nights and discussions of the future and how the country would change when emancipation was more than just a dream. The rhetoric usually kept Yasmin warm until she crawled into her tent, realizing that she had nothing in the cold of night but the certain knowledge that yet another day had passed with no actual progress.
All the while, lurking at the back of all this, like the gunfire that crackled at the edges of consciousness, there was the fear that a phalanx of militants would chance on their location. The PWLA was new, it was inexperienced and mostly made up of women like Yasmin who were from a relatively privileged and moneyed background, whose only experience of the arms they carried was in target practice. Those few who had run from their homes and fought fundamentalists and sometimes their own families in the bid to escape oppression had some familiarity with violence, and they tried to teach the others. But until the time came, no one in the camp knew how she would react.
It was terrifying if Yasmin stopped to think too hard about it. For the most part she tried to avoid such a train of thought. Still, on mornings like this it was hard to avoid. Soon the moment of decision would come. Would she be found wanting? Would any of them be found wanting?
She made her way back to the main section of the camp, exchanging a few words on the way. When she reached her tent, she checked the contents of her backpack. There, nestled among the few belongings she’d bought with her, was the sealed and insulated flask.
She took it out and sat looking at it, trying to guess what had happened since she’d left home. Her father and brother would have been given a tough time by the security service, but she figured they could ride it out. There had been no official communiqué from the PWLA to the government as yet, but it wouldn’t take too much for any half-intelligent security man to work out what was going on. She was sure her disappearance would be investigated, and the information she had gathered would eventually be noted. She had been careful, but she was no industrial spy. And then it would be only a short leap to the discovery that this flask was also missing.
With the security of the Pakistan nuclear program breached, she knew that there would be a panic in the corridors of power. This could only be good for her cause. She had little regard for the average intelligence of the political mind, and less so for the average military mind. First they would yell for revenge and mindless action. It was only after they had passed the initial flush of testosterone and adrenaline that they would start to think about what they could really do....
That was when the negotiations would begin.
The fear of biting reality gnawed at her gut.
It couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter Three
The early morning wind was biting as it swept along the National Mall. Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, was running through the green. He felt sharp and awake, ready for Brognola’s brief about the current situation—whatever it was.
He soon had his chance. The big Fed was sitting at a bench they often used for outside meetings. Brognola was looking down, lost in thought, but the sound of the soldier’s pounding footsteps approaching caught his attention. He had two coffees, and as Bolan came to a halt, stretched and then sat down beside him, Brognola handed one over without a word.
Bolan sipped the warm liquid. “Whatever’s up, it must be serious to drag you out this time of the morning.”
Brognola stared out at the monuments for a moment before speaking. “Yes, something has come up. It’s a delicate one.”
Bolan chuckled. “It always is, Hal. Always...”
The big Fed rose to his feet and indicated that Bola
n follow him. The two men walked along the Mall in silence. Taking his cue from Brognola, Bolan refrained from questions and took in the memorials and statues that they passed on their route. For each example of heroism and achievement, he knew there were hundreds that remained unremarked and unnoticed. Maybe it was better that way. Certainly there were times when it was better that the people had no idea of how close to disaster they had come.
He didn’t bother to speculate on what Brognola had lined up for him. A clear mind was always the most receptive.
Even so, he was a little surprised to see two men in Pakistani Armed Forces regalia seated in uncomfortable silence in the private room Brognola had rented in a Georgetown restaurant. From their body language, it was apparent that neither was pleased to be there and that they had a frosty relationship with each other. Hal introduced the older, bulkier man as Major Usman Malik of Pakistan Military Intelligence, and the younger as General Tariq Sandila. Bolan was interested to learn that the higher-ranking officer was younger than the major, and was clearly his subordinate. Neither man seemed happy about the inversion of ranks, and Bolan surmised that that might color whatever was about to come next.
Brognola took his seat. Malik leaned forward.
“Excuse me, Mr. Brognola, but you have not introduced me to your associate.” He bristled. “This is a most delicate matter, and I would like to know just who is included in the information chain.”
Bolan noticed the ghost of a smile and the slightest indication of a head shake from the younger man.
“Major,” Hal began carefully, “my colleague is operative...consultant. As such, discretion and security are paramount. It would be best if you knew as little as possible about the way we work. Just be assured that we do. After all, it was your National Command Authority who authorized your approach. Now what do you say we stop quibbling and get down to what’s important.”
“Very well. Sandila will brief you,” Malik snapped with barely disguised irritation. Bolan noted the dismissive way he had referred to the general.
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