know it from the mission programming. He just remembered. Do you understand''
Delaney simply stared at her.
'Finn, you had to have encountered Churchill before Lucas died. You must have seen him at the officer’s conference at least. Think, Finn, did you know who he was' Who he would be''
'Of course I knew,' said Finn, frowning. 'I even had a chance to talk with him for a while last night. Hell, I remember thinking that he was so serious for his age, that if he didn’t …'
'What''
A blank look came over Finn’s face.
'That doesn’t make any sense,' he said. ‘How could I have thought … ' His voice trailed off.
'You didn’t know him either, did you'' Andre said. 'His name didn’t trigger any responses. It was the same with me. It was the same with Lucas, too, don’t you understand' Lucas remembered who Churchill was, but not because the information was contained in his subknowledge or in the mission programming. He remembered reading it. If Churchill was important enough to have been written about in history books, how could he have been left out of the implant education programs' How could there have been nothing about him in the mission programming if it was a known historical fact that he served in this campaign''
'You’re right,' said Finn. 'It wasn’t in my sub-knowledge, either. After you told me what Lucas said, I just assumed-Wait a minute. If a historical disruption somehow brought about Churchill’s death-if he actually caught that bullet-then that would have accounted for there being nothing about him in the implant education programs or in the mission programming, because he would never have survived to become prime minister of Great Britain. But then how could Lucas have read about him in history books' There must have been some sort of flaw in the mission programming.'
'And in the implant education programs'' Andre said.
'I admit that sounds unlikely, but-'
‘Sahib Finn''
They turned around to see their native attendant, Gunga Din, approaching hesitantly.
'Yes, Din, what is it'' Finn said.
'Soldier sahibs say time to leave for Peshawar,' said Din. 'Mulvaney Sahib say must not waste daylight.'
'He’s right,' said Finn. 'Have you made everything ready, Din''
'Everything ready,' Din said. 'Sahib Finn' Is permitted for this worthless one to pay respect Father Sahib''
'Of course it’s permitted, Din,' said Finn.
Din approached the grave and stood over it for a moment, his lips moving as he silently said a prayer in his native tongue. When he was finished, he glanced at them with an embarrassed smile and thanked them profusely.
Finn knelt down over the grave and placed his hand upon the mound of earth. -Good-bye, old friend,' he said.
They turned and walked away. Din, too, felt the loss. Perhaps he did not feel it so profoundly as did Finn and Andre, but he was overcome with emotion at the death of the one man who had ever treated him as something more than what he was-an untouchable. As they walked back down toward the green, Din glanced over his shoulder for one last look at the 'Father Sahib’s' grave. He squinted, blinked, then shook his head. He thought he had seen something, but there was nothing there now.
For a moment, just the barest fraction of a second, as he looked back up toward the knoll where the cemetery was located, Din thought he saw someone standing over the grave. Perhaps, thought Din, it was only his imagination. Or perhaps it was a portent. He shut his eyes and muttered a quick prayer to Shiva. He thought he had seen a tall, dark figure, wearing a long robe that billowed in the wind.
Sayyid Akbar stood high upon a precipice overlooking the Khyber Pass. Beyond, stretching as far as the eye could see, was the tortured landscape of the Himalayas, like giant rocky waves frozen into immobility. Below, at the bottom of the gorge, was a narrow, twisting trail, walled by sheer cliffs and broken by huge boulders. One small step forward would take him to oblivion, an oblivion he sometimes longed for. He had lived for a long time. The pathetic madman named Sadullah believed him to be a god, an incarnation of the Prophet or some minor deity of his absurd religion, but who knew' Who knew what twisted thoughts that passed for cogitation flashed through that demented mind' There was no need to understand him, so long as Sadullah could be used. And he was used so easily. As I am being used, thought Nikolai Drakov, whom Sadullah knew as Sayyid Akbar.
In a few months it would be his birthday. He would be ninety-three. He looked thirty-seven. His body was in peak physical condition, and his youthful face was marred only by the knife scar that ran from below his left eye to just above the corner of his mouth. In his costume as Sayyid Akbar, he looked like a dashing bandit chieftain, but he felt old. Emotionally drained. They had done that to him. Drained him. Leeched from him everything he knew. And now he could not exist without them.
As the sun rose above the peaks, thinning the mist, he looked down into the velvet-shrouded gorge, toward a narrow section of the pass hemmed in by two protruding rock formations. Like the Pillars of Hercules, he thought. The pillars that guard the gates. Three shapes stepped out of the undulating mist, walking out of one world into another. They looked up at him. He raised his arm to signal them.
The three figures rapidly ascended toward him from the bottom of the gorge, rising up until they were level with him and continuing on over his head to land behind him. He turned around as they shut off their jet-paks.
'Give us your report,' said one of them.
— Everything proceeds according to plan,' said Drakov. 'The British are heavily engaged in the Malakand and at Chakdarra. Sadullah is working the tribesmen up into a frenzy about the coming Night of the Long Knives. He’ll lose the battle at the Malakand fort, and undoubtedly the British will beat him at Chakdarra, but that makes little difference. The British Raj is convinced the uprising is confined to that area and that all the tribes have flocked to join Sadullah, so they haven’t realised that I’ve rallied the remaining tribes to my side here. The garrisons in the Khyber Pass have been deserted, and even Colonel Warburton’s Khyber Rifles have gone over to me, convinced I am the Light of Islam. Warburton has been transferred back to Lahore. He’s retiring and going back to England. Without him to lead the Khyber Rifles, it was a simple matter to get them to join the jehad. That’s something it will take the British years to understand, that it isn’t the Empire the natives give their allegiance to, but individuals. As Oscar Wilde said, it is personalities and not principles that move the age. Meanwhile, I have finally succeeded in recruiting the last remaining independent warlord in the region. A local chieftain named Sharif Khan. The pass is now completely under my control. I have well over 10,000 men in my lashkar, more than enough to overrun Landi Kotal and destroy all the remaining forts in our path. Your way is clear.'
'We’ll have to move quickly, — one of the three said. 'There’sno telling how long this confluence will remain stable. There’s no margin for error, Drakov.'
'There will be none, at least not on my part,' said Drakov. 'Just see to it that you live up to your part of our agreement. '
'You have no need for concern,' said another of the three. 'Considering what is at stake, it’s a miniscule price to pay. And it gives all of us what we want. What we require. Your life is at stake as well as ours. The most important thing is that the British are kept ignorant of your strength in this area. They must not send more troops until we can mobilize.'
'Theywon’t,' said Drakov. 'Since the action at the Malakand Pass began, I’ve been intercepting all of their communications. The telegraph wires are all down and the only dispatches which get through are the ones I wish to get through. They still think they’re dealing with a small uprising. By the time they realize that every tribesman in the Hindu Kush is up in arms, it will be far too late.'
'Good. It’s imperative that you control the pass. The sooner we can move, the better. We’ll see you again when we’re ready to cross over.'
They switched on their jet-paks and descended into the gorge, arcing down toward the two pillars. Drakov watched them until they were swallowed by the mist. If any wandering tribesmen had been watching, Drakov thought, the legend of Sayyid Akbar had just grown greater. They would speak of how the Holy One communed with spirits, and they would anxiously await the moment when the host of heaven arrived. And they will arrive soon, thought Drakov. But not from heaven.
