You have to set it right.'
The young woman was silent. Friday could not see her in the blackness but he could hear her breathing. It had slowed somewhat. Nanda was thinking. She was softening.
She was going to agree.
'All right,' she said.
'I'll do what you ask but only if you stay and help my grandfather.'
That caught Friday by surprise.
'Why?'
'You know how to survive out here,' Nanda replied. She placed her hand on the unlit torches for emphasis.
'I think I saw a valley to the west. You will be able to get him down there in the dark, find shelter, warmth, and water. Promise me you'll take care of him and I'll go ahead with Samouel.'
The perspiration on the American's face was beginning to freeze. It was a strange feeling, like candle wax hardening.
The insides of his thighs were badly chafed and his lungs hurt from the cold air they had been breathing. The longer he stood here the more aware he became of how vulnerable they were. It would be easy to stand still a moment too long and die.
Friday set the two torches down and removed the glove from his right hand. He scratched the frozen sweat from his cheeks and forehead. Then he slipped his hand into his coat pocket. Nanda was Friday's trophy. He had no intention of staying behind or being dictated to.
He removed the pistol from his pocket. Nanda could not see it or know what he was going to do. If he put a bullet in the farmer's head Nanda would have no choice but to press on, even if only to bring Friday to justice. Friday, of course, would argue that Apu was distraught about holding the others back. He had tried to reach the gun to end his own life. There was a fight. It went off.
Friday hesitated. He considered the possibility that a shot might attract the attention of the Indian soldiers from the line of control.
But he realized that the many peaks and winding ice valleys would make the sound impossible to pinpoint.
And those ice peaks were far enough away so that a shot would probably not bring loose sections crashing down. Especially if the blast were muffled by the parka of the dead man.
Friday walked around Nanda.
'All right,' he said with finality.
'I will take care of your grandfather.'
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT.
Washington, D. C. Thursday, 1:28 p. m.
Ron Plummer was not a patient man. And that had been a great help to him throughout his career.
Intelligence officers and government liaisons could not afford patience. They had to have restless minds and curious imaginations.
Otherwise they could not motivate their people or themselves to look past the obvious or accept impasses.
However, they also needed to possess control. The ability to appear calm even when they were not.
Ordinarily, Ron Plummer was also a calm man. At the moment his self-control was being tested. Not by the crisis but by the one thing a former intelligence operative hated most.
Ignorance.
It had been nearly forty-five minutes since Ambassador Simathna left the office. Plummer had sat for a few minutes, paced slowly, sat some more, then stood and walked in circles around the large office. He looked at the bookcases filled with histories and biographies. Most were in English, some were in Urdu. The wood-paneled walls were decorated with plaques, citations, and photographs of the ambassador with various world leaders. There was even one of Simathna with United Nations Secretary-General Chatterjee. Neither of them was smiling. The PEO hoped that was not an omen.
He stopped in front of a framed document that hung near the ambassador's desk. It was signed in 1906 by Aga Khan III, an Indian Muslim. The paper was an articulate statement of objectives for the All-India Muslim League, an organization that the sultan's son had founded to oversee the establishment of a Muslim state in the region.
Plummer wondered if that was the last time Indian and Muslim interests had coincided.
Plummer saw his own reflection in the UV glass. The image was translucent, which was fitting. A political liaison had to have enough substance to know what he stood for but enough flexibility to consider the needs of others. He also had to have the skill to intermediate between the different parties. Even good, sensible, well- intentioned men like Hood and Simathna could disagree strongly.
Plummer glanced at his watch. Paul Hood would be waiting for an update. But Plummer did not want to call Op Center
For one thing, the political liaison had nothing to report. For another, the embassy was certainly wired with eavesdropping devices.
The office and phones were surely bugged. And any number Plummer punched into his cell phone would be picked up by electronic pulse interceptors.
These devices were about the size and shape of a pocket watch. They were designed to recognize and record only cell phone pulses.
