Hindus, not just against Indians. Friday could not remember a time when that had happened. Certainly not on this scale.
Yet if Hindus were the target, why did the terrorists attack the police station as well? By striking two religious sites they were obviously not looking to disguise their intent.
Friday stopped walking.
Or were they? he thought suddenly. What if the attack on the temple and bus were distractions? Maybe something else was happening here.
Explosions drew crowds. What if that were the point? To get people to a place or away from one.
Friday wiped his eyes and continued ahead. He looked around as he walked. People were either hurrying toward the disaster site or away from it. Unlike before there were no eddies within eddies. That was because the choices were simple now. Help or flee. He peered down side streets, into windows.
He was looking for people who did not appear to be panicked. Perhaps he would see someone, perhaps he would not. The bag on the bus could have been planted at a previous stop. Explosives could have been set to go off with a timer in a suitcase or backpack well padded to take the bumps of the road. Maybe the passenger who was carrying the luggage got off here, deposited additional explosives in the temple and police station, and walked on. Perhaps the bomber was someone who had been masquerading as a pilgrim or a police officer. Perhaps one of the men Friday had been sitting with or looked at had been involved.
Perhaps one or more terrorists had been killed in the blast. Anything was possible.
Friday continued to look around. He was not going to see anyone. In terrorist terms, years had passed. Whoever did this was dead or long gone. And he could not see anyone watching from the street, a room, or a rooftop.
The best way to deal with this now was with intel. Collect data from outside the targets and use it to pinpoint possible perpetrators. Then move in on them. Because this much was clear: Now that Hindu targets had been attacked, unless the guilty parties were found and punished, the situation in Kashmir was going to deteriorate very, very quickly.
With nuclear war not just an option but a real possibility.
CHAPTER NINE.
Srinagar, India Wednesday, 4:55 p. m.
Sharab was sitting forward in the passenger's seat of the old flatbed truck. To her left the driver sat with his hands tightly clutching the steering wheel. He was perspiring as he guided them north along Route 1A, the same road that had brought the bus to the bazaar. Between them sat Nanda, her right ankle cuffed to an iron spring under the seat. Two other men were seated in the open deck of the truck, leaning against the bulkhead amid bags of wool. They were huddled under a tarp to protect them from the increasingly heavy rain.
The windshield wipers were batting furiously in front of Sharab's dark eyes and the air vent howled. The young woman was also howling. First she had been screaming orders at her team. Get the truck away from the market and stick to the plan, at least until they had additional information.
Now she was screaming questions into her cell phone.
The young woman was not screaming to be heard over the noise. She was screaming from frustration.
'Ishaq, did you already place the call?' Sharab demanded.
'Of course I placed the call, just as we always do,' the man on the other end informed her.
Sharab punched the padded dashboard with the heel of her left hand. The suddenness of the strike caused Nanda to jump. Sharab struck it again but she did not say a word, did not swear. Blaspheming was a sin.
'Is there a problem?' Ishaq asked.
Sharab did not answer.
'You were very specific about it,' Ishaq went on.
'You wanted me to call at exactly forty minutes past four. I always do what you say.'
'I know,' the woman said in a low monotone.
'Something is wrong,' the man on the telephone said.
'I know that tone of voice. What is it?'
'We'll talk later,' the woman replied.
'I need to think.'
Sharab sat back.
'Should I turn on the radio?' the driver asked sheepishly.
'Maybe there is news, an explanation.' 'No,' Sharab told him.
'I don't need the radio. I know what the explanation is.'
The driver fell silent. Sharab shut her eyes. She was wheezing slightly. The truck's vents had pulled in slightly acrid, smoky air from the bazaar blast. The woman could not tell whether it was the air or the screaming that had made her throat raw. Probably both. She shook her head. The urge to scream was still there, at the top of her throat. She wanted to vent her frustration.
Failure was not the worst of this. What bothered Sharab most was the idea that she and her team had been used. She had been warned about this five years ago when she was still in Pakistan, at the combat school in Sargodha. The Special Services Group agents who trained her said she had to be wary of success. When a cell succeeded over an dover it might not be because they were good. It might be because the host was allowing them to succeed so they could be watched and used at some later date.
