'He's a good man--'
'Maybe, Chief, but that's the way it is,' Herbert insisted.
'Lewis gets a jolt of electricity and pushes a button. He hasn't had time to think about Ron Friday or anyone else.
Look, Hank Lewis and Dorothy Williamson shouldn't be the issues right now--' 'Agreed,' Hood said.
'All right. Let's assume Ron Friday may not be someone we want on our team. How do we vet him? Jack Fenwick's not going to say anything to anyone.' 'Why not?' Herbert asked.
'Maybe the rat-bastard will talk in exchange for immunity--'
'The president got what he wanted, the resignations of Fenwick and his coconspirators,' Hood said.
'He doesn't want a national trial that will question whether he was actually on the edge of a mental breakdown during the crisis.
even if it means letting a few underlings remain in the system. Fenwick got off lucky. He's not going to say anything that might change the president's mind.'
'That's great,' Herbert said.
'The guilty go free and the president's psyche doesn't get the examination it may damn well need.'
'And the stock market doesn't collapse and the military doesn't lose faith in its commander-in-chief and a rash of Third World despots don't start pushing their own agendas while the nation is distracted,' Hood said.
'The systems are all too damn interconnected. Bob. Right and wrong don't matter anymore. It's all about equilibrium.' 'Is that so?' Herbert said.
'Well, mine's a little shaky right now. I don't like risking my team, my friends, to keep some Indian nabob happy.'
'We aren't going to,' Hood said.
'We're going to protect the part of the system we've been given.' He looked at his watch.
'I don't know if Ron Friday betrayed his country in Baku. Even if he did it doesn't mean he's got a side bet going in India. But we still have about eighteen hours before Striker reaches India. What can we do to get more intel on Friday?'
'I can have my team look into his cell phone records and e-mail,' Herbert said, 'maybe get security videos from the embassy and see if anything suspicious turns up.' 'Do it,' Hood said.
'That may not tell us everything,' Herbert said.
'We don't need everything,' Hood said.
'We need probable cause, something other than the possibility that Friday may have helped Fenwick. If we get that then we can go to Senator Fox and the CIOC, tell them we don't want Striker working with someone who was willing to start a war for personal gain.'
'All very polite,' Herbert grumped.
'But we're using kid gloves on a guy who may have been a god damned traitor.' 'No,' Hood said.
'We're presuming he's innocent until we're sure he's not. You get me the information. I'll take care of delivering the message.'
Herbert agreed, reluctantly.
As he wheeled back to his office, the intelligence chief reflected on the fact that the only thing diplomacy ever accomplished was to postpone the inevitable. But Hood was the boss and Herbert would do what he wanted.
For now.
Because, more than loyalty to Paul Hood and Op-Center, more than watching out for his own future, Herbert felt responsible for the security of Striker and the lives of his friends. The day things became so interconnected that Herbert could not do that was the day he became a pretty unhappy man. And then he would have just one more thing to do.
Hang up his spurs.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
Siachin Base Kashmir Wednesday, 9:02 p. m.
Sharab and her group left the camouflaged truck and spent the next two hours making their way to the cliff where the cave was located. Ishaq had raced ahead on his motorcycle.
He went as far as he could go and then walked the rest of the way. Upon reaching the cave he collected the small, hooded lanterns they kept there and set them out for the others. The small, yellow lights helped Sharab, Samouel, Ali, and Hassan get Nanda up to the ledge below the site. The Kashmir! hostage did not try to get away but she was obviously not comfortable with the climb. The path leading to this point had been narrow with long, sheer drops. This last leg, though less than fifty feet, was almost vertical.
A fine mist drifted across the rock, hampering visibility as they made their way up. The men proceeded with Nanda between them. Sharab brought up the rear. Her right palm was badly bruised and it ached from when she had struck the dashboard earlier. Sharab rarely lost her temper but it was occasionally necessary. Like the War Steeds of the Koran, who struck fire with their hooves, she had to let her anger out in measured doses. Otherwise it would explode in its own time.
Nanda had to feel her way to the handholds that Sharab and the others had cut in the rock face over a year before.
The men helped her as best they could.
