Running the Maze

flipped his blue Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap around so the long bill would provide some shade. A mix of bossa nova music pumped a Latin beat into the earbuds of his iPod. People on the road looked at him strangely but said nothing.

Giant yellow Caterpillar bulldozers, Komatsu graders, and Firmengruppe Liebherr crawler cranes with long lattice booms roared and snarled as if in competition as they rearranged the earth. Heavy conveyor belts brought up dirt and stone that would be carted away by a convoy of waiting trucks, and a dome of dust covered the work area. Al-Attas made his way to the operations platform to confer with the shift foreman and gave him a few instructions after doing the numbers. Everything topside was going well. Every ton of dirt hauled away was one less ton of dirt below, steadily opening areas available for new tunnels, living quarters, work spaces, and the defensive positions. He told the foreman to check the steel bracing in tunnel four, which seemed to be out of plumb.

Now he had some time, and he put his hands in his pockets and strolled away to visit the collection of huts and vendors who had set up merchandise beneath sagging canvas at the western end of the bridge, which was much closer to completion than the east end. Al-Attas waved to some workers gathered in a group, then strolled the narrow aisles of makeshift shops. Where would he find some vitamin D? The best source was fish, and there were none. All of that floodwater, but no fish. He couldn’t believe it. He eventually found a woman who had several boxes of medicines, and she said she could get some vitamin D tablets from the staff at the refugee camp. They bargained a little bit and struck a deal. He would return tomorrow to get the pills.

He bought a pear and munched it as he headed back to the work zone, with plenty of time before the teleconference. His mind was on the reports he needed for supplies and equipment, and what progress had been made in the past twenty-four hours, those thoughts wrapped around the beat of the strange South American music. A strong shoulder rammed into him and Mohammad al-Attas was sent sprawling onto the hard ground and the pear he had been eating bounced away.

A swarthy man with a long spade of tangled beard and wearing loose tribal garments stood over him, shouting insults about the way al-Attas was dressed, about how he was offending the Prophet. An AK-47 dangled from his shoulder. The engineer was startled and afraid. Taliban. The man raised his arm as if to strike the engineer, but suddenly another figure was there, kicking the Taliban fighter in the back of the knee and pulling his head backward, throwing him to the ground. The second man made a swift move and straddled the Taliban’s chest, with the gleaming point of a knife resting just below the right eye. Al-Attas could not hear what was being said in a harsh whisper, but the struggle was over in an instant; then the bigger man rose, helped the Talib to his feet, and sent him on his way.

Then the man extended his hand to al-Attas and easily pulled him up from the dirt. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Yes.” The chief engineer brushed at his shirt and jeans. “Thank you.”

The big man laughed. “He did not know who you were, sir, and apologized for his action. That will not happen again.”

The chief engineer adjusted his cap. His new friend was over six feet tall, rippled with muscles, and wore a trim military uniform of some sort. Al-Attas did not see a rank insignia, but he did not care much about military things. A holstered pistol rode on the man’s hip, almost like a toy. “Who are you?”

“Sergeant Hafiz of the ISI at your service, Chief Engineer. Come, let us walk and find some privacy. I will explain.”

“What is going on?” The engineer felt strangely safe in the presence of the large sergeant as they walked along the road.

“I have been sent here by Islamabad, sir, and bring the compliments of General Gul. Our intelligence service has picked up reports, information the general believes is valid, that the Americans and Jews want to assassinate you. We are worried about your safety, and I have been sent to protect you.”

The engineer shook his head. “I cannot do my work with a bodyguard underfoot.”

The big laugh came again, accompanied by a smile. “I have done this sort of thing before, sir. I know how to stay out of the way. I will be nearby when you come aboveground to prevent unexpected incidents such as the one that just happened, but down below, I will be able to organize effective security so that you will soon forget that I am even around.”

They reached the main shaft heading down, and the conveyor belt on one side continued to rumble. The chief engineer took off the sunglasses and again flipped the baseball cap backward. “They want to kill me? Do they know about the Commander?”

“We don’t think so. What they do know, sir, is that you are one of the brightest thinkers in the world today. It would definitely be in the interests of the infidels to snuff out such a great mind of our religion and culture.”

They were deeper in the shaft, nearing a solid door that branched off into another brightly lit tunnel. The explanation was startlingly clear; the enemy was afraid of his ideas and abilities. “You can stop them?”

“Yes, sir. I can. Be at peace about that.”

“Well, Sergeant Hafiz, I would like for you to join me tonight for dinner. I wish to know more about you.”

“With pleasure.” Hafiz stopped, and the chief engineer walked on, immediately lost in other thoughts. Soon he was gone. This was the Djinn? Incredible. Hafiz had been an operative for more than twenty years, spoke four languages, was expert with numerous firearms and demolitions, and had killed men with his bare hands. Surely there were missions that would be more of a match for his skills. However, General Gul and Major Umair had made it clear that guarding the preoccupied young man was only part of his overall assignment; he also had to assess the overall project, which not only would anchor a high-tech defensive line but would house and protect the most important treasure in modern Islam, Commander Kahn, a person of utmost and growing importance.

So Hafiz would be content to be a sergeant for a while and keep an eye on things. It would be interesting to see if the little engineer really did transform into a monster after dark, and he was eager to explore the fascinating maze below the earth. Hafiz went back up top to call Islamabad and report that he had made contact, and to pay the rest of the fee to the Talib soldier hired to stage the bumping incident.

9

THE DAY HAD GROWN hotter, and there was little relief in the shade of the steamy, humid forest that surrounded Beth Ledford and Kyle Swanson in the map and endurance exercise. Both were in camouflaged battle utilities, with light packs, and carried no weapons other than Kyle’s Ka-Bar knife. They paused on a thirty-degree hillside while Beth took another map reading and matched the heading with her compass. “We’re at grid coordinates six-two-one-two, four-two-one-two, Gunny. The third point.”

She sucked in a deep breath, exhausted. From the first step, this exercise of reaching a precise point by an exact time had been like climbing a wall. She reached for her canteen.

“No,” Swanson said. “This is a forest, Beth. There’s plenty of water around. We have to hydrate, but save the good stuff for emergencies. Just over to your right, see that rock ledge? There may be some water pooled there. It rained last night, remember? Watch everything. Listen to everything. Remember everything.”

Beth moved to the outcropping and found a bubbling little stream of fresh water dripping over the sharp edge of the rock, pushing by a pool about four inches deep that was gathered from the downhill movement of the water in the hill. Gravity at work. She lowered her mouth, but Swanson stopped her again. “Examine the source first. Is it murky or stagnant? Does it smell rancid? Is there a dead animal in it?” She looked it over and then gave it a tentative taste. The water was cold and delicious, and Beth drank her fill.

Before setting out from the Humvee, Swanson had given her a plastic laminated one-to-one-hundred map and marked the place they were standing, and she copied a half-dozen more grid points that he read from his own map, each with eight numerals. “In Pakistan, we will be using a GPS, but a computer in the field is always liable to break at the worst possible time. So today, I want you to use only the basics. You should be able to navigate to within ten meters of your objective.” He pointed uphill. “Go that way.”

Beth pointed her compass and shot an azimuth from magnetic north, then followed the map key to convert it, plus or minus, onto the chart. A little thin plastic protractor no larger than a postcard was used to draw straight lines between points, and she stretched a piece of string to mark the distance between the locations, pinching the