What did he think of when he was twelve or thirteen? Zen wondered. He needed to make conversation, to say something that would make a connection. He didn’t want to sound desperate, though clearly he was.
“Do you guys like to fly?” he asked.
“Fly?” said the boy from yesterday. “We can’t fly.”
“In planes. When I was your age, that was all I thought about. Flying.”
“How did you get here?” demanded the boy with the birthmark. His tone was more aggressive than before.
“Our plane was shot down,” Zen said. “The Chinese and Pakistanis were going to attack your country. We got in the way.”
“The Muslims are scum,” said the boy with the birthmark. The others began speaking with him in their native language. They seemed to be vying with each other to make the strongest denunciation of their enemy.
“Was there an attack on your village?” asked Zen.
The young men ignored him. Their conversation had shifted; the boy who had been silent gestured at Zen, telling the others something.
Zen slid closer to the tent. He had no doubt that he could fight them off if they piled on him, but if they were clever, if they picked up rocks, if they attacked Breanna instead of him, he wasn’t sure what would happen.
“Can you guys get me a phone?” he asked. “A cell phone? I can call my people.”
They ignored him, and started walking up over the hill.
“Water?” Zen asked. “Can you bring us some drinking water?”
They made no sign that they heard him, and within minutes were out of sight.
Money didn’t help very much in the far northern reaches of Pakistan. Knowing people did.
Fortunately for General Sattari, he knew people.
A distant cousin of Sattari’s ran a madrassa religious school in the foothills about a hundred miles north of Islamabad. Though not a spy himself, the cousin had helped Iran establish a spy network here, and in turn the Iranian government had helped his school, supplying texts and a small stipend that paid for about a dozen students at a time. They shared space with an assortment of farm animals, including chickens and goats, in a small, white brick compound tucked into the hillside.
“I am honored to help you,” said his cousin when Sattari arrived. “You should have given me more notice.”
“Had it been possible, I would have,” said the general, following him into a small sitting room at the front of the building. “But your lights are out. How did you get my message?”
“There are no power lines here.” His cousin gestured to the candles. “This is how we see all year round. I have a generator in the back,” he added. “It supplies what we need for the computer, and to charge the satellite phones. We are not like the Saudis. They are the ones with the money to burn. So much that it makes them foolish.”
The Saudis were Sunni teachers who ran schools throughout northern Pakistan and southern Afghanistan. Many were aligned with men like bin Laden, who used them to help train supporters sworn to wage holy war against the West. While Sattari did not much mind the results, he considered bin Laden and his ilk amateurs incapable of inflicting real damage.
“I’ve heard the Saudis have been active here,” said Sattari. “There are rumors they have made a pact with the Chinese.”
“Yes. They are looking for fallen aircraft parts,” said his cousin. “They offer a good reward.”
“I’m looking for something myself,” said Sattari. “And I can pay more than the Saudis. But it is imperative that I get to it before they do.”
A young man entered the room with a tray of tea. He placed it on the table in front of them, then poured them both a cup. Neither Sattari nor his cousin spoke. When the young man left, Sattari’s cousin closed his eyes and bent his head, reciting a silent prayer of thanks.
Sattari bowed his head out of respect for his cousin.
“I think we may be able to assist you,” said his cousin, lifting his cup. “Warm yourself, and then we will talk.”
The more he thought about it — and unable to sleep at 4:00 a.m., it was
But Bastian was also on to something, leading from the front. Being out there in Diego Garcia, where the action was — that was the secret of his success. Dreamland’s high-tech communications gizmos kept him in touch with what was going on back home. Then when the big shots wanted to talk to him, where did they see him but in the thick of things? No wonder he had such a sterling rep.
He could do that himself, Samson thought. He had to do that himself.
And now. Right now. Before Bastian was too big to deal with. He’d go directly to Diego Garcia and assert his personal control.
It would mean leaving someone else in charge at Dreamland while he was gone. The only practical choice was Major Catsman; the few staff officers he’d brought with him were still working out where the restrooms were. She would no doubt be ineffective in dealing with Rubeo, who, despite having toned down his antagonism, showed no sign of actually coming to heel. But Bastian was the bigger problem, Samson decided; once he was dealt with, the other dominos would fall.
The general sat down at the desk in the small VIP apartment he’d commandeered and pulled out the base directory. At a good-sized command, the directory would be a substantial phone book listing the various officers, their responsibilities, and contact information. The Dreamland directory, by contrast, was barely twenty pages long, and most of the listings were for civilian scientists and supervisors.
That was going to change, ASAP. They were seriously undermanned. He needed money, he needed head count, and he was going to get both.
Samson found the officer responsible for scheduling and assigning flights and, despite the hour, called him at home.
“This is Samson,” he said when the groggy captain picked up the phone. “What’s the status of our VIP aircraft?”
“What VIP aircraft, sir?”
“What does Bastian use to get around? Where is it?”
“The colonel doesn’t have a VIP aircraft. Generally on a Whiplash deployment he would be one of the pilots, and is assigned to that aircraft.”
“What about a
“Well, it would depend, I guess—”
“How would he get to Washington, Captain?”
“Commercial flight.”
Samson shook his head. “I need a plane that can get me to Diego Garcia, and I want it ready immediately. Understood?”
“Sure, General. What sort of plane do you want?”
“One that is waiting for me on the runway no more than two hours from now,” said Samson, and hung up. Then he put a red X next to the captain’s name in the directory.
Dog stood on the cement apron just outside the Dreamland Command trailer, watching as the
