with old Taubman’s prices. Now, suddenly, they seemed to vanish before him. Instead, he could see the talented guitarist from the subway the day before.
Soon, Avram, thought, he would be free. As free, in his own way, as that young man had been.
“Thank you, Craig,” he said at last. “I really do appreciate your help.”
Then he ended the call to make another on the spot, thinking it would be none too premature of him to contact the Russian.
Leaving the shelter of the hut with its central fire pit, Yousaf accompanied the others a short distance through bitter wind and cold toward a mud-brick stable.
He entered behind them and stood watching as the pack mules were saddled, harnessed, and loaded by their handlers, four hired Bakarwal nomads who would guide him out on his final passage from his homeland… one that had begun long days ago with the truck convoy out of Islamabad, and was soon to lead him across the northernmost strand of the Line of Command over high mountain trails negotiable only by foot and hoof.
With Yousaf were a half dozen of the
Yousaf leaned back against the wall of the stable, thinking. On his arrival at the fedayeen encampment — was it only yesterday? — he’d found a mixed group of political and tribal confederates, their practical alliance formed under the banner cause of Kashmiri independence. There were Sunni Dogras and Gujjars. Pashtuns from the vast Northwest frontier province. A considerable number were intelligence agents who had broken with the nation’s present government-by-coup and were Yousaf’s principal links to the fedayeen. He’d known some well enough to have called them by their first names; others were of familiar face. But life in the rough hills had so transformed them, it had been a struggle of sorts to recognize even those with whom he’d worked closely at the Directorate’s Karachi bureau.
Yousaf had been particularly struck by how much Ahmad — once his immediate superior, now a chief among outlaws — had changed in the year since his sudden desertion from the ISID. The holder of an exemplary record, he had been a robust, dashing man with a small, neatly trimmed mustache; a perfect model of distinction in his starched, pressed uniform and spit-polished shoes. But the officer Yousaf remembered was a distant cry from the hardened guerilla who had welcomed him back at the Halmat camp, and led him here to the Bakarwal enclave. Like the fedayeen under his command, Ahmad was gaunt and leathery, his lips cracked from undernourishment, his wild, shaggy growth of beard bushing down from his cheeks to his chest. Also like the other fighters, he had on threadbare combat fatigues that showed signs of frequent and hasty mending, and scuffed, worn-at-the-heel boots. And again, as did the rest, Ahmad carried a large backpack, multiple duffels, and a shoulder-slung Kalashnikov assault rifle. Distrustful of the profiteering nomads, some of his rebels had brought additional small and man- portable arms with them tonight, including RPG-7 launcher tubes.
Yousaf continued to observe the activity around the mules from his spot by the stable wall. Betrayal, he mused, could come from many unexpected directions.
This thought was still very much in his mind as Ahmad turned from the hurried preparations of the guides and approached him over the straw-covered floor.
“I expect you’ll be on your way in the shorter part of an hour,” Ahmad said. He angled his head back toward two of the stalls. “The laser components are transported on different mules from your provisions, you see?”
Yousaf nodded, looking past him at the splendid, barrel-chested animals. The Bakarwal had lashed wooden loading boards onto either side of their large-girthed saddles and were roping the precious cargo that would complete the Dragonfly cannon — boxed and bundled in canvas sacking — to the boards.
“Travel over the mountains is never easy, especially in winter, but night can be your best friend,” Ahmad said. “The guides know the terrain walking blindfolded, and you have been favored by a three-quarter moon and starlight.” He regarded Yousaf. “There is also a surplus of food should it be needed — we’d expected you to arrive with at least one other man.”
“And I would have, if the rangers outside Chikar had not forced me to set out alone and in haste.” Yousaf looked him in the face as he spoke his lie. “What are the chances of encountering more troops?”
Ahmad continued to appraise Yousaf, seemingly lost in a moment’s thought. “An outside possibility always exists,” he said. “Of late my scouts have seen no signs of either the president’s forces or Indian security, however.”
“And should that change?”
“They will keep their eyes open and be in immediate radio contact with you,” Ahmad said. “If all goes well, you will be across the LoC and make your rendezvous with half the morning to spare. Should you be forced to leave the pass on either side, the mules have sufficient food, water, and ammunition on them to last many days. And we have amply stocked caves along the way you can quarter in for many more if the situation were to demand it.”
Yousaf was silent.
Ahmad tapped him on the shoulder now and nodded back in the direction of the hut they had left moments earlier.
“Our Bakarwal hosts have prepared some jerked lamb for us, and put fresh, spiced coffee up to brew over their flame,” he said. “Given the immoderate cost of their hospitality, you might wish to join me in partaking of it in the time that remains before you leave.”
Yousaf looked at him, smiled, and nodded.
“Yes, Ahmad,” he said, as they started toward the barn’s door of bound saplings. “That is truly something I would enjoy.”
“If you’re moving from a one-bedroom apartment, I usually recommend either the ten-foot truck or that cargo van over where your friend’s waiting in his car,” said the man at the U-Haul reservation counter. He nodded toward the wide office window behind Earl to indicate the rental vehicles out in his lot. “Which one’s best depends on your needs.”
Earl stood looking at him across the counter. “How’s that?”
“Basic rate’s the same for both — twenty bucks a day, seventy free miles, though added mileage is a few cents higher with the truck,” said the U-Haul rep. “If you’ve got large pieces of furniture, it gives you a little more space. Van’s new, comfortable, handles nice and smooth. But company policy’s that it’s only available for local moves — that’s defined as the tristate area, and no out-of-town dropoffs. You’d have to return it to me at this center within forty-eight hours.”
Earl glanced over his shoulder at the van parked near Zaheer’s Mercury. Then he turned back to the U-Haul rep, took his cigarettes from his coat pocket, and flashed them above the counter.
“Okay with you that I smoke while I give it some mind?” he said.
The rep shrugged, a stubble-cheeked, potbellied man in his fifties wearing a green-and-black buffalo-plaid hunting shirt and oversized work dungarees.
“Doesn’t bother me, and only brings out the summons books across the Hudson,” he said, his hand appearing from under the counter with an ashtray.
Earl tapped a cigarette from the pack, lit it with his Bic, and took a drag.
“That van ought to be fine,” he said. “Got enough room, and I don’t expect to be running up too many of those plusmiles before I’m back to you.”
The U-Haul man eyed him a minute, scratched his unshaven chin.
“Maine,” he said. “Bet anything it’s what I hear.”
Earl plucked the cigarette from his mouth, held it between his thumb and forefingers.
“
The rep nodded.
“My sister’s lived there since she got married — husband’s ex-navy, used to be stationed at that base in Brunswick, bought a home and farm-equipment business a ways inland when he got out of the service,” he said. “Whereabouts in the state you from?”
