"Here's an interesting one," said Sand, opening a different application file and diverting the subject away from Lakhdar's distressingly open anti-Semitism. "Louis Arbeit. Harvard. Sorbonne. Early volunteer work with International Solidarity Movement. Parents are both Colleagues of Proven Worth. Mother: Christine Arbeit, D1 with the Human Rights Commission. An up and comer, I hear. Father: Bernard Chanet, Deputy Director for International Disarmament. His grandmother recently retired from the European Parliament."
Ibrahim took the file, impatiently, and began flipping pages. When he reached the background information page on the applicant's father, he signaled one of the water servants to bring a telephone. He spoke a number and, after a brief pause, a face appeared.
"Bernard? This is Ibrahim Lakhdar, with the hiring committee. Yes, yes . . . I am normally with Human Rights. I know your wife. I was looking over your son's application and I was wondering if you might not give a little boost to my nephew. He's a fine boy and he's interested in working disarmament . . . "
Chapter Eleven
(Light ye shall have on that lesson, but little time to learn.)
—Kipling, The Islanders.
1/1/468 AC, Kibla Pass
Carrera stood in the fierce, bitterly cold winds of the Pashtian highlands. Despite the heavy wools, silks, polypropylene, and windproof outer shell, he shivered as the wind whistled through the pass and around the rocks. The wind seemed to be saying, "Avenge us."
"I'm trying; God knows I'm trying," he whispered back.
Down below, on the plains around Mazari Omar, his men were still busily rooting out the insurgency. It was probably a fruitless task. No matter what damage to the guerillas he did, the Taurans were taking back over even as he cleared areas out. They were good soldiers, many of them; he'd particularly been impressed with the Tuscan Ligurini under Generale Marciano. (Under cover of the Legion's combat operations, and in the absence of a treacherous press to report what he was doing, Marciano had pushed his own forces out to actively engage the guerillas. What would happen after the Legion del Cid left, Marciano didn't know.)
Ordinarily, using the kind of rules of engagement the Taurans had, it might take as much as fifteen years to destroy an insurgency, if, indeed, it could be destroyed at all. The Federated States' methods, having some of the stick to go along with the carrot, could do the job more quickly, if, again, it could be done at all. Carrera's methods used much less of the carrot, much more of the stick. It remained to be seen whether that would work any better. The Pashtian insurgency—ha! insurgency was practically a way of life for them!—had always been almost singularly tenacious.
It doesn't matter, he thought. I am not here, ultimately, to quell an insurgency, though I and my boys will give it our workmanlike best. Ultimately, I am here for the money that brings me closer to revenge and the revenge itself.
"It's a cold dish," whispered the wind.
That's all right. I've never minded cold food. But . . .
"But what?" asked the frozen breeze.
"But I miss Lourdes, and I miss the children. And I think maybe I need a break."
That was particularly telling. Only this morning he'd chewed out his chief logistician over something that, in retrospect, was just not that important. The week prior the goddamned nightmares had come back with a vengeance. His drinking was up again; it had to be or he'd never get any sleep. Yet alcohol induced sleep was not very restful. And then he'd seen off a couple of dozen of his killed and wounded at the airport at Mazari Omar and found himself starting to cry.
Bad sign, very bad sign. But what the hell can I do?
2/1/468 AC, The Base, Kashmir Tribal Trust Territory
If ever a man looked downcast, and in need of rest, it was Noorzad. Oh, he'd made it out, along with a critical dozen of his key followers. The rest? Bombed, burnt, butchered. Even after escaping from the mines dropped by air, he'd found a new group of fast horse cavalry on his tail, relentlessly tracking him over the mountains. He'd had to sacrifice the last of his newer people to those cavalry to buy time for the rest to escape.
His one weary eye, the white patches on his skin that told of frostbite, and the general air of sheer exhaustion he exuded; all said he needed a break.
There was one good thing, one tiny bright spot, amidst the disaster. Coordination between the lesser, mercenary infidels and the greater infidels in the north of Pashtia had been poor. Noorzad had half expected to be met by yet another ambush as he and the pitiful remnants of his band emerged from the snows of the central mountain range. Instead, there'd been nothing except some sympathetic tribesmen who'd provided camouflage for the guerillas on their way to the nearest city.
Once there, things had improved considerably. Noorzad had acquired a new satellite phone and reported in to Mustafa, seeking guidance and orders. Those had been simple, both to receive and to follow.
"Come home."
Now he was "home." However exhausted Noorzad might have been, he still could hardly wait to rebuild his force and return.
"That will be a while," Mustafa advised as he poured tea for the both of them with his own hand. "Our . . . infrastructure was not well rooted in the south of Pashtia. Our defenses were weak. And this enemy is not as weak as the Taurans. Worse, though he doesn't have the firepower of the greater enemy, he makes up for that with a ruthlessness to match our own."
"The men I left behind?" Noorzad queried.
"It was not your fault," Mustafa cut him off, insisting, "You had no other choice. To stand and fight would have meant being slaughtered. But . . . "
The lesser chief raised one eyebrow. "But?"
"As near as we can tell, they've cleaned out your band completely. And no, we cannot take hostages to trade because these infidels not only won't trade—that much we learned when they were in Sumer—they've already shot or hanged all their prisoners . . . unless they've spared a few for questioning."
A look of mental agony flashed briefly across Noorzad's face. If he had known, he would have stood and fought rather than run. Not that he'd cared about most of his men, especially the spoiled Yithrabis. But he'd left friends behind.
Mustafa read the look well. "No," he said. "That is, I think, part of their method. They shoot their prisoners precisely to make us want to stand and fight. They may someday sell our women and children as slaves to the same purpose."
"What now?" Noorzad asked, willing away his feelings of personal failure.
"Now the winter is upon us. The passes are mostly closed. South of the mountains the infidel is continuing to clear out our people and the filthy, decadent Taurans are setting up shop again. In the spring, the mercenaries will surge over the mountains to reinforce the Federated States and Anglia. We cannot stop them, though we can bleed them."
"Cut their supply?"
"No . . . I think not," Mustafa answered. The Federated States troops require more in supply per man, even for light infantry, than the Volgans did for their armored troops. They must have their comforts, at least when in base. The lesser infidels seem to require much less. They live . . . . rough." There was a tone almost of admiration in Mustafa's voice. "I don't think we can appreciably interdict their supply lines."