He knew that by this time his government probably thought he was dead. He’d never gone more than 30 hours without establishing contact in one way or another. But there hadn’t been any way to let them know exactly where he was, and it had been years since he’d had any contact with anyone who could actually track him using anything other than his GPS broadcasts. He was well and truly on his own, with no one coming to his rescue. His only hope was to find a way out.
He took a deep breath and started going over his options once again, trying to ignore the throbbing in his wrist.
At the same time, three time zones west of Washington, DC, Indy was turning around very slowly. His blood had turned to ice water in his veins. The sight that met his eyes as he turned made it run even colder. This must be Leon. Up close. All 6′2″ of him. Leather vest, faded jeans. His chest and arms were enormous, built up from years of pumping iron. Both of his arms were covered in tattoos. He sported a gold earring in one ear and had long, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was shouldering an old US Army M-14, pointed directly at Indy. But the most frightening aspect of the situation was Leon’s eyes. They were a pale, expressionless blue, and were unblinking. Indy had seen eyes like that on men before. They always meant trouble. In that instant Indy realized that Leon was cut from vastly different cloth than Dennis or Benny. The first two had been biting and sarcastic, but stupid and harmless for the most part. Eyes like Leon’s belonged only to a man capable of murder. Leon could and would kill, as easily as he might flick away an irritating mosquito. Indy was in a dangerous spot, and he definitely knew it.
But Indy had survived more than a decade of undercover work, using his quick wits to stave off misadventure. He hadn’t risen to the coveted rank of inspector by blowing cases, or by needlessly endangering the lives of himself or others. He possessed a lively intelligence, and knew how to operate smoothly, even in situations like this.
“No shoot sir. No speak English. No shoot. See bear. Beeg bear.” He pointed to his camera, and then behind the house. He let loose with a sting of Punjabi, which, loosely translated, meant, “Dear God, please get me the hell out of this mess.” Then again. “Beeg, beeg bear. On tour with bike company.” He pointed to his bicycle, left standing just a few feet away. And then more Punjabi, even faster. “Lord, get me the hell out of this mess now and I will be your humble servant forever.”
Leon started to snigger. “What are you jabbering about, you little brown fucker? No bears here. But you better haul your little rag head ass the fuck off my property or I’ll fucking feed you to the fucking bears. This here is no trespassing country. Dig it?” He pointed to a faded no trespassing sign affixed to a nearby tree.
“No read English. So sorry. So very very sorry.” And then more Punjabi. “Yes Lord, I am praying very hard now. Hear my prayer…”
Leon gave Indy a shove, and Indy bowed deeply, several times.
“Fuck off. Now,” said Leon again, motioning with the gun. He’d have to talk to Dennis about this. He shouldn’t be letting his tourists come up this road.
A bowing Indy backed out of the driveway. Leon snorted with laughter. Maybe he should have shot him after all, he thought. Just for the fun of it.
Indy turned around on his bike and headed back toward the Akamina. He would need to study the photos. He thought he had seen something, but that was only a moment before Leon had intercepted him. He knew Leon’s type. He had been in precisely this situation earlier in his career, and had rescued himself in precisely the same way. Guys like Leon wore their prejudices rather loudly. He was almost back at the bus before it occurred to him that Leon, if he were smart, would have taken the camera from him. In his self-righteous mirth, he had completely ignored it. A rather large error, that.
The boardroom at Ramma 5, Diplomatic Enclave, Islamabad was once again connected to the TTIC control room. Once again, Buckingham’s voice boomed through the large room. Once again, all eyes turned to Turbee.
“How sure are you guys of the information you developed? The police boss I just talked to laughed when you mentioned Karachi Star Line as a prime suspect.”
“Look,” said Dan. “We have access to unlimited information here. We know more about what’s going on in Islamabad than the cops in Islamabad do.”
“Yeah,” blurted Turbee, seeing the opportunity to be funny. “We know more about you than you do.”
“Who was THAT?” asked Buckingham, somewhat shocked.
“Nevermind. One of our technicians,” said Dan. “Now what did the cop say?”
“He used the word borange. The cop who’s been putting drug runners behind bars for the past two decades thinks you and your supercomputers are full of, well, borange.”
“What? Bo-what?”
“Merde. Crap. Shit. You know,” said Buckingham. “Borange. That was Marak’s word. He says that they’ve checked into that company and found nothing. Thinks the cash is a way to evade taxes, more than anything else.”
“Fine,” Dan muttered. “Turbee, you explain it.”
Turbee steeled himself, and went into a detailed explanation of the comparative database searching technology that he had used to discover the Pakistani shipping company. Halfway through his dissertation on the correlations between the trafficking of precursor chemicals and the unusual financial transactions that had characterized the company, Dan interrupted him.
“Are you getting the picture, Buckingham?” he asked.
“Sort of. But isn’t it just as plausible that the Semtex headed south toward the Sudan proper? In fact, once it was loaded onto the DC-3, we basically lost track of it. How confident are you about this, Turbee?”
“Extremely. We’re continually measuring confidence factors on things like this. This whole process is probabilistic. And this one is up there at like 99 percent. I have a higher confidence rating in this than we had in the Madrid bombing case. While nothing is certain, this one is close.”
It was as bold a speech as Turbee had ever given. No one could see his knees shaking, although he knew some of the old-timers in the room could probably hear the anxiety in his voice, and see the whiteness in his knuckles as he clasped his hands together. But he knew. He was certain. These guys were running drugs in a big way. And he stood by it. It was important that everyone else see the certainty of it.
“What about the rest of you guys?” asked Dan, addressing the control room as though there were no women in it. There were a few voices here and there, in general consensus. “OK Michael, we have your view, or rather, the view of the police in Islamabad. We’re going to pass it along. But we’ve got a billion-dollar computer here, and a brain trust to match it. We’re going to talk to the White House.”
It was with some nervousness that Dan called Admiral Jackson back. He was still in his meeting with the President, most of his Cabinet, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. They were waiting for TTIC’s call.
“Dan,” said Jackson, “you’re on the speaker phone here. We have the President, the Vice President, the Secretary of Defense, the Secretary of State, the Head of the National Security Council, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. You have the floor.”
The usually unflappable Dan Alexander gulped. If this telephone call went badly, it could end his career. And his main support came from a raccoon-eyed kid who had fallen asleep on a workstation, amongst a sea of coffee cups and food and candy wrappers. A kid who, for God’s sake, was on a cornucopia of medications and had never learned to ride a bicycle. He’d better be right, Dan thought. Dammit, here it went…