Except for Ishaq, the men were standing along the sides of the cave. Ishaq was reattaching a large tarp to the front of the cave. The outside was painted to resemble the rest of the mountainside. Not only did it help to camouflage the natural cave but it helped keep them warm whenever they were here.
Nanda was near the back of the cave. She was facing Sharab. The ceiling sloped severely and the Kashmiri woman's back was bent slightly so she could remain standing. There was a band of blood staining the ankle of her pants. The cuff must have worn the flesh raw yet Nanda had not complained. The corners of her mouth trembled, her breath came in anxious little puffs, and her arms were folded across her chest. Sharab decided that was probably an attempt to keep warm and not a show of defiance. They were all perspiring from the climb and the cold air had turned their sweat-drenched clothes frigid.
Sharab walked slowly toward her prisoner.
"Innocent people died today," Sharab said. "There will be no retribution, no more killing, but I must know. Did you or your grandfather tell anyone about our activities?"
Nanda said nothing.
"We did not destroy the temple and the bus, you know that," Sharab added. "You've lived with us, you must have heard us making plans. You know we only attack government targets. Whoever attacked the Hindus is your enemy. They must be exposed and brought to justice."
Nanda continued to stand where she was, her arms bundled around her. But there was a change in her posture, in her expression. She had drawn her shoulders back slightly and her eyes and mouth had hardened.
Now she was defiant.
Why? Sharab wondered. Because a Pakistani had dared to suggest that Indians could be enemies to Indians? Nanda could not be so naive. And if she did not agree, she did not want to defend her countrymen either.
"Samouel?" Sharab said.
The young bearded man stood. "Yes?"
"Please take care of dinner, including our guest," Sharab said. "She'll need her strength."
Samouel opened a frost-covered cardboard box that contained military rations. He began passing out the pop-top tins. Each of the shallow, red, six-by-four-inch containers was packed with basmati rice, strips of precooked goat meat, and two cinnamon sticks. A second cardboard box contained cartons of powdered milk. While Samouel handed those to the men Ali got a jug of water from the back of the cave. He added it to the powdered milk, pouring in skillful little bursts that kept the ice that had formed in the jugs from clogging the neck.
Sharab continued to regard Nanda. "You're coming with us to Pakistan," Sharab informed her. "Once you're there you will tell my colleagues what you refuse to tell me."
Nanda still did not respond. That seemed strange to Sharab. The dark-eyed woman had been talkative enough during the months at the farm. She had complained about the intrusion, the restrictions that had been placed on her, the militaristic leaders of Pakistan, and the terrorist activities of the FKM. It seemed odd that she would not say anything now.
Perhaps the woman was just tired from the climb. Yet she had not said anything in the truck either. It could be that she was afraid for her life. But she had not tried to get away on the mountain path or to reach any of the weapons that were plainly in view.
And then it hit her. The reason Nanda did not want to talk to them. Sharab stopped a few feet in front of the Kashmiri woman.
"You're working with them," Sharab said suddenly. "Either you want us to take you to Pakistan or—" She stopped and called Hassan over. Standing nearly six-foot-five, the thirty-six-year-old former quarry worker was the largest man on her team. He had to duck just to stand in the cave.
"Hold her," Sharab ordered.
Now Nanda moved. She tried to get around Sharab. She was apparently trying to reach one of the guns in the box. But Hassan moved behind Nanda. He grabbed her arms right below the shoulders and pinned them together with his massive hands. The Kashmiri woman moaned and tried to wriggle away. But the big man pushed harder. She arched her back and then stopped moving.
Hassan wrestled Nanda over to Sharab. The Pakistani woman felt the pockets of Nanda's jeans and then reached under Nanda's bulky wool sweater. She patted Nanda's sides and back.
She found what she was looking for at once. It was on Nanda's left side, just above her hip. As Nanda renewed her struggles, Sharab pulled up the sweater and exposed the woman's waist.
There was a small leather pouch attached to a narrow elastic band. Inside the pouch was a cellular phone. Sharab removed it and walked closer to one of the hanging lanterns. She examined the palm-sized black phone closely. The liquid crystal display was blank. Though that function had been disengaged the phone itself was working. It vibrated faintly, pulsing for a second and then shutting down for a second. It did that repeatedly. There was also a dark, concave plastic bubble on the top edge. It looked like the eye of a television remote control.
"Ali, Samouel, gather up weapons and supplies," Sharab ordered. "Do it quickly."
The men put down their meals and did as they were told. Hassan continued to hold Nanda. Ishaq watched from the side of the cave. He was waiting for Sharab to tell him what to do.
Sharab regarded Nanda. "This is more than just a cell phone, isn't it? It's a tracking device."
Nanda said nothing. Sharab nodded at Hassan and he squeezed her arms together. She gasped but did not answer. After a moment Sharab motioned for him to relax his grip.
"You could not have spoken to your collaborators without us hearing," Sharab went on. "You must have used the keypad to type information. Now they're probably tracking you to our base. Who are they?"
Nanda did not answer.
Sharab strode toward the woman and slapped her with a hard backhand across the ear. "Who is behind this?" the woman screamed. "The SFF? The military? The world needs to know that we did not do this!"
Nanda refused to say anything.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Sharab said, stepping back.
"I do," the Kashmiri woman said at last. "I stopped your people from committing genocide."
"Genocide?"
"Against the Hindu population in Kashmir and the rest of India," Nanda said. "For years we've listened to the promise of extermination on television, shouted outside the mosques."
"You've been listening to the radicals, to Fundamentalist clerics who shout extremist views," Sharab insisted. "All we wanted was freedom for the Muslims in Kashmir."
"By killing—"
"We are at war!" Sharab declared. "But we only strike military or police targets." She held up the cell phone and tapped the top with a finger. "Do you want to talk about extermination? This is a remote sensor, isn't it? We put you close to the site and you used it to trigger explosives left by your partners."
"What I did was an act of love to protect the rest of my people," Nanda replied.
"It was an act of betrayal," Sharab replied. "They moved freely because they knew we would not hurt them. You abused that trust."
Sharab's people took part in these acts primarily in the Middle East where they used their bodies as living bombs. The difference was that Nanda's people had not chosen to make this sacrifice. Nanda and her partners had decided that for them.
But morality and blame did not matter to Sharab right now. Nanda did not have the experience to have originated this plan. Whoever was behind this was coming and undoubtedly they would be well armed. Sharab did not want to be here when they arrived.
She turned to Ishaq. The youngest member of the team was standing beside the cartons eating his goat meat and rice. His lips were pale from the cold and his face was leathery from the pounding the wind had given it during his motorcycle journey. But his soulful eyes were alert, expectant. Sharab tried not to think about what she was about to tell him. But it had to be done.