She handed Ishaq the cell phone. "I need you to stay here with this," she told him.
The young man stopped chewing.
"You heard what is happening," Sharab went on. "We're leaving but her accomplices must think we're still here."
Ishaq put down the tin and took the phone. The other men stopped moving behind them.
"It's very heavy," Ishaq said softly. "You're right. I think they've added things." He regarded Sharab. "You don't want the Indians to leave here, is that correct?"
"That is correct," Sharab replied quietly. Her voice caught. She continued to look into Ishaq's eyes.
"Then they won't leave," he promised her. "But you had better."
"Thank you," Sharab replied.
The woman turned to help the other men, not because they needed help but because she did not want Ishaq to see her weep. She wanted him to hold on to the image of her being strong. He would need that in order to get through this. Yet the tears came. They had been together every day for two years, both in Pakistan and in Kashmir. He was devoted to her and to the cause. But he did not have the climbing or survival skills the other men had. Without them they would not get across the mountains and the line of control and back to Pakistan.
The remaining members of the team pulled on the heavy coats they kept for extended stays in the cave. They threw automatic weapons over their right shoulders and ropes over their left. They put flashlights and matches in their pockets. Ali took the backpack he had loaded with food. Hassan grabbed Nanda after Samouel gave him the backpack with pitons, a hammer, extra flashlights, and maps.
Then, in turn, each member of the party hugged Ishaq. He smiled at them with tears in his eyes. Sharab was the last to embrace him.
"I pray that Allah will send to your aid five thousand angels," Sharab whispered to him.
"I would sooner He send them to help you reach home," Ishaq replied. "Then I would be sure that this has not been in vain."
She hugged him even tighter then patted his back, turned, and stepped through the tarp.
SEVENTEEN
Ron Friday was in his small room when the phone on the rickety night table rang. He opened his eyes and looked at his watch.
Right on time.
The phone was from the 1950s, a heavy black anvil of a thing with a thick brown cord. And it really rang rather than beeped. Friday was sitting on the bed; after sending the encoded message to Hank Lewis he had turned on the black-and-white TV. An old movie was on. Even with English subtitles Friday had trouble following the plot. The fact that he kept dozing off did not help.
Friday did not answer the phone on the first ring. Or the second. He did not pick up until the tenth ring. That was how he knew the caller was his Black Cat contact. Tenth ring at the tenth hour.
The caller, Captain Prem Nazir, said he would meet Friday outside in fifteen minutes.
Friday pulled on his shoes, grabbed his windbreaker, and headed down the single flight of stairs. There were only twelve rooms at Binoo's Palace, most of them occupied by market workers, women of questionable provenance, and men who rarely emerged from their rooms. Obviously, the police turned a blind eye to more than just the gaming parlor.
The inn did not have much of a lobby. A reception desk was located to the left of the stairs. It was run by Binoo during the day and his sister at night. There was a Persian rug on a hardwood floor with battered sofas on either side. The windows looked out on the dark, narrow street. The smell of the potent, native-grown Juari cigarettes was thick here. The gaming parlor was located in a room behind the counter. A veil of smoke actually hung like a stage scrim behind Binoo's oblivious sister.
The heavyset woman was leaning on the counter. She did not look up from her movie magazine as Friday came down. That was what he loved about this place. No one gave a damn.
The lobby was empty. So was the street. Friday leaned against the wall and waited.
Friday had never met the fifty-three-year-old Captain Nazir. Atomic Energy Minister Shankar knew him and put a lot of trust in him. Friday did not trust anyone, including Shankar. But Captain Nazir's extensive background in espionage, first behind the lines in Pakistan in the 1960s, then with the Indian army, and now with the National Security Guard, suggested that the two men might enjoy a good working relationship.
Unless, that is, there were a problem between the NSG and the Special Frontier Force. That was the first order of business Friday intended to discuss with Nazir, even before they talked about the Striker mission to search for Pakistani nuclear missiles. Friday did not mind going on a sensitive mission for the Black Cats if they did not have the full trust and support of the government. Part of intelligence work was doing things without government approval. But he did mind going out if the Black Cats and the SFF were at war, if one group were looking to embarrass the other. A freeze-out of the NSG at the bomb site did not mean that was the case. But Friday wanted to be sure.
Captain Nazir arrived exactly on schedule. He was strolling in no particular hurry with no apparent destination, and he was smoking a Juari. That was smart. The officer was up from New Delhi but he was not smoking one of the milder brands that was popular in the capital. The local cigarette would help him blend in with the surroundings.
The officer was dressed in a plain gray sweatshirt, khaki slacks, and Nikes. He was about five-foot-seven with short black hair and a scar across his forehead. His skin was smooth and dark. He looked exactly like the photographs Friday had seen.
Ron Friday obviously looked like his photographs as well. Captain Nazir did not bother to introduce himself. They would not say one another's names at all. There were still SFF personnel working in the bazaar. They might have set up electronic surveillance of the area to try to catch the bombers. If so, someone might overhear them.
The officer simply offered Friday his hand and said in a low, rough voice, "Walk with me."
The two men continued in the direction Captain Nazir had been headed, away from the main street, Shervani Road. The narrow side street where the inn was located was little more than an alley. There were dark shops on either side of the road. They sold items that did not usually turn up in the bazaar, like bicycles, men's suits, and small appliances. The street ended in a high brick wall about three hundred yards away.
Nazir drew on the nub of his cigarette. "The minister thinks very highly of you."
"Thanks," Friday said. He looked down and spoke very softly. "Tell me something. What happened today in the marketplace?"
"I'm not sure," Nazir replied.
"Would you tell me if you did?" Friday asked.
"I'm not sure," Nazir admitted.
"Why was the SFF handling the investigation instead of your people?" Friday asked.
Nazir stopped walking. He retrieved a pack of cigarettes from under his sweatshirt and used one to light another. He looked at Friday in the glow of the newly lit cigarette.
"I do not know the answer to that," the officer replied as he continued walking.
"Let me point you in a direction," Friday said. "Does the SFF have special jurisdiction over Srinagar or religious targets?"
"No," Nazir replied.
"But their personnel were on the scene and your people were not," Friday repeated.
"Yes," Nazir said.
This was becoming frustrating. Friday stopped walking. He grabbed Nazir by the arm. The officer did not react.
"Before I head north and risk my life, I need to know if there's a leak in your organization," Friday said.