Nazir hovered a moment longer and then set down on a nearby field. After the noisy forty-minute flight it was good to hear nothing but the wind. The cool breeze also felt good as they made their way to the farm. Nazir wore a.38 in a holster on his hip. Friday carried a derringer in the right pocket of his windbreaker and a switchblade in the left. The.22 gun did not pack much punch but he could palm it if necessary and easily use it to blind an assailant.
The farmer waited for the men to arrive. Friday made Apu Kumar out to be about sixty-five. He was a small, slope-shouldered man with slits for eyes. His features seemed to have a trace of Mongolian ancestry. That was not uncommon along the Himalayas. Nomads from many Asian races had roamed this region for tens of thousands of years, making it one of the world's truest melting pots. One of the sad ironies of the conflict here was the fact that so many of the combatants had the same blood.
The men stopped a few feet from the farmer. The farmer's dark, suspicious eyes looked them up and down. Beyond the house was the barn. The chickens were still squawking from the flyover.
"Good morning," Nazir said.
The farmer nodded deeply, once.
"Are you Apu Kumar?" Nazir asked.
The farmer nodded again. This time the nod was a little less self-assured and his eyes shifted from Nazir to Friday.
"Does anyone else live here?" Nazir inquired.
"My granddaughter," the farmer replied.
"Anyone else?"
Kumar shook his head.
"Is your granddaughter here now?" Nazir asked.
The farmer shook his head. He shifted a little now. His expression suggested fear for his safety but now his body language said he was also tense, anxious. He was hiding something. Possibly about his granddaughter.
"Where is she?" Nazir pressed.
"Out," Apu replied. "She runs errands."
"I see. Do you mind if we look around?" Nazir asked.
"May I ask what you are looking for?" the farmer asked.
"I don't know," Nazir admitted.
"Well, go ahead," Apu said. "But be careful of my chickens. You've already frightened them once with your machine." He made a disdainful gesture toward the helicopter.
Nazir nodded and turned. Friday hesitated.
"What's wrong?" Nazir asked the American.
Friday continued to look at the farmer. "Your granddaughter is one of them, isn't she?"
Apu did not move. He did not say, "My granddaughter is one of who?" He said nothing. That told Friday a lot.
Friday approached the farmer. Apu started backing away. Friday held up his hands, knuckles out. The derringer was in his right palm where the farmer could not see it. Friday watched both the farmer and the farmhouse door and window behind him. He could not be absolutely certain no was one inside or that Apu would not try to get a gun or ax or some other weapon just inside.
"Mr. Kumar, everything is all right," Friday said slowly, softly. "I'm not going to do anything to you. Nothing at all."
Apu slowed then stopped. Friday stopped as well.
"Good," Friday said. He lowered his hands and put them back in his pockets. The derringer was pointed at Apu. "I want to ask you a question but it's an important one. All right?"
Apu nodded once.
"I need to know if you do not want to talk to us because you and your granddaughter support the terrorists or because they are holding her hostage," Friday said to him.
Apu hesitated.
"Mr. Kumar, people were killed yesterday when a bomb exploded in Srinagar," Captain Nazir said. "Police officers, pilgrims on the way to Pahalgam, and worshipers in a temple. Did your granddaughter have a hand in that or did she not?"
"No!" Apu half-shouted, half-wept. "We do not support them. They forced her to go with them! They left yesterday. I was told to be silent or they said they would kill her. How is she? How is my granddaughter?"
"We don't know," Nazir told him. "But we want to find her and help her. Have they been back here since the explosion?" Nazir asked.
"No," Apu said. "One man stayed behind when the others left. He called and claimed responsibility for an attack. I heard him. But then he left suddenly at around five o'clock."
"Suddenly?" Nazir asked.
"He seemed very upset after talking to someone else on the telephone," Apu told him.
"As if something had gone wrong?" Friday asked. That would certainly confirm what Op-Center was thinking.
"I don't know," Apu said. "He was usually very calm. I even heard him make jokes sometimes. But not then. Maybe something did happen."
"If you came to Srinagar with us, would you be able to tell us what these people look like?" Nazir asked.
Apu nodded.
Friday touched Nazir's arm. "We may not have time for that," the NSA operative said. Whatever is happening seems to be happening very quickly. "Mr. Kumar, were your visitors Pakistani?"
"Yes."
"How many of them were there and how long did they stay with you?" Friday asked.
"There were five and they stayed for five months," Apu told him.
"Did you hear any of their names?" Nazir asked.
"Yes," Apu said. "I heard 'Sharab' but no last names."
"Did they ever leave you alone?" Friday asked.
"Only in our bedroom," Apu told him. "One of them was always on guard outside."
"Did they ever mistreat you?" Friday asked.
Apu shook his head. He was like a prizefighter who kept getting peppered with jabs. But that was how interrogations needed to be conducted. Once the target opened up the interrogator had to keep him open. Friday looked over at the stone barn.
"Who took care of your chickens?" Friday asked.
"I did in the morning and Nanda — that's my granddaughter — she took care of them in the late afternoon," Apu replied.
"The Pakistanis were with you then?" Nazir said.
"Yes."
"How did your eggs get to market?" Friday asked.
"The Pakistanis took them," Apu replied.
That would explain how the terrorists had cased their target in Srinagar without being noticed. But it did not explain the field phone signal that came from here.
"Do you or your granddaughter own a cellular telephone, Mr. Kumar?" Friday asked.
Apu shook his head.
"What did she do in her free time?" Friday pressed.
"She read and she wrote poetry."
"Did she always write poetry?" Friday asked.
Apu said she did not. Friday sensed that he was on to something.
"Do you have any of the poetry?" Friday asked.
"In the room," Apu told him. "She used to recite it to herself while she worked."
Friday was definitely on to something. He and Captain Nazir exchanged glances. They asked to see the poems.
Apu took them inside. Friday was alert as they walked into the two-bedroom house. There was no one inside or anywhere to hide. There was hardly any furniture, just a few chairs and a table. The place smelled of ash and musk. The ash was from the wood-burning stove on which they also did their cooking. The musk, Friday suspected, was from their guests.
Apu led them to the bedroom. He took a stack of papers from the drawer in the nightstand. He handed them to Captain Nazir. The poems were short and written in pencil. They were about everything from flowers to clouds to rain. Nazir read the earliest.
It rained five days and flowers grew. And they stayed fresh and new. In my cart I kept a few To sell to all of you.
"Not very profound," Nazir said.
Friday did not comment. He was not so sure of that.