The security officer turned Plummer over to the ambassador's executive secretary. The young man smiled pleasantly and led Plummer to Simathna's office. The white-haired ambassador came out from behind his glass-topped desk. He was wearing a brown suit and a muted yellow tie. The sixty-three-year-old ambassador had been a frontline soldier and bore a scar on both cheeks where a bullet had passed through his jaw. He had also been an intelligence expert and a professor of politics and political sociology at Quaid-E-Azam University in Islamabad before being tapped to represent his nation in Washington, D.C. He greeted Op-Center's political officer warmly.
Plummer had not told Ambassador Simathna why he needed to see him, only that it was urgent.
The men sat in modern armchairs on the window side of the office. The thick bullet-proof glass muted their voices. As Plummer spoke he sounded almost conspiratorial.
The ambassador's lean face was serious but unemotional as Plummer spoke. He leaned forward, listening quietly, as Plummer told him about the Striker operation from conception to present, and Hood's fears about the actions of India's SFF. When Plummer was finished, the ambassador sat back.
"I am disappointed that you did not come to me for intelligence on the nuclear situation in Kashmir," the ambassador said.
"We did not want to impose on your friendship," Plummer replied. "It means a great deal to us."
"That was thoughtful of you," he replied with a little smile. "But you have come to me now."
"Yes," Plummer replied. "For your advice, your confidence, your patience, and most of all your trust. We believe we have a good chance to keep this under control but the hours ahead will be extremely difficult."
"One could describe nuclear brinkmanship in those terms," the ambassador said softly. "Your Strikers were quite brave, going into the mountains the way they did. And the surviving members give me hope. Nations are not monolithic, not even India and Pakistan. When people care enough about one another great things can be accomplished."
"Paul Hood and I share your optimism," Plummer said.
"Even at this moment?"
"Especially at this moment," Plummer replied.
Throughout the exchange Plummer had watched the ambassador's dark eyes. Simathna's mind was elsewhere. Plummer feared that the ambassador was thinking of alerting his government.
The ambassador rose. "Mr. Plummer, would you excuse me for a few minutes?"
Plummer also stood. "Mr. Ambassador, one more thing."
"Yes?"
"I don't wish to push you, sir, but I want to make certain I've made the situation clear," Plummer said. "It is vital that your government take no action until our people in the field have had a chance to extract the Indian operative."
"You have made that quite clear," the ambassador replied.
"There is the very real danger that even a leaked word could turn this into a self-fulfilling nightmare," Plummer added.
"I agree," Simathna assured him. The tall Pakistani smiled slightly and started toward the door.
"Mr. Ambassador, please tell me what you're going to do," Plummer implored. The American was going to feel very foolish if Simathna were going to get an aspirin or visit the lavatory. But Plummer had to know.
"I am going to do something that will require your assistance," Simathna replied.
"Anything," Plummer said. "What can I do?"
The ambassador opened the door and looked back. "You must give me something that you just requested of me."
"Of course," Plummer told him. "Name it." While the PEO waited he replayed the conversation in his mind on fast-forward, trying to remember what the hell he had asked the ambassador for.
"I need your trust," Simathna said.
"You have it, sir. That's why I came here," Plummer insisted. "What I need to know is if we're on the same tactical page."
"We are," Simathna replied. "However, I have access to footnotes that you do not."
With that, the Pakistani ambassador left his office and quietly shut the door behind him.
FORTY-SEVEN
Ron Friday's anger kept him from freezing.
The NSA operative was not angry when he started this leg of the mission. He had been optimistic. He had effectively taken charge of the mission from Sharab. Even if the woman survived her encounter with the Indian army, Friday would be the one who led the cell into Pakistan. The triumph would be his. And the journey appeared feasible, at least according to the Indian military reconnaissance maps he had taken from the helicopter. The line of control did not appear to be heavily guarded at the Bellpora Pass. The region was extremely wide and open and easy to monitor from the air. Captain Nazir had told Friday that anyone passing through the jagged, icy region risked being spotted and picked off. So Friday and his group would have to remain alert. If the cell was still in the pass during a flyover, they would find a place to hide until it was finished.
However, Friday became less enthusiastic about the operation as the hours passed. He was accustomed to working alone. That had always given him a psychological advantage. Not having to worry about or rely on someone else enabled him to make fast tactical turns, both mentally and physically. It had been the same with his romantic relationships. They were paid for by the hour. That made them easy, to the point, and, most importantly, over.
Samouel was holding up well enough. He was in the lead. The Pakistani was deftly poking the ground with a long stick he had picked up, making sure there were no pockets of thin ice. Friday was directly behind him. There were two unlit torches tucked under his right arm. They were made with sturdy branches the men had picked up before the tree line ended. They were capped by tightly wound strangler vines. The thick vines glowed rather than burned. Friday had stuffed very dry ryegrass between the vines to serve as primers. The torches would only be used in an emergency. Friday had five matches in his pocket and he did not want to waste them.
Nanda and her grandfather were at the rear of the line. Nanda herself was doing all right. She was a slight woman and she lost body heat quickly. But she had a fighting spirit and would have kept up the pace if not for Apu. The elderly farmer was simply exhausted. If not for his granddaughter the Indian probably would have lain down and died.
As darkness had descended over the ice and the temperature had fallen, Friday had become increasingly disgusted with the Kumars. He had no tolerance for Apu's infirmity. And Nanda's devotion frustrated him. She had a responsibility to end the crisis she had helped cause. Every minute they spent nursing Apu across the glacier slowed their progress and drained the energies of Nanda, Friday, and the other man.
The farmer's life just did not matter that much.
Friday had taken a last look around before night finally engulfed them. The group was on a flat, barren expanse. To the right, about a half mile distant, the blue-white glacier rose thousands of feet nearly straight up. The surface appeared to be rough and jagged, as though a mountain-sized section had been ripped away. To the left the terrain was much smoother, probably worn down by ages of rain and runoff from the mountains. It sloped downward into what looked like a distant valley. Friday could not be certain because a mist was rising from the lower, warmer levels of the glacier.
Not that it mattered. Pakistan was ahead, due north. And unless Ron Friday did something to speed up this group's progress they would not get there in time, if at all.