"Mr. Friday, you're pushing me," Rodgers said.
"We're in a big, cold shooting gallery thanks to the bureaucrats but I'm pushing you?" Friday said. "This is a freakin' joke!"
The cell phone buzzed in Rodgers's pocket. The general was grateful for the interruption. He had been getting ready to end the conversation by knocking Friday on his ass. It was not a logical Hegelian solution but it would have worked for Rodgers. Big time.
The general pulled the phone out and shielded it with his high collar.
"Rodgers here!"
"Mike, it's Brett," August said. "Have you reached the coordinates?"
"Just got here," he said. "Are you okay?"
"So far," August replied. "You?"
"Surviving."
"Stay warm," August replied.
"Thanks," Rodgers said.
The general closed up the phone and put it back in his left pocket. His fingers were numb and he kept his hand there. Friday and Samouel had stuck the torches in a narrow fissure and were warming themselves around it. Both men looked up when the phone call ended.
"That was short," Friday said.
"Op-Center needed to confirm that we're here," Rodgers said. "We'll get the rest of the plan ASAP."
"Does Op-Center already have the plan or are they getting it from somewhere in Pakistan?" Friday asked.
"I don't know," Rodgers admitted.
"We're being set up," Friday said. "I can feel it."
"Talk to me about it," Rodgers said. The man might not be likable but that did not mean he was wrong.
"Jack Fenwick used to have a word for operatives who accepted partial codes or portions of maps," Friday said. "The word was 'dead.' If you can't control your own time, your own movements, it means that someone else is."
"In this case there's a reason for that," Rodgers reminded him. "Security issues."
"That reason serves Islamabad and Washington, not us," Friday said. "Fenwick would never have cut this kind of deal with a hostile government."
All covert operatives were cautious. But there was something about this man that seemed paranoid. Maybe the strain of the trek had worn them both thin. Or maybe Rodgers's earlier impression was right. The son of a bitch was distracted. Maybe his distrust of Washington went further than he had admitted.
Fenwick was like that too.
"Did you have a lot of contact with Director Fenwick?" Rodgers asked.
The question seemed to surprise Friday. It took him a moment to answer.
"I didn't work closely with Jack Fenwick, no," Friday said. "He was the director of the NSA. I'm a field operator. There is not a lot of overlap in our job descriptions."
"But you obviously had some contact with him," Rodgers said. "You were stationed in Azerbaijan. That was where he worked his last operation. He had some personal, hands-on involvement with that."
"We talked a few times," Friday acknowledged. "He asked for intelligence, I got it for him. There was nothing unusual about that. Why do you ask?"
"You put a lot of faith in your instincts," Rodgers said. "We all do when we're in the field. I was just wondering if your instincts ever told you that Fenwick was a traitor."
"No," Friday said.
"So they were wrong," Rodgers pressed.
Friday made a strange face, as though he were repulsed by the thought of having been wrong.
Or maybe Friday was disturbed by something else, Rodgers thought suddenly. Maybe the man could not admit his instincts were wrong because they had not been wrong. Maybe Friday had known that Jack Fenwick was attempting to overthrow the government of the United States. Yet Friday certainly could not admit he knew that either.
The implications of Ron Friday's silence were disturbing. One of the keys to Fenwick's plan had been starting an oil war between Azerbaijan, Iran, and Russia. To help that along, CIA operatives based in the U.S. embassy had to be murdered. The killer of one of those agents was never found.
The phone beeped again. Rodgers and Friday continued to look at one another. Friday's hands were still warming over the fire. Rodgers had his right hand in his pocket. As they stood there they shared a subtle alpha male exchange. Friday started to withdraw his right hand from the fire. He apparently wanted to put it in the pocket where he kept his gun. Rodgers poked his right hand further into his own pocket so it bulged. Friday did not know where the general kept his weapon. It happened to be in his equipment vest but Friday apparently did not realize that. Friday's right hand remained exposed.
In the meantime, Rodgers answered the phone. "Yes?"
"Mike, are you in a clearing hedged by ice?" August asked.
"Yes," Rodgers replied.
"All right," August said. "Look to the northwest side of the clearing. At the base of one of the slopes you should see a perfectly flat, white slab of ice about two yards by two yards."
Rodgers told Friday to pick up one of the torches. Then he told Samouel to sit with Nanda. Together, Rodgers and Friday walked toward the northwest side of the clearing.
"We're on our way over," Rodgers said. "Brett, any idea what the shape is of the chunk we're looking for?"
"Bob didn't say," August replied. "I guess 'slab' means flat."
The men continued walking across the uneven terrain. It was difficult to keep their footing because of all the small pits, cracks, and occasional patches of smooth ice. Rodgers remained several steps behind Friday. Even if Rodgers did not stumble, a man with a lit torch could be a formidable opponent.
Suddenly, Rodgers saw a piece of ice that fit the dimensions August provided. They walked toward it.
"I think we have it!" Rodgers said.
"Good," August told him. "You're going to have to move that and then wait for me to call back."
"For what?" Rodgers asked.
"For the code that will open the hatch underneath," August said.
"A hatch to what?" Rodgers asked.
"To an unmanned Pakistani nuclear missile facility," August told him. "Apparently the Pakistanis use a video setup to monitor the place. You're going to use that equipment to make your broadcast."
"I see," Rodgers said. "Hold on."
Mike Rodgers felt a chill from inside. The setting no longer appeared prehistoric. It suddenly seemed calculated, like a theme park attraction. The ice was real but it had probably been arranged to look uninviting and confusing, to discourage ground traffic or overhead surveillance. Pakistani soldiers must have camped here in camouflage tents for months, possibly years, working on the silo and the setting. The Pakistani air force would have flown in parts and supplies, probably solo excursions at night to lessen the chance of discovery. If they were telling the truth, it was an impressive achievement.
Rodgers kicked the edge of the slab with his toe. It was heavy. They were going to need help. The general turned. He motioned for Samouel to bring Nanda and join them.
Just then, Rodgers noticed movement along the dimly lit wall behind Samouel. Shadows were shifting on the ice near the northeast slope. The movement was being caused by the torchlight. But the shadows were not being cast by the mounds of ice. The shadows of the ice piled near the walls were moving up and down. These shadows were creeping from side to side.
Right beside the entrance to the enclosure.
"Friday," Rodgers said quietly but firmly, "kill the light and move away from me fast."
The urgency in Mike Rodgers's voice must have impressed Ron Friday. The NSA operative shoved the torch into a fissure headfirst and jumped to his left, away from Rodgers.
"Samouel, get behind something!" Rodgers shouted.
The general's voice was still echoing through the enclosure as he ran forward. Rodgers was afraid the phone would fall from his pocket so he tucked it into his equipment vest. A moment later he tripped on a small pit and banged his left shoulder on a chunk of ice. Instead of getting up again he moved ahead on all fours, crablike. It was the only way to negotiate the uneven terrain without falling. He kept moving toward where he had last seen Samouel and Nanda. He did not feel pain. The only thing that mattered was getting to Nanda. And hoping that he was wrong about what he saw.