"Where?"
"Can't talk to Wiki, can't talk to Harold. It's up to us now."
"So where?"
"Kashmir."
Thirty-eight thousand feet, but Middleton saw mountains ahead on the right that looked almost exactly level with the plane. Hundreds of miles away, probably, a trick of perspective in terms of distance, but there was no doubt about their elevation. A gigantic range, white, icy, jagged, majestic, shrouded with low clouds down around their knees.
Unmistakable.
Famous.
The Himalayas.
But: on their right?
Middleton asked, "Where the hell are we going?"
Chernayev said, "Who do you think is painted on the innermost doll? Who do you think we all serve, ultimately?"
And at that moment two jet fighter planes rose alongside, one to port, one to starboard, both of them slow and respectful and gentle. Unthreatening. An escort. For safety and for courtesy. The fighter planes were painted with muted camouflage patterns and toward the rear of their slim fuselages they had bright red bars separated by red five-pointed stars.
Middleton said, "China?"
15
JON LAND
Middleton tried to use the mountains to orient himself, keep his bearings. But before long the sky stole them from him, the jet vanishing into the clouds. In the moments of silence that followed, he felt its steep descent in the pit of his stomach. The clouds cleared to reveal the mountains gone from sight and some sort of airstrip below.
"We're landing."
His words drew only a smile from Chernayev, and Middleton realized the altitude was playing tricks with his damaged hearing. His voice sounded like someone else's, and the lameness of his statement made him wish it actually had been. Middleton had landed at enough secret airfields to know this was something quite different from any of them. Far too barren to be military and much too isolated to have ever been civilian. No landing lights were anywhere in evidence until he spotted discolored patches in the ground on both sides of the strip. Those patches, his experience indicated, likely concealed high-powered halogens that could be activated with the proper signal from an aircraft approaching under cover of darkness, upon which the fake turf would recede so the lights could surface.
Someone had taken great measures to hide whatever truth lay here.
The strip boasted not a single building. Not a hangar, tower, storage or refueling facility--nothing. Well, not quite, Middleton thought, as he felt the jet's landing gear lower. Because parked at the far end of the airstrip, where the tarmac widened into a football field-sized slab, was another jet.
He heard the zooming hiss of their fighter escorts soaring away as Chernayev's jet touched down and taxied toward the second jet, a 767.
"Come," Chernayev gestured, after their plane ground to a halt.
Middleton started to rise, realizing he'd forgotten to unfasten his seatbelt. He joined Chernayev in the aisle.
"Where are we?" Middleton asked him.
"Where we need to be. Where the world needs us." Chernayev stopped and smiled almost sadly at him. "You wanted answers, comrade, and now you're going to get them. Though I suspect you may regret ever posing the questions."
The cold assaulted them as soon as they emerged from the jet. It seemed to push out from the mountains now visible again off to the west, their snow-capped peaks poking through the clouds and stretching for the sky. Middleton had known far more frigid colds than this, but the one he felt now was different, deeper somehow which he passed off to the anxiety and expectation racing through him.
As they approached a set of landing stairs set before the 767's bulkhead, the door opened to reveal a pair of armed Chinese soldiers beyond it. Chernayev led the way up the stairs into the plane. The soldiers stiffened to attention and saluted, seeming to recognize him while ignoring Middleton altogether. Chernayev return their salutes and then led the way through a curtain and into a majestic library, complete with wood paneling and leather furniture, its smell rich in the air. The sight further disoriented Middleton, casting an opaque, dream-like translucence over his vision. He tried to remind himself he was on a plane, but the thought wouldn't hold.
Then he saw the figure of a Chinese man wearing a general's uniform rise from a high-backed leather chair and stride past ornate shelves lined with a neat array of leather-bound books. He was tall and thin, his hair raven black except for a matching swatch of white over both temples. The man grinned, approaching Chernayev with arms extended. They hugged briefly, then separated and bowed to each other before the Chinese man's gaze fell on Middleton.
"And this must be the American." He extended his hand outward. "I have heard much about you, Mr. Middleton, most of it well before today."
"Who--"
"--am I? I have many names. Today I am General Zang."
"My opposite number in the Chinese government," said Chernayev.
"You mean, military."
"Same thing," said Zang. "Retired as well."
"Somewhat anyway," the Russian added.
Zang turned again toward Middleton. "We are protectors."
"Protectors of what?"
Zang shrugged. "Fill in the blank with whatever you choose. Our countries have become much less insular and mutually dependent. You know what the Butterfly Effect is, of course?"
"A butterfly flaps its wings in Boston--"
"And a monsoon sprouts in China," Zang interrupted, again completing his thought. "Especially appropriate in this case, of course. My Russian friend and I like to think of ourselves as protectors of that mutual dependence. There was a time when we looked on the Western world, rooting for the inevitable fall that would lead to a chaos capable of consuming it. Now we find ourselves dreading that chaos above all else and working to prevent it."
"Because of that mutual dependence."
Chernayev said, "Colonel, yes, I have a financial interest in the dam. But this is about far more than money." He took a pair of cigars from his jacket pocket and handed one to Zang. "Cuban," he proclaimed. "At least our Communist comrades there are still good for something."
"Mr. Middleton," Zang said, still admiring his cigar, "you have spent your career, especially with the Volunteers, fighting the same enemies and battles as we find ourselves fighting now."
"You just didn't realize it," Chernayev added.
"You have fought to preserve order; perhaps not in those words, but that has been the ultimate effect. And you have watched the world change into a much more dangerous place."
"Because of the butterfly," Middleton interjected.
"Exactly. We all grew up in an era of clarity where the enemy announced himself by the uniform he wore. Now we wear the same uniform, a business suit, which makes it all the more difficult to spot the enemies among us and all the more easy for them to disturb the delicate balance we're fighting to preserve."
"What does this have to do with--"
"--you, your quest, your daughter . . . "
"My daughter?"
"Our new enemies don't play by the same rules we used to. In fact, they play by no rules at all. Family members are considered fair game now. The tactics are brutal, revolting. They turn my stomach," Zang said, lighting his cigar and savoring the first puffs. "You are standing in my home, Mr. Middleton. It is too dangerous for men like myself and Comrade Chernayev to stay anywhere long enough for them to find us. There are fifty airfields like this scattered across China and I never spend more than a single night at a time in any one of them."
Middleton studied Zang closer, matching the face to a different era, a different man. Same brilliant, confident smile draped in the shadow of hair not yet touched by white. Shorter, slighter, more effusive, but with the same eyes.
"I think I know you," he started, "from the--"
"--Chinese secret po--"
"The Te-Wu," Middleton said before Zang could finish.
Zang held his cigar at arm's distance, frozen. "I'm impressed. Perhaps our path
s have crossed somehow."
"Not yours, your father's. He was one of the Te-Wu charged with infiltrating the United States after the Korean War."
"Not just one of. It was his operation!"
"You sound proud."
"Of his efforts, of our heritage, yes. The Te-Wu dates back to 550 B.C."
"I've heard the group even has its own clandestine dialect that makes infiltrating it impossible."
Zang spat off some words in Chinese that made no sense to either Chernayev or Middleton. "But now," he resumed, switching back to English, "we find ourselves with a different enemy, a different mission."
"Sikari?"
"Chaos in general, of which Sikari represented only a small part, small but very dangerous because of its capacity to inflict incalculable harm on our precariously mutually dependent world."
"The butterfly . . . "
Zang nodded as he blew huge plumes of cigar smoke. "And in this case that butterfly is going to land on the Baglihar dam just hours from now. And if we do not force it to take flight again, the price will be the end of the new world stitched together by the precarious threads of euros and dollars."
"War between India and Pakistan."
"Exactly."
"No," Middleton disagreed. "We know the explosives Sikari's people have can't destroy the dam, and even if they manage to assassinate the secretary of state . . . "
Middleton let his voice trail off, something in Zang's suddenly tentative expression telling him he had it all wrong, that he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.
"It's not the secretary of state who's coming," the head of the Te-Wu told him.
Tesla was seated next to Charley Middleton on the last leg of a series of exhausting flights that would ultimately end in Kashmir. The coach compartment was crowded, adding ample camouflage to the clever subterfuge they'd enacted inside Orly Airport. Aware French authorities would be looking for them, as well as Archer Sikari's people alerted by the suspicious communications over Jana's salvaged cell phone, Tesla had disguised Charley as an old woman. The ruse was accomplished with a combination of make-up, hair product and clothing, all culled from shops inside the terminal, the transformation handled inside a handicapped restroom stall. Obtaining a wheelchair from the airline proved a simple matter and Tesla had booked the tickets by phone so as not to arouse suspicion spurred by a walk-up sale.
Harried authorities on the alert for two women meeting Charley and Tesla's descriptions would have no reason to pay heed to an old woman slumped in a wheelchair, chin resting near her frail chest and snoozing while her daughter eased her through the terminal. Sikari's people would be more astute and discerning, but Tesla doubted even their ability to marshal significant forces in so short a period of time. To throw them further off the track, she had tucked Jana's phone into the carry-on of a passenger bound for New York, leaving them to chase their GPS tails around the world.
Tesla met Charley's gaze in the coach seat next to her and managed a reassuring smile. "You'll be with your father in no time."
"That doesn't mean we'll be safe."
"Perhaps you don't know your father."
"You could be right. I don't know anything anymore."
The make-up Tesla had used to age Charley had begun to cake, and she noticed tear streaks down both her cheeks, evidence she had been crying in the moments Tesla had managed to steal some sleep on this final stretch of their exhausting journey.
She didn't bother to deny the younger woman's assertion. "You're right, Charley. Once you go down the road we're on, there's no going back."
"How do you live with it, what you do?"
"Easily, because not doing it is much worse."
"At the expense of everything else," Charley muttered, shaking her head.
"If we fail, there will be no everything else. The stakes are that high. People have died and more will if we can't stop Sikari's people in Kashmir."
Charley sniffled. "I just want to go home."
"It's not safe, Charley."
"Will it ever be again?"
"Probably not."
Charley settled back in her seat, taking a deep breath. "Thank you for telling me the truth."
Tesla laid a reassuring hand atop Charley's upon the armrest. "In the end, it's all we have."
"It is the only way."
"It can not be just anyone. It would have to be someone we trust will not back out. We don't have anyone I trust that much."
"We have one."
"Me."
Standing within view of the now-completed dam, Archer replayed the conversation between Umer and Sanam in his mind. Both were fools, easily manipulated to serve his ends. And, appropriately enough, the business about the detonators and placement of the explosives was a fool's errand. But they had supplied Archer with the army he needed in the form of the offshoot of Harakat-ul-Mujahedeen, 50 loyal soldiers willing to die for the cause.
Archer and his associates had secured press credentials to accommodate all 50. It was left to Archer to complete the process of getting them their video and camera equipment, all constructed to pass the scrutiny of any security check, even one undertaken as expected by the American Secret Service.
Archer held his gaze on the dam, a bit leery over the fact that the building security apparatus was considerably higher than he had anticipated. He felt a knot tighten in the pit of his stomach, anxiety over the fact that his mission had been compromised, robbing him of his destiny and his dream.
You were a fool, father. You should have left this whole project to me.
He knew Sikari had died admiring, even revering the son who would succeed him; actually exceed him. But if his plan at the dam failed it would all be for naught. His dreams, and the dreams of his father, would die here, the maelstrom that would follow never to grow into the fiery inferno certain to consume the world. And when that world was remade it would be in the image chosen by Archer and others like him, an image foreseen by his father.
Starting here. In a mere matter of hours.
"Pacing will not get us there any faster, my friend," Chernayev told Middleton as their Boeing streaked through the sky en route to Kashmir, General Zang's airfield well behind them.
Middleton stopped. "We can't let this happen."
"And we won't. My men will be meeting us there. Along with U.S. security forces and Indian security. Sikari's people will be stopped."
Middleton slid closer to Chernayev's seat and glared down at him. "That isn't good enough. This is the President of the United States we're talking about. The secretary of state was one thing, but this . . . "
"I admit it's an unexpected complication."
"Unexpected complication? Is that the best you can do?"
"You didn't let me finish, comrade. It's an unexpected complication we must nonetheless not let distract us from destroying Sikari once and for all."
"Sikari's dead."
"But not his cause, his mission. We find this heir of his and we can end this forever."
"It's not worth the risk."
"You speak as if we have a choice. The president is coming here under cover. Even his most trusted advisors, believe he's sick with the flu in the White House. He is coming to the dam opening to make a statement and nothing we can do can stop him. He's been made aware of the danger and he's coming anyway."
Middleton could feel the heart racing in his chest. "In the face of a threat to his life. Those explosives . . . "
"Cannot destroy the dam. We know that now. Remember, we're not even sure Archer's there."
"Then we're missing something. We've been missing it all along." Middleton thought for a moment. "Sikari's son couldn't have anticipated his presence here either."
"Now what is your point?"
"Everything, all Sikari's plans, would've been based on the secretary of state. Less security. A different upshot to their plans."
"I don't follow, comrade."
"Zang said it for both of you: chaos. That's what this i
s about from Archer's standpoint. To set the world on the road to a nuclear confrontation between India and Pakistan. You know what that would mean."
"I've read the same studies you have," Chernayev said, joining Middleton on his feet. "The complete collapse of the world economy. A decade or more of deep depression. And that's just for starters."
"A possible but unlikely scenario before. Now, with the president . . . "
"Likely, if not inevitable."
"Exactly," said Middleton. "Pakistani militants will be blamed for the attack. The United States' response will be . . . God, I can't even find the word."
"The vision suffices. Pakistan's retaliation aimed at India because it's all they have. Destroy our proxy."
"Nuclear war," said Middleton. "A world of chaos."
"Not if we can stop it," Chernayev told him.
Keeping up the ruse, Tesla wheeled Charley through Srinagar Airport. The airport, and the city known as the summer capital of Jammu and Kashmir, was located in the heart of the Kashmir Valley a mile above sea level. Tesla knew the inland and lowlying waterways made it the ideal site for the Baglihar dam.
As a smaller airport, this facility offered light security, even token. But the grounds both inside the terminal and out on the tarmac itself were teeming with Indian soldiers and district police.
"What's going on?" Charley asked, still slumped in her chair to avoid detection.
"Look." Tesla pointed to a large sign that welcomed visitors to the opening ceremonies of the dam. Then she gasped, "Charley." She grabbed the younger woman's arm.
At the bottom of the sign was some information about the dam--size, electrical output and factoids, one of which was that the people displaced by the construction and flooding had been relocated to a beautiful, new town nearby. It was affectionately called "The Village."
"The warning in Balan's email! Something's going to happen here, now." She stepped to a kiosk and bought a prepaid mobile. When it was activated, she called all of Middleton's numbers--even his landlines--and sent text messages and emails.
After finishing, she slipped the phone away and wheeled Charley out the door. "If your father can get to any phone or computer, he'll find out where we are and why."
"If he's alive," Charley muttered.
"Stop it," Tesla said, though not unkindly. "He's fine. I know he is. He might even be here. If he knows about the Village."