The Avatari (43 page)

‘That’s what we thought too, Mr President. I am not saying at this stage that we believe anything, but yes, we need to get involved,’ the deputy director said in a grave voice.

‘What do you suggest?’

‘There are two options,’ Madison said slowly. ‘One, we stymie Josh Wando, arrest him for certain irregularities at his clinic. That’s one way to ensure that the expedition in search of Shambhala never takes off.’ He paused a moment longer than necessary. ‘And two, we seize the chance and go for a more proactive option.’

‘And why are we even considering a second option?’

‘Mr President, the Chinese already have the
paiza
– or, at least, a copy of what is inscribed on it. While it would be difficult for them to launch an expedition of their own, based on the information they have, it is not entirely improbable.’ He lapsed into silence, then added, ‘But that’s not the main reason.’ Madison’s voice trailed off as he nodded to Stevens, who took the cue.

‘We would be throwing away an opportunity that literally fell into our lap,’ Stevens said with some passion, suddenly losing the academic detachment with which he had briefed the President earlier. ‘Let me assure you, sir, that neither the Chinese nor the Russians would show any reticence at all in pursuing this quest if they got the chance; their belief in the paranormal is far more firmly entrenched than ours and their research in the field is many times more advanced. We know for a fact that the Chinese continued excavations in the buried city Hedin had discovered at the Lop Nur Lake and they have been persistent in their demand that the scrolls Hedin had smuggled be returned to them. Yes, Mr President, they would try and find Shambhala on their own if they could.’ Dr Stevens’s voice had risen and he fought to compose himself. ‘Since Apollo 11, we have had an unassailable technological lead over the rest of the world. We owe it to our nation to follow this up, Mr President. Just think of where it will place us
if
we find Shambhala and
if
it actually holds what we suspect it does.’ His voice broke as he said, ‘The United States would become invincible, the greatest power in the history of humankind.’

For a long time, no one spoke. Stevens filled his glass with water from a carafe placed on the table and drained the contents in one gulp. The other two men noticed that his hand was trembling.

‘Which area is this expedition going to?’ the President finally asked, breaking the silence.

‘We don’t know for sure, but the probable target area,’ Madison pointed to the maps, ‘I mean, the geographical region where this Shambhala is believed to exist lies north of the Himalayas and the Karakorams – an area entirely controlled by either the Russians or the Chinese. So if we are going to follow the lead, we’ll have to make it a black op. In brief, no Americans – none that can be traced back to us in any way.’

‘What’s your plan?’

‘We could begin by letting Wando know that we are interested and ready to provide the support he needs,’ the deputy director cleared his throat then said, ‘covertly, of course. We will push in more people and get actively involved in the expedition only when we are sure he is on to something, Mr President.’

‘And then?’

‘Then, if it comes to that, we send in our team. They will abide by the November Sierra Echo Protocol, one that we follow for sites under enemy control: neutralize, sanitize, evacuate.’

There was a long silence, during which the hum of the room’s central heating system sounded unnaturally loud.

‘How many people know about this?’ the President asked.

‘The director, Dr Stevens and me.’

‘What does the director have to say about it?’

‘He said he would respect your decision, sir.’

The President looked at the now empty glass in his hand.
So these are the decisions you’re required to take to protect the free world, the ones no one ever gets to know about. But damn! It’s worth the gamble. What is there to lose? God, I need a whisky!

After a minute of contemplation, he nodded. ‘Okay, Jim, go ahead. But this will have to remain between us. I don’t want the whole goddamn Congress in the know.’ He raised a finger for emphasis. ‘If we have to go in – and
only
if we have to – I want you and Hal to personally supervise the whole thing. Can’t leave something so important to just a…black ops team.’

‘Yes, Mr President,’ Madison agreed after a moment of hesitation.

The old man is covering his ass
, he thought. He slid a glance at the other man, who nodded. Both rose to their feet, ready to leave. The President stood up as well.

‘You know,’ he said, half-grinning to himself, ‘it’s interesting that you guys should discuss all this here, at Camp David.’

‘Why is that, Mr President?’ Madison asked politely.

‘Camp David used to be called USS Shambhala before Ike came and named it after his grandson.’

The President didn’t bother to hold back a guffaw.

The other two men smiled back at him politely.

CHAPTER 25

The Battle for Zhawar Valley, Badakhshan Province

S
EPTEMBER 1986

By common consent, it was decided that Duggy should cook. It wasn’t as if the rest hadn’t tried their hand at it, but none had been able to produce anything even remotely edible and had burnt their fingers, into the bargain. Duggy, on the other hand, had made deliciously crisp naans and produced an appetizing barbecue of tender goat meat, pre-boiled and marinated overnight in whey.

‘In Nepal, all men know how to cook,’ was his matter-of-fact response, when his team members exclaimed in delight over the evening meal which they ate huddled around the fire.

‘Find me someone from Nepal, Duggy,’ Susan teased, leaning over to pick up one more naan from the pile next to the fire.

‘The competition promises to acquire quite an international flavour, what with Suleiman also likely to stake his claim,’ Peter chipped in, his voice deadpan.

Ashton and Duggy hid their grins and gazed straight into the fire.

‘Oh, please!’ Susan protested in exasperation.

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that wistful look in Suleiman’s eyes when he gazes at you,’ Peter persisted.

‘Oh, come on now! He’s just a boy.’

‘They grow up fast in these parts,’ Peter retorted.

There was a chuckle from Ashton. Susan spun around with a glare and Ashton studiously concentrated on his food, the smile carefully wiped off his face.

‘That’s
not
funny!’ Susan said with some heat.

There was a knock on the door. Peter sprang noiselessly to his feet and went up to remove the wooden block which served as a latch, pulling the pistol the Afghans had given him from his waistband at the same time. Susan saw the others reach for their weapons too, without actually moving from their places. Not a word had been exchanged.

Peter opened the door a crack. The howl of the wind, muffled to a distant moan by the shut door, instantly became a roar. Three men stood outside. One of them was Suleiman. They quickly slipped in and Peter bolted the door shut again.

‘Salaam waleikum. I trust you are comfortable,’ Suleiman said gruffly.

Flecks of snow glistened on their beards as the Afghans came forward and crouched around the fire, hands held out to the flames for warmth.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Ashton said. ‘Join us for dinner?’

‘We have eaten,’ Suleiman answered, tossing some twigs into the fire. ‘I come with a message from the chief. The Russians have started moving their guns and ammunition.’

‘That’s good news,’ Ashton remarked.

That’s really good
, he thought.
It means they have taken the
bait.
The Russians were moving the guns to get in range of Zhawar. It meant they now had only a day – two, at the most.

Ashton offered cigarettes to their visitors. They each accepted one, murmuring their thanks. He pulled out a cinder and they lit up. He pushed away his plate.

‘The weather is also just right for us,’ he observed. ‘It will keep the MiGs inside. I hope it holds.’

‘It will,’ Suleiman assured him.

‘Does it always last this long?’ Ashton persisted.

It was important for him to know.

‘It is the will of Allah,’ Suleiman replied quietly. ‘The MiGs will not interfere with our plans.’ He turned on his haunches to face Peter and gestured towards his Afghan companions. ‘These are two of the men who will fire the Stingers,’ he said. ‘There are six in all, just as you had asked for. The remaining four will join you tomorrow.’

‘They have good eyes?’

‘The eyes of the
baaz
, the hawk, and the heart of the
sher
, the lion,’ Suleiman replied with assurance.

Peter turned to look at the Afghans and saw that they were mere boys, so young, in fact, that there was hardly a hint of stubble on their chins. But their faces were flushed with pride.

‘I can see that,’ he said to Suleiman. ‘We will begin at dawn.’

‘Good.’ Suleiman turned to Ashton. ‘The chief has asked if you could meet him tomorrow to discuss the plan.’

Ashton glanced at Peter, who inclined his head in assent. They had already gone over the matter between them, hoping they would be asked for their advice. To offer it without being invited to do so was a serious breach of local custom and deemed a mark of extreme disrespect.

‘Please tell him that I will be honoured to offer my assistance,’ Ashton told Suleiman.

‘Thank you,’ the Afghan replied, rising abruptly to his feet.

The two young boys with him followed suit. Suleiman turned to them and said something in an undertone, whereupon one of the boys pulled out some blankets from under the cloak he was wearing.

‘It is getting cold. Some blankets for you and your friends,’ Suleiman said.

‘Thank you,’ Peter said gratefully.

Suleiman’s face was flushed, his eyes on Susan. Abruptly, he turned away. The second Afghan boy pulled out what appeared to be a grey shawl. Peter recognized its quality immediately; it was the fabled shahtoosh, made from the underbelly fur of the chiru, a variety of Tibetan antelope that lived in the high mountains of the Hindu Kush. Light as fluff, it was so warm that you would sweat in the snow if you were wrapped in it.

‘Here,’ Suleiman said gruffly in Pushtu, handing the shawl to Susan. ‘My mother sent it for you. She says it will get colder and this will keep you warm.’

‘Thank you,’ Susan said, surprised. She took it and ran her hands over it. ‘It’s beautiful!’ she exclaimed. ‘And it looks terribly expensive too. Is it?’

For a moment, no one answered her question.

‘Two thousand five hundred dollars at the very least, that too, in Kabul,’ Peter finally replied in an undertone. ‘That is, if you can find something of this quality.’

Susan shook her head, her eyes dazed, as she looked at her companions.

She held the shawl out towards Suleiman. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured awkwardly, ‘but I cannot accept this.’

There was a hush in the room as everyone fell silent. Ashton came up and took the shawl from Susan’s outstretched hands.

‘Thank you,’ he said to the boy. ‘We are deeply honoured to receive this gift. Please thank your mother on our behalf.’

Susan was about to interrupt, but stopped as she felt Duggy tug at her sleeve. As their eyes met, he gave her a barely perceptible nod. Susan shook her head and took a deep breath, but remained silent.

Suleiman nodded at Ashton, turned and left. When the door had closed behind them, Susan turned to the men. Duggy and Ashton had already gone to their side of their room and were busy preparing to slip into their sleeping bags. Peter was clearing away the dishes.

‘What was all that about?’ she asked him now. Her voice was tight.

‘Nothing. You did the right thing,’ he said calmly.

‘Stop treating me like a child!’ she snapped. ‘It’s beyond my comprehension why you would want me to accept something as expensive as this. Two thousand five hundred dollars! That would be a lot of money anywhere, and especially in these parts, I imagine.’

‘In these parts, as you put it, the money would feed a family like a king for an entire year,’ he said. ‘But that’s not the point.’

‘And what, pray, is the point, Peter? Am I allowed to know?’ Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in their small hut.

‘In this part of the world, they will starve if they have to, but they will make sure they feed their guest,’ he explained patiently. ‘And you never refuse a gift; it’s taken as an insult. There are no strings attached with that gift, you know. You don’t owe them anything and they don’t expect anything in return. It’s just their way.’ He paused. ‘As for Suleiman, you needn’t worry about him hitting on you. He isn’t doing anything of the sort. When I made that remark, I was just pulling your leg. In fact, he had asked me about you. I told him that you were my woman.’

Susan stared at him. Without uttering a word, she went off to her sleeping bag, unzipped it and slid inside, turning her face to the mud wall of their hut.

Peter lit a cigarette and stared at the roof. The Russians would bomb this valley to hell and be gone in a few days. Men, women and children would die, he thought. But an illiterate old woman, who lived on a barren hillside in northern Afghanistan and might never see her husband and son again at the end of those few days, had found time to follow their code.

* * *

Colonel Boris Petrov looked out of the window and caught sight of an object, lit up by halogen searchlights for an instant before being lost to the inky darkness of the night. It was a scraggly bush that the howling wind had swept high into the air before tossing it away. His gaze hovered for a moment on the figures on sentry duty as they bent over, hugging their greatcoats to their bodies. Then he drew the curtains, shutting out the sight, and turned back to the warmth of the thickly carpeted Operations Room, richly furnished in Afghan pine. The huge bukhari at one end hummed softly, the glow emanating from it a warm cherry red.

He glanced at General Dudylev, who sat on a sofa in his shirtsleeves, a large map spread out before him, a goblet of brandy by his side. The staff officer was briefing him. The colonel grunted. He had not seen the general so animated in a long time. Petrov tossed off the vodka in his glass and went up to him.