Savage Deadlock. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
my point, for what it is worth, is this—the push for women’s emancipation is growing, and as it does, it stirs up feelings that had previously remained latent. The major is a strong example of this phenomenon. He can’t believe that a woman could take this action, despite the fact that next to her intellect, he is a child.” The general chuckled. “His hostility is restricted to mere words. Out in the field, when faced with women with guns, no matter what their orders, I could not say for certain how the attitudes of the average Pakistani man would reveal themselves. If the attitudes of the men I encountered during my investigation at the Yasmin villa were anything to go by...” He let the words hang in the air.
Bolan considered this. “I think you may well have a point, General. I’ll take note of it, even if your major would not. With that in mind, take me through your report again, only this time leave in the things that had to remain unsaid. Tell me everything you know concerning the search area.”
Sandila assented, looking relieved. He brought up the report on his tablet, and then added topographical maps of the region. “You want full details? I hope you have plenty of time, and that your chief can keep Major Malik occupied....”
Bolan grinned as he thought of Brognola having to keep the major amused. “Don’t worry, General. He’s used to difficult customers.”
Brognola proved the worth of this statement, as he kept Malik away from the restaurant for two and a half hours while Bolan went over the report carefully, closely questioning Sandila about every point raised. The general answered with candor and provided insight that Bolan stored away for future use. Then they turned to the topographical map. Sandila ran him through the general terrain and the known movements of both the militant cells that roamed the hills and the PWLA. He outlined possible routes of progress and points of encampment, and Bolan took mental note and ensured that the general added notation to a copy of the file that he would send to the soldier’s smartphone.
“What might help you, Mr. Stone, you are welcome to,” Sandila said when they were finished. “Yet it would benefit no one if Major Malik had access to these extra notes. He would not betray his country, but there are those around him who would not necessarily see the eradication of Dr. Yasmin as a betrayal.”
“I understand, General,” Bolan said. “Believe me, it’s not just your nation that has these issues.”
By the time Brognola returned with Malik, the two men in the private room were exchanging small talk. Malik, seeing this, grunted and raised his eyebrows as if to indicate his disgust at the willingness of underlings to slack off.
When the two Pakistani intelligence officers had departed to pick up the military flight that would take them back to their consulate in New York City, Brognola leaned back in his chair.
“Got everything you need, Striker?”
“General Sandila is a good soldier,” Bolan said. “Thorough. Uses his head, too.”
“I’ll prepare a route to take you out to Lahore, and from there you’ll be picked up by Malik’s men and taken to Quetta. It’s still a long hike from there to the region where Yasmin went missing, but at least you can pick up ordnance and your team.”
“About that,” Bolan said. “If Sandila is right, then I might be better flying solo at some point. That won’t sit well with Malik, though, and he could cause ripples.”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Brognola replied, shaking his head. “Listen, Striker, I could see how Sandila felt about him, and after a couple of hours listening to the man, I understand.”
Bolan sighed. “As long as we’re on the same page, Hal.”
Brognola shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah, about that, Striker...”
Bolan’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I think I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear?”
Brognola looked up at the ceiling. “It’s like this. Because the Pakistan NCA approached the U.S. military directly, rather than coming through Foreign Affairs, there was an extra layer of interference to run before the matter came to me. An extra layer that had something to say, and doesn’t want to relinquish that say.”
“Bureaucratic bull, Hal. It has nothing to do with me. I have a job to do, and although there’s nothing wrong with our military, they’re on display and there are things that they just can’t be seen to do that I can.”
Brognola grimaced. “I understand, Striker. Hell, I agree with you. But—and this is crucial—they have a very good case for keeping an eye on this. Yasmin may not want to come willingly. Okay, so you could just extract her like she was a captive, but that might make further negotiation with her difficult for both the Pakistani administration and for ourselves. However, what if there was someone with you who had worked alongside her at MIT? And what if that person was also female, and so more likely to be able to relate to the issues that drove Yasmin to such action?”
“Come on, Hal—it’s not about her being a woman, but are you seriously suggesting I take a civilian into what might as well be a war zone?”
Brognola coughed. “That’s the thing, Striker—the woman I have in mind isn’t a civilian. She’s a soldier. A serving officer. A little like General Sandila, she has a physics degree as well as a military rank. She’s a captain.”
“What kind of combat experience does she have?”
“Two tours of Afghanistan. She’s familiar with that part of the globe. Even if she hasn’t actually been into Balochistan, she does at least have an understanding of the territory, both physical and political.”
“It’s better, but it’s still not ideal.”
“It’s a done deal, Striker. She’s here, waiting. Captain Tamara Davis.”
It happened on the sixteenth day. Maybe she was tiring of the wait and her mind was wandering? Maybe she was beginning to realize that idealistic dreams were one thing, but actually making them happen required a skill set that was completely alien to her? Whatever the reason, Yasmin had let her vigilance slip, and it was disastrous for the whole group.
Yasmin had been on night patrol. Along with Benazir Suri, a former politics student who had become radicalized while studying the Red Army Faction and believed that some of their tactics in 1970s Germany could be applied to Pakistan in the 2010s. It was dubious reasoning, in Yasmin’s opinion, but perhaps it was a measure of both her naivety and her desperate desire for change.
For both women, the harsh reality of living in a camp in the hills had been a wake-up call. Adjusting to rough living after a wealthy upbringing and academic life was proving to be hard. It might have seemed a little more worthwhile if their movement was gathering steam, but several of the women in the group—the villagers who had run from virtual slavery and who had the knowledge and skills that Suri and Yasmin sorely lacked—were frustratingly taciturn and patient. They were content to sit and wait.
The terrain around them was not the lush riverside that Yasmin had been used to. As they traveled farther from the river’s lifeblood, the streams became trickles that snaked in and out of rock, running too deep in places to be easily accessed. The steeply rising crags of rock made it hard to gain sustenance from the ground or seek shelter from the extremes of heat and cold. The moss, lichens and tufts of wiry grasses offered little for the emaciated goats that roamed the area. The few villages in the region scraped an existence off the land and the goats that young shepherds nervously gathered in, keen to avoid the wrath of any bandits who found camp and fought their desultory battles in the unforgiving landscape.
As the sun fell from the sky that evening, Yasmin and Suri started to tramp across the rocky paths and ravines that dotted the hillsides. There were ample hiding spots, but that also meant there were ample places for enemies to conceal themselves. Once the light had faded from the sky, the two women used only the moon and stars to guide them, perpetually praying for the night