He risked another glance. It looked like someone had set off a bomb in a butcher shop. The white washed walls were covered with blood and shreds of flesh.
At close quarters, a grenade was a terrible weapon.
It was the last room in the house. Nick lowered his rifle. The sound of firing from outside stopped.
"Clear," he called. He looked around.
A meal had been cooking over the fireplace in the main room. The pot had spilled over onto the flames and the smell of burning food made Nick realize he was hungry.
Gabuyo's sergeant came into the building with two of his men and looked at the bodies strewn across the rooms. He turned to Nick.
"That took some cojones," he said. "I think you must be a little bit nuts, but thanks."
"You're welcome. Sorry about your Captain."
"Yeah. We're out of here in twenty minutes. Better start looking for whatever it is you're looking for. We're going to torch the place when we leave."
"Roger that," Nick said.
Nick began searching the bodies lying around him and found nothing of value. He went into the main room. A large table lay on its side. A cigar box on the overturned table had spilled its contents across the floor. Something glittered in the smoky light from the fire and Nick bent down to see.
Gold.
A dozen gold coins lay scattered on the floor. Nick asked himself when he'd last seen a gold coin outside of a coin shop. The answer was easy.
Never.
He picked one up. It was round, a little irregular in shape and it looked old. Arabic writing covered both sides. He picked up the rest of the coins and put them in a collection bag. He began searching the bodies of the dead terrorists, looking for cell phones, letters, anything useful. He found a throwaway phone and put it in his pocket. He found a few papers and put them into a collection bag. He came to the body of the man with the pistol and the white shirt and began searching it.
The dead man wore a skullcap and sported a full, unkempt beard that reached halfway down his chest. He was big and he didn't look Filipino, more like a Pakistani or an Afghan.
It could be the rumors of Taliban involvement with Abu Sayyaf are true, Nick thought.
A small cloth sack hung around the bearded man's neck on a braided thong. Nick pulled it off and opened it. Inside was another one of the coins. Nick put the coin back in the sack and put the sack in his pocket with the phone. Most of what he found would go to the Filipinos but he wanted Harker to see one of the coins for herself.
The dead man had a sophisticated satellite phone. Nick pocketed the phone to take back to Virginia. He took out a camera and began photographing the faces of the dead terrorists. If any of them were in the computer databases back home, they'd be identified. It was always good to know which of your enemies were no longer a problem.
He was here because the bad guys were spending a lot of money on fancy weapons and everyone wanted to know where the funds were coming from. Now he had some of the money but he was no closer to knowing the source. Nick wasn't sure what one of those coins was worth but he knew it had to be a lot.
The Sergeant came to the door. Nick heard the sound of helicopters approaching.
"Time to go," the Filipino said.
Nick took a last look around. "I'm done here," he said.
By the time the choppers lifted off, the old plantation house was engulfed in flames. Nick watched the glow of the fire recede into the darkness below. The rush was gone and fatigue had set in. He ached, a deep, wide ache that reached into his bones. It was getting harder to recover from these missions, harder to motivate himself.
Getting old for this, he thought. It's a young man's game.
Sometimes he just wanted to go somewhere where no one knew who he was or cared. For what was probably the thousandth time he told himself that what he did made a difference. He still believed it.
He had to believe it.
CHAPTER 2
"One year, perhaps more. Perhaps less."
Doctor Singh set aside the folder with the scan results and looked at Ashok Rao, not without sympathy. The background sounds of New Delhi drifted through an open window.
Curious, Singh thought. The man shows no reaction.
"You are absolutely certain," Rao said. "There's no possibility of a mistake."
"I'm afraid not. The tumor is inoperable. The headaches will begin to occur with more frequency. Eventually there will be blackouts."
"Will there be pain?"
"Yes, and nausea. Disorientation. Like a migraine. I'll prescribe medication for you. The symptoms will become more evident in a few months. Over time it will become more and more difficult for you to function. Are you married?"
"No."
"I suggest you make arrangements while you're able to do so."
"Arrangements?"
"For terminal care." Singh had the grace to look uncomfortable.
Rao listened to Singh pronounce his death sentence and resisted an urge to reach out and choke him. Outwardly, there was no sign of his rage. He'd learned long ago to conceal his true feelings. Concealment meant safety.
Rao was the Secretary of the Office of Special Operations for the Research and Analysis Wing, India's CIA. He directed a network of spies, informers and military units that carried out targeted assassinations, false flag operations and counterterrorism. In India, Rao was a powerful man. All of that power could not stop the cancer growing in his brain.
Rao barely listened to Singh's instructions for follow-up appointments and tests. He knew he wouldn't be seeing the good doctor again.
If word of Rao's illness reached the agency, he'd be shuffled aside and forced to resign. That couldn't be allowed to happen. Without agency resources he would never get his revenge. The tests and records were under a false name and Doctor Singh was the only one who knew what Rao looked like. Something would have to be done about Doctor Singh.
A few minutes later Rao stood on the sidewalk outside Singh's building. He wanted to scream at the people hurrying by. Look at me! I'm alive! No one did. If any of them had bothered, they would have seen another aging civil servant in a rumpled suit. Rao was 61 years old. For his age, he'd thought he was in excellent condition. Then the headaches had started a few months ago. And now, this.
He flagged down a cab, a shiny black and yellow Ambassador.
"The temple of Shiva near the market on Peshwa Road. Do you know it?"
"I know it," the cabbie said.
Twenty minutes later, Rao took off his shoes and placed them by the temple entrance before he entered. The temple on Peshwa Road wasn't one of the largest temples in New Delhi, but it sheltered a statue of Shiva unique among the many thousands found throughout the city. Inside it was dim and quiet, calm contrast to the glare and noise outside. The floor under foot was cool stone, worn smooth over hundreds of years by devotees come to worship. Overhead, the ceiling rose in a perfect stepped pyramid toward the heavens. The air was heavy with incense, the sweet fragrance of a thousand flowers.
The heart of the temple was an ancient statue of Shiva in his wrathful form, the god who unleashed divine fire and karmic retribution from his third eye. The figure stood on the crushed bodies of slain demons. Four arms wielded terrible weapons. A belt of skulls encircled Shiva's waist and poisonous snakes of silver coiled around his neck.
Carved into Shiva's forehead was an empty socket for the third eye. Centuries before, the space had been filled with an enormous ruby. The jewel had been stolen in the sixteenth century by the Muslim ruler, then looted from the emperor's treasury during the sack of Delhi in 1739. No one had ever seen it again.