"What are you going to do?" Nick asked.
"All we have is a phone call and speculation," Harker said. "I'll pass the info to Langley and let them follow up. Steph, after you check out those calls in the NSA data banks, see what you can find out about this coin."
She handed it to Stephanie. "Anybody have anything else?"
"When is Lamont coming back?" Steph asked.
Lamont Cameron was the fourth part of Nick's team. A few months before he'd gone down with an infection, the result of a wound he'd taken in Jordan. It had almost killed him. Lately he'd seemed depressed. Nick was worried about him.
"I'm not sure," Elizabeth said. "I'm letting him have as much time as he needs to heal. I shouldn't have sent him on that last mission, it was too soon."
"It wasn't your fault, Elizabeth," Selena said. "He's the one who wanted to get out of the hospital."
"I know," Harker said. "But even so…"
"He'll be okay," Ronnie said. "Lamont is one tough cookie."
CHAPTER 5
Ashok Rao was in his office at RAW headquarters, reading a report from the Philippines and trying not to think about his limited future. He felt a sudden, sharp pain, as though a spike had punched into his skull. He got up from his desk and steadied himself. He walked to the private washroom he rated as Secretary of Special Operations, took the bottle of pills Krivi had given him from the medicine cabinet and shook four tablets into his palm. He filled a glass with bottled water and gulped them down. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face. He patted the skin dry with a towel and combed back his receding hair.
The image looking back from the mirror showed a balding man with a moon shaped face. Deep pockets of shadow sat like bruises under liquid brown eyes. His skin was a medium brown color with a yellowish cast to it. He was clean-shaven. Rao was sixty-one years old, but today he felt ten years older.
His office was on the top floor of the agency's new headquarters building on Lodhi Road. He had a fine wooden desk and bookcase, a couch and upholstered chairs of good quality. The walls were painted yellow, with off-white, enameled trim. The floor was covered with thick, blue carpet. A row of windows looked out over the busy road below and across the rooftops of New Delhi.
One wall bore a mandatory picture of the current Prime Minister, a man for whom Rao felt only contempt. Below it was a picture of Lakhan Gupta, the current Secretary of RAW and Rao's boss. On another wall was a picture of the founder of the first Hindu nationalist party. Next to it hung a painting of an eighth century Hindu philosopher called the Great Revivalist. A gold frame with a picture of Rao's murdered wife and son sat on his desk, next to a computer monitor.
He picked up the picture and gently touched the glass over his wife's face.
The marriage had been arranged by their parents, as was customary. Before the wedding, Rao had little contact with his bride-to-be. That, too, was customary. Marriage was a contract, a necessary part of the social agreement. Love was secondary, of little importance. What mattered was the alliance between the families. At best, he'd hoped Lakshmi would bear him sons and not argue with him too much.
It hadn't taken long for Rao to see that Lord Krishna had blessed him. Lakshmi had made him feel like a poet, like a prince. Within months, he was hopelessly in love with her. The feeling was mutual.
When their son Arjuna was born, it seemed as though the gods had filled Rao's life with joy. If there was any one thing that interfered with his happiness, it was his work. It was dangerous and unpleasant, taking him away from Lakshmi for weeks and months at a time. But it offered advancement and the kind of security that came from being an instrument of state power.
One day Lakshmi and Arjuna had been waiting for a train on a packed station platform in Srinagar when a terrorist from Abdul Afridi's group opened fire on the crowd. Twenty-seven had died, his wife and son among them. Whatever part of Rao was drawn to poetry and love died with them that day. The attack had been planned by Pakistan's intelligence agency. Rao filled the empty space in his heart with hatred for ISOK, for Pakistan, and especially for Abdul Afridi.
Rao set the picture down and leaned back in his chair.
Since the meeting with Krivi, Rao had thought of little else except revenge. At night his dreams filled with half remembered images of black skies filled with fire. Now, it seemed, vengeance was within reach. He wasn't sure how Krivi would make it possible, but it didn't matter. Rao knew what needed to be done. He had to create a provocation, an incident to start India on the road to war. Krivi and his organization would fan the flames. But how was it to be accomplished?
The search for an answer kept Rao awake at night. Meanwhile there was work to be done, the daily oversight of his network of spies. He had to maintain an illusion of loyalty.
He picked up the report he'd been reading. It detailed a Filipino raid on an Abu Sayyaf camp and the death of Abu Khan. The report of Khan's death cheered Rao, but it raised questions. What was Khan doing in the Philippines? Had ISOK formed an alliance with Abu Sayyaf? If so, why? A second report speculated about a phone call from the American Embassy in Manila to Abu Khan. In the world of counter terrorism, a call like that was a red flag.
Rao's agent in Manila was Prakash Khanna. Khanna thought Abu Sayyaf was planning a major attack on the Americans, with the American Embassy the likely target. The phone call was a piece of intelligence he pointed to in support of his theory.
Rao didn't like Americans. He thought them arrogant and rude, little better than the British oppressors that had ruled India in the past. Washington claimed to be India's friend but played a double game by aiding Pakistan. America needed to understand that Pakistan was their enemy.
Rao decided against warning Washington. If Abu Sayyaf attacked the Americans there might be a way to turn their anger against Pakistan, by making Washington think Islamabad was behind it.
There can be no peace and rebirth without destruction, Rao thought. The concept of death and destruction as the seed of renewal and peace was deeply rooted in Indian culture. So was the concept of sacrifice. Sometimes sacrifices were necessary for the greater good and the glory of God.
Sacrifice.
Krivi's pills were taking effect. Rao's headache was gone. He felt good. The seed of a plan began to grow in his mind. He picked up his phone.
CHAPTER 6
The Indian Embassy to the Philippines was located in Dasmarinas Village in the Makati district, a peaceful, tree shaded island of calm in the restless chaos of the city. The saffron, white and green flag of India hung limp in the humid air over the entrance to the embassy.
Prakash Khanna's official title was Second Counselor Attaché, attached to the trade ministry. He'd been an agent with the Research and Analysis Wing for twelve years.
Khanna's last name was derived from a Sanskrit word for sword. It marked him as a guardian who would defend the values of Mother India. True to his name, he belonged to the Kshatriya caste, warriors in the tradition of the great Prince Arjuna. The caste system was still legal, still a universal part of Indian social and cultural life. Caste was hereditary and unchangeable. Many of the best RAW agents were Kshatriya.
Khanna thought of himself as a warrior, though his slight frame and thinning hair didn't match the virile image people saw in the Bollywood spectacles. Times had changed. In the modern era, a computer was of more use than a sword and analytic skills could be more deadly than the bow and arrow of the ancient epics.