The Tian Shan Mountains, Western China
THE donkey had bitten Vlad twice, once on the thigh and once on the hand, when he’d thoughtlessly strayed his fingers too close to its mouth. The Hunza with him kept apologizing, but in his heart seemed to be relishing it.
The animal’s rider had high Slav cheekbones, but he wasn’t Slav. Nor Russian, despite his cover name. “Vladimir” was in his early thirties. His dark stubble was rimed with white frost from the altitude. His nose was straight and thin as a box cutter. He wore a long, heavy black wool greatcoat that could have been issued by the army of the tsars, but with high-tech hiking boots and gloves that in these mountains were barely warm enough. He spoke four languages and carried an SKS carbine slung over his back. His earflapped fur hat made him look like a mountain hunter. At least from a distance.
He didn’t look American. But he was. A Ranger before the war, now Andres Korzenowski was with the Special Operations Group, Special Activities Division. A paramilitary operations officer, specializing in raids, sabotage, ambushes, and the other brands of unconventional mischief the Allies had fomented behind enemy lines in Tibet, Iran, China, and Mongolia.
“There it is, their camp,” the Hunza said.
Andres shaded pale blue, deeply hooded eyes rimmed with broken blood vessels. “I don’t see it,” he said in Russian.
“It is designed not to be seen.”
“Of course.” Digging out a bulky pair of binoculars from inside his coat, he set them to electromagnetic and scanned the deep, rugged mountainside before them. Nothing. He toggled to IR and scanned again. Still nothing. “It is well hidden indeed. If it is here.”
“It is, sir. Somewhere. I do not know exactly the spot. Our guide will tell us.”
The donkey was twisting its head again, trying to get at his foot with those huge yellow teeth. Korzenowski pulled his boot back and with one heel kicked the beast in the ribs.
“Do not abuse my animal, sir,” the Hunza protested.
“I’ve paid you enough for it. The damn thing bites.”
“One that did not bite would not have the spirit to keep on.”
His escort had guided him over the mountains. Unfortunately they’d been delayed by a rockslide. Then, again and again, by drone warnings on the device he carried in his greatcoat pocket. Each time it sounded a discordant whine they had to take shelter, finding nooks amid the rocks and drawing the crackly plastic IR/EM blanket over themselves. They’d lost another whole day when Andres’s animal had decided to chew through his tether and make tracks. Only hunger, in these high, deserted, treeless wastes, had finally brought it reluctantly back to them.
But the end result had been that they’d missed the original rendezvous, a shepherd’s hut far to the east. The man he was meeting seemed reluctant to reschedule, though. It had taken several calls on the satellite phone before he’d reluctantly set a new meeting point.
And now they were here. But no one was around to meet them.
Suddenly the Hunza, several yards ahead, extended a hand. Gestured downward, as if patting the air. Andres reined in his mount, carefully keeping fingers and feet clear, and shaded his gaze ahead.
Where figures rose from nothingness, emerging like ghosts from graves from tumbled rock and gravel and patches of snow, to assemble themselves into ragged but fit-looking fighters. Men in shalwar kameez and sheepskin coats, pakul hats and black scarves wound around bearded faces. Their rifles were pointed at the new arrivals.
The Hunza lifted his hands to the sky. But Andres kicked his mount forward, passing him. The rifles’ muzzles tracked him. Conscious of the 9mm tucked inside the greatcoat, but knowing neither it nor the SKS would help much facing a dozen AKs, he spread his hands pacifically. “Selamlar. Ben beklediginiz Amerikaliyim,” he said, forcing confidence into his tone. I am the American you are waiting for. Turkish, not Uighur, but both being Turkic languages, they should get the gist. “Hanginiz benim rehberim?” Which one of you is here to meet me?
A bulkily built mujahid with a heavy beard lifted a hand warily. He had what Andres recognized as a Battelle antidrone rifle slung across his back. “I am Jusuf,” he said in Han Chinese.
“I do not speak the language of the Han oppressors. I am called Vladimir. We can speak Russian if you like.”
They compromised on his Turkish, which made the other mujs furrow their brows and rub their mouths, but seemed to get the main points across. Jusuf narrowed his eyes at the Hunza. He gestured at him. “We must shoot this one. We are not taking him to our camp.”
“He guided me here. Do not kill him, I beg. I trust him.”
“We don’t. So. He must stay here and wait for your return.”
This didn’t seem to be a good place to argue, and he didn’t need the guy until it was time to go back. Shrugging, he explained this to the Hunza, who looked relieved. Andres counted out two gold pieces, Krugerrands, surreptitiously into his palm. “I know it is not in our agreement, and you will have to camp here. Perhaps this will help pay for feed.” The guy ducked his head, gaze locked on the shining metal. There, that wasn’t so hard.
Andres turned to the stocky Uighur. “You will take me to Chief Oberg?”
The other hesitated. He held out a hand; mimed a handgun with thumb and forefinger.
Andres handed over the carbine. Another mimed trigger-pulling, pointing this time at his chest. He slid the Glock out of the shoulder holster and handed it over too.
The muj reached to the small of his back, and Andres tensed. But what he brought out was not a gun, but a wadded black cloth. Jusuf shook it out into a hood and held it out.
“You got to be kidding,” Andres said in English. Then, in Turkish. But the guy kept holding it out, insisting, and the men holding the rifles stirred, murmuring among themselves.
Unwillingly, he pulled the heavy cloth over his head. It stank of mutton grease. Raw, dyed black wool. He couldn’t see a fucking thing. His breath came hot, and he fought claustrophobia and gritted his teeth to steady himself.
Jusuf said, “Now I will take you to the Lingxiu.”
WHEN they pulled the hood off him at last, after a long stumbling walk during which he was led by the hand, they stood at the bottom of a deep defile.
Jusuf carefully scanned the sky before motioning him forward. The opening was narrow and he had to duck under the shelving rock.
It was a cave. The entrance, overhung by the rock, must have been invisible from a hundred feet away, and no doubt from any prying eyes roving that high clear sky. One of thousands in these ancient, raddled mountains, here at the very roof of Asia. They stretched west and became the Karakoram, the fabled Black Mountains; the jeweled Pamirs; then the Hindu Kush, even farther west, in Iran. And the Himalayas, loftiest and most remote of all, to the south.
He’d seen a lot of the area in the past three years, winter, spring, fall, and summer, on foot and on skis. Fomenting, supplying, and financing unrest and rebellion in the most distant and isolated areas left on earth.
Now he girded himself for what promised to be a difficult conversation, with a man already a legend nearly on the scale of T. E. Lawrence and Orde Wingate.
As he straightened warily, a vast cavern gaped below him, twisting down into the earth like a bowel. Water dripped somewhere, echoing in the dim. The steeply slanted floor was studded with rocks that seemed to have been roughly rearranged into a slippery staircase. As he descended, choosing where to step next with intent care, the light receded above him. To either side poles had been wedged into the descent. The air grew colder as he went down. At first he thought the poles might be burned-out torches, set to light the way, though they weren’t burning now.
But then, letting himself downward, braking his controlled slide with difficulty and coming very close to wrenching an ankle, he made out what was perched at the top of the stick. He grunted in surprise, and nearly slipped and fell before he regained his footing.
The darkened, twisted clump jammed atop the stick was a human head.
He stared into desiccated sardonic eyeballs for a full second before jerking his gaze back to the treacherous, lichen-spotted, already-sliding scree under his feet. Water dripped from overhead, cold, limestone-dank.
More sticks dotted the zigzagging path down, each topped with its macabre decoration. Some still wore caps.
Breathing deeply, mastering his fear as the air grew ever colder, the gloom ever darker, he concentrated on placing each boot on a surface that would not tilt or slip away beneath him. But found all too few that looked like anything solid enough to trust.
THE man he’d come to see hoisted himself with evident effort from beside a low table as Andres neared. A stocky woman in black from head to toe helped him up. The titanium brace the Agency had sent in on an earlier visit lay to the side, on a priceless-looking antique Bukhara carpet. As did a satellite phone. A Chinese-issue rifle stood propped against the cave wall. Torches flared and smoked, providing a fitful, inadequate illumination. The stink of kerosene fought with the wet-limestone cave-smell, along with what seemed to be a musky perfume.
SEAL Master Chief Teddy Harlett Oberg had not aged well. His skin was darker, seamed by sun and altitude. His hair and beard were much longer than Andres remembered. And a black eyepatch covered one side of his upper face. Well, it had been almost a year since they’d last met. Before Operation Jedburgh, when the American advisor had led his rebels against the Chinese missile base in the mountains far to the east.
That hadn’t ended well at all.
“Teddy, good to see you,” Andres said.
“Sizga salaam. Come in, come in,” Oberg said, a bit hesitantly, as if he hadn’t spoken English in a long time. He was swathed in heavy-looking sheepskins with a tatty gray blanket over his shoulders, and unlike the others, he was bareheaded. He spoke rapidly to the woman, in what Andres assumed was Han Chinese, and waved her away. Then limped forward and gripped his hand. The big guy, Jusuf, stayed on his feet, taking up a stand behind Oberg, one hand on his hip.
“Teddy, shit, your eye. What happened?”
Oberg shrugged and slapped his shoulder. “Hey, I got a spare. So, they tell me your guide was Hunza. But you know the Pakistanis bought them off. Turned them against us.”
“Now that China’s crumbling, they like us better. Enough to take our gold anyway.”
“An offer they couldn’t refuse?”
“More or less.”
“And you rode in on a donkey?”
“Donkey, my ass. That thing’s half alligator. Bit me twice on the way up.”
They chuckled together. Oberg waved him to a place on the carpet. “Am I still calling you Vladimir?”
“Why not call me Andy. Now that the war’s over.”
“Andy, sure. Good.”
Oberg called an order back into the cave, and they settled in for tea. The way every negotiation started in this part of the world. Yeah, they were both Yankees, but it still greased things along to spend a little time getting reacquainted.
Especially considering what he was going to ask.
The stocky woman and another, thinner, perhaps younger one—he couldn’t tell much through the black cloth—brought brass trays laden with sweet thick chai and the date pastries called baklava in these remote mountains, though it wasn’t like the Greek variety. The older woman poured; the younger one hovered until Oberg selected a cake, apparently at random, and handed it to her. She lifted her black hijab to take a large bite, and Andres caught a glimpse of youthful, pouting lips.
Andres toasted his host gravely with the blazing hot brass cup. “To victory. At last.”
“Victory,” Oberg said, but somehow his version didn’t have the same savor. Maybe with a twist of lemon.
They sipped and Andres helped himself to a cake. Then another; there hadn’t been much to eat on the trail up. He noticed his host didn’t indulge.
“We’ll have lamb and rice later,” Oberg said, watching him. “I can move dinner up if you’re really hungry.”
“Whenever you had it planned for. Sort of a celebration?”
“No, just the regular meal. But I wanted you to get some face time with the rest of my leadership.”
“Guldulla. Nasrullah. And the Hajji.”
Oberg’s eyes flickered, though the fingers that held the tiny brass cup did not move. “Thought I mentioned that in the after-action report. Nasrullah turned traitor on us. Had to be shot. And Hajji Qurban bought it on the raid.” For some reason his hand wandered to his belt, where he wore an ornately hilted dagger.
“Oh yeah, you did report that. Too bad, he was a fighter.”
“He certainly was that.” Oberg smiled grimly, as if remembering something he both regretted and found pleasant. “And you already met Jusuf here.”
“Right.” The bearded young guy who’d carried the antidrone rifle. Who now, catching his name, bowed his head slightly and smiled.
They sipped again. As a muj brought another torch the shadow of one of the grisly-headed sticks tracked across the cavern wall. Shadows on a cavern wall, Andres mused. Undergraduate philosophy. Something from Plato …
Oberg caught his glance. “Guess you saw my garden gnomes, on the way down.”
“Yeah. They’re … intimidating.”
“I keep ’em in a chest, packed in salt, so we can move them along with the HQ element. That kind of thing helps when we bring in the tribal chiefs for a little talk. Especially if they recognize somebody they knew. Who cooperated with the Han. Or didn’t contribute his quota of young men to fight. We take them along when we visit a village, too. Post them in the square, once we shut the government cameras down and shoot the teachers and other officials.”
Andres cleared his throat, increasingly uneasy but trying not to show it. The dank smell, the cold, the flickering flame-light. The immobile, shadowed features of the man sitting opposite. It all made for an unsettling feeling. Something pale glowed behind him, against the blackened wall of the cavern. Not a source of light, but reflecting the light. He couldn’t quite make out what it was. “Uh, yeah, well … we need to talk about that kind of thing, Teddy. Seriously.”
“You want a status report? We have almost two thousand effectives now. Two thousand trained rifles, with good comms and a dependable intelligence network. Contacts in every village. Intel coming in from every Han office that employs a local.”
Oberg grinned in his beard and leaned to refill Andres’s teacup. “We’re ready to take this rebellion big-time, Andy. Last week we got our first squad-level desertion from one of the Internal Security divisions. Complete with all organic weapons and a ZTQ.”
This was a light tank optimized for mountain fighting. Andres nodded. “Impressive.”
“Oh, it’s just the start. Han rule’s crumbling out here. They’re evacuating their families. The people always feared them, sure. But now the word’s out they’re not invincible, the tide’s running our way fast. All we need is for you to double the level of support, and we can grab this whole province right out of Beijing’s hands.”
Andres said carefully, “Before we get to that, there are a couple of issues that concern us, Teddy.”
“Shoot. Oh, here’s Tok. You remember Tokarev? Given name, Guldulla?”
The lanky Uighur with the two-tone mustache. “Hello. Uh, selamlar. Yeah, I remember him. Your exec.” They exchanged a limp handshake.
“Actually we sort of share the leadership now. But yeah, effectively.” Oberg spoke rapidly to the Uighur, who nodded, gaze reflective on Andres. The lanky man folded himself down, drew an ornately engraved automatic from his belt, and placed it beside him on the carpet. Cocked.
Oberg went on, “So, you were saying. Issues that concern the Agency?”
“Uh, yeah. We’re getting reports of massacres of civilians. Decapitating collaborators, and leaving the bodies in town marketplaces.” He grimaced, trying not to look again at the grisly trophies staked around them. But he waved at them. “Which I see is true.”
“Terror works,” Oberg observed. “Nobody wants his head on a pole.”
Glancing past him, suddenly Andres made out what the source of light was. A curved, reflective surface that seemed to writhe in the twisting orange glow of the torches. He’d seen it before, at the old camp west of here, where Oberg and Imam Akhmad had first received him, long ago, when it had been little more than a lair of petty bandits. An ancient scimitar. Rusty then, but now repolished to a gleaming glow. An arc of old steel, its surface smoothed, lovingly reground, no longer pitted. Hand-whetted to a gleaming sharpness. He jerked his gaze from that shining-keen edge and murmured, “Uh, granted … but what about these massacres?”
“Fake news. I mean, there’s probably been some collateral damage. Sure. When we remove the police, the street monitors, the local judges and mayors and so forth—and they’re pretty much all Han—the people feel free to take revenge for what the Han took from them. Land. Homes. Jobs.” Oberg shrugged. “You can’t lay that on ITIM, amigo. It’s just the price of freedom. And yeah, it also encourages any of ’em that remain to pack up and leave town. But that’s what we want, right?”
Andres drew a slow breath, trying to disguise his unease. Sometimes there were negotiations the negotiators didn’t come back from. It would be all too easy for Oberg to behead him. Doubtful he’d end up on one of the poles, but his skull’s ultimate disposition, probably under one of these piles of scree, wouldn’t matter to him. By then. “Well, there’s been some discussion back at Langley. About postwar plans, and how you fit into them.”
The lanky Uighur had been following the exchange back and forth, though Andres was pretty sure he didn’t have the English to extract much content. Now he said, in broken Russian, “Will you continue supplying ammunition?”
“Let me deal with him, Tok,” Oberg said, patting the guy’s hand, then letting his own rest on his fellow rebel’s. He said to Andres, “Proceed,” but his scarred features showed the beginnings of a scowl. “I really hope you’re not thinking about selling us out, Andy. Like the Vietnamese or the Iraqis. The Afghan government, after we left it for the Taliban again. The fucking Kurds, holding the bag in Syria.”
Andres said carefully, “Let me make one thing perfectly clear. No one’s proposed abandoning ITIM in the field. But remember our original verbal contract, when the Agency agreed to fund and supply you … Do you remember that, Teddy? That we direct your operations?”
The other didn’t respond, so after a beat he went on. “The end of the war means both our overall strategy and our tactics on the ground have to adjust. At the moment, all we have is an armistice. The peace talks are going on now, in Beijing. One of the demands from the other side is stopping our support for the separatist elements in Hong Kong, Tibet, and out here.
“So we have to prepare. Get our ducks in a row. You said to me once, ‘the world changes.’ Well, it’s changing under us now. We have to shift our focus. From defeating the enemy at all costs, to building some kind of postwar order.”
Oberg nodded, and for a moment Andres thought the guy was going to see reason. But then he said, “I think I’m getting it. So you can use us as a bargaining chip. Or as a threat. ‘Make peace, or we detach Xinjiang.’ Or, ‘Play nice, and we’ll give you these nasty bandits for you to disappear.’”
Andres shifted on the carpet, suddenly aware of sweat trickling beneath his armpits despite the wine-cellar chill. He pulled the greatcoat a little tighter. “That’s a cynical way to look at it. And untrue. Rest assured, we’re not hanging any of our allies out to dry. Including irregulars. But we have to look at those end states that are achievable, and that might contribute to a stable postwar Asia.”
“Does that include independence for Tibet? For Taiwan? For Turkistan?”
“That’ll be the subject of the negotiations,” Andres said, only half lying. His instructions had been quite clear: Make no hard promises. But he could utter half-truths, in order to wrap up this mission.
And Theodore Oberg was very definitely a loose end. ITIM had tied down six Internal Security divisions and over a hundred combat and transport helicopters by the end of the war. A huge contribution to the war effort, and probably one reason the invasions of Taiwan and South China had succeeded.
But the administration, and the Allied heads of state steering committee, were still undecided on what form the Beijing government would take following the treaty. Multiparty, certainly, with both the KMT and DPP from Taiwan and the DP and NPP from Hong Kong guaranteed the opportunity to participate. But whether a unitary state or a federation was still up in the air, as was whether Taiwan would go its own way or rejoin the mainland at last. Tibet, too, would probably have the opportunity to decide to stay or go, most likely in a plebiscite.
But this guy didn’t need to know the big picture. Andres said carefully, “Whatever the politicos think at the moment, Master Chief—”
“Lingxiu,” Oberg corrected him.
“—Lingxiu, of course. Whatever they think right now, ITIM may well be asked to participate in the final settlement. We’d want a rep in Beijing for that. Maybe Guldulla here? For obvious reasons—”
“Right, it can’t be me.” The Lingxiu nodded heavily, and at last permitted himself a date cake. He spoke at length to the stocky woman again, who bowed deeply and left.
Guldulla spoke then, but in Uighur. Andres could catch only a word here and there. Oberg noticed his frown and translated. “Tok says we will not remain part of the People’s Empire. The ITIM wants full independence. Not to be part of a federation, still taking orders from the Han. If Tibet is to be free, Taiwan to be free, Xinjiang must be free as well. We can’t compromise on some kind of halfway house. Or trust that ten years down the line, the Han won’t be back. They are like … they are like something on goats, I think he’s saying. Fleas? Worms?”
Andres said, “There are still a lot of Han in Xinjiang, Lingxiu.”
“Fewer every week,” Oberg said, grinning, and the wavering torch-flame threw a grisly shadow once more. “Give us a free hand, and they’ll all leave. Go back where they came from. East of the Taklamakan, east of the Altun Shan. If you want to weaken China for good, detach Tibet and Xinjiang, with their mineral resources. We’ll promise you airbases and a defense treaty. This is the heart of Asia. From here, you can dominate the continent.”
The agent eased a breath out and sat back, reconsidering. The guy thought big, all right. In one way, it was a glittering opportunity. But America wasn’t interested in central Asia anymore. If it ever really had been. Weakened, bankrupt, facing famine, with the lid barely held down on the South and Midwest. With a crippled nationwide electrical grid, grainfields poisoned with radioactivity, rival militias clashing in Missouri and gangs the only functioning government in LA, Washington was in no mood to seek an expensive hegemony half a world away. An end to the war, at nearly any cost, was the most likely reading.
But he only said aloud, “It’s a grand vision, but I don’t know if the Agency could commit to that, Lingxiu. It’s way above both our pay grades anyway.”
“Will you take it up the line? Run it past whoever you report to. See if it flies. I think it might.”
“It doubt it will, even if I take it up the chain,” he said, seeing an opportunity. “But if you could…”
The other stiffened in the dim. “If I could?”
Andres shifted on the carpet again. Sweat trickled, and he hoped the strain wasn’t showing on his face. “Teddy, let me put this to you straight.” He nodded to the lanky mujahid, who had been following the conversation, face unreadable. Then to the younger one, who was scowling, glaring down at the low table. “We want to send Guldulla to Beijing. But we need you to come home and report. Brief us on the local politics. Give us expert insight. How realistic an independent Xinjiang … or if you want to call it Turkistan … could be. Argue that grand vision. Help us craft the peace.”
He leaned forward and tapped the other’s knee. “And the deal we mentioned last time I was here? Back pay. Combat bonus. Get your leg fixed, the right way. Get that eye looked at. A senior position with the Agency, if you want it. Desk officer for central Asia. Did you read that letter I gave you, the one from your old girlfriend? What was her name—Salena? You can have your life back. A good life. A better one than here.”
The two Uighurs looked to Oberg. Andres wasn’t sure how much of the exchange they were following. Probably enough to know what he wanted.
“I already told her, the guy she knew is dead,” Oberg said heavily. He snapped his fingers at the women. The younger one hurried forward, picked the tray up, and carried it off, bare feet slapping moist rock. The older one stayed, motionless against the cave wall, like a caryatid carved of coal. “A lot has changed here, Andy. Even since you first came out. You want to extract me?”
“To help us out. And to help ITIM out.”
He spoke rapidly to the others, who listened with visages of granite. They answered in monosyllables. Oberg turned back to him. “Guldulla will go to Beijing. But I will not return to the United States. Not until Turkistan is independent. And maybe not even then.”
Andres shifted uneasily, restraining the urge to fidget. The darkness seemed to close in. The heavy kerosene stink, the basement-smell of the cave. The aftertaste of strong boiled tea. He eyed the cocked pistol. Tokarev’s automatic, an arm’s reach away across the carpet. But when he looked up the muj was smiling sardonically at him. He picked up the handgun and set it down on his other side, away from Andres.
“I have a question for you, Andy,” Oberg said gently, pincering something from his beard and examining it. Then flipping it away into the dark. “Does the Agency pass our location to the Han?”
“What? No. Never.” As far as he knew anyway. He tried to make his outrage convincing. “Why would you think that?”
“Because someone knew about our meeting point last time. And sent a quick-reaction force after us.”
Andres met that pale blue eye. “That’s kind of paranoid, Teddy. Lingxiu. Or whatever you’ve decided to call yourself these days. We don’t burn our assets.”
“You sure about that?”
“Look, whatever you’ve done here, and you’ve done more than we asked, way more than anyone could have imagined, you’re still in the Navy. A SEAL obeys orders. This is an order. We’re pulling you out.”
“The asset you knew is dead.” The other smiled grimly, and struggled to his feet. Without the brace his foot twisted awkwardly when he put weight on it. It had to hurt like hell, but nothing showed on the seamed, wind-roughened face. The pale blue eye was cold. Remote. As if seeing something that wasn’t there. “Do you believe in God, Andy?”
“In God? As in, in God we trust? Not really. Why?”
“In Allah?”
“Definitely not in Allah.” He grinned, unsure if the other was joking, but got no wink or smile in return. Instead all three men stared at him, and each one’s expression was exactly the same. Each bearded visage, the same. Setting aside differences in age and conformation of the underlying bone, he seemed to be looking at three iterations of the same face. Intent. Determined. Fanatical.
“He gave me a mission.” Oberg grinned, a terrible grimace to see, but still, a grin. “Sounds nutty-fuck, right? Yeah. I fought it for a long time. Told myself it was some kind of hallucination. A high-altitude psychosis. Or just being so fucking hungry for so fucking long, up there in the Altun Shan, after we escaped from Camp 576.”
“You can’t mean that,” Andres said. He dusted crumbs from his coat. This was getting beyond him. He’d come to get the guy back in the fold. Extract him, like an infected tooth. Not … whatever this was turning into. Some kind of theological chess match. A shadowy, ominous, demented debate deep in the darkness, in the heart of the earth.
“But it was real. You can’t look away from something that feels that … absolute. Y’see, that whole free will thing, that’s something we just got wrong. There’s no free will. There’s no such thing as chance, either.”
Andres felt disoriented, as if he were losing his equilibrium. And for some unclear reason, suddenly angry. “You’re saying, it’s all predetermined. Set in stone. Right from the get-go?”
Oberg spread his hands. His voice took on an incantatory monotone, like this was something he’d chanted again and again, like a mantra, or maybe rehearsed again and again in his head, since he had no one out here to speak English with. “It’s already happened, partner. It’s like, cast in glass from the beginning of the fucking universe. We’re all one creation. All one piece. Everything that’s happening, already has. Everything we see. Everything we do. Us, and everybody else. We do His will. Because that’s all we can do. His will.”
Andres shifted on the carpet, looking into the guy’s face. Yep. Just … plain … nuts. “So let me get this straight. These killings, cutting off heads, all these murders—they’re God’s will? Allah’s will? Not yours, because you’re so fucking far off the reservation you don’t even have a map back?”
Whoa. Too blunt, Andres. The truth, but he’d put it way too frankly.
His hand itched for his Glock. But it wasn’t there.
Oberg hesitated, as if in thought; then nodded. And without having been spoken, his agreement hung there in the dank air. Until finally he added, “I know how it must sound, but that’s how it fucking is. So I won’t be extracting. Just to get that straight.”
“You still need … medical help. Your leg. Your eye. We can make it a short visit, to get that taken care of. Then you can come right back, and—”
“I’m not going back with you,” the leader of the rebels said. “And I don’t need ‘help.’ Take my offer to Langley. Get them to think about it. This place shouldn’t be part of China. We owe it to these people, the ones who fought for us. Tell your bosses what we can win here. Mineral resources. Rare earths. Forward bases. Strategic depth. The heart of Asia. It’s all on the table. All they have to do is say yes.”
He held out a hand. After a moment, Andres took it. The others stood too, smiled, and extended their hands as well. He tried to disguise his relief. Apparently he was going to be allowed to leave, instead of getting salted away.
But he still couldn’t be absolutely sure.
He sat through the dinner, putting on as hearty a face as he could manage, though the lamb and rice congealed in his stomach. Afterward, Guldulla showed him to the guest room: a side cavern. A stone-faced guard squatted on a rock just outside its entrance, wrapped in a sheepskin and leaning his AK against the cave wall.
HE lay sleepless for a while, apprehensive in the dark. Gripping a sharp stone—the only weapon available—in one hand. But he was exhausted. Every limb and joint ached from days on the donkey. The heavy meal didn’t help. Eventually his head sagged.
He came awake sometime in the deep night, at the whisper of bare feet over rock.
A breath in the dark, and the scent of perfume. Cloth rustled, and someone plucked the blanket up.
He groped for the rock. Found it, gripped it, ready to swing and hammer. To defend himself against the assassin.
Instead she slid in close beside him, and covered them both with the blanket. She lay there silently for several minutes. Then her hands searched until they found him, under the blanket.
He resisted for a time, then gave in.
THE next morning he munched naan bread spread with a piquant fig jam around a shielded fire. But Oberg never showed. None of the other leaders seemed to be around either. His unease returned. It didn’t help when the hood came out again. They covered his head, and rough hands shoved him up the slippery not-quite-a-staircase toward what he hoped was the exit. He thought about asking for his guns back, the carbine and the Glock, but decided not to push it. He could always get others.
It would be all too easy for him just to disappear.
Hours later, hours in the stumbling dark of the blindfold, he stood motionless in the wind. High in the open air, unable to see, but he sensed emptiness around him. He stood shivering in the cold for a long time before feeling sure he was alone. Finally he reached up and touched the hem of the hood lightly. No one objected. Panting, he jerked it off his head.
Rock. He was circled by walls of tormented rock, and roofed by a brazen sky.
Not far away, a donkey brayed, the sound distorted by echoes but recognizable. He scrambled to a rise, and saw with dawning relief where he was. Just above the valley where he’d left the Hunza guide and the bite-happy donkey. He was overjoyed, now, to see them both.
He breathed out, accepting that he’d survived. Relieved. Though not eager to take back the news that he’d failed. But at least he still had a head on his shoulders. At least he could still make his report. And tell them the bad news.
Teddy Oberg was a spent asset.