Savage Deadlock. Don Pendleton

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      As she withdrew into the hallway, Yasmin rose and began to dress quickly. She already had a bag packed, and within a couple of minutes she was ready to go. As she stepped into the hallway, the other woman beckoned her toward the large living room of the villa. Yasmin could see that there were four other women there, all of them armed. With rising alarm, she realized she could not see or hear her father or brother.

      “You said nothing would happen to them, just that it would be made to look like there had been a break-in,” she began, the anger in her voice tempered by an edge of fear. She quickened her pace and almost fainted with relief when she entered the room and saw her father and brother seated side by side on a long sofa, clutching teacups and looking bemused (her brother) and almost incandescently angry (her father).

      “Shazana, what is this?” he began as he saw her and rose to his feet. “Why have these women come into my house with guns, and why are they asking for you?”

      Despite herself, Yasmin was amused. Even faced with weapons, her father showed no fear—he couldn’t believe that mere women would harm him. In this instance he was correct, but that was purely incidental.

      “Sit down, Dad, or someone might get nervous and fire one of these things,” she said, indicating the women’s rifles.

      “Sit down? Why should I sit down in my own home just because some little girl waves a gun in my face and wants to take my daughter away?” her father continued. Still, he allowed his son to gently grasp his arm and pull him down.

      “Dad, I’m not being taken anywhere that I don’t want to go,” she said softly. “You have to believe me when I say that.”

      Her father appeared confused, staring at the women with guns and then at his daughter. Mahmood, on the other hand, seemed to understand, even if his words were disapproving.

      “So this is what you meant when you said you wanted to make a difference? To go and join a group of rebels?”

      “There are rebels and there are rebels, Mahmood,” Yasmin said gently. “You said it yourself—it’s become a polarized world. If we want Pakistan to go one way rather than the other, then we have to try to make that difference ourselves.”

      “But why this?” he asked her. “Why the charade? Why not just go?”

      “And have people ask you questions that you cannot answer? Have them detain you and maybe do more than ask? I don’t want that to happen. What I know would push the government—and others—to take drastic actions. This way, it looks like I was taken against my will. How could you know anything if that was the case? It’s the best way I can think of to keep you and Dad safe. Now let me go, and tell anyone who comes calling about the guns. They always believe you if you’re at the point of a gun. It’s the only language they can understand...”

       Chapter Two

      “The National Command Authority will not be happy with this, General. Fortunately, it will not be my ass in a sling when they find out. That dubious pleasure will fall to you.”

      Major Usman Malik smiled, and General Tariq Sandila could see the betel stains on his teeth. In this day and age, chewing betel was a peasant throwback, and it made Sandila dislike the major even more. He looked around the sparse office, trying to focus on anything other than the disgusting sight of his superior’s teeth. Although Sandila technically outranked Malik, the General had been fast-tracked to his position, given his rank for his specialist credentials rather than military achievements. For now, Malik was in charge. They were in the old government building in Lahore, which dated back to the colonial era and was used mostly as a repository for old files that predated computerization. The civil servants who prowled its corridors seemed to be of a similar vintage, and all in all Sandila felt horribly out of place. Maybe that was why Malik had chosen this as his temporary headquarters while the investigation was underway. It would make sense. The thought of Malik in black and white like some old newsreel from the days of Nehru cheered Sandila in an oblique manner.

      Emboldened, he spoke freely: “Major, the expression ‘shoot the messenger’ is a little outdated these days, surely? My superiors—your superiors—if they followed such a line would surely be more likely to blame the man heading the investigation. I’m just your leg man.”

      The sly smile on Malik’s face froze and died. He and Sandila had been at loggerheads since the general had joined the team a few weeks before. Seconded because of his experience with the nuclear program and his PhD in physics, Sandila was one of the new breed of army officers who looked at technology rather than manpower. Malik had been in military intelligence all his career, and came from the days of the ruling generals, when the fact that such a small country had the eighth largest military force in the world counted for something. In Malik’s younger days, the army ruled with an iron fist, and he still expected such control.

      Sandila, on the other hand, found the phrase army intelligence an oxymoron, and thought of Malik as the personification of that philosophy. An impression that had only been reinforced when he realized what had been going on: his forceful statement of such had cemented the animosity between the two men.

      Malik rotated the laptop screen so that it faced Sandila. It was a purely dramatic move, as it was Sandila’s own report that the major was showing him. Malik said, “You expect me to present this? Saying that we’ve been negligent? That women—women, dammit—are behind this? Have you any idea what kind of an uproar this will cause in the government?”

      Sandila shrugged. “There may well be an uproar, but the fact is that it has happened.”

      “You have no proof,” Malik spluttered. “It’s all supposition.”

      Sandila chose his words carefully. He spoke as though explaining something simple to a child, which was—he felt—exactly what the major was acting like.

      “You asked me to investigate the disappearance of Dr. Yasmin. Obviously, I was aware of her reputation, and I had already read a couple of the papers she prepared when she was at MIT. Her reputation was second to none, and it is to her credit that she returned to our country and turned her back on what could have been a very lucrative career in America—”

      “She is a woman.” Malik gestured dismissively. “There is no credit. She did only what she should.”

      Sandila held his tongue and continued, trying to ignore the words of his superior. “Dr. Yasmin, in returning to her homeland, declared her desire to be part of our nuclear program and so help us not merely in the buildup of tactical armaments, but also to provide our nation with the power it needs to progress.”

      “Why are you telling me this?” Malik waved an irritated hand at Sandila. “I do not care for her motives, only for the thugs who kidnapped her. Instead I get this gibberish about women and her going of her own will. This despite the evidence of her father and brother who—let me remind you—are well-respected men who have contributed heavily to the campaign coffers of our prime minister.”

      “And of course that is why we should ignore the fact that they are lying,” Sandila snapped.

      “Why would they lie?” Malik’s voice rose almost to a screech.

      Sandila took a deep breath and looked around the room, composing himself. He wondered how many such outbursts of idiocy these buff-painted walls had absorbed over the decades. Too many, he surmised.

      “They СКАЧАТЬ