Don Pendleton - Savage Deadlock

“Further, there were emails between herself and a woman who is known to be part of the political movement for the education and emancipation of women. This should be no surprise. After all, with her education and time spent in the West, it was inevitable that she would believe in an equality for which, it must be said, Pakistan lags behind. I examined the evidence from her father and brother and also the photographs and forensics collected in their villa.” Sandila sighed heavily. “I have to say, Major, that if that represents the level of competence usually shown by your men, then you need to seriously think about weeding some of them out.”

Malik interrupted him by banging his fist on the desk, making the laptop vibrate.

“You watch your mouth, Sandila. Do you dare to say that I do not know how to run my own department?”

Sandila looked at him stonily. “If it comes to that, then, yes, I do say that, Major. Their work is shoddy. There is no physical evidence of the kind of attack and forced entry that they say took place. There is some evidence to suggest that a group of people came to the villa and were inside...but forced their way in? I don’t think so. Possibly uninvited, but certainly not unexpected by at least one person present...I would venture that this was Dr. Yasmin. There’s no indication that there was any struggle on her removal, and indeed some of her belongings are missing in a manner that suggests she had time to pack.”

Malik was seething. “Are you suggesting that men of the caliber of her father and brother colluded in this event?”

“No. But I am suggesting that they are covering for her. I do believe that they didn’t know her plans in advance, but that they’re in a position where anything they say would suggest collusion. I’ve watched the interviews. These are not comfortable men, Major. As for those who came for Dr. Yasmin being women—well, I have no hard proof. But I can’t see her going willingly with a Taliban party, as your men implied. Come to that, I can’t see the Taliban wishing to work with a woman who presumes to take a man’s role,” he added with a wry grin.

Malik threw up his hands. “But if this stupid woman has gone of her own free will, then how can we find her without causing national outrage? At least we’ve been able to keep this under wraps until now. If we pursue her and it turns out she’s part of some ridiculous women’s group...it will be like that little girl who was taken to England. We will look stupid.”

Sandila considered the case to which Malik referred. A young girl had been shot by the Taliban for daring to demand an education for herself and other young girls. Her near-death caused an international storm and showed the regime and their reaction in a poor light. Rightly so, in the general’s view. However, in this instance he agreed with the major, if for different reasons.

“You’re right that it would cause a storm of publicity worldwide. That would be a bad thing. But my reasons for feeling that way differ from yours. There’s something I couldn’t put in the report.”

Malik kissed his teeth. “ Now you have something else? All conclusions should be put in writing so that they can be circulated to the relevant offices. There is a procedure—”

“Major,” Sandila interrupted with urgency. “This information is so sensitive that it can only be shared with a few people at this stage, and by word of mouth only.”

Malik hesitated, then indicated that Sandila continue.

“As part of my investigation,” the general said in a low voice, “I was at the laboratory where Dr. Yasmin conducted practical experiments. I made an inventory of the fissionable materials there. It was, I presumed, routine. Sadly not—there was some material missing. Only a flask, but that is enough.”

“Some mistake in the initial inventory, perhaps,” Malik murmured, sweating as the import of the general’s words hit him.

Sandila shook his head. “I had hoped so, too, but I had to be sure. I got your local men to go back to the villa and sweep it with a Geiger counter. There were anomalous readings...”

“She stole it?” Malik whispered.

“She certainly had the flask with her at some point. And it damn well isn’t there now. I had your boys take the villa to pieces. The father may well complain—”

Malik brushed that aside. “He can do what he likes, the lying bastard. There can be no protection or deference for him now. No politician will cover his ass, no matter how much money he has. Do you know what this means?”

“Of course I know what it means,” the general snapped. “That’s what I’m telling you. Shazana Yasmin went of her own free will, most likely to join up with a women’s group. There is only one I know of with any real strength in numbers and a desire to fight—the Pakistan Women’s Liberation Army. If they have her, and they also have some fissionable materials, then they have one hell of a bargaining tool to get whatever they demand.”

The major swore heavily. “It’s worse than that. If they’re still in Balochistan—”

“There have been no sightings to suggest anything else—”

“Then you realize they’re surrounded by several threats? There are any number of Islamist cells, Taliban units, Baloch rebels and other guerrilla forces in those hills. Even if they aren’t looking for those bloody women, chances are they’ll fall over them. And if that happens...”

“Then you see why this has to cause uproar in the government,” Sandila said softly. “They need to get behind us and act now. Because if any of those groups find Dr. Yasmin before we do, then they get that flask....”

* * *

FOR TWO WEEKS, Shazana Yasmin had been adjusting to life as a fugitive freedom fighter—at least, that was how she saw herself. The government of her country had let her down, and she was certain that she had the opportunity to put that right.

It was just that at the moment, it didn’t quite feel that way. The Pakistan Women’s Liberation Army, the PWLA, had its camp in the foothills of the mountains that dotted the Balochistan region. The hills had always been a harsh environment, but they also afforded shelter and sanctuary to those who endured the hardships to live there. Since she was a child and her father had first retreated to this region, Yasmin had grown up on the stories of the men who had defied the British Empire for so long in this rocky terrain.

She rose and washed herself, on the thirteenth morning since her supposed capture, in the clear stream that burbled between the rocks. Once clean, she stood and stretched her aching back while breathing deeply of the clean morning air.

Being a revolutionary and fighting for the rights of an oppressed minority was the kind of thing that had been romanticized in the books she had read as a student in the U.S.A. She had read about Berkeley, about student protest, about the idea that small but determined groups across the globe had been able to effect real change by going underground and using their wits and stealth to take on the monolith of government.

What those books had never described was the mind-numbing tedium of having nothing to do each day because “the time wasn’t right,” sitting around in camp and discussing tactics and plans and never coming to any real solution about a course of action. Bickering about rotis to cook and divvy up. Hunting and gathering fresh food to augment the supplies that had to be eked out until it was safe to make the next trip to the nearest town or village. Routine patrols in the hills that revealed nothing but goats and the odd, bewildered herdsman, and the ever-present sound of gunfire in the distance. Campfires on freezing cold nights and discussions of the future and how the country would change when emancipation was more than just a dream. The rhetoric usually kept Yasmin warm until she crawled into her tent, realizing that she had nothing in the cold of night but the certain knowledge that yet another day had passed with no actual progress.