Chapter 47
Derek fed the grey pony a wizened apple from a bag found in the stable. Other eager muzzles edged closer, insisting on their share. "Just a minute, my friends," he murmured. "You'll all get one."
He felt four pairs of human eyes on his back, but paid them no mind. He understood Masruq's need to be free of that small, close room. He'd been unable to think in there himself... and after a while, unable to breathe. He yearned for the wild vastness outside, but that would be foolhardy, so he'd come to the area in the turbine room, where they had spread straw and tethered the horses. After a few minutes, he sensed their departure. Still, there was a presence behind him... Yusuf.... His "Sight" could feel the boy.
Derek calculated his options. He knew he had to go to that complex, or whatever it was, hidden inside the mountain.... Then he had to go beyond that... to find whatever was marked by that symbol... but what about the others?... He had two wounded men, who needed better medical attention than he could give. He also had three Afghans who depended on him to make the right decisions and keep them alive. He remembered Hasmit... so far his track record was not good. Ibn Sikander and his men were riding on a wild goose chase that might well put them in needless danger.... They had to be warned. He could, at least, get the boy out of here.... One decision made.... Ali could take his sure-footed, tenacious, little, gray horse. He could find the Rumi-Khan... call him off and warn him away.
Then there was Nick and Ginge.... Between them, they had gotten the voice communications up. The equipment was sophisticated... the equivalent of anything the US or UK Special Ops had. The two soldiers were sure they could modify it to allow a couple of brief, outgoing calls with minimal risk of detection. E-mail might be safer, but Ginge had warned that there might be traps built into the system. So it was six of one, half-dozen of the other.... Derek shook his head.... He needed to speak with Kincaid....
If the weather held, perhaps they could get a chopper in to airlift the two soldiers out, and the computer data with them.... Or, perhaps, they could go part of the way with Ali... riding slowly, headed for the R'om Valley and safety... until a pick-up could be made. He could delegate Yusuf to lead the party. That would get four of them out... in such a way that would satisfy everyone's pride and honor.... Perhaps, the logic of it would even overpower Nick's mother-hen instincts. He smiled and offered two more apples to another pair of hungry, horsey mouths. That left Masruq with him.... They were two sons-of-bitches who probably deserved each other.
Then there was this place... and the facility in the mountain above.... He had shown the Russian note to Ginge, who had told him that it said nothing more than "Beware! I agree." Derek's thoughts turned to that symbol and his vision.... There had been infernos and shadows... all unclear... as had so many been during his illness. Had they all been warning of this... pointing to this? Had it all been Providence at work... leading him to that "symbol"? What greater coincidence could there ever be than that he, a Legacy precept, should come all this way to rescue his friend from a very human war... only to be confronted with a two-thousand-year-old symbol and a note written by another precept on the opposite side of another war?
"Gott... please... no," he murmured beneath his breath. Surely, it all couldn't have happened just to bring him here. Derek dismissed the thought.... If God wanted him here, he would have found another way.
Finally, he gave apples to the last two horses, and gave the gray pony a last scratch behind the ear. He then turned and strode back across the turbine room with Yusuf close on his heels.
Entering the control room, he went straight to Nick and Ginge. "I need you two to go with Ali and Yusuf," he said decisively. "You can take the horses... find ibn Sikander... stop him.... We need to get this data..." He waved an arm in the direction of the computers. "...the files... whatever... where it can be examined in detail."
"Hold it!" Nick sharply curtailed his friend's speech. He grasped the crutch that Yusuf had made for him and hauled himself to his feet. Hobbling over to look Derek in the face, he stated, "Ginge and I are here for a reason.... We've got a mission to complete."
"Mr. Boyle...," the precept interrupted. "It was originally to have been my mission... not yours."
"'Scuse me... sir," the Brit countered. "It was my team's mission... with you... then Indy... as a 'ride-along'... a 'package'.... So... I'm in command... and I say whatever's up there, at the end of those water pipes, looks like a pretty damned good place to start. I've got a duty... to Queen and fuckin' Country... and no fuckin' way am I buggerin' off and leaving a fuckin' civie... no offence, sir...." He offered Derek a gappy smile. "...to find the fuckin' targets and finish my fuckin' mission."
The older man's eyebrow rose by increments with each use of the "F word". "But...."
"But nothing," Nick snapped. "Ginge is right. I'm on active duty... so's he. Do you want us to face a court martial for dereliction of duty?... We've gotta check that out up there.... You can't do it by yourself... as much as you like to think you can. You need us.... Face it... Derek.... This is what we're trained for.... It's our mission... not yours.... Get the kids out.... The rest of us go on."
Ginge translated the conversation succinctly for the Afghans, whose angry indignation at the prospect of being "sent away" needed no translation.
Derek recognised defeat when it stared him in the face. Realising that each man had his own fate and destiny to follow, he shrugged, then smiled a crooked half-smile.... In truth, he'd be glad of the company. "Corporal... crank up that communications gear and get this cell phone number, then start packing up." The precept stepped over to scribble a phone number on a scrap of paper. "We're going to be clearing out of here fast."
* * *
A few minutes later he heard the familiar, British accent... before the second ring. "Hello.... Dutchman?... That you, old chap?"
"Who else?.... I've got Nick and Corporal Jones."
"Are you OK?... Are they OK?" Ian asked with concern.
"We're holed up at what seems to be a water pumping station," Derek replied. "The place is full of high-tech hardware... computers... records... communications... and so forth.... What's going on out there?"
Kincaid noted the lack of response to his question, but let it pass. "Computers, by God!... I have friends who'll be damned interested in that. We're checking map references.... I told you that chip gizmo would work, but I wasn't expecting a phone call," Ian said quickly. "We've taken Kabul and Mazar-i-Sharif... but still no bin Ladin or Mullah Omar."
Then Derek heard him say something to someone who was in the room with him, followed by a muffled voice, replying in the background. "Who are you talking to?" he asked, knowing in his guts to whom the other voice would belong.
"Willie-boy... who else?" the Englishman echoed. "Checking up on me.... He's on the computer, scanning the satellite map, searching for you and your pumping station."
"Tell, Mr. Sloan," Derek said in an icy voice, "that he should be in London, tending to business. What's he doing?... Letting Cross and company off the hook, when I put them there for his benefit... and at a time like this?
The precept took a calming breath. "Anyway, Ian.... There's more.... We found references... Russian records dating back to the Soviet invasion and occupation... to laboratory type supplies... anti-contamination gear... and a facility concealed in what we think are caves... in the mountain at the head of this valley. We need to check that out.... Our two soldiers here insist on doing their duties."
"Got it!" Ian interrupted, eagerly. "Your transponder's coming in loud and clear.... Jesus... Derek... we've cross-checked your location with the latest aerial images. You're in the upper section of what could be a complex.... There's a much larger section... seems to be a power station... but who knows... farther down the valley. They're close... too bloody close. If that's an active terrorist camp... hostiles could be on top of you before you know it."
"We know," said Derek, "and this call will probably do it." He covered the phone with his hand. "You're right," he told Ginge. "They think this might be a training center. There's more buildings down the valley."
In the background, he could hear Sloan's voice, fizzing with pent up frustration and concern. "Tell him we'll get choppers out to pick them up.... It's not that far... as the crow flies."
"Maybe, Willie-boy...." Ian's voice was smooth, the tone slightly condescending. "But 'as the crow flies' takes them over mountains that exceed any chopper's altitude limits... and look at the weather front that's moving in.... Derek... I bet it's brass monkeys at the moment... but you've got one hell of a storm front closing in on you.... On the plus side... it'll keep the baddies at home, as well.
"Listen, old boy...." Ian was thinking quickly. "...that facility?... You think it's underground at the head of the valley.... That's about three miles from you.... It's probably the safest place to be right now.... The weather won't stop high altitude, precision bombing.... Our Yank buddies will want to take that place out ASAP. If you can get your little band out of there before the weather hits... you'll be snug as bugs in a rug.... You can do your sleuthing... find out what's in there. Then when things ease up... my friends can pick you up at the cave entrance."
"Exactly my thoughts," said Derek. "We're already packing."
"Hold it!" Sloan's distant voice interrupted. "Those 'precision' bombers haven't always been that precise!"
"We'll take our chances," Derek declared. "William, since you're 'available'... dig up what you can on Gregor Dedenko and Moscow House's activities around 1988. See if they were involved in anything in Afghanistan. I've got a partial map here... maybe of the caves... with a note in ancient Greek... Gregor Dedenko's initials... and a symbol you'd recognize... used by an 'ancient' society. We need info. See if you can find a map... attach it to an e-mail... along with that up-to-date satellite photo.
"Ian... we're out of here... in a couple of hours.... I'll call back before we leave. We're going online at the last possible moment.... We'll download what you've sent and upload enough data for your hackers to have a field day.... I leave it to you two to battle out how to keep the cave up there out of the discussions until we know what Dedenko had to do with this." Derek ended the call and turned to the others. "The weather's turning bad," he announced, with a glance at Ali. "Maybe we should stick together after all...."
Ginge once more translated for the Afghans. Again a loud, vigorous discussion erupted. "Damned if you do.... Damned if you don't," the corporal warned. "Seems you offended the youngsters by wanting to pack them off... now you've hurt their manly pride by trying to tie them to your apron strings because of a little bad weather."
He paused to listen to the boys' indignant arguments, then turned to Derek. "Here's the gist.... Our Afghan friends say you are right to warn ibn Sikander.... He must be found and told.... Ali says he can do this... alone. Yusuf should stay with us. Ali says that he's a man... not a boy... and not of the R'om Valley... like the others.... The mountains are his home... and he's a better rider than anyone here. He and his brother have traveled all over these mountains... in summer and winter."
Yusuf spoke rapidly, then Masruq. The determination in their voices was apparent to everyone. Derek looked over at the Brit and waited.
"Masruq says he's a man of position... and no one but the Rumi-Khan may tell him what to do. The Rumi-Khan sent him with you and with you he'll stay.... But more than that... he is with you now, because he now knows... realizes... that you are a man worthy of his allegiance. However, he agrees with Ali... as does Yusuf.
Ginge took a deep breath and continued, "Yusuf says that the Rumi-Khan is their leader.... He must be warned... to not try would be shameful.... He would go, but he promised his kinsman that he would remain at your side. He says that Ali does not boast.... He knows how to survive these mountains.... He is not a child... and he is the best... fastest... rider."
Derek's head sagged; his shoulders drooped. Scratching absently at his whiskers, he stood rooted in place for a moment. All his decisions had been reversed... perhaps for the best. He had to trust in his "Sight"... in Merlin... in God... in something. He had always pretended, particularly to himself, that he was a chess master, manipulating his own life... the lives of others... but had he ever been anything more than a pawn in the cosmic game of good and evil?... Was it a game at all?... Or was it all simply Chaos.
Nick had watched the clinching and unclinching of the precept's fist. He knew the gesture well... a decision was being made.
With a sigh, the precept brushed the hair that had fallen over his brow and looked up at his companions. "OK.... Ginge... tell Ali he can go.... I want him to take my pony. He's a rough ride and may not have the speed of a thoroughbred, but he's a sure-footed, little beast... wooly, with loads of stamina and a huge heart. He'll give his all for the boy, but tell him if they make it home, he's to return the pony to its master, Rahim of the K'om people.
"Tell Yusuf and Masruq that we've got two hours to load everything we can on the horses.... Nick... pack up all the files, photos, maps, disks, even that laptop the guy I killed was using. Ginge... keep listening for any communications chatter from down the valley... get ready for the send and to leave the back door open for the hackers. Let's get a move on.... I want us out of here as soon as possible... Gott, the weather, and bombs wait for no man."
Pakistan...
Watching while Kincaid cradled his cell phone, listening intently, Sloan itched to speak to Derek himself. "Tell him to get his 'bony ass' out of there. Now!" In reply, he received a silencing glare. Frustrated, the former Ruling Precept turned away from his laptop to stare out the window, across the sunlit expanse of manicured gardens. Here, amidst the wide lawns and carefully planned streets of New Peshawar, the memory of British India was palpable, but so was the danger and hidden hatreds that seemed to simmer all around them. The same tribe that had been Taliban's core in Afghanistan... also dominated this region... and with the same goals. Pashtun there... Paktun here... "Paktun," Sloan murmured. "Pakistan...." He raised his eyes to the distant, barren hills, which marked the Pakistani side of the fabled Khyber Pass. Beyond, the Hindu Kush rose, bright against a backdrop of ominous grey. Dammit!... They're so close!
As soon as the Brit ended the call, Sloan pounced. "We should've tried to get them out. The pilots would've gone."
"Maybe they would, Willie," Kincaid conceded, "but I don't like risking the lives of my men.... Good ones are too damned hard to find.... That's something I leave to cold fish... like you."
"You don't like risking lives?... Ha!" Sloan sneered, making no effort to conceal his dislike of the other man. "Who was it that let Derek get himself into that mess in 'Hollyweird'.... Correction... who damned near gave him a shove over the goddamned cliff?"
"Good one... Willie, but I seem to remember a little local difficulty... right after.... Where was it now... Libya?... Oh... yes... Al-Kufrah," Kincaid replied, trying not to sound as defensive as he felt. "I gave Derek the freedom to play his hand... make his own decisions... not manipulate the poor bastard to resurrect my own failing career."
"Right...," Sloan countered, feeling peevishness rise in his gullet, "...and what's your relationship with de Foix... and Fr. Thomas?... Who exactly is pulling Derek's strings? What are you up to?... What little, clandestine clique do you serve?"
"I do what I can to help," Kincaid said coldly, his back straightening to ramrod stiffness. "I serve no one."
"Only the god-almighty dollar," the precept retorted.
"Jesus... Willie! They're probably going to make you Ruling Precept... again.... Hell... maybe even President of the Ruling Council... thanks to Derek... and still you're thick as shit! Haven't you caught on yet!... I'm not your enemy.... I'm not the Legacy's enemy, though I should be. All those years ago, I did what I thought was right.... Dammit!... I was right.... Winston accepted that... so did Derek... and I'm forever in their debt.
"As for Derek... nobody pulls his stings... at least...," he considered, "no human being.... Derek's the master puppeteer and always has been. Why the hell do you think Darkside plots swirl round him? Who do you think orchestrated Tremayne's downfall and your election as Ruling Precept?... Haven't you ever wondered what Loxley Millard's coterie has against him?... What galls them so?... It wasn't just that he was Little Lord Fauntleroy... 'the Anointed One'... who unfortunately survived the ultimate sacrifice and left them all beholden to him in ways that nothing can repay."
"What are you saying?" Sloan demanded, glaring at the other man. "That all this time Derek's been hiding his real role?... That he's been playing some sort of elaborate game with me... using me... you... all of us... in some damned conspiracy!"
Kincaid met the angry, glinting eyes. "Come on, Sloan!... You were in the Council Chamber for Derek's magic act.... I wasn't.... Get off your high horse!... If you're the one pulling the strings, it's fine and dandy... but if it's someone else, you're suddenly affronted." The Brit shook his head in disbelief at the other man's sputtering challenge. "Do you actually know your man?... You should.... You helped raise him... or were you too much of a kid yourself?... It's part of the reason why he tries to keep you at arm's length.... He's afraid you'll read him.... Christ!... He's the finest man I've ever met... the most honorable.... Do you think he has it in him to betray the principles of the Legacy... of the Round Table itself?"
Wanting to escape from this conversation, Kincaid glanced at his watch. "Don't you have some information to find?... I've got friends to speak to... and the clock's ticking."
"Friends?..." Sloan muttered, no longer sure what the word meant. "One thing at a
time, Sloan," he lectured himself, as he returned to the laptop and logged onto the
Legacy.net. "Get Derek and the others home.... Then you can grill the bastard and find out
what the hell he's been involved in." As he watched the spinning, red Legacy logo, waiting
for the connect, he mused, "Now, why should Derek think the Legacy had its fingers in
any nasty pies in Afghanistan?"... and why did the hair at the back of his neck ripple with
unease?
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