Pandora's Legion

24

Padgett-Smith had a favor to ask. At least that was how she phrased her demand to Frank Leopole. After a couple of weeks with the SSI operators, she had learned how to work the system. Since she was loath to make overt use of her feminine wiles, she took the road less traveled: the ruck-up, hit-the-trail approach.

Like any good huntress, she bided her time before leaping upon her prey.

After softening up her victim with some pleasant dinner conversation, the immunologist followed the former Marine back to his office. She stepped inside and closed the door. “Frank… if I may call you Frank.”

Leopole’s male receptors extended and locked in the full-up position. She wants something. “Well, sure. Carolyn. After all this time.” He motioned to a chair and she accepted, smoothing her skirt as she sat.

“Thank you. Ah, Frank… I’ve been thinking about my situation here. I must admit that I’m feeling rather a fifth wheel, you know? I fear that I’ve not really earned my way and was wondering, well, whether I should return home.”

He leaned forward, hands clasped on the desk. “I don’t understand. I mean, you’ve not had much of a chance to apply your talent yet.” He grinned self-consciously. “And I know that you’d be missed by the other guys.”

“Yes, well, that’s just it, you see? I’m feeling like an ornament, or some sort of mascot. Oh, the chaps have been marvelous; no mistake. I’ve actually become rather fond of some of them. Jeffrey and J. J… even Bosco and Breezy at times.” She smiled and flipped her hair in her most engaging fashion. Not bad, eight point five out of ten, she told herself.

Leopole suspected he was being conned. He enjoyed the hell out of it. “Well, then, what’s the problem with staying?”

“Actually, Frank, it’s my sense of self-worth. I accepted this contract with a specific purpose — to evaluate filoviruses. The fact that we’ve found so little after so long makes me feel that I’m accepting payment for no services rendered. That’s why I wonder if I shouldn’t go home until…”

“Yes?”

“Well, perhaps I could come back if you do find something. I could be here in barely a day.”

Leopole leaned back, hands behind his head. He was not as relaxed as he appeared. “Yeah, I suppose you could. But Admiral Derringer and Dr. Catterly want you on the job. And so do I.” He grinned at her. “For whatever that’s worth.”

The violet eyes lowered demurely to her lap; she wished she could blush on cue. “Thank you, Frank. I do appreciate it. Truly.” She raised her gaze to him again. “But there’s only so much I can do here. While the lads are dashing about, I’m mostly cooped up here. I can’t go out on my own, and it’s inconvenient to get an escort every time I feel like shopping or sightseeing.” She spread her hands. “Frank, besides the medical inactivity, I’m going stir crazy. I believe that you Americans call it cabin fever.” She found the right tone for the occasion. “If I don’t get some outdoor activity, I shall burst!”

He nodded, assessing what was coming. So that’s it! She wants to go on the next mission. “Carolyn, I understand your position. And it speaks well of your professional ethics. Some people would be happy to fort up here and collect their check. But you know we can’t send out a crew just for you to climb some rocks or cross some hills. The only way is to send you on foot with one of our teams.”

She inhaled, held her breath, then pressed the attack. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. Now, the upcoming search of the Chaman area is expected to last, what? Three or four days?”

“Affirm. But…”

“That would be marvelous! I’m perfectly fit — ask any of the boys I exercise with. And if they find something, I’d be right there. You wouldn’t have to fly me in.”

“Carolyn, are you saying that if you don’t go on this op you’ll take the next plane to London?”

She shook her head vigorously. Her light brown hair swirled around her ears. “Oh, Frank…” That’s exactly what I mean. She gave him a patented CPS How Could You? look. “I am merely saying that I’m not earning my keep just lazing about here, and that I may as well go home unless there’s something really useful for me to do.”

Leopole stood up and turned away, looking into the evening. When he pivoted, his mind was made up. “Carolyn, have you really thought this out? You’d be the only female in the most desolate countryside you ever saw. You’d be traveling with some hard cases— Americans and Pakistanis — who may like and admire you, but they won’t cut you any slack. And they shouldn’t. Furthermore, if you get separated from our people, you’d be a white woman, alone in a Muslim country. You need to think about that. You really do.”

“I have done. Truly.”

“What would your husband say?”

Padgett-Smith was taken aback. She felt an emotional bump; it was a legitimate question. She realized that she had given Charles little thought over the past few days. He encourages me to follow my dreams. She rose to face the American. “He would tell me the same thing he would tell you: she’s a woman grown. She can make her own mistakes.”

Leopole almost flinched. Yeouch. You are one tough lady. After four seconds of locking eyes with the Britisher, he heard himself say, “Alright. I’ll check with headquarters for an okay.” Before she could respond, he added, “I just hope that you don’t regret it. And neither do I.”

Leopole had an announcement. “We’re moving to search an area near Chaman.”

Bosco perked up. “Where’s that, Boss?”

“It’s the area where J. J. was held. About sixty miles northwest, halfway to Kandahar. You would know that if you ever looked at a map, Boscombe.”

“Uh, yessir. Rightyouaresir.”

Leopole turned his attention to the rest of the room. “Chaman is right on the border, so it’s prime smuggling territory. Major Khan and Dr. Mohammed have developed a plan that I think has possibilities. Khan’s sources indicate that al Qaeda operates around there, playing both sides of the border, and there’s indication of a veterinarian who’s active in the region. So that’s where we’re going.”

Steve Lee shifted in his seat. “All of us, Colonel?”

“Ah, no. We can’t have too many foreigners running around so we’ll send part of White Team. But you’ll have Dr. Mohammed and Dr. Padgett-Smith owing to their specialties.”

Lee nodded his assent. Whether he agreed with the extra baggage was problematical.

“And there’s one other specialty,” Leopole added. “Major Khan has offered a couple of military mule skinners, since you’ll be packing some bio gear. A few of our local contacts have dropped information that a medical aid team is going to be working the area. Major Khan will bring along an army doctor for realism. We reckon you’ll draw less scrutiny with low-end transportation rather than running up and down the highway with a paramilitary convoy. Besides that, Khan has enough horsepower to handle any suspicious types you may meet.”

“Roger that.” Lee glanced around at his team, sorting out which operators to take. “Ah, Colonel, what about a quick trip up there to scout the terrain?”

“Steve, I agree that recon is time well spent, but we’re short on time. With the guides you’ll have, there shouldn’t be any big surprises. I’m told that the uphill climb is fairly easy on this side of the pass but pretty steep on the Afghan side. The scenery is supposed to be spectacular.”

“Okay, roger the scenery.” Lee grinned at his colleague. “Ah, what about extraction? I mean, if we find something, there’s not much point coming out by mule.”

“Right. Depending on what turns up, we can send some trucks to your area or we can have at least one helo there in less than an hour. Just keep us informed. I’ll coordinate frequencies and comm schedules with you.”

After the briefing, Lee waylaid Leopole. “Frank, I’d like to talk about Doc Smith.”

Leopole had expected some resistance. He folded his arms, nodded his head, and said, “Fire away.”

Lee glanced over his shoulder. Seeing no one nearby, he said, “Don’t get me wrong. She’s an impressive lady, and I have no doubt about her professional ability. But I gotta wonder what’s the point in taking her along? I mean, if we find something out there, we can secure the area and you could fly her in.”

“Steve, I understand your position. Hell, I agree with you. But she’s really concerned about pulling her weight. She told me she doesn’t think she’s earning her pay, and unless something turns up pretty soon, she wants to go home.”

Lee rolled his eyes. Behind the blue orbs an exclamation flashed on his mental screen. Women! “Damn it, she’s like the rest of us. She starts earning her keep when and if we find something. Until then, we’re all just warming our motors at the start line.”

Leopole shook his head. “Actually, she’s in a different boat than the rest of us. You know she’s not a regular SSI employee. Well, I checked on her status when she told me she’s thinking of going home. Because of her research work in England, she inserted a clause saying she could back out if she’s not needed here. Corin Pilong’s in charge of contracts, and she confirmed what Padgett-Smith said.”

Lee’s shoulders sagged visibly. “And there’s nobody else.”

“No lie, GI. We’re buyers in a seller’s market.” Leopole then moved to the next order of business. “Who do you want to take with you?”

Lee already had his preferences. “I think some of the original Blue Team guys would benefit from being in the field again. So I’m picking Norton on radio with Hendricks and O’Neil. But Bosco and Breezy are a strong team and it makes sense to keep them together.”

Leopole thought for a moment. “What about Ken Delmore? He could come in handy.”

“Yeah, he’s strong as two oxes, but he’s just so damn big. He’d probably draw attention.” Lee laughed. “Besides, we have three mules, remember?”

Padgett-Smith overheard Terry Keegan’s latest rant. The tone of his voice caught her attention as much as his words: he remained an angry young man.

Rustam Khan signaled the Brit with his eyebrows. The meaning was clear: Help!

“Oh, there you are, Major.” CPS winked at the Pakistani behind Keegan’s back.

Obviously grateful, Khan took the hint. “Ah, Dr. Smith. Yes, I was just…”

“Looking for Colonel Leopole?”

“Ah, yes. Quite so. Quite so.” He nodded to the American. “Please excuse me, Mr. Keegan. I, ah, look forward to continuing our conversation.”

Padgett-Smith folded her arms and regarded the pilot. “I heard part of the… discussion. Perhaps you can explain a few things for me.”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, I’ll try.”

She shifted her weight and concentrated on Keegan’s face. Rather a nice-looking chap. Frowns too much, though. “I’ve heard about the situation on your border with Mexico. Now, I’ve traveled widely in the States but not much in that area. I take it that the continuing problem is more political than anything else.”

Keegan nodded vigorously. “That’s correct, Doctor. We could seal the border in a couple of weeks if we wanted to. But the politicians won’t do it.”

“Well, why ever not? I mean, the threat is obvious, apart from all the economic and cultural concerns…”

“Well, it’s like this, Doctor. The Democrats want illegals in our country. They talk about Mexicans doing work that Americans won’t, but that’s just a smoke screen. A guest worker program could handle that problem. No, those illegals who get the right papers are eligible to vote — some of them vote anyway — and they nearly always go Democratic. That’s because they know the liberals provide funding and dispensation. On top of that, our constitution says that any child born in the U.S. is automatically a citizen. Even if the mother is there illegally. That’s insane. But it’ll never change.”

“Then what about the Republicans? Don’t they ever…”

“No, ma’am. Hardly ever. See, they mess their diapers at the thought of being accused of racism by the Democrats. And the Demos know that, so they use it like a club to beat the Goopers down.”

“Goopers?”

Keegan laughed. “Oh, that’s my expression. I sort of made it up. GOP: Grand Old Party. The Republicans.” He shrugged. “Goopers.”

The Brit shook her head slightly. “I still do not understand, Terry. If the Republicans — your Goopers — have the majority, why do they cater to the illegals and the political opposition? I mean, those people won’t support the party anyway.”

“I guess you’d have to ask them, ma’am. I’m a former Gooper myself, for a lot of reasons. Probably the biggest, though, is that the Republicans don’t really stand for anything, except election. They want to get along with the Democrats, and the Demos are bent on destroying the country.”

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?”

The aviator shrugged again. “Probably. But it’s also accurate. I think we’re going to end up like Canada. Two cultures in one country, with neither having much use for the other.”

“You’re referring to the French influence?”

“Sure. Just substitute Spanish for French. You want to know how absurd it is? At one time on their military aircraft the port side said ‘Canadian Armed Forces.’ The starboard side said ‘Forces Armées Canadiennes.’ I don’t know much, but I know that’s just plain stupid. Even the Canucks finally agreed. Now they just paint ‘Canada’ on their birds.”

She smiled. “Maybe there’s hope.” Before he could respond, she added, “Terry, because you feel so strongly, have you ever thought of going elsewhere?”

“Oh, yeah. Lots of times. But where would I go, Doc?” He thought for a moment. “No offense, but my ancestors were driven out of Ireland in the eighteenth century so they went to New York. But things were pretty bad there. Like, ‘No dogs or Irish.’ A couple of them got killed fighting for the Union in the Civil War, and the others migrated west. Eventually they ended up in California. The only thing that stopped them was the Pacific Ocean.” He almost grinned. “There just isn’t anyplace else. So I’m stuck.”

“Well, all things considered, there are far worse places.”

“Yes, ma’am. I know. That’s why the rest of the world is moving there.”

Much as he loved animals, Ali had a hard time feeling paternal toward goats. He much preferred horses and dogs — even sheep. The Kamori doe he had just inoculated expressed her displeasure with a bleat and a kick to Ali’s left leg. The farmer’s young son released the animal, which scampered across the pen to join her friends. Sometimes the veterinarian wondered if the smelly, messy creatures were worth domesticating. Not that it mattered: the feral variety, capra hircus, was less common these days.

Ali patted the boy’s shoulder, thanking him for his help. At eleven years old, the youngster looked up at the tall stranger who brought a mysterious kindness to remote farms and settlements — all on behalf of God’s creatures. “I like dogs,” the boy declared. Ali almost laughed; the youngster seemed to share the doctor’s opinion of goats. Seeing an opportunity to spread The Word, Ali replied, “The Book mentions dogs five times; they are our oldest friends. But God said to the horse, ‘Thou shalt cast thine enemies between thy hooves, and thou shalt carry my friends upon thy back.’”

The boy nodded solemnly, uncertain what to make of the short sermon. Ali decided not to press the matter. Patience in all things, he told himself. In three or four years the youngster might become a candidate for the jihad.

Ali picked up his kit and walked toward the family home. He knew that, true to Islamic virtue, the boy’s father would offer the hospitality of the house.

The host poured tea for the veterinarian while the farmer’s wife kept a respectful distance in the kitchen. The father and husband, Shaabani by name, treated his woman more respectfully than some men in the area, but her options did not extend to participating in male discussions.

“Doctor, your benevolence does you much credit. I cannot offer you more than some grain and a few chickens but please know that my family is grateful. We shall remember you in our prayers of thanksgiving.”

Ali waved a dismissive hand. “Brother, I am doing God’s work. One does not seek praise for helping His creatures. But I thank you for your prayers — and your chickens.” He smiled over his teacup. The barter system had much to commend it, especially when hard money could draw unwelcome attention.

Shaabani raised his head. “That reminds me: it is said that other medical volunteers are nearby. It is said that a group of doctors will be in our region this very week.”

That was exactly the point that Ali had intended to raise with the farmer. “Yes, I have heard the same reports. Do you know anything about my mysterious colleagues? Who sponsors their good work?”

“One of my neighbors mentioned it. He said that a government program has just begun, traveling to remote areas with pack horses or mules.”

Ali nodded. “Ah, that makes good sense. They can reach some of the needy without limiting themselves to roads.” In truth, Ali wondered why pack animals were necessary in an age when all-terrain vehicles surely were available to government agencies. He sensed something odd — but what? He made a mental note to pursue his curiosity about the new makers of good works.

And something more: Kassim’s friend who had offered a son and a nephew in the fight against the Crusaders. It was time to meet them and consider new options.

Rustam Khan supervised the outfitting of the small caravan, with an eye toward concealing details that could tip off a competent observer. CPS rated high in that regard.

“Doctor, your clothing is fine. From a distance of twenty or thirty meters you blend in with the others.” He almost said “with the men.” Studying her face, he concluded, “What you need is a dark complexion — and a mustache.”

The immunologist managed a chuckle. “Well, Major, I can apply makeup for the former but I shan’t be able to produce the latter in the time allotted. Do you have a mustache laying about?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He emptied his knapsack and produced a theatrical makeup kit. “It’s in here. I will leave it to you to decide whether to use it, Doctor.”

CPS held the item with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. “I suppose I could manage. How long does it have to stay on?”

“Perhaps three or four days — no more. You can refresh it from time to time. Oh, and one more thing. Your hands.”

“My hands?” She held them up, and Khan admired the manicure.

“If I may say so, Doctor, you have perhaps the loveliest, most feminine hands I have ever seen. Anyone would notice them. So you should wear gloves most of the time.”

“Well, all right…”

“Besides, you may want some protection when dealing with the animals.”

“The mules? What about them?”

“Oh, you should stay with the beasts of burden with one of the handlers. You are less likely to be noticed.”

She shook her head. “Why is that?”

“Many Muslim males have a condescending attitude toward those with menial jobs. Any smugglers or al Qaeda operatives will be more interested in the mules’ cargo than their handlers.” He shrugged eloquently. “You will understand, I’m sure.”

CPS shot him a frosty smile. “I’m sure.”

Leopole intervened with another item. “Doctor, you can carry this. It’s lighter than a standard AK-47.”

He held out a compact assault rifle that resembled the AK-47 she had fired in Britain. Padgett-Smith accepted it, hefting the weight. “It is lighter. And it’s so short!”

“It’s an AKS-74U, better known as a Krinkov. It fires the 5 .45mm round instead of the standard 7.62. With the stock folded it’s only about twenty inches long and seven pounds loaded. That’s almost three pounds less that you’ll pack around the hills.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s useful, but I’m familiar with the full-size version that Tony…”

“Doctor, just trust me on this. I don’t want to insult you, but no woman I’ve ever known can carry a full-size rifle for more than a couple of hours, let alone uphill at high elevation. Besides, the Krinkov works just the same as a 47.”

“Maybe I should just carry the Browning.”

“It’s up to you, Doctor. But where you’re going, a rifle is mighty handy. And you can sling it over your shoulder so you don’t have to hold it all the time.”

“Honestly, Fr… Colonel. I’m not such a weakling, you know.”

Leopole drew her aside, guiding her by the arm. “Look, Carolyn, like I said, it’s up to you. But women don’t have the upper-body strength to carry a hunk of steel all day. As somebody who’s humped a rifle up a hill or two, I know what I’m talking about.”

She touched his arm, almost absentmindedly. “I’m not arguing, Frank. It’s just that I have more confidence in the pistol. I’ve shot it more.”

“Doc… okay, Carolyn.” He leaned closer. “Look, I’ll level with you. I don’t expect you to hit anybody with a rifle you’ve hardly ever fired. But if for some reason you get separated from the others, if you’re seen as a woman, in bandit country…” He let the image dangle in her imagination. “With the shorty you’ll have thirty rounds to keep the bad guys away from you, at longer range.”

He saw the dawn of recognition in her violet eyes. Finally she said, “You’re very persuasive, Colonel Leopole. Very persuasive, indeed.”

Leopole inclined in a slight bow. “My compliments, ma’am.” He straightened and whistled at Brezyinski. “Breezy, will you help the doctor get zeroed?”

At the range Breezy set up a twenty-five-meter target and supervised CPS in zeroing from prone. After the first three rounds she safed the Krinkov and looked up. “It’s so easy to shoot! Far less recoil than before.”

“Yes, ma’am. Less muzzle flip so you can get back on target easier.” He shielded his hazel eyes against the sun, squinting downrange. The 5 .45mm bullets made damnably small holes at that distance. He grunted to himself — something about eyes over thirty — and produced a compact pair of Steiner binoculars. He scanned the bull’s-eye and found a neat group at eight o’clock, maybe three inches out. “Nice shooting, Doc. Unload and I’ll move the sight.”

After making the adjustment with the front sight tool, the paratrooper returned the rifle and watched while CPS fired a verifying group. The Steiners came out again. “A tad right but it’s plenty good. You can hold dead on to about two hundred meters, which is more than you’ll ever need.”

As Padgett-Smith removed her ear plugs Breezy asked, “Do you want a spare magazine?”

Padgett-Smith hefted the loaded Krinkov and measured its weight against her Browning Hipower. After a moment she shook her head. “I should think that thirty in the rifle and thirteen in the pistol will be ample.”

Breezy nodded. “Ma’am, if you need forty-three rounds you’re not in a gunfight, you’re in a war!”

“I suppose I could put some extra magazines on one of the mules.”

“Yeah… ah, yes, ma’am. But there’s not much point. I mean, if there’s any shooting the mules are gonna head for the far horizon, if you know what I mean. That’s why I’m humping about twelve pounds of 7.62 in loaded mags. One in the rifle, four in my chest pack and six in my ruck.”

Before she could reply he took the AKS and said, “Lemme show you something.”

Removing the curved mag, he said, “If you’re in the dark and can’t see your rifle very well, you can still tell if you’re loaded. If there’s no round in the chamber but you want it loaded, drop the mag and feel the top cartridge. Say it’s on the right. Reload, chamber a round, and pull the mag again. If the top round is on the left, you know you’re set. Reload again but remember to pull on the magazine to be sure it’s seated.”

“I’ll practice that drill this evening.”

“Good. Oh, there’s another thing. Do you have tracers?”

“You mean, illuminating bullets?” she asked.

“Yeah. They light up when you shoot ‘em.”

“No. Should I?”

“Well, they’re useful for signaling. But if you get lost or something, there’s a standard signal. Shoot three rounds one minute apart. Everybody will hear the shots but only we’ll know it’s you. Just sit tight. If you don’t hear a reply after ten minutes, do it again. Your pistol’s best for that. Save the rifle ammo for when you really need it.”

“I certainly shall.”

Steve Lee had chosen his crew with efficiency in mind: Rustam Khan, four shooters, a radioman, CPS, a Pakistani doctor and medic, and three mule skinners — one for each animal. With himself that was thirteen in all: a group presumably large enough to deter brigands yet flexible enough to adapt to changing situations. If the team had to break up, Khan would lead the second section.

Lee briefed his team again the night before leaving. “We’re committing most of our linguists to this op: Major Khan and the Paki doctor both speak Urdu, of course, while the major and I have passable Pashto. Dr. Mohammed is staying here in case we need somebody fluent with the locals.” In truth, Lee and Leopole doubted that Mohammed was up to the physical challenge, and neither was enthused about their female colleague’s prospects.

Following the briefing, the operators were introduced to their four-footed colleagues. Carolyn Padgett-Smith, for one, had never met the business end of a mule. For that matter, neither had any of the other SSI personnel, though Breezy voiced pretensions of equine ability.

Padgett-Smith did not know which was more cantankerous: the mules or their handlers. All possessed two things in common: unpronounceable names and an attitude.

The SSI men put their suppressed MP-5s in the mules’ panniers; submachine guns would draw attention or envy where the team was headed. To blend in better with the locals, everyone had full-size rifles: the Americans carried AKs and most of the Pakis used G3s. The pistol-carrying types had Brownings beneath their vests. Other gear included night vision, tactical radio headsets, MREs and bottled water plus some fodder for the animals. The area where they were headed was rocky and low on vegetation.

Even with the mules, most of the men were burdened with more than they preferred to carry. Padgett-Smith’s early confidence wilted visibly when she hefted Bosco’s gear. “My lord!” she exclaimed. “That must be fifty pounds.”

“More like seventy, ma’am,” Boscombe replied. He knew that it was twenty-eight kilograms, but he believed in rounding up from sixty-two pounds.

The immunologist immediately sensed a male-female tiff brewing. She decided to defuse it by defaulting to her Scarlett O’Hara mode. “My goodness, Mr. Boscombe, how do you ever carry such a huge load?” You great big hunk of man, you. She batted her eyelashes at him.

Bosco was bright but he was also susceptible to feminine wiles. “Ah, you get used to it, ma’am. I…” He caught himself at the last second. Jerk! You’ve just been had. He recovered by cataloging the contents of his ruck. “Uh, I carry extra ammo plus at least a day’s MREs, a couple gallons of water, night vision, rain gear, sleeping bag, shelter half, first aid kit, and a change of socks and underwear.” He pondered asking Dr. Padgett-Smith about her extra undies when his testosterone poison was diluted by an influx of embarrassment.

Lee came by, saving Bosco from further discomfort. “Ah, Dr. Smith, if your gear is ready we’ll put it on the mules.” The bespectacled officer was careful to maintain a neutral tone in his voice, lest Padgett-Smith infer veiled criticism. She had prepared a day pack with enough food and water for twelve hours at a stretch; the rest went on the reddish jenny known as Taqat. CPS inferred that the name indicated strength or endurance.

Rustam Khan also was attentive to the mules. “Doctor, the handlers say this animal is the steadiest, so we will put your equipment and personal items on her. The other two will carry extra food, water, tents, and weapons. They will also have some medical supplies in case we meet people who might need help, which is of course our cover story. Dr. Chaudhry will deal with those cases, of course.”

“Of course.” Padgett-Smith had only briefly met her Pakistani colleague. He was courteous but remote, probably uncomfortable with a female of any variety taking the field. But since he was subordinate to Khan, she surmised that the major would continue running interference for her.

Kassim had news of the newcomers.

“My scouts found the medical team yesterday and remained hidden when it stopped for the night. There are more than twelve people, including foreigners. One of my men saw an armed guard dig a hole and void his bowels.” Kassim paused for emphasis. “The guard wiped himself with his right hand.”

Ali sat back, rubbing his chin, reflecting that Satan eats with his left hand. “So the guards are infidels. Maybe all of them are.”

“No, Doctor. The animal handlers all seemed to speak Urdu. And there was at least one man who is almost certainly a Pakistani Army officer. But several men spoke English. So did the woman.”

Ali sat bolt upright. “What?”

“Yes, one of the strangers is female. She wears men’s clothing and tries to disguise her face. She is definitely not Muslim — I questioned my men closely.”

“One woman traveling with a dozen men, on foot, in rough terrain. Presumably bringing medical aid to the poor.” Ali’s eyes tracked back and forth, as if seeing the camp layout. “Did these strangers treat any people?”

“Some. But they kept moving most of the time. They only seemed to provide the most basic treatment to a few farmers or travelers they met.” Kassim organized his thoughts, focusing on evidence rather than supposition. “One of my scouts doubled back and talked to a few people who had dealt with the medical team. They had received bandages, water purification tablets, a few pills for diarrhea and the like.”

“What did the woman do?”

Kassim shrugged. “I do not know. But as I said, my scouts only trailed them from late afternoon onward.”

“Very well, Kassim. Your men did well. Please tell them that we will arrange a surprise meeting with these people tomorrow.”

The Syrian turned to go. Abruptly he stopped and turned. “Oh, there is one thing about the woman. She carries a rifle.”

Kassim’s tone was flat, unemotional. Ali’s blood pounded in his temples as he absorbed the blasphemy.

As Kassim departed, Ali raised his hands and eyes to the heavens, giving silent thanks for what had been delivered to him. When his senses returned to earth, he said, “So nice to meet you, Dr. Padgett-Smith.”