Rules of Betrayal

27

The satellite was a Lockheed Martin KH-14, a next-generation reconnaissance unit the size of the Hubble Space Telescope (or, in layman’s terms, as big as a Chrysler Town amp; Country) weighing two tons and built at a cost to the American taxpayer of $1 billion. Recent advances in optical coatings applied to the satellite telescope’s lenses multiplied their resolution tenfold. The KH-14 could not only read a newspaper headline, it could tell you the name of the reporter who’d written the lead story.

“We’re looking at an area five miles by five miles from an altitude of fifty thousand feet,” said Malloy, pointing at the monitor before him, which displayed an area on the Pakistani-Afghan border. “The broad, smooth swaths are the valleys, the sharper lines are the spines of the mountains.”

“Take it down to a thousand feet,” said Connor. “Look for any signs of human activity. This time of year, there shouldn’t be any.”

Malloy uploaded the commands. The camera zoomed in, and Connor was presented with a bird’s-eye view of a snow-covered landscape. White, white, and more white, a monotonous vista interrupted by shadow, rock, and fields of crumbling talus.

“I’ll start a search program,” said Malloy. “It will break up the surveillance field into a search grid measuring five hundred feet by five hundred feet, roughly one city block. Every thirty seconds we move to the next location.”

For fifty minutes they remained glued to the screen. Not once did they spot anything that might indicate human presence.

“How many more grids?” asked Connor.

“We’re halfway done.”

“Keep it going.”

“Ten minutes, Frank. Then you’re on your own.”

Connor scooted closer to the screen, as if proximity to the picture might improve their chances of spotting Balfour or his associates. The grid moved over a particularly steep peak. A caption appeared giving the name as Tirich Mir (7708 m). The camera continued its sweep. More rock. More snow. A glacier.

“Stop.” Connor’s voice was a whisper as he pointed to a smudge of gray against the white panorama. “What’s that?”

Malloy zoomed in and the gray smudge gained definition. There was a sharp line, and the line became a long metallic plane. The surface led to a larger, tube-shaped object.

“It’s a chopper hidden beneath camouflage netting,” said Malloy.

“At that altitude?”

Malloy manipulated the camera and the helicopter’s tail numbers were visible. “Looks like it’s a private aircraft. I make it an Aerospatiale Ecureuil.”

Suddenly a figure appeared from beneath the netting. A man carrying a backpack walked twenty paces before disappearing.

“They’ve got shelters set up,” said Connor. “How much closer can you get?”

Malloy took the camera down further, so that it was possible to see tracks in the snow. Transfixed, they studied the screen. Another figure emerged from the shelter. Someone slimmer, walking briskly. The figure stopped and lifted its head as if to study the sky.

“Closer,” said Connor.

The camera zoomed in. The figure’s face remained tilted toward the sky. Then it took off its cap and shook loose a mane of tangled auburn hair. Connor felt the world slip from beneath him. “My God,” he said. “Emma.”