Peter Li leaned back in his chair. “You know,” he said. “This is tragic if it pans out, but it also provides us with a sudden opportunity to make Tim Meyer feel like the pressure is off. If we identify Gretchen Pack as the mole, maybe he’ll relax.”
Mateo’s head snapped up. “Wait. What do you mean Tim Meyer?”
Hendricks ran down their theory.
“Holy shit,” Mateo said. “That means SURVEYOR isn’t a spy…”
Hendricks groaned, doing the math on when she could take more ibuprofen. “I know,” she said. “It’s a spy
Timur Samedi took his eyes off the road just long enough to watch the military helicopter thunder and thump overhead — and almost ran his truck into a herd of double-humped camels. He cursed, swerving wildly to miss the lumbering beasts, certainly dislodging his load in the back of the truck. The camels did not move — all large eyes and jutting teeth, they also stared skyward at the helicopter that followed the path of the highway, almost low enough to touch.
Helicopters were not uncommon up and down the Karakoram Highway where China touched not only Kyrgyzstan but Afghanistan, Tajikistan, and Pakistan in the space of a few hundred kilometers. There were many borders to patrol. Samedi knew nothing about helicopters. He’d never flown in any kind of aircraft, preferring to keep his feet on the ground. This one was dark green and large enough to carry perhaps a dozen troops.
Samedi heaved a sigh of relief when it flew down the highway toward Khunjerab Pass and Pakistan.
He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, flexing his hands to rid the joints of stress. The next checkpoint would not be until Tashkurgan, ninety kilometers ahead. He could relax until then.
The cold waters of Karakul Lake were on his right. Usually deep green or sparkling azure, the frigid waters had taken on the slate gray of the evening sky. Already at an elevation of over thirty-five hundred meters, the lake was dominated by three great mountain ranges, and several seven-thousand-meter peaks. Kongur Tagh and Muztagh Ata loomed across the water, their peaks vanishing into the clouds.
Some of the Kyrgyz women who lived in the nearby yurts sold hot tea and kebabs of grilled goat. Samedi often stopped. Not tonight. He had to reach Tashkurgan.
A colorful jingle truck — so called that because of all the bells and decorations Pakistani drivers liked to hang on them — rattled past going north while Samedi was still catching his breath from the near-miss with the camels.
A kilometer ahead, the helicopter banked sharply to the right, arcing over the lake to turn back to the north. It came in low, throwing spray off the water’s surface and scattering a flock of sheep that were grazing up from the shoreline between two white canvas yurts. Samedi slowed, stomach in his throat as the aircraft hovered directly in front of him, blocking the entire highway before settling onto pavement.
Samedi was not certain, but he believed the pods on the sides of the helicopter contained rockets — all pointed directly at his windshield.
Six men in black SWAT uniforms and helmets poured out of the side doors the instant the skids touched the ground. Each carried a rifle, ducking as they ran up the highway directly toward Samedi’s truck. Behind them, the rotor blades came to a halt and another man climbed out. Instead of a uniform, this one wore a business suit. A politician. The one in charge.
Samedi slowed his truck, unsure of what to do. Were they here for him? He groaned. Of course they were here for him. He was the only truck on the road — and they had not come for the camels.
Five of the men aimed their rifles at Samedi’s windshield while the fifth directed him to halt at the side of the road. He raised his hands above the steering wheel.
“Reach out the window!” the SWAT leader barked. “Open your door from the outside! Keep your hands visible at all times or we will open fire!”
Two of the riflemen kept their guns pointed at him, while the three others ran to the rear of the truck, boots thumping on the pavement. Samedi watched them in the mirrors as they took aim at the doors.
The SWAT leader barked again. “Get out now! Slowly!”
Samedi complied, hands raised.
The man in the suit stepped forward. The riflemen fanned out so they still had clear shots.
“I am Major Ren of the Corps,” he said, looking down his nose over dark-rimmed glasses. “And you are?”
Samedi’s throat convulsed when he tried to speak. It seemed to take forever to get the words out.
“You are very nervous about something, Mr. Samedi,” the major said. “What do you have in the truck?”
Clark tapped Hala’s arm when the truck slowed, reminding her to turn off the flashlight. He cupped a hand to the side of his head, straining to hear, but got nothing but the sound of Hala chewing on her collar. The stop seemed to last forever this time. He checked the glowing hands on his watch. Three minutes.
Voices now. Someone shouting.
Then they were moving again, slowly, barely rolling — then another stop.
