The Eye of Shiva Read online

  "Oh, but there is," the suited man said. "We know about your medical condition. It's true we can't cure it, but we can prevent the worst effects for quite some time and keep the pain away. Our medical expertise is beyond most capabilities. It will give you time to achieve that which you most desire."

  Rao couldn't believe this man knew about his illness. No one knew. He'd just found out himself less than an hour before.

  "What is it you think I desire?"

  "The destruction of Pakistan. Revenge for the death of your family."

  Rao was speechless. It was true. Rao's wife and son had died years before, during an attack by Muslim terrorists seeking to drive India from Kashmir. The operation had been planned and carried out with the blessing of ISI, Pakistan's Inter-Services Intelligence Agency. Rao loathed Pakistan. He loathed all things Muslim, especially the jihadists.

  He found his voice. "An organization that wants to help me? Why me? What organization?"

  "We are a group of patriots unhappy with our government's policies toward Islamabad. Like you, Ashok. We're going to do something about it. Our intention is to provoke war with Pakistan. Our goal is to reunify India and reclaim the land stolen from us during the partition."

  Rao looked around. There was no one nearby to overhear.

  "That is treason. I could have you arrested."

  Krivi laughed. "Treason is a relative word. We both know you're not going to have me arrested. You asked who we were." He gestured at the statue. "We call ourselves the Eye of Shiva. We are the instrument of India's retribution."

  Rao looked at the fine suit, the polished cane, the expensive shoes, the outward signs of wealth. In India, as in most places, wealth equaled power. Krivi was a serious man.

  "You haven't told me what you want in return."

  "You are in a unique position to help us," Krivi said. "You have an extensive network of agents. You know the secrets of the government, what they are doing, what they are planning. You can find and track almost anyone. These are all useful assets. In return, we can add six months to your life, perhaps longer. Before your time is finished, you will have the revenge you seek. You will be a hero of the New India."

  Krivi was offering what every Hindu nationalist in India dreamed of. Too good to be true, Rao thought.

  "How do I know you are serious? Why should I believe you?" Rao said.

  "Why indeed? I don't blame you for being skeptical. I assume you are unhappy with the fact that Doctor Singh can identify you?"

  Rao said nothing.

  "I see that I am correct," Krivi said. "As a gesture of good faith, we will take care of this small difficulty for you."

  He handed Rao a white card of heavy linen stock. The only thing on the card was a telephone number, embossed in elegant black letters.

  "Call this number when you are ready. Use your encrypted phone."

  Rao looked down at the card, thinking. When he looked up again, Krivi was already at the entrance of the temple.

  "Wait," Rao said.

  By the time Rao reached the street, Krivi was getting into the back of a silver Mercedes limousine with tinted windows. The car pulled away. The license plate was unreadable.

  The next day, Rao read about a fire in Doctor Singh's building. The structure had been gutted and six people were dead, Doctor Singh among them. Krivi had kept his word. Whoever he was, his organization was ruthless and efficient. Rao appreciated ruthlessness and efficiency.

  Rao called the number on the card.

  "Meet me in Bhuta Jayanti Park," Krivi said. "You know the pavilion near the temple?"

  "Yes," Rao said.

  "Be there tomorrow. Two o'clock in the afternoon."

  Rao put his phone away.

  On the other side of New Delhi, on the top floor of one of the new temples of commerce rising throughout the city, Krivi set his phone down on a polished conference table and turned to the man sitting across from him.

  Johannes Gutenberg was dressed in an Italian suit made of material not available to the average customer. The jacket fit with perfection across his narrow chest, creating an impression of a larger, more powerful man. Gutenberg owned one of the oldest and largest banks in Europe. He was no relation to the man who had invented the printing press, though he appreciated the use of Gutenberg's invention to produce clean, crisp euros and dollars by the billions.

  "Rao has agreed to meet," Krivi said.

  "Good. He believed your story about a group of patriots?"

  "It's what he wanted to hear. He assumes we are Indian nationalists like him. He'd change his mind if he saw your European face."

  Gutenberg laughed. "You're a closet racist, Krivi."

  Krivi shrugged. "Most everyone is."

  Gutenberg said, "People always make assumptions based on what they want to hear. Do you think he'll find a way?"

  "We may have to make a few suggestions, but yes, I think he will. He's motivated."

  Gutenberg nodded. "He may balk at launching the missiles when the time comes."

  "It's possible, but we've spent a lot of time on understanding his psychology. He'll do it. We'll let him stir things up first. Once things are in motion, it will be easier."

  "If he does his job well, the government will do it on their own."

  "That's so," Krivi said, "but I don't like leaving things to chance. Rao is our first choice."

  "Everyone knows Indian missiles are inaccurate," Gutenberg said. "When some of them land in China, it will be blamed on faulty technology."

  "The missiles will go where they're needed," Krivi said. "The lesson will be painful. It will take Beijing years to recover."

  "We warned them," Gutenberg said. His voice was dismissive, touched with contempt. "They think they can go their own way, meddle with the financial system. They don't understand who we are. It's past time they learned who was in charge."

  "In a way, you can't blame them. We've concealed our existence for a long time," Krivi said. "It's unfortunate their leaders didn't listen."

  Gutenberg looked at his watch, a gold Patek-Phillipe. "I need to get back to Geneva."

  "You'll brief the others?"

  "Of course."

  Gutenberg stood. Krivi rose with him.

  "It's good to see you, Johannes."

  "And you. You must come home soon."

  "I'll come before the war starts. Tell Marta I miss her chef's cooking."

  The two men shook hands. After Gutenberg had left, Krivi thought about Marta's desserts and the fine, rich chocolate of Switzerland.

  He was fond of chocolate.

  CHAPTER 3

  Selena Connor didn't think of herself as stubborn. More like determined. There was a difference between stubborn and determined, wasn't there? The gym in the underground level of Project headquarters was cool with air conditioning but Selena's body glistened with sweat.

  Ever since the wound in Mexico that almost killed her she'd been trying to regain the level of skill she'd had before the surgery. The bullet had nicked a vertebra and come close to putting her into a wheelchair for the rest of her life. It was months before she could risk a light workout. Her back still ached at the end of a day, no matter what she did.

  She had her strength back, that part was all right. What bugged her was that she still couldn't get the height and speed she wanted for the lethal kicks she practiced in her martial art.

  She aimed a kick at the target on the hanging dummy, where an attacker's throat might be. Her foot landed six inches below. She swore under her breath and kicked again with the same result. The heavy bag shuddered and swayed from the impact. An opponent would have been knocked across the room but that wasn't what mattered to her. What mattered, damn it, was placing her foot where she wanted it, on the target.

  Selena wiped her arm across her brow, brushing aside a wisp of hair.

  On the other side of the gym, Nick was working out on one of the Nautilus machines. The scars along the side of his chest rippled as he brought the bars of the
machine together. He grunted with the effort. He let the machine return to neutral and wiped sweat away from his forehead with a towel.

  "How about a break?" he said. He'd been back from the Philippines for two days but he still hadn't told her what she wanted to hear.

  Selena aimed another angry kick at the bag. After two years of a rocky relationship Nick had finally proposed. Now it seemed to her that he was dragging his feet. He couldn't make up his mind about a date for the wedding. He couldn't make up his mind about buying her a ring. It was beginning to piss her off. She aimed a vicious kick at the dummy and came up short of her mark by about two inches. Better, she thought, but not good enough.

  Nick went to a bench by the wall, picked up two bottles of water and came over to her. At thirty-nine and pushing forty, the workouts were getting harder. He wasn't about to admit that to Selena.

  He took a swig of water. "Why don't you give the bag a rest and try your moves against someone who can kick back?" he said.

  She gave him a dangerous smile. Selena had the kind of face that made people look again when she went by. Her eyes were sometimes deep blue, sometimes violet, an unusual color that might have been painted by van Gogh or Picasso. The color was complemented by her reddish blond hair. One of her cheekbones was a little higher than the other. She had a mole, a natural beauty mark, just above the right side of her upper lip. Selena was an attractive woman.

  "You never learn, do you," she said. "You know I'll kick you all over the mat."

  "You can try," Nick said.

  "How's your hand?" she said.

  The last two fingers on his left hand had been broken a few months before by one of Fidel Castro's sadistic policemen. They'd healed, but they were stiff and painful. He didn't have the flexibility he'd had before. Sometimes the fingers itched.

  "It'll be all right," he said. "Don't worry about it."

  Selena sighed and shook her head. "I promise I won't say I told you so when we're done," she said. "After you." She gestured at the large, square floor mat they used for their workouts together.

  They faced each other on opposite sides of the mat, bowed, and began. Nick had height and weight on her, but with Selena that was no advantage. She was far beyond him in skill when it came to hard-core martial arts. She'd been studying with a Korean master for more than twenty years.

  They sparred for the next half hour. After Nick had landed flat on his back for the eighth or ninth time and taken a dozen hits to his ribs and hips and legs, he surrendered. If she'd landed those blows at full strength, he'd be going to a hospital or the morgue. But this was practice. Nick had seen what she could do when it counted.

  "Uncle," he said from the floor.

  "I told you so."

  "You promised you weren't going to say that," he said.

  "So? I lied." She held out a hand and helped him up.

  Nick looked at the clock on the wall. "We're supposed to meet Harker in 10 minutes."

  "Then we'd better get cleaned up."

  They undressed and went into the showers together. Nick watched her walk ahead of him and thought about the night he'd proposed to her. It had seemed right at the time, a natural in the romantic, tropical evening, with moonlight and the scent of flowers coming through the open window of their bedroom.

  He still hadn't gotten her a ring. On the one hand, he wanted to surprise her. On the other, he thought it might not be a bad idea if they picked it out together. They hadn't set a date for the wedding, either. He wasn't sure why he kept putting it off but he figured the ring came first. After that they could move on to the next step.

  He held her close under the running water and kissed her.

  "You're not worried someone may come in?" she said.

  "It's just a kiss."

  "And then another, and then you know what happens."

  Damn, it was hard to stay mad at him. She glanced down and smiled. "See what I mean?"

  He kissed her again and went over to another shower head and turned on the cold water.

  CHAPTER 4

  Elizabeth Harker was a small woman. More than one self-important politician or general had learned the hard way not to underestimate her because of her diminutive size. Most people guessed her age at around fifty, but it was hard to tell. The stress of the job had left premature streaks of white in her black hair.

  Harker wore one of her favorite combinations, a tailored black Prada suit and a crisp, white blouse with a Mao style collar. A butterfly-shaped emerald pin edged with small diamonds rested over her left breast. The pin and a pair of emerald earrings brought out the green color of her eyes.

  Harker ran the Project, a small intelligence unit that acted in the shadows. Elizabeth's unit was the hidden point of the president's sword. Invisible compared to the giants at Fort Meade and Langley, the Project operated under the radar and outside the conventional rules. The free hand given to her by the president made her unpopular in the fiercely competitive world of Washington's intelligence community. Nick and his team did things the others couldn't or wouldn't, but freedom of action came at a price. Everything Harker and the unit did was deniable. If things went wrong, her head would be laid on the chopping block. There were plenty of people who wanted to see it there.

  From the outside, Project headquarters looked like an upscale ranch house. The house had been built after the Cold War by a civilian millionaire over a decommissioned Nike missile site. The computers, armory, gym, emergency living quarters and operations center were underground. There was even a swimming pool. Harker's office was on the ground floor. It was a large, pleasant room, with a wall of bulletproof windows graced by French doors. The doors opened onto a flagstone patio and looked out over a green lawn and beds of flowers. A large, flat screen monitor was mounted on the wall across from Elizabeth's desk. A row of clocks showing world time zones was mounted over the screen. A comfortable leather couch and two chairs were grouped in front of the desk.

  An enormous orange tomcat named Burps slept on his back on the couch, paws in the air. He snored and drooled. Nick had brought him from California to Virginia.

  Nick and Selena came in and sat down. Nick's hair was still wet from the shower. He rubbed his left ear, where a Chinese bullet had torn off most of the earlobe. He had gray eyes flecked with gold and a face women thought of as rugged. No one looking at him would mistake him for someone who worked 9 to 5 in an office.

  Selena had changed into jeans and a loose, dark blue top. Her Sig pistol was tipped forward in a quick draw holster at her waist. On her, the gun was a fashion statement.

  "I've got the breakdown on the Philippine operation," Harker said. She gestured at a file folder on the top of her desk.

  "Who was the guy with the beard?" Nick asked. "He wasn't Abu Sayyaf."

  "His name was Abu Khan," Elizabeth said, "and you're right about him not being Abu Sayyaf. He was second in command of a terrorist group called ISOK."

  "Eye sock?"

  "Short for Islamic State of Kashmir. They're based in Pakistan."

  "Kashmir is a long way from Mindanao. What was he doing hanging out with a bunch of Philippine terrorists?"

  "That's what we're trying to find out. If it's an alliance between ISOK and Abu Sayyaf, it means trouble. Whatever they're up to, it can't be good. "

  "I've heard about ISOK," Selena said. "They set off bombs in Srinagar a few years ago. Didn't they kill a bunch of people at the train station?"

  "That's them," Elizabeth said. "It almost started another war between India and Pakistan. The Srinagar attack was pulled off with the help of Pakistan's intelligence agency. It got settled with a little arm-twisting diplomacy, but a lot of people weren't happy about it. There are factions in both India and Pakistan that don't want peace and it wouldn't take a lot to trigger another war. They hate each other too much."

  "And they both have nukes," Nick said.

  Elizabeth nodded. "That they do. The nukes, and the missiles to deliver them."

  "Gee," Nick s
aid. "Why can't we all just get along?"

  Selena rolled her eyes.

  Elizabeth reached into her desk drawer for the coin Nick had taken from the dead man's neck. She handed it to Selena. "What do you make of this?"

  Selena was one of the world's leading experts in ancient languages, especially those from the Far East. Before she'd joined the Project she'd lectured on the university circuit and worked as a consultant with NSA. She spoke more than a dozen foreign languages. Her skills were a major asset for Elizabeth.

  Selena studied the coin, turning it over in her hand. She was silent, her focus intense. After what seemed like a long time, she said, "Fascinating."

  Elizabeth picked up her Mont Blanc pen and began tapping it impatiently on her desktop.

  "What, exactly, is so fascinating? Would you care to enlighten us?"

  "Sorry," Selena said. "I've never seen one like this before. It's from India. The writing is a form of Arabic current in the time of the Mughal emperors. It's the Shahada/Kalima, the affirmation of Allah as the only God and Mohammed as His last messenger. That could explain why a Muslim might wear it."

  "How does an Indian terrorist end up with an ancient gold coin for a good luck charm?" Nick asked. "And who were the Mughal emperors?"

  "I don't know how he got the coin, but the Mughals ruled India for over three hundred years," Selena said. "It was one of them who built the Taj Mahal."

  "What happened to them?"

  She shrugged. "What usually happens. A succession of weak rulers, lost battles and decline. It finally ended when the British co-opted the last ruler in 1857."

  She looked at the coin again. "This is an odd thing to find in a terrorist camp."

  "There were a dozen more," Nick said. "The Filipinos have them."

  "A dozen more? One would be unusual. That many seems beyond belief. A coin like this has to be worth thousands of dollars."

  Ronnie Peete came into the room. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with scenes of Kilauea erupting in vivid reds and yellows.