Page 25 of Into the Gray Zone

If she was, then she was most definitely covering for us, because there was no way to explain how Knuckles knew we were being attacked at the drainage cut, leading to her following him and saving the day. She knew we were something other than an archeological company. The question was: Why didn’t she tell anyone else?

I said, “How’d it go?”

“Same questions, same answers.” He glanced around as he said it, then looked at me, asking without asking if the place was bugged.

I said, “Don’t think so. They didn’t have time. If it was someone’s office, I’d wonder if it was wired for sound from the management, but it’s just a break room.”

After the shoot-out, Nadia had begun talking into a radio she’dhad hidden somewhere, and the drainage cut became overrun with a swarm of various Indian authority figures. One man came up to Nadia and she spoke to him in Hindi, then pointed at us, saying, “If you don’t mind, please accompany this man.”

We did, acting as if we were over-shocked tourists from the action, and the man took us to the lobby of the hotel, a sweeping area with a veranda that opened to the grounds outside. We walked past the desk we’d used to check in, then down a hallway to another room, this one sparsely furnished with a folding table, several metal chairs, and a bulletin board with hotel news tacked to it, the only other fixtures a refrigerator, a sink, and a small coffeepot.

It was clearly the first place they could find to isolate us, and so far, we hadn’t been accused of anything nefarious, but I knew Nadia held the key to prevent this from turning into a shit show. Knuckles had been taken out first, then Jennifer, then me, the questions pretty normal—just name, rank, serial number stuff, with a blow-by-blow of what had occurred. We’d stuck to our cover of Grolier Recovery Services, showing them our letter from both from the university that had hired us and the invitation from the government, and so far it had held up. Knuckles had been taken a second time, and I expected the hammer to drop, but apparently it hadn’t.

I said, “So they didn’t ask anything new?”

He said, “Not really.”

Usually when under interrogation, the interrogator will separate the people being questioned so they can’t cook up a story—which is why Knuckles was sure the place we were in was wired for sound. Actually, with his answer, I had a moment of doubt, because the only reason I could see to ask the same questions was that the real interrogation was happening inside this room, giving us time to talk in “private.” But the room was barren, with very few places to hide a surveillance device—particularly on short notice—and I was pretty good at finding such things. Especially since it was my job to emplace them.

No, I was sure it wasn’t bugged, even with the questions. The local authorities were killing time to keep us from demanding to be released while they figured out what to do with us. My only concern was Nadia.

I said, “They didn’t press for more information?”

Knuckles said, “I mean, a little bit. Pinning down times and that sort of thing, but it was really just a rehash. Who was I, what was I doing there, that sort of thing.”

“What did you tell them about running to me?”

“That I’d just seen you in the restaurant, you’d left, and I heard you shouting out on the lawn, so I went to help. I laid it on a little thick about being an American and not used to lawless places. That put them on their heels a little bit, with them now talking about how India wasn’t lawless, blah, blah, blah.”

“They didn’t ask about how on earth you could have heard me shout from two hundred meters away?”

“Nope.” He paused and said, “What did you give them?”

The hardest part about living a cover was that everyone had to say the same thing to back each other up. It wasn’t unlike two bank robbers who’d been arrested on suspicion of doing a heist. Youhadto say the same story to escape suspicion, but living a cover was a day-to-day trial, not a single event. The story had to be the same between members even if you weren’t involved in a crime.

Like us.

It went without saying that we’d both collapsed into our GRS cover. That wasn’t what he was asking, though. He wanted to know what I’d said about the point of the spear, in case it had contradicted what he’d told them.

I said, “I just told them exactly what happened and that I wasthankful they’d come as fast as they had. I asked who Nadia was, singing her praises, and of course, acted like a blubbering mess of fear over my near death.”

He chuckled and said, “Well, it was a damn miracle they popped out right in front of you two. Ten feet either way on that ditch and you would have had to close the distance. They’d have dropped you immediately.”

I’d already thought about that, and it had sent a little bit of a mix of emotions through me: fear, anxiety, relief, but ultimately satisfaction and thanks to the gods of war. I’d always been good in a gunfight, and it wasn’t solely because I was a better shot. I couldn’t explain it, but for some innate reason, the universe always put me in a position to win. Maybe it was because I was quicker on the draw, or better at snap analysis, or just too damn stubborn to quit, but it wasn’t just luck.

The fear and trepidation came because I realized that wouldn’t always be the case. Sooner or later, the marble would roll onto red when I’d picked black. It was just the way of combat.

But that marble hit black tonight.

I said, “Who do you think those guys were?”

“I don’t know. If it was because of the meeting with Kerry Bostwick and RAW, their intel was way off. A day early and a dollar short. I’m leaning to a coincidence.”

“So you think they’re Lashkar-e-Taiba? Muslim terrorists who were attacking just to attack?”

“Yeah. LeT did it once before in Mumbai, and after Hamas stole the headlines last year, maybe they’re just copycatting to regain the spotlight.”

I nodded, as that was an Occam’s Razor answer, but the little things niggled at me.

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